The Wedding Girl: When 'I do' gives you deja vu it could be a problem... - Softcover

Ten Years Later

The room was large and airy and overlooked the biscuity streets of Bath, coated in a January icing of snow. It had been refurbished some years back in a traditional manner, with striped wallpaper and a few good Georgian pieces. These, however, were currently lost under the welter of bright clothes, CDs, magazines and make-up piled high on every available surface. In the corner a handsome mahogany wardrobe was almost entirely masked by a huge white cotton dress carrier; on the bureau was a hat box; on the floor by the bed was a suitcase half full of clothes for a warm-weather honeymoon.

Milly, who had come up some time earlier to finish packing, leaned back comfortably in her bedroom chair, glanced at the clock, and took a bite of toffee apple. In her lap was a glossy magazine, open at the problem pages. 'Dear Anne,' the first began. 'I have been keeping a secret from my husband.' Milly rolled her eyes. She didn't even have to look at the advice. It was always the same. Tell the truth. Be honest. Like some sort of secular catechism, to be learned by rote and repeated without thought.

Her eyes flicked to the second problem. 'Dear Anne. I earn much more money than my boyfriend.' Milly crunched disparagingly on her toffee apple. Some problem. She turned over the page to the homestyle section, and peered at an array of expensive waste-paper baskets. She hadn't put a waste-paper basket on her wedding list. Maybe it wasn't too late.

Downstairs, there was a ring at the doorbell, but she didn't move. It couldn't be Simon, not yet; it would be one of the bed and breakfast guests. Idly, Milly raised her eyes from her magazine and looked around her bedroom. It had been hers for twenty-two years, ever since the Havill family had first moved into 1 Bertram Street and she had unsuccessfully petitioned, with a six-year-old's desperation, for it to be painted Barbie pink. Since then, she'd gone away to school, gone away to college, even moved briefly to London--and each time she'd come back again; back to this room. But on Saturday she would be leaving and never coming back. She would be setting up her own home. Starting afresh. As a grownup, bona fide, married woman.

'Milly?' Her mother's voice interrupted her thoughts, and Milly's head jerked up. 'Simon's here!'

'What?' Milly glanced in the mirror and winced at her dishevelled appearance. 'He can't be.'

'Shall I send him up?' Her mother's head appeared round the door and surveyed the room. 'Milly! You were supposed to be clearing this lot up!'

'Don't let him come up,' said Milly, looking at the toffee apple in her hand. 'Tell him I'm trying my dress on. Say I'll be down in a minute.'

Her mother disappeared, and Milly quickly threw her toffee apple into the bin. She closed her magazine and put it on the floor, then, on second thoughts, kicked it under the bed. Hurriedly she peeled off the denim-blue leggings she'd been wearing and opened her wardrobe. A pair of well-cut black trousers hung to one side, along with a charcoal grey tailored skirt, a chocolate trouser suit and an array of crisp white shirts. On the other side of the wardrobe were all the clothes she wore when she wasn't going to be seeing Simon: tattered jeans, ancient jerseys, tight bright miniskirts. All the clothes she would have to throw out before Saturday.

She put on the black trousers and one of the white shirts, and reached for the cashmere sweater Simon had given her as a Christmas present. She looked at herself severely in the mirror, brushed her hair--now buttery blond and shoulder-length--till it shone, and stepped into a pair of expensive black loafers. She and Simon had often agreed that buying cheap shoes was a false economy; as far as Simon was aware, her entire collection of shoes consisted of the black loafers, a pair of brown boots, and a pair of navy Gucci snaffles which he'd bought for her himself.

Sighing, Milly closed her wardrobe door, stepped over a pile of underwear on the floor, and picked up her bag. She sprayed herself with scent, closed the bedroom door firmly behind her and began to walk down the stairs.

'Milly!' As she passed her mother's bedroom door, a hissed voice drew her attention. 'Come in here!'

Obediently, Milly went into her mother's room. Olivia Havill was standing by the chest of drawers, her jewellery box open.

'Darling,' she said brightly, 'why don't you borrow my pearls for this afternoon?' She held up a double pearl choker with a diamond clasp. 'They'd look lovely against that jumper!'

'Mummy, we're only meeting the vicar,' said Milly. 'It's not that important. I don't need to wear pearls.'

'Of course it's important!' retorted Olivia. 'You must take this seriously, Milly. You only make your marriage vows once!' She paused. 'And besides, all upper-class brides wear pearls.' She held the necklace up to Milly's throat. 'Proper pearls. Not those silly little things.'

'I like my freshwater pearls,' said Milly defensively. 'And I'm not upper class.'

