Catherine Ferguson - Four Weddings and a Fiasco

She puts a cup and saucer in front of me then sits down, lifting her dainty feet in ballet pumps onto a chair and flicking back her hair.

‘Come December, money is the very last thing you’ll have to worry about,’ I murmur.

She frowns. ‘His family aren’t that rich, you know. I mean, obviously they’re a lot more affluent than my folks, but then Daddy probably qualifies as the poorest baronet in the history of the aristocracy.’

Two hundred years ago, the Swanns were wealthy landowners, but a succession of heirs with a liking for booze, gambling and women chipped away at the money – and now, Mallory’s parents are probably even poorer than the mice in their basement.

Newington Hall swallows cash as eagerly as kids breaking out their chocolate eggs on Easter Sunday.

They’re always having to auction off paintings to cover the cost of repairs to the house.

I don’t know why they don’t just sell it.

But Mallory says it’s all to do with pride. Her father couldn’t forgive himself if he failed to hold on to the family seat for future generations.

I glance sideways at Mallory. ‘Speaking of your dad … have you heard from them?’

She barks out a laugh. ‘What do you think, darling? I’m lucky if they remember to phone me every alternate Christmas. I’ve given up expecting a birthday miracle.’ She takes a sip of coffee, her eyes clouding over, and we’re silent for a moment.

I really feel for her. I can’t imagine my lovely mum ever forgetting to include me in her Christmas plans. It would be unthinkable.

Mallory flicks a glance at me. ‘On the subject of wealth …’ She hesitates. ‘Did you manage to sell the piano?’

My heart lurches. ‘Yes. Some men came and carted it off.’ I glance down at the table. ‘Should have got rid of it a long time ago.’

There’s a pregnant silence as I continue to stare at the table, seeing its scratched surface through a blur.

Like Mum, Mallory knows that certain subjects are out of bounds and that this is one of them. I’m grateful for her silence.

And in the same vein, I know not to probe too much about her parents.

Roddy and Eleanor Swann are obsessed with travelling the world. It was what drew them together in the first place and the passion has never faded. Mallory, their only child, comes a pretty poor second to their treks in the foothills of the Himalayas and their voyages into the jungles of Borneo.

Her father, a botanist, is currently writing a book on the lesser-spotted haggis or something, and has decamped with Mallory’s mother to their converted bothy in the Highlands of Scotland. They’re tough, I’ll say that for them. It must be pretty chilly up there at this time of year.

Mallory once told me that her middle name, Beatrice, means ‘traveller’. She flicked her eyes to the ceiling and snorted. ‘Isn’t it marvellous? They name me “traveller”, then they bugger off on exotic trips and leave me behind. You can’t fault their brilliant sense of irony, though, can you?’

How these hardy adventurers made Mallory is a bit of a mystery. She’s very much a townie. Wouldn’t know what a ridge tent was if it climbed into bed with her and made her a sausage sandwich. The most pioneering she ever gets, at her own admission, is trekking along Willows Edge main street, searching out bargains in the two upmarket charity shops.

She trained in fashion and design after leaving school, and it was always her dream to have a shop selling vintage shoes and clothing. But the reality turned out to be a Saturday job in a vintage boutique, which eventually became a full-time career in retail.

Then, three years ago, Mallory finally took the plunge and – having saved a little money – set up her vintage clothing shop. On-line.

She works really hard, sourcing items from all over, and makes a modest income. But her dream is that one day, ‘Vintage Va-Va-Voom’ will hit the big time and become a household name.

The fact that she works for herself now, means she’s usually free to help me out at weddings, which is great. I can’t afford to pay her much but she enjoys the work and, as she keeps telling me, every little helps.

Which reminds me …

‘Are you still okay to help me at Ron and Andrea’s wedding?’ I ask.

‘Of course.’ She laughs. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Good old Kim and Kanye. What a hoot! Are you sure we can’t dress up as the 118 boys? We’d just need curly black wigs and shorts.’

‘No! We’re there to do a job. Don’t you dare!’

She snorts. ‘Spoilsport.’

‘We have to look professional.’

She grins. ‘I know. But I do think it’s time you stopped working quite so hard. You never have any juicy tales for me these days.’

‘Aha!’ I smile triumphantly. ‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong. As far as the gossip goes, anyway.’

She shuffles her chair closer. ‘Ooh! I’m all ears, darling.’

So I tell her about my close and rather bruising encounter with Runner Man. She listens with avid interest. Any mention of a man – even those who are ancient or infirm or living several continents away – and Mallory is alert to the cheering possibility that I might start having sex soon. (She has a very practical, down-to-earth view of sex, believing that for a balanced mind, it’s almost a medical necessity. I don’t think she quite understands that I don’t even think about stuff like that unless there’s someone fanciable right there in front of me.)

‘And I’ve just remembered,’ I say forlornly, as my humiliating tale draws to an end. ‘I made him limp. I actually made him limp .’

I’ve been trying hard not to think about my encounter with Runner Man – without much success, it has to be said. It was all so embarrassing. Clambering over the fence, getting my private parts wedged, talking a load of drivel then heading off to post a pile of shite. I mean, it doesn’t get any worse in the humiliation stakes.

I failed to make the post office before it closed. Obviously. And in order not to disappoint my bride, I had to shell out a small fortune – and go even deeper in debt – to have the album couriered all the way to Essex.

My stupidity is gnawing away at me.

‘Oh, never mind, darling. It could have been worse,’ muses Mallory.

I stare at her questioningly and she gives a light shrug. ‘You might have damaged a lot more than his foot, if you know what I mean. I’d be thankful for small mercies if I were you.’

I bark out a laugh. ‘Well, that might possibly be relevant if I actually had designs on the man. But obviously, I don’t.’ My cheeks catch fire as I’m saying this. Probably because of Mallory’s piercing look.

‘Really? Why on earth not?’ she asks. ‘He sounds simply scrummy to me. And it’s been an awfully long time since you – ahem – hoisted the flagpole, darling, correct me if I’m wrong.’

‘Well, that’s as may be, but I’m not like you, remember? I can’t just shag a man for practical purposes then forget all about him.’

‘I resent that,’ says Mallory indignantly. But the laughter in her pale grey eyes tells a different story.

A voice calls from upstairs. ‘Where’s my darling birthday girl?’

‘In the kitchen, Rupie.’

A minute later, the door bursts open and ‘Rupie’ makes his entrance.

It’s a fairly impressive sight.

Rupert has the look of an Italian stallion – all sleek black hair, Greek-god body and permatan – although he hails from a small village in Sussex.

He stops in the doorway, smiling broadly and holding out his arms. ‘Katy! Baby! Great to see you.’

I get up for a hug. He smells of ozone, like a day at the seaside.