‘You don’t sound very happy about that.’ He turned to face me.
I pushed my glasses up, rubbed my tired eyes. ‘I’ve stayed here before. Several times. With Richard.’
‘Ah.’ He peered out through the windscreen. ‘Kind of a weird choice for his wedding, then.’
‘He likes venison.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Mack, I know how much a room here costs. When you said a hotel I was thinking a Travelodge, or a crusty B and B.’
‘Well, at the risk of sounding like the infamous blowhard Richard the Richest, I can afford it.’
‘Still, though…’
‘Still though, I’m shattered, I really want to try a whisky and the deal I got on the rooms is non-refundable so we might as well enjoy it.’
We checked in, and went to the bar for a drink. My nerves too jittery to contemplate alcohol, I sipped on lemonade until Mack asked me to go to bed so he could enjoy his whisky in peace.
‘Try to get some sleep. And if you say sorry or thank you again I’m going to abandon you to the golf course. It’s going to be fun, remember, breaking the wedding rules, drinking champagne and hunting for Z-list celebrities.’
I nodded and left before my mouth popped open and said the words expanding in my head like an airbag:Thank you, Mack Macintyre, for everything. Thank you for being you. And thank you for letting me be me. And I’m really, truly, sorry but I LOVE YOU. Goodnight.
It wasn’t a good night. But the next day? Better than I hoped.
35
I didn’t attend the pre-reception brunch, held in a private dining room and clearly marked as invitation only. Instead, Mack and I whiled away the morning with tea and mince pies in the lobby, which had been transformed into a Christmas wonderland overnight, along with the rest of the hotel. We sat beside the enormous tree, covered in red and silver bows and topped with a figurine that looked remarkably like Zara, and played ‘spot the wedding guest’ as tall, slim women in enormous hats glided past accompanied by men in tight suits brushing the fake snow off shiny shoes.
‘They all look the same,’ Mack mused. ‘It’s a good job your sister will be in a wedding dress or I might end up congratulating the wrong person. Do you know any of these people?’
‘One or two. I’ve not seen anyone from work yet.’
‘Well, I’m guessingshewon’t be at the wedding,’ Mack whispered, as a woman in a blue habit and black veil walked past. ‘Can’t picture Richard or Zara knocking about with nuns.’
‘Well, you lose.’ I picked up my oversized teacup and attempted to hide behind it as someone else swished past. ‘That nun is the bride’s mother.’
‘Really?’ Mack looked delighted. ‘Her outfit must break about six different guidelines in the dress code. Wearing a veil to someone else’s wedding is one thing. But ablackveil?’
It would be funny if it weren’t true. Zara was either going to flip out, disinvite her own mother or force her into an emergency dress from Jaeger.
‘Do you think she’ll join in the dancing later? Or, wouldn’t it be great if she’s got some flash mob, choreographed routine up her sleeve?’
By the time I’d wiped up the tea laugh-snorted out through my nose at that image, Mum had vanished.
‘Can you call her?’ Mack asked.
‘She doesn’t own a phone.’ I wasn’t going to mention anything about the house or the journals until after the ceremony. The risk was too high that it’d send her running again. Or, even worse, crying… that would not go down well. What kind of person made a nun cry? Made hermumcry? At a wedding? When it was herown daughtergetting married?
I could wait a few more hours.
Ten minutes before we were due in the ballroom, I rustled down the stairs in Frances’ dove-grey swing dress and the fancy shoes I’d bought myself. With my hair pinned up, new glasses and a simple silver necklace round my neck, I hoped I might look elegant. At the very least I looked tasteful. And, most importantly, I felt likeme. Not a cheap imitation of my twin. She might not even recognise me. I was fairly hopeful Richard wouldn’t, having never looked that closely in the first place.
A man stood up from where he’d been leaning on a pillar wrapped in ivy and tipped his head in acknowledgement.
Wowee – I must have looked even better than I thought. He was, to put it bluntly, gorgeous. After living in Scotland for five years, I now finally got the hype about a man in a kilt. This guy had the whole shebang – white shirt, jacket, sporran, those funny brogues with laces up his ankles. Short dark hair, a Celtic warrior’s jawline, he stood there grinning at me, and I felt the blush from my silver shoes right up to the diamond clip in my hair.
Flustered, I wobbled precariously, keeping my eyes down, hand gripping the bannister until I reached the bottom.
The kilt-man was Mack. Hair cut, beard gone. Shoulders back.
