A Proper Family Christmas (22 page)

‘Not brainy enough to take the Pill properly.’

‘But you’ve got Sophie as a result.’

‘Yeah,’ said Ronnie. ‘I didn’t do too badly, did I?’

They were silent for a moment, then Ronnie said, ‘I’m so nervous about tomorrow.’

‘Why? It’s not as though you’ve rushed into it. Sixteen years!’

‘But everyone will be looking at me.’

‘True. But you’re going to give them something worth looking at. You’re going to look amazing.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘I know so.’

‘But what if she …’ Ronnie didn’t have to say the name. ‘What if
she
turns up in something designer?’

‘She probably will. It won’t necessarily suit her. Whereas your wedding dress is you to a T.’

Chelsea had helped Ronnie to choose her wedding dress. Most of the work had been done online. Chelsea had ordered half a dozen dresses and had them sent straight to Ronnie’s office at the funeral home in Coventry. Ronnie just had to choose. She’d tried them all on in the changing room where the pall-bearers kept their top hats and long coats, with some lilies pinched out of someone’s floral tribute standing in for the bridal bouquet.

The one that she’d gone for in the end was from Monsoon. It was called ‘Rosanna’. It had a high empire-line waist and fluttering twenties-style sleeves. The neckline was trimmed with diamanté. At almost three hundred pounds, it was way more than Ronnie had wanted to spend on a dress she would only wear once, but Chelsea had stumped up for it, in lieu of a wedding present. Mark and Ronnie had been together for so long, there wasn’t anything they really needed for the house. But Ronnie needed to look her very best on her wedding day. And having something so beautiful would help her to feel special, as every bride should.

For ‘something borrowed’, Chelsea had come through again. She let Ronnie wear a treasured pair of strappy silver Louboutins, bought at a sample sale the previous year. Chelsea loved those shoes and had been saving them for a special occasion. She hadn’t worn them at all except around the house. What better first outing could they have than to her big sister’s wedding, on the feet of the bride? When Chelsea pulled them out of her suitcase, it was all Ronnie could do not to cry.

Meanwhile, ‘something blue’ would be a garter: an appalling tasteless scrap of elasticated ribbon that had been a gift from Ronnie’s friends on her hen night. Fortunately that would be hidden by the dress. And for ‘something old’ Ronnie had a lace-edged handkerchief that once belonged to their grandmother, Jennifer, Granddad Bill’s long-dead wife.

‘If I could just lose fifteen pounds overnight,’ Ronnie mused. ‘Everything would be perfect.’

‘Mark loves you the way you are. Being thin is not the same as being fit or fanciable,’ Chelsea said, a mantra from one of the books her new counsellor had suggested she read.

‘Whatever,’ said Ronnie.

‘We ought to get some sleep,’ said Chelsea. ‘Big day tomorrow.’

‘Yeah,’ said Ronnie. ‘I should have had that whisky Dad offered. That’d help me to drop off.’

‘Just close your eyes and start counting backwards from a thousand.’

‘Does that work for you?’ Ronnie asked.

‘No,’ Chelsea admitted.

‘Exactly … Thanks for being here,’ said Ronnie. ‘I can’t tell you how much it means to me. I’m so glad we sorted things out in Lanzarote. I can’t believe we went without talking for so long.’

‘Me neither,’ Chelsea admitted. ‘Because it’s a special relationship, isn’t it? Being sisters? This is what Annabel missed out on.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Ronnie.

At ten o’clock the following morning, Mark dropped Sophie and Jack off at the house. Mark wasn’t allowed in, of course. He would not see Ronnie until they got to the register office for the marriage ceremony.

Sophie had agreed to let Chelsea choose her a ‘bridesmaid’ dress. Chelsea had done both Ronnie and Sophie proud, choosing a dark blue dress that wasn’t too far from Sophie’s usual palette of black and dark burgundy. At the same time, it was similar in style to Ronnie’s dress and they went very well together. It would ensure that they looked like an actual wedding party rather than a bunch of randoms.

At eleven o’clock, Ronnie’s hairdresser made a home visit. Sophie allowed her to arrange her hair, which she usually wore loose and straight, in an elaborate up-do. Chelsea did their make-up. It was easy. Both Sophie and Ronnie had beautiful clear, smooth skin. It didn’t seem to matter what they drank or ate or how late they stayed up talking.

Meanwhile, Jack was delighted with the little grey suit that his grandma had bought him in Marks and Spencer. He wore a navy blue waistcoat that coordinated with his sister’s dress. Jack loved dressing up, especially if he could be convinced that he looked like a character from a film or TV show in whatever he was wearing. That day, his grandfather Dave told him he looked like James Bond. Perfect. In fact, they would have a hard time persuading Jack to take the suit off later that night as a result.