'Darling, you're about to become Mrs Simon Pinnacle.'

'Simon isn't upper class!'

'Don't be silly,' said Olivia crisply. 'Of course he is. His father's a multimillionaire.' Milly rolled her eyes.

'I've got to go,' she said.

'All right.' Olivia put the pearls regretfully back into her jewellery box. 'Have it your own way. And, darling, do remember to ask Canon Lytton about the rose petals.'

'I will,' said Milly. 'See you later.'

She hurried down the stairs and into the hall, grabbing her coat from the hall stand by the door.

'Hi!' she called into the drawing room, and as Simon came out into the hall, glanced hastily at the front page of that day's Daily Telegraph, trying to commit as many headlines as possible to memory.

'Milly,' said Simon, grinning at her. 'You look gorgeous.' Milly looked up and smiled.

'So do you.' Simon was dressed for the office, in a dark suit which sat impeccably on his firm, stocky frame, a blue shirt and a purple silk tie. His dark hair sprang up energetically from his wide forehead and he smelt discreetly of aftershave.

'So,' he said, opening the front door and ushering her out into the crisp afternoon air. 'Off we go to learn how to be married.'

'I know,' said Milly. 'Isn't it weird?'

'Complete waste of time,' said Simon. 'What can a crumbling old vicar tell us about being married? He isn't even married himself.'

'Oh well,' said Milly vaguely. 'I suppose it's the rules.'

'He'd better not start patronizing us. That will piss me off.'

Milly glanced at Simon. His neck was tense and his eyes fixed determinedly ahead. He reminded her of a young bulldog ready for a scrap.

'I know what I want from marriage,' he said, frowning. 'We both do. We don't need interference from some stranger.'

'We'll just listen and nod,' said Milly. 'And then we'll go.' She felt in her pocket for her gloves. 'Anyway, I already know what he's going to say.'

'What?'

'Be kind to one another and don't sleep around.' Simon thought for a moment.

'I expect I could manage the first part.'

Milly gave him a thump and he laughed, drawing her near and planting a kiss on her shiny hair. As they neared the corner he reached in his pocket and bleeped his car open.

'I could hardly find a parking space,' he said, as he started the engine. 'The streets are so bloody congested.' He frowned. 'Whether this new bill will really achieve anything . . .'

'The environment bill,' said Milly at once.

'That's right,' said Simon. 'Did you read about it today?'

'Oh yes,' said Milly. She cast her mind quickly back to the Daily Telegraph. 'Do you think they've got the emphasis quite right?'

And as Simon began to talk, she looked out of the window and nodded occasionally, and wondered idly whether she should buy a third bikini for her honeymoon.

Canon Lytton's drawing room was large, draughty and full of books. Books lined the walls, books covered every surface, and teetered in dusty piles on the floor. In addition, nearly everything in the room that wasn't a book, looked like a book. The teapot was shaped like a book, the firescreen was decorated with books; even the slabs of gingerbread sitting on the tea-tray resembled a set of encyclopaedia volumes.

Canon Lytton himself resembled a sheet of old paper. His thin, powdery skin seemed in danger of tearing at any moment; whenever he laughed or frowned his face creased into a thousand lines. At the moment--as he had been during most of the session--he was frowning. His bushy white eyebrows were knitted together, his eyes narrowed in concentration and his bony hand, clutched around an undrunk cup of tea, was waving dangerously about in the air.

'The secret of a successful marriage,' he was declaiming, 'is trust. Trust is the key. Trust is the rock.'

'Absolutely,' said Milly, as she had at intervals of three minutes for the past hour. She glanced at Simon. He was leaning forward, as though ready to interrupt. But Canon Lytton was not the sort of speaker to brook interruptions. Each time Simon had taken a breath to say something, the clergyman had raised the volume of his voice and turned away, leaving Simon stranded in frustrated but deferential silence. He would have liked to take issue with much of what Canon Lytton was saying, she could tell. As for herself, she hadn't listened to a word.

Her gaze slid idly over to the glass-fronted bookcases to her left. There she was, reflected in the glass. Smart and shiny; grownup and groomed. She felt pleased with her appearance. Not that Canon Lytton appreciated it. He probably thought it was sinful to spend money on clothes. He would tell her she should have given it to the poor instead.

She shifted her position slightly on the sofa, stifled a yawn, and looked up. To her horror, Canon Lytton was watching her. His eyes narrowed, and he broke off mid-sentence.

'I'm sorry if I'm boring you, my dear,' he said sarcastically. 'Perhaps you are familiar with this quotation already.'

Milly felt her cheeks turn pink.

