Kate Lawson - Mother of the Bride

Molly looked back at the website she’d been browsing through. With the cost of a wedding today Jonathon wouldn’t be far out. The price of a deposit on a first time home equalled just about what it would cost to throw a half-decent wedding. In fact the all-inclusive charge on a featured venue of the month cost more than Jonathan and Molly had paid for their first house.

‘How about we talk everything over once Marnie and I get back?’

‘Fine by me. So you’ll ring Jess and make the arrangements?’

‘Oh.’ Jonathon sounded genuinely surprised. ‘I was rather hoping you’d do that.’

‘But if we’re coming to yours…’

Jonathon gave a funny little throaty cough.

‘You want everyone to come to mine?’ said Molly. Mindreading was right up there on the list of talents required to deal with Jonathon. She certainly didn’t miss being married to him one little bit. ‘Not your place?’

‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea, do you? I don’t want to upset Marnie,’ he said.

‘But it’s all right to upset Nick?’ asked Molly, her tone level.

‘You know how things are, Molly –’

What Jonathon actually meant was he didn’t live with Nick and therefore he didn’t give a rat’s arse about how upset Nick might or might not get, because Nick wasn’t anything to do with Jonathon, and Marnie – five foot two, six stone wet, with a tongue that could strip paint, and a temper to match – most definitely was. Seeing the way Jonathon ran around trying to placate Marnie, Molly had come to the conclusion that sometimes it paid to be difficult.

‘Besides,’ he was saying, ‘your place is so much easier to get to, and you’ve got more parking. Our place is a bit tucked up for all those cars.’

All those cars – two more at most. Molly wondered just how many reasons Jonathon would be able to come up with before she put him out of his misery. On screen she had found a really beautiful oyster-coloured suit with a hat – apparently a complete snip at nine hundred pounds.

‘Fine,’ she agreed.

‘Fine?’ said Jonathon.

‘Look, I’m at work, Jonathon, I’ll email you. Have a nice holiday.’

‘See you when we get back, then.’ Jonathon sounded crestfallen at not having managed more sparring. ‘So you’re all right about everything?’

Molly looked heavenwards. What was that supposed to mean? She decided not to ask him. ‘I’ll ring Jess when I get home and then we can arrange a time for you to pop over.’

‘Oh,’ said Jonathon.

‘Oh? What do you mean, “Oh”?’

‘Well, I’d rather assumed I’d be coming over for lunch. We’ve got a lot to talk about. And I am going to be coughing up the lion’s share for the wedding.’

The sheer gall of the man took Molly’s breath away. What she wanted to say was, ‘In that case maybe you should invite Jess and Max over to your place instead and count me out. You could arrange it between yourselves – after all, it is your only daughter who is getting married.’

But she knew from years of experience that the resulting hissy-fit wouldn’t be worth it, so what she actually said was, ‘I have to go, Jonathon. I’ll let you know what Jess says.’ And with that she hung up, which was perfect timing as she could see their boss, Rob Harwood, making his way into the conference room.

Picking up her notepad and clipboard Molly hurried over to catch him up. For all his apparent bonhomie and great show of just being another one of the station crew, one of the team, no one was under any illusions about who was top dog or what would happen if you ever made the mistake of treating Rob as just one of the boys.

In the conference room Stan was already sorting out a drink for Rob, Nina was there to ensure no one forgot budget or logistics, a girl from the front office was there to take notes while someone up from the sales department was there to talk about advertising.

Molly had already emailed her outline plan for next month’s shows, although it was fairly academic; the framework for programme content in the broadest sense was more or less the same every year, give or take a public crusade or two.

In the summer they rolled out some kind of seaside special in August, finishing up on Bank Holiday Monday, before heading towards back-to-school and then autumn themes, beginning in September with harvest festivals and late-season breaks. October there were debates over Hallowe’en versus Bonfire Night, then there was Christmas and all that that entailed – the presents and pantomimes and cookery tips and how-tos. And then the New Year, with lots of phoneins about presents you hated and resolutions made or broken, followed by the January blues and sales, segments on credit cards and canny ways with money, and the year rolled slowly into a new spring with lambs and farm visits and the first snowdrops, how this February was the wettest, driest, coldest, hottest or sunniest since records began, and before you knew it they were round to planning holidays on air, with a mix of local destinations and travel companies who had bought air time, and before you knew it, it was summer all over again.

Molly quite liked the slow seasonal rotation in programme planning; while some people saw it as dull, for her it had all the comfort of visiting old friends.

Rob looked up from his notes as Molly came into the conference room and smiled broadly. ‘I hear congratulations are in order,’ he said, as she pulled out a chair. ‘Phone lines are still buzzing. Marvellous news, please pass my best wishes on to your daughter and the groom-to-be. Max, isn’t it?’

Inwardly Molly groaned. Whoever was it said only bad news travels fast?

‘I know that I promised not to turn into Bridezilla,’ said Jess. ‘But there are things we ought to talk about, things I need to ask you, and want your opinion on. We haven’t got that long to sort everything out – so what sort of wedding do you think we should have?’ She paused. ‘Max, you are listening, aren’t you?’

The two of them were curled up under the duvet in bed in the little cottage with its view out over Watchet Harbour. Outside it was raining hard, but Jess couldn’t have cared less about the weather. She had barely had time to catch her breath since Max had gone down on one knee and now the full weight of what he had asked her was beginning to sink in.

If Jess could have planned exactly how she wanted to be proposed to she would have been hard-pressed to top Max’s efforts. It was breathtakingly romantic and so unexpected that, despite it being a horrible cliché, she had to keep from pinching herself to check that she wasn’t dreaming.

At first Jess had thought Max was kneeling down to tie his shoelace and then just when she was going to ask him if he was all right he had caught hold of her hand. And even then Jess hadn’t guessed, she just thought he might need a hand up because it was cold and they had walked for miles with her dog, Bassa. Then Max had said, ‘Jess, I want to ask you something.’

And before she could think what it might be, Max had asked her to marry him.

Although replaying the scene in her head – and Jess had replayed it many times since Max had said it – Jess wasn’t sure exactly whether Max had asked her so much as told her. She seemed to remember that what he had actually said was, ‘Jess, I think that we should get married.’ Because it didn’t seem as if there had been any question that she could answer yes or no to. But it didn’t matter, because it had all been so magical and so very special and incredibly romantic and then Max had said, ‘I was thinking December – maybe Christmas, certainly before the New Year. What do you say?’