Kate Lawson - Mother of the Bride

Molly fixed him with an icy stare. ‘No, I do not, no, don’t you dare bring it up at the planning meeting. Okay? No one’s interested.’

‘All those people coming up to get your autograph were interested.’

Molly said nothing.

‘Oh come off it,’ said Phil. ‘Anyone who is anyone has got their wedding all over the glossies these days. Everyone’s obsessed with it. Who’s marrying who, what they’re wearing, who’s invited, who isn’t, who’s likely to have a fist fight break out over the canapés, are they going to fly out to Italy or up to – where’s that castle in Scotland they all schlep off to?’

Molly held up her hands. ‘Stop it, you’re scaring me – you’re a boy. Boys hate weddings.’

‘It’s not me, it’s my girlfriend and all her mates. Our whole flat is stacked with celebrity magazines, who’s got fat, who’s far too thin, who’ll never love again, who’s had lipo. I can’t help it. I never used to read that kind of crap, I was strictly an Autocar and What Hi-fi guy, but it’s addictive. The weddings are a bit of light relief really.’

‘Okay, okay, I’m getting the picture.’

‘So how about talking to the management? Shoehorn Jess’s big day into the show?’

‘Have you got no shame?’

‘Not much, why? You could probably wangle all kinds of freebies.’

‘So when my daughter and future son-in-law kneel down at the altar rail instead of having price tags on the bottom of their shoes they’ll have little stickers on there saying, “Sponsored by Linda’s Luxury Buffet Services?”’

‘Why not? The price weddings are these days. And you could invite all the famous people you know. Get the paparazzi there.’

‘I don’t know any famous people, Phil,’ said Molly, heaving one of the PA speakers into the back of the car.

‘Yes, you do. You’ve interviewed loads of celebrities.’

‘Yes, but there is a big difference between interviewing them and inviting them to your daughter’s wedding. Give me a hand with this, will you?’

‘Says who?’ persisted Phil. ‘There was that bloke off “The Bill”, oh and that girl who was on “Holby City”. Some of the guys at Norwich City football club, Delia – oh, and that really famous artist bloke who got that big prize.’

Molly raised an eyebrow. ‘Remind me not to hire you as Master of Ceremonies on the door announcing the arrivals. “Oh look, here’s the woman who used to go to school with the one that’s getting married.”’

Instead of being offended, Phil grinned. ‘Oh wow, does that mean you’re going to invite me to the wedding?’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. Come on, let’s get the rest of this stuff stowed.’

‘A few celebs would really add a certain something to Jess’s wedding.’

‘That’s right, Phil, a security nightmare and lots of photographers elbowing my family out of the way so they could get a good shot of some bird with a trout pout and a sprayon tan.’

‘But you got on with them really well.’

‘That’s what I’m paid to do, Phil, I got on with that clown in a bear suit but it doesn’t mean I’m going to invite him round for tea.’

‘So where’s Jess having her engagement party?’

Molly looked up from the box of electronic oddments she was currently packing away under a seat. ‘What?’

‘The engagement party. I mean, presumably she’s having one, isn’t she?’

Aware that she had her mouth open Molly closed it fast and said, ‘Phil, I only just found out that they’re getting married. I don’t know what she’s having yet, or come to that where or when.’

But Phil was on a roll. ‘When my sister got married we had this big engagement party at the Norwich Arms – and my parents put an announcement in The Times. And then there was the stag night and hen night. We had a great time. My sister and my mum and all my sister’s mates flew to New York, and the blokes all went to Amsterdam, and then my parents organised a do for the groom’s family so we could all meet up and get acquainted before the big day.’

Molly decided that she had heard quite enough. ‘Fish and chips?’ she suggested, nodding towards the parade of shops that fronted the little harbour.

Phil grinned. ‘Do you want me to go and get them in case someone nicks the van?’

Molly glanced at the EAA radio car. Painted in the station’s livery, it was an unmistakable mix of orange, pink and lime green with ‘EAA’ emblazoned down one side and across the roof. At least if it was involved in a police chase it would give everyone a sporting chance of picking out the right vehicle.

‘We’ll eat in,’ she said.

While Phil finished off the lock-down, Molly broke out the lipstick and dealt with the ravages of headphone hair.

‘My sister used a wedding planner,’ said Phil conversationally as they headed off across the car park and joined the queue outside French’s chippie, where holiday-makers were gathered two abreast.

Molly wasn’t really listening; her stomach was rumbling, she was tired and they still had to get back into Norwich to drop the radio car off before going on to a management meeting.

‘They asked me to be an usher. We all had these cravats and cummerbunds that matched the bridesmaids’ dresses.’ He mimed.

Molly settled into line. ‘The wedding planner, was it a person or a wall chart?’

‘She was called Cheryl-Ann. She did all the arrangements at the hotel where my sister had her wedding. She was very keen on themes.’

‘Who, your sister?’

‘No, Cheryl-Ann. She had a whole book full. My sister brought it home for everyone to have a look through – pirates, princesses, wenches.’ He grinned. ‘And that was just for the civil partnerships. My sister picked this one Cheryl-Ann had done before called Spring something or other – there were a lot of daffodils involved and a lamb.’

Molly decided not to ask whether the lamb was gambolling up the aisle with a ribbon round its neck or on the buffet in slices.

‘Hello? Hello, Dad, can you hear me?’

In a cottage on the Somerset coast, Jess was curled up on an enormous floral sofa that dominated the tiny sitting room of the place Max had rented for their romantic break. Despite it being summer it was chilly and Max had lit the fire. Mobile phone pressed tight against her ear, Jess was straining to pick out her father’s voice amongst a sea of static.

‘Puss?’ said a familiar voice. ‘You there?’

‘Dad? Dad? Is that you? How are you?’

‘Fine. We got your email. Congratulations. Sorry if the line’s a bit strange but I’m using some sort of internet phone thing that the chap here’s rigged up for me. I just wanted to let you know that we’re delighted. Aren’t we, Marnie? Absolutely delighted – couldn’t be more pleased for you. Presumably you’ve already told your mother?’

‘Yes, I rang her a little while ago,’ said Jess, enunciating every syllable in case he missed some important detail, her finger wedged in her other ear so that she could concentrate on his voice. Max was watching her from the armchair pulled up at the other side of the hearth.

Her father sounded as if he were a million miles away.

‘How’s the holiday going?’ she asked.

‘Fine. I’ve had Delhi belly and Marnie has come out in some sort of a rash – we’re having a lovely time,’ he said, without a hint of irony.

‘So where are you?’

Jess heard him turn away from the phone and say, ‘Where are we again?’

Her father, Jonathon, had an innate distrust of all things foreign and when Jess and Jack were small had refused to take them anywhere abroad for holidays and only begrudgingly travelled there for business – there being anywhere other than Britain.