'No,' she said, 'I'm not. I was just . . . um . . .' She glanced quickly at Simon, who grinned back and gave her a tiny wink. 'I'm just a little tired,' she ended feebly.

'Poor Milly's been frantic over the wedding arrangements,' put in Simon. 'There's a lot to organize. The champagne, the cake . . .'

'Indeed,' said Canon Lytton severely. 'But might I remind you that the point of a wedding is not the champagne, nor the cake; nor is it the presents you will no doubt receive.' His eyes flicked around the room, as though comparing his own dingy things with the shiny, sumptuous gifts piled high for Milly and Simon, and his frown deepened. 'I am grieved,' he continued, stalking over to the window, 'at the casual approach taken by many young couples to the wedding ceremony. The sacrament of marriage should not be viewed as a formality.'

'Of course not,' said Milly.

'It is not simply the preamble to a good party.'

'No,' said Milly.

'As the very words of the service remind us, marriage must not be undertaken carelessly, lightly, or selfishly, but--'

'And it won't be!' Simon's voice broke in impatiently; he leaned forward in his seat. 'Canon Lytton, I know you probably come across people every day who are getting married for the wrong reasons. But that's not us, OK? We love each other and we want to spend the rest of our lives together. And for us, that's a serious matter. The cake and the champagne have got nothing to do with it.'

He broke off and for a moment there was silence. Milly took Simon's hand and squeezed it.

'I see,' said Canon Lytton eventually. 'Well, I'm glad to hear it.' He sat down, took a sip of cold tea and winced. 'I don't mean to lecture you unduly,' he said, putting down his cup. 'But you've no idea how many unsuitable couples I see coming before me to get married. Thoughtless young people who've barely known each other five minutes; silly girls who want an excuse to buy a nice dress . . .'

'I'm sure you do,' said Simon. 'But Milly and I are the real thing. We're going to take it seriously. We're going to get it right. We know each other and we love each other and we're going to be very happy.' He leaned over and kissed Milly gently, then looked up at Canon Lytton, as though daring him to reply.

'Yes,' said Canon Lytton. 'Well. Perhaps I've said enough. You do seem to be on the right track.' He picked up his folder and began to rifle through it. 'There are just a couple of other matters . . .'

'That was beautiful,' whispered Milly to Simon.

'It was true,' he whispered back, and gently touched the corner of her mouth.

'Ah yes,' said Canon Lytton, looking up. 'I should have mentioned this before. As you will be aware, Reverend Harries neglected to read your banns last Sunday.'

'Did he?' said Simon.

'Surely you noticed?' said Canon Lytton looking beadily at Simon. 'I take it you were at morning service?'

'Oh yes,' said Simon after a pause. 'Of course. Now you mention it, I thought something was wrong.'

'He was most apologetic--they always are.' Canon Lytton gave a tetchy sigh. 'But the damage has been done. So you will have to be married by special licence.'

'Oh,' said Milly. 'What does that mean?'

'It means, among other things,' said Canon Lytton, 'that I must ask you to swear an oath.'

'Zounds damnation,' said Milly.

'I'm sorry?' He looked at her in puzzlement.

'Nothing,' she said. 'Carry on.'

'You must swear a solemn oath that all the information you've given me is true,' said Canon Lytton. He held out a Bible to Milly, then passed her a piece of paper. 'Just run your eyes down it, check that it's all correct, then read the oath aloud.'

Milly stared down at the paper for a few seconds, then looked up with a bright smile.

'Absolutely fine,' she said.

'Melissa Grace Havill,' said Simon, reading over her shoulder. 'Spinster.' He pulled a face. 'Spinster!'

'OK!' said Milly sharply. 'Just let me read the oath.'

'That's right,' said Canon Lytton. He beamed at her. 'And then everything will be, as they say, above board.'

By the time they emerged from the vicarage, the air was cold and dusky. Snowflakes were falling again; the street lamps were already on; a row of fairy lights from Christmas twinkled in a window opposite. Milly took a deep breath, shook out her legs, stiff from sitting still for so long, and looked at Simon. But before she could speak, a triumphant voice came ringing from the other side of the street.

'Aha! I just caught you!'

'Mummy!' exclaimed Milly.

'Olivia,' said Simon. 'What a lovely surprise.'

Olivia crossed the street and beamed at them both. Snowflakes were resting lightly on her smartly cut blond hair and on the shoulders of her green cashmere coat. Nearly all of Olivia's clothes were in jewel colours--sapphire blue, ruby red, amethyst purple--accented by shiny gold buckles, gleaming buttons and gilt-trimmed shoes. She had once secretly toyed with the idea of turquoise-tinted contact...