Zara Stoneley - The Wedding Date - The laugh out loud romantic comedy of the year!

What? Scotland? Invite? A week off?

Oh. My. God. I stare at the cream card in my hand. If she knows all this, then it means my parents have been invited as well. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse.

When I’d told Sarah everybody would be there I’d meant Jess’s parents, Dan’s parents, our friends. Liam. Her hugeness. Not my mother .

I definitely can’t go now. Even if Magic Mike and his gang and all the Chippendales agree to back me up.

My little bit of mojo that has been creeping back has been bludgeoned to death.

This will be total humiliation. ‘Well it might be a bit tric—’

‘Oh of course you can, what am I saying? She’s your best friend! And that Dan is such a lovely chap, such a shame you and Liam…’ The words trail off, but then after an intake of breath she picks up again. ‘Well never mind, some things aren’t meant to be. But isn’t it lovely?’

Lovely. Super.

‘Is it cold in Scotland in June?’

I’m going to need a whole new wardrobe for a week. ‘Er, I don’t—’

‘I can get your father to do that googly thing on his laptop can’t I?’

‘You can.’ I need help from that googly thing myself.

‘It looks incredibly posh, like a castle. Do people still wear Harris Tweed? I can’t have your father looking out of place now, can I?’

Too many questions. My father is the least of my worries. A castle, how can Jess do this to me?

‘Samantha? Samantha are you listening?’

‘Oh no, yes, I mean no you can’t, and I don’t know about tweed, can’t you buy Country Life , or Horse and Hound or something and check?’

‘I’ll ask Juliet. Oh this is exciting.’ She’s practically clapping her hands, I can tell. ‘You’ll look lovely on a horse darling, you can get some of those breeches, you might find a nice lord or something.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Oh don’t be so negative, Samantha. You have lovely hair, and teeth.’ She’s struggling, I can tell. Whoever had to stoop to listing her daughter’s teeth as a selling point? ‘And you’re so clever.’ Definitely struggling, she’ll be bringing up my GCSE B grade in maths any second. ‘And you do need a date, or you’ll mess up the table plans.’ And we couldn’t have that could we? It would be my fault the whole wedding was ruined, the bride in tears … because I, the friend, the maid of honour no less, had a spare seat next to me, or, worse, we’d gone woman-woman because of the odd number. Maybe I should suggest a lesbian table? A woman only table? A sad singletons table? Then it wouldn’t matter. Maybe not. Maybe it would be a table for one.

‘I’ve got the answer! You can take Desmond.’

Desmond, who the F is Desmond? And who calls their child that in this day and age? Now all I can think about is Desmond Tutu. I can’t date a man who reminds me of a bishop.

‘If you’ll let me get a word in, Mum, I can’t because—’

‘He’s very nice. Got lovely manners, and I’m sure it’s not his fault that silly dating site can’t find—’

‘Mum!’

She stops. A miracle.

‘I can’t go with Desmond because I already have a date.’

There is silence. Total silence. I am just beginning to think we must have been cut off, because my mum is never stuck for words, when…

‘Oh.’

Shit, what have I done? Why did I say that?

‘You never told me.’ There is a slight hint of hurt in her tone. ‘How lovely. Although you might find a Scottish lord or laird or whatever they call them as well. No need to rush into things with this new one, it would be so nice to live in a castle, that would put Mrs Bracken next door in her place. If she’s told me once, she’s told me a million times about her new son-in-law going to Oxford. And you could have some of those Scottish wolfhound dogs.’

‘I think they’re Irish, Mum.’ See, one invite and this is where it’s taken her, into a complete fantasy land.

‘Don’t be silly dear, I’m sure some of them are born in Scotland. I’ve seen pictures of them in the Sunday supplements, outside castles. With kilts and … David … David, what are those purple prickly things? Oh don’t be ridiculous, pansies aren’t prickly! Prickly I said, not pretty. See, what did I say? He never listens properly. Thistles, that’s what they are, thistles. So it has to be Scotland, not Ireland.’

‘It doesn’t matter, I’m not meeting some castle-owning laird, and I don’t want a big dog. I’ve already got a boyfriend.’ Why have I repeated the lie? Once could be a mistake, twice means it is a truth.

‘Well, if you say so Samantha. That’s wonderful, well done.’ She’s obviously hankering over a highland estate to boast about to the neighbours and I’ve thrown a spanner in the works. ‘What’s his name? Do I know his mother?’

Bugger. I should have thought this through. Brad, George? ‘No, you don’t know his mother. Hang on a sec, there’s somebody at the door, might be him!’ I might have shouted that a bit too enthusiastically. I do some door opening and shutting, and mutter a bit.

I need to make a name up and write it down, what kind of girlfriend doesn’t know her boyfriend’s name?

There’s silence when I finish my door banging. I know she’s waiting for a name, probably a surname as well. She wants to Google him. Or get Dad to check if he’s on Tinder. She is the Hercule Poirot of her neighbourhood.

‘Oh no, not him! Just a lost cat. Well it wasn’t a cat, somebody has lost a cat, all go here!’

‘You’ll have to bring him round for supper.’ She’s brightened up. I don’t know where ‘supper’ has come from though. When I was growing up we had breakfast, dinner and tea. At some point dinner became lunch, and tea became dinner. Now we have supper. ‘Then we can meet him before the wedding.’ Interrogate him more like.

‘Yes, er, I’ll ask him.’ After I’ve managed to meet him. ‘I’ll have to call you back, Mum. Got to dash, I’ve er—’ in for a penny, in for a pound ‘—I’ve got to get changed before I meet him.’ I will have to get changed, I’ll probably have to get changed several times before I meet my mystery man. See, I’m not exactly lying, just slightly misleading which is perfectly acceptable, and natural, in a mother-daughter relationship.

So what do I do?

I book an emergency appointment at the hairdresser’s. The cheapest form of therapy known to man (and, of course, woman).

I am on the way for a cut and blow, hoping a pamper session will leave me feeling less like devouring the contents of the fridge and more like joining in the celebrations. It will also give me time to decide whether Sarah has a valid point, and I am now actually desperate enough to put an advert on Gumtree: ‘Desperately Seeking Stud’.

‘How are you gorgeous?’ Tim, the loveliest hairdresser in the world, gives me a very unprofessional hug, then holds me at arm’s length. ‘A little snip here and there and you’ll be all bouncy again.’

It will take more than a little snip to give me back my bounce, although a snip in Liam’s direction might help cheer me up. In fact a snip several months ago might have meant we were still together. It’s dawned on me in the last few minutes that for anybody to be hugely pregnant, they would have had to be shagging my boyfriend long before he became my ex.

This is not a good thought.

My plastered-on smile must have slipped a bit because Tim is frowning at me.

‘I think you need a bit of colour in your life. How about a hint of pink?’

I nod. Pink, purple, bright blooming blue. I’d say yes to anything right now.

‘Chantelle will run you some colour through, won’t you, darling?’ Chantelle is nodding. ‘And I’ll get you a nice little glass of prosecco.’ He pats my hand. ‘Then you can tell Uncle Tim all about it.’ Uncle Tim is probably a good few years younger than me, but right now I’m happy to play along.