Four Weddings And A White Christmas

Harry scoffed. ‘You really think that?’

‘I know that,’ she said.

‘Well I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think it’s the case at all,’ Harry said, his hand on the door latch. ‘Thanks for today, anyway. I’m sorry I didn’t, you know…’

His mum nodded with a smile.

‘And thanks for the present.’ He held up the white apron with “YES, CHEF!” printed on the front that he wouldn’t wear in a million years.

Then, suddenly, his mum threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tight and said, ‘Oh, my boy. Why do you have to live so far away?’

‘It’s where the work is, Mum.’

She squeezed him tighter. ‘Sometimes I worry that it’s to get away from us.’

He laughed and, even to him, it sounded like a weird fake one. ‘No, of course not,’ he said and saw Silvia watching from the doorway, one brow raised.

His mum let him go, wiping a tear away with her apron.

‘Bye, Sis,’ he said with a quick salute. ‘Any time you want to pop to New York let me know.’

Silvia smiled. ‘I will. And any time you want to pop home,’ she said, with big eyes as if she was urging him to do so a bit more often. ‘Let us know! Maybe more than half a day in advance.’

‘Will do,’ he said, with no intention of doing so whatsoever, and headed out into the cloudy darkness, the rain still pouring and shaking the Christmas lights off the branches of the trees.

Chapter Five (#ulink_8855afb6-71f0-5092-be38-3a6e9125b8dc)

To Jemima’s delight, Boxing Day was spent in front of the television while everyone sewed. The fitting on Christmas Eve had proved that Annie had somehow lost weight over the festive period when everyone else put it on so, as well as finishing all the embroidery, doing the skirt, the sleeves, the neckline, Hannah also had to take it in a half inch. And so the day after Boxing Day was also spent in front of the television, again to Jemima’s delight, while everyone sewed.

‘So she’s invited me to the wedding,’ Hannah said, glancing up at Dylan as she pinned cream ruffles to the skirt.

‘And?’ Dylan was playing Top Trumps with Jemima.

Over at the living room table, her mum was embroidering peacock feathers to one end of the hot-pink overlay while her dad was beading the other end. They were like Lady and the Tramp with vibrant pink net. Lying in front of the TV, watching Frozen, Tony and Robyn were making more ruffles for Hannah to attach to the skirt.

‘Well,’ Hannah scratched her head. ‘Should I go?’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t think it’s a sympathy invite? Just because I made the dress?’

Dylan frowned down at his Top Trump. ‘Of course it is. You haven’t been friends with them since school.’

‘So I shouldn’t go?’ she said, sitting crossed-legged on the floor.

‘Hannah, you don’t have time to stop,’ her mum called over from the table.

Hannah went back to pinning the ruffles.

‘Of course you should go. I’d go. All your old friends’ll be there. If anything, just go to get a peek at that Emily Hunter-Brown. She’s a bona fide famous person now. She was in your year, wasn’t she? From what I read in the paper, she’s engaged to Jack Neil now. Remember him from school. God he was a dish.’ Dylan sighed at the memory, then added, ‘Take it from me, Hannah, as your elder and wiser…’

Jemima giggled.

‘The older you get, the much smaller the opportunities to make new friends become. So when they do come up, you should pounce on them immediately.’

Hannah thought about when the last time she’d made a new friend was. She’d met people at college but they were all fifteen years younger than her and, while they’d been fun to hang out with, she’d felt a bit like their uncool mum, having to bite her tongue when they talked about all the drugs they were taking. There were her baby friends that she talked kid stuff with. Work friends that she bitched about her boss with. But new friends who just knew her as Hannah – not as crazy-busy ‘Jemima’s mum’ or the person who could never do the overtime that everyone else did because she had to pick up from nursery – she hadn’t made one of them in a while.

‘Always in life, Hannah,’ Dylan went on, ‘do what works for you.’

‘I think Uncle Dylan is cheating, Mummy.’ Jemima turned her head round to look at Hannah.

‘I am not, you little ratbag,’ Dylan said with a laugh and bashed Jemima with a sofa cushion, making her giggle.

‘I don’t know, Dyl. I’m going to be so tired once this is done.’ Hannah picked up another cream ruffle just as Tony came over and dumped a whole load more onto her pile. ‘And there’s Jemima.’

