He offered the crook of one arm, leaning in and whispering in a fake Scottish burr, ‘Aye, you’ll do, then.’
‘You’ll do, yourself,’ I said, wondering if my heart was thumping hard enough for him to see it bouncing against the bodice of the dress.
‘Well, you know, it’s traditional for Macintyre men to don the family tartan at special occasions.’
‘That’s Macintyre tartan?’
He winked as we joined the queue of guests waiting to enter the ballroom. ‘It is now.’
I hadn’t been to many weddings, so didn’t know if it was normal to have a seating plan for the actual ceremony. I suspected that, short of high-level aristocrats, seating plans didn’t get beyond the one side for bride, one for groom. But at least this way I could avoid that sticky question. I knew which one I’d had more conversations with in the past couple of years. And only one of them had, well, done stuff with me I’d rather not think about now. Or ever again.
I swallowed a wave of nausea, tucked my arm more firmly in Mack’s and we shuffled to our seats, three rows from the back. A scan of the plan told me Zara’s housekeeper, Claudia, and my dad weren’t there. I recognised a few names from Dougal and Duff, but unsurprisingly none of the minions I’d hung about with were on the list.
As we sat and waited for things to start, I felt a genuine twinge of pity for my sister. Twenty-eight years old and the only family here were a mum who’d ditched all earthly attachments and responsibilities, including her own children, for a God Zara didn’t believe in, and a twin sister she’d treated like dog poo and then wiped off and disposed of accordingly.
None of these women, with their over-the-top air-kisses and five-figure handbags, was a real friend to Zara. They’d be scouring the whole event like starving vultures, gorging on the tiniest flaws and relishing the catty remarks and gossipy criticism. The stupidest thing about competition (and, believe me, every detail of this day was part of the great who’s-winning-at-life competition) was that you ended up feeling either superior and isolated, or inferior and therefore jealous. Nobody won. I breathed a deep sigh of relief that, despite my mother’s past attempts, I had never even qualified to enter.
I leant to the side slightly, nudging Mack with my arm.
‘Is it okay if I say hello to Mum?’
He sat to attention. ‘I insist. Let’s go.’
‘Feel free to stay here and read your programme.’ Having not seen Mum since she took her vows, I still wasn’t sure quite who I’d be saying hello to.
‘No chance. I promised to stick by your side today. We’ve barely started and you want me shirking my responsibility? Us Macintyres are made of stronger stuff than that.’
‘I know your surname isn’t really Macintyre. I made it up, remember?’
His mouth twitched, and I couldn’t help wondering how much that bushy beard had previously kept hidden. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Rolling my eyes, I led him to my mother.
‘Mum, this is my friend Mack. Mack, Isobel.’
Mum nodded her head. ‘Call me Sister Claire.’
‘I’ll try.’ Mack smiled. ‘But I’ve got two sisters and that wouldn’t necessarily be a compliment.’
‘How are you?’ I asked Mum – or was I supposed to call her Sister Claire too? ‘How long are you staying?’
‘I’m very well, thank you. And I’m flying back this evening. I hope we can spend some time together before then.’
Watching her making small talk with Mack, I had to agree that, despite the grey hair and lack of make-up, she did look well. I tried to put a word to what was different about her… and then I realised, I’d never seen her sostill. She looked peaceful.
Wow. I guessed the whole religious conversion thing was genuine, then. And seemed to have worked.
She suddenly took my hand. ‘Jenny. I’ve missed you so much.’
Um, what?
Thankfully, at that moment Rob Duff, as inDougal and, who thought Richard was an irritating upstart in need of a good kicking (according to his PA, Meg), assumed his role of best man and called the two hundred guests to take their seats.
Richard entered the room being pulled on a sleigh by four groomsmen dressed as elves, as the ‘Sleigh Ride’ Christmas song jingled in the background, a ludicrously jolly accompaniment to the strenuous job of heaving a sleigh down a white carpet in twenty-three-degree heat while wearing stripy green and white tights.
‘This is brilliant.’ Mack grinned, settling in to enjoy the spectacle.
I would have answered, but was too busy fighting the panic now twisting itself up and around my head like a musty blanket as my stupid, idiot eyes refused to move off Richard. That swagger. The way he jerked his head when he greeted people. His preposterously fake laugh. I couldn’t believe I’d fallen for it. Let him use me.
