‘Emma, I know who you’re marrying. I’m confident this is your happy-ever-after.’
‘What does Dad say? “No happy-ever-after happens without hard work.”’
Bridget grinned, leaning over to take my hand and push the ring onto my finger. ‘Well, that’s perfect, then, isn’t it? Hard work is your favourite thing.’
13
On Monday afternoon, I drove out to Hatherstone to investigate further. Sunday lunch had not been what I’d expected. I don’t know what Dad, or one of my sisters, had said to Mum, but instead of spending the whole time agonising about my terrible decision, or using the full force of her emotional blackmail arsenal to try to stop the wedding, she had asked me a few polite questions about the practical details and then moved on to outlining her latest plans for the new and improved pop-up tea room (bouncy castle, face-painting, pony rides…).
I was initially staggered. Then increasingly suspicious.
Even Annie smiled sweetly and asked about bridesmaid dresses and whether we were having a hen do (not unless a quiet night in with my sisters counted).
So on Monday afternoon, once Dad and I were settled with tea and some taster samples of my wedding cake, I asked him what was going on.
‘I’m starting to wonder if, not only does everyone know who it is I’m getting married to, you all must know him personally. Otherwise, why aren’t you all continuing the campaign to stop this from happening? Unless you have something else up your sleeve? Are you going to kidnap me the night before and put me on an aeroplane to Alaska?’
Dad smiled. ‘Maybe your mother listened to me. She does, you know, every decade or so. It was my idea to paint the front door red.’
‘Well, what about this, then?’ I showed him the ring, which still felt alien and awkward on my finger. I’d had to take it off to bake the cake samples that morning, and it had taken a lot of mental effort to put it on again.
‘Ah, now, isn’t that lovely? That’s a grand wee ring. I’ve not seen one like that before.’
‘Bit of a coincidence, though, giving me an Irish ring.’
‘Ah, come on, now, a coincidence, or could it be a sign to ease your jitters? That’s not a cheap bit of tat there, love. He’s showing you already that he’s willing to invest in this marriage.’
I shook my head, exasperated. ‘This is ridiculous. My mind is completely boggled at how my family have fallen in love with this complete stranger, and suddenly seem so sure he’s going to be amazing. Were you all really that desperate to see me married off?’
Dad looked crestfallen. ‘That’s not it at all! But the signs are good so far.’
‘Daddy, be honest. You know who it is, don’t you?’
Dad said nothing, coincidentally choosing to stuff in a whole cake sample in that moment.
‘It’s one of Moses’ relatives, isn’t it?’
Dad swallowed, took a mouthful of tea and sat back, relief all over his face. ‘Not that I know of. Now, I have something to show you. Can you fetch over that package over there?’
It took me a minute hunting through the assorted debris in the corner of the living room until I found the right box. As soon as I saw it, I knew.
Carefully opening it up, I found a wedding dress inside.
‘Oh, Daddy.’
‘It was my mother’s. Auntie Mary sent it over.’
I was too choked up to reply. Lifting it gently out, I unfolded a calf-length, sleeveless white dress with a simple lace bodice and scoop neck.
‘I know I’ve said this before, but you’re more the spit of her every year, so I reckoned it would suit you. And you know, fashions and that tend to go round in circles, so I thought it might do. I didn’t think you’d want something all flounces and sparkles.’
I stroked the soft fabric, blinking hard so a tear didn’t plop onto the lace and leave a mark. Dad lost his mother when he was nineteen. When I first moved to Ireland, every person over sixty told me how much I looked like her.
‘She made it herself, so it’ll be top quality. Love and care in every stitch. But if you don’t like it, or you’ve already chosen your own dress, something modern, I’ll understand. It’s your day, and it’s not as though it cost me anything.’
‘I’ll try it on.’
I had been considering wearing one of my old bridesmaid’s dresses rather than return to the bridal shop in town. But part of me wanted to look like a traditional bride – a return gesture to show Mr X that I was serious about this, too. And, of course, that included looking my best, in the hope that he wouldn’t be disappointed when he finally saw me.
