Four Weddings And A White Christmas

Annie cleared the decorations off one of the booth tables. ‘Hannah, I can’t tell you how excited I am about this. I literally couldn’t sleep last night. Is it good? Do you like it? Will I like it?’

He watched Hannah swallow. ‘I think you’ll like it. I hope you’ll like it. The thing is, it’s not finished yet, so you’ll have to use your imagination. OK?’

Harry frowned. He glanced at his watch to double-check the date. The wedding was in four days. She was cutting it a bit fine, wasn’t she?

‘I can do that. I have a great imagination.’ Annie laughed. She had her hands clasped in front of her like a kid about to open Christmas presents. ‘OK, show me. And, Harry, not a word to anyone about the dress, OK?’

He shrugged. ‘Seriously? You think I talk about dresses?’

Annie gave him a look and then turned her attention to the unveiling of the dress. Harry watched as the brunette lay the bag down on the table. She was definitely nervous but clearly trying to hide it under a confident smile and chit-chat.

‘So how’s it going? Have you got all your kitsch?’ Hannah asked Annie as she struggled with the zip that seemed to be stuck.

‘Great. I’ve been up and down the country getting every vintage decoration I can lay my hands on. Matt thinks I’ve gone bonkers but I want it to be like walking into a nineteen forties Christmas card, you know? All bright colours and old-school Christmas and, well, if you can’t go a bit nuts for your wedding when can you? Is the zip OK?’

‘Yep, no worries, just a bit stuck.’

Harry noticed that her hand was shaking.

Annie rattled on a bit more about the decorations. Both as nervous as each other, he presumed. Then as the zip got moving again, Annie stopped talking and put her hands over her face as if she didn’t want to look, scared by what she might see.

How annoying would that be, he thought. At his restaurant he quite often refused to serve people who didn’t like the first course. Told them to bugger off. If they didn’t like his stuff then he had no interest in feeding them.

Hannah opened the bag.

He heard Annie gasp, but annoyingly she was blocking his view of the dress inside. He peered over as subtly as he could and not wake the baby. His arm still throbbing with cramp.

The suspense was painful. Like one of those moments when he’d be forced to watch X-Factor at his parents’ house and the person on stage was so terrible that it made his mum cover her face with a cushion and his dad sit forward with glee.

This was a potential cushion moment.

Annie was silent.

Hannah looked like she might burst into tears.

Every muscle in Harry’s body had tensed in anticipation.

Annie moved slightly to her right as she reached forward to touch the fabric giving Harry the view he’d been waiting for.

Oh dear god.

What he saw was quite possibly the craziest, brightest monstrosity he’d ever seen. Shocking swatches of hot-pink fabric, a marshmallow frothy skirt, scraps of netting dotted with green and blue beads. Is that what wedding dresses looked like nowadays?

‘Oh my god.’ Annie put her hands over her mouth.

Quite so, Harry thought. She hates it.

‘Anything you don’t like I can change,’ Hannah said quickly. ‘But remember it’s not finished.’

‘You’ve done all this in just two months?’ Annie said, her voice a bit wobbly.

She likes it?

Hannah nodded.

‘I can’t believe it. My mum’s going to have a fit when she sees what we’ve done to her dress.’ Annie did a little snort hiccup that sounded like she might have started crying.

She hates it.

He felt for Hannah. She was holding the dress a bit like he was holding the baby, like her life depended on it.

‘But seriously, Annie, what do you think? Remember all the drawings you’ve seen – that’s what it will look like in the end,’ Hannah said, her voice wavering.

Harry felt his stomach clenching. There was no way, he thought, that she could transform this into something half-decent in four days.

But clearly Annie thought different because she wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands, and sighed, ‘I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I can completely see it. I can see the vision.’

And, while even squinting his eyes Harry couldn’t see the vision one little bit, he found himself exhaling with unexpected relief.

Feeling more like his mum poking her head round the cushion when it was all over, than his dad who always wanted the judges to stick the boot in even more, he leant back in his seat, able now to relax. Surprised at how involved he’d got. He never cared one iota what happened to the rubbish X-Factor contestant, he was usually just wishing he wasn’t watching X-Factor.

‘You’re a miracle worker. Amazing. I completely trust everything you’re doing,’ Annie said and Harry watched Hannah’s reaction. Her hands had stopped shaking, she was smiling and, to his surprise, he was smiling too. Grinning even. He stopped as soon as he caught himself. He was not a grinner.

But it was too late, Hannah had seen him and was giving him a coy little smile back.

Oh god, Harry sighed to himself, she thought he was flirting.

But then she said, ‘Urm, I think the baby might have been urm, might have been sick on you.’

Harry frowned and looked down. His black wool jumper was covered in white baby vomit. Great.

‘Here,’ Annie said, with a laugh. ‘Here’s a tea towel. You clean yourself up, Harry.’

Chapter Three (#u5dd7d08f-9735-5ed0-ba25-57d9135f66f3)

For Hannah, Christmas Day passed in a rainy haze of food, presents, stress and sewing. Her five-year-old daughter, Jemima, was up at four and then six and by seven she was dragging her stocking behind her and clambering onto Hannah’s bed, jabbing her forehead to wake her up.

Hannah, her sister, Robyn, her brother, her brother’s boyfriend and her parents had all gone to bed at one in the morning – each having been working on a job concerning either the dress or Christmas Day.

If Hannah had the time and breathing space to have taken a step back from the proceedings she would have realised how lovely it was – all of them dotted about her parents’ kitchen either sewing or chopping or reading the cooking instructions for the turkey. Her dad walking round making sure everyone’s glasses were topped up, her mum, Clarice, reminiscing about bygone Christmases while her sister challenged the memories and her brother, Dylan, asked Hannah annoying questions:

‘So you think it was Harry Fontaine or you know it was Harry Fontaine? I mean, did he just look like him or was it him?’

‘I don’t know,’ Hannah said, pins in her mouth, kneeling in front of the dressmaker’s dummy hemming the silk skirt of Annie’s wedding dress.

‘Well why didn’t you ask him?’ Her brother made a face.

‘Because he wasn’t very friendly – just watching my panic, all smug.’