‘You’re a machine, Hannah. You can keep going for another twelve hours just to drink champagne and eat little cakes. Even I could do that and I have the stamina of a dying fly. And your daughter has a rich, diverse and talented extended family who insist that she is left in their care so she can learn and develop into a thoroughly rounded human being. Hence why we are currently playing One Direction Top Trumps.’

Hannah looked from Dylan to the three-quarters finished dress that hung from the dressmaker’s dummy and was just beginning to look as good as it should. Behind it the Christmas tree twinkled and the fire crackled and she felt her mind and her body at war. Physically she was so exhausted that she wanted to fit Annie in the dress and then scurry home to the big sofa and eat a mince pie with a glass of wine. But that would be the same as Christmas last year and similar to the one the year before. Whereas her mind was quietly fizzing with excitement. With the possibility of the people. The life. Of going back again to Cherry Pie Island. It was like standing in front of a television screen and being invited to step inside to where the colours were brighter and the life richer. Where people married their childhood sweethearts, ran cute little cafés and dressed like hot-pink Christmas trees.

‘So, what do you think? Have I persuaded you to go?’ Dylan asked with a confident little smirk on his lips.

Hannah glanced back at him. ‘I think you might have done.’

‘Ha. Brilliant. I knew it. I’m a genius.’ He laughed and then made Jemima give him a high-five.

Chapter Six (#ulink_26d1a064-ca2c-553f-aad8-f1cd8de7dcfd)

‘Nah, mate. I’ll stay here, you’re alright. She doesn’t want me coming to her wedding. She doesn’t know me. And she sure as hell doesn’t like me,’ Harry said as he served up golden, buttery bacon sandwiches. He’d spent years tweaking his perfect method of making them. Sizzling streaky bacon pressed down in the pan with the base of another to make sure every inch was crispy, then lined up widthways on the bread to ensure even distribution when cutting. Next came the tiny, sweet cherry tomatoes grilled till they split. The whole sandwich then dipped in whisked egg and touched back down on the highest heat to hiss and pop and turn the bread a rich golden brown. All served with big mugs of stewed tea.

‘I have to have brown sauce,’ said Wilf as he pulled up a seat at the island unit in his sister Emily Hunter-Brown’s kitchen.

‘You can’t have brown sauce. It’ll ruin it. It’s perfect as it is. I promise.’

Wilf shook his head. ‘Nope.’

‘God you’re a philistine. I don’t know how you own so many restaurants.’

‘I am a connoisseur of taste, my dear chap. But I also appreciate the little luxuries in life, such as a bit of HP sauce.’

As Wilf was talking, Emily appeared and slid onto the stool next to him. When Wilf had said Emily’d put Harry up as well as himself, Wilf’s fiancée Holly and their baby, Harry had tried to refuse, saying he’d check into a hotel, but then Wilf had emailed him a photo of Montmorency Manor, Emily’s home, and said it practically was a hotel. He could have as much or as little privacy as he wanted. And Wilf had been right, but Harry felt as if he’d been here too long already. He was ready to go home, back to normality. But of course Wilf, having said ‘let’s discuss business over the holidays’, hadn’t wanted to talk business until Christmas was done, and then now till the wedding was done, and all Harry hoped was that he could get it all in the bag prior to New Year, be back in New York and back in the restaurant to make sure no one buggered up the eight course New Year’s Eve menu he’d spent months finalising.

‘What you have to understand about my brother, Harry…’ Emily drawled, her white-blonde hair all mussed-up on top of her head like a halo. ‘Is that he had a very dysfunctional childhood. His only comfort came from matron at boarding school – the big-bosomed provider of the HP sauce,’ she said with a smile, then picked up her sandwich and added, ‘This looks dreamy,’ before taking a giant bite.

Wilf scoffed. ‘Well, dear Sister, I’d take a bottle of HP over having my whole life catalogued in Hello! magazine. Or indeed hidden amongst redundant Blockbuster video stock. Which reminds me…’ He held up a hand. ‘Harry, have you had the pleasure of witnessing Emily’s fledgling film career? I can probably get my hands on a copy of When the Wind Blows, if not?’

‘Oh piss off, Wilf,’ she said. ‘Everyone knows it was crap. It was a crap script and I was crap in it. So it’s pointless bringing it up.’ She shook her head. ‘You’re so lame at arguing.’

Wilf did a huge, guffawing laugh and then pulled Emily into a sideways hug which she did her best to bat away.