Lunch was sandwiches. Jacqui wrapped a bin liner round Jack as a sort of mega-bib to keep the crumbs off his new outfit. Then she promptly went and spilled a blob of mayonnaise on her own skirt. Fortunately, the greasy mark it left was more or less hidden by the pleats.

At one o’clock, the Bensons gathered in the back garden at Dave and Jacqui’s for a pre-wedding photograph. The sun was doing its best to shine but Dave waited for a small cloud to pass overhead so that the girls wouldn’t have to squint.

‘It’s a shame that your sister isn’t here,’ said Jacqui.

‘She is here,’ said Ronnie. But Chelsea’s anguished look reminded Ronnie exactly which sister Jacqui was really talking about.

‘I expect they’re going straight to the register office,’ said Dave. ‘It’s closer to their house. They don’t want to have to go all round the ring road.’

‘We can get another picture with Daisy later,’ Jacqui sighed.

‘Annabel,’ Ronnie reminded her. ‘Annabel Buchanan is her name.’

At half one, Chelsea, Jacqui and Granddad Bill piled into a minibus with Sophie and Jack for the trip to the register office, leaving only Ronnie and Dave at the house.

Ronnie sat on the edge of a kitchen chair, trying not to crease her dress. Dave had a cigarette. Something he only ever did at Christmas or at moments of high stress. This was obviously not Christmas.

‘I’m very proud of you, our Ronnie,’ Dave suddenly announced.

‘Are you, Dad?’ Ronnie asked.

‘Of course I am. You’ve always made me proud. Ever since you were a little girl. And now you’re a mother, with two lovely children and you’re going to make Mark the perfect wife. It makes my heart sing to look at you all dressed up to get married. I shall remember this day for the rest of my life.’

‘Oh thank you, Dad,’ said Ronnie. ‘Thank you.’

For a moment, it was as though she was his only daughter and not the middle one of three.

At quarter to two, the bridal car arrived. Mark’s boss Jim had kindly offered to be chauffeur for the day, driving Ronnie and Dave to the register office in the back of his white Mercedes. He had even gone so far as to get himself a peaked cap.

‘Make the most of it,’ Mark had told Ronnie, when Jim made the offer. ‘That car was paid for by my hard work.’

Jim was very proud of his Mercedes. It represented everything he had worked for his whole life. Every Sunday morning, he could be found cleaning that car on the driveway of his house in Kenilworth. It was his religion. His pride and joy. He was satisfied that no one within twenty miles owned a better car. Until he got to the register office, that is.

There was an Aston Martin in the register office car park. An Aston Martin DB9 in timeless pewter grey.

Though the parking space right next to the Aston Martin was the closest one to the door, Jim chose to park his car another twenty feet away, meaning that Ronnie had to negotiate the gravel in her sister’s Louboutins, which were beautiful but rather flimsy. Even with Dave’s arm for support, Ronnie struggled to go more than three steps with any grace. Thank goodness nobody was watching.

‘Whose do you think that car is?’ Jim asked Dave.

Ronnie knew. But she pressed her lips together and said nothing.

While Mark and Ronnie completed the short pre-wedding interview with the registrar, their guests continued to arrive.

Annabel and Richard had taken seats at the back of the room with Mark and Ronnie’s friends and neighbours. Izzy wasn’t with them. She had not been feeling too good that day, so she stayed at home with Sarah, who was visiting the Great House for the weekend. But when Jacqui arrived, she insisted that the Buchanans join the Benson family in the front two rows on the left (Mark’s family were on the right). And she insisted so loudly that Annabel couldn’t possibly refuse, though she had a strong idea that Ronnie would have been perfectly happy had the Buchanans stayed where they were.

Jacqui insisted on introducing Annabel to the rest of the clan.

Everyone seemed to be a cousin. Here was Bill’s brother’s youngest. Here was Bill’s dead wife’s sister’s eldest son. That chap there was married to Dave’s Auntie Linda. Annabel shook lots of hands and failed to remember half the names that went with them while Jacqui said over and over, ‘This is our Daisy. Only she’s called Annabel now. Annabel Buchanan.’

Annabel did her best to smile. After all, everyone was so friendly. Though they all asked the same questions. How did Annabel find the Bensons? Had she always known she was adopted? Was it strange meeting her sisters after all this time?

‘Did you change your name yourself?’ someone wanted to know.

‘No,’ said Annabel. ‘My parents chose it. Annabel was my paternal grandmother’s name.’

‘But your paternal grandmother was called Jennifer,’ said the questioner.

‘I mean my
adoptive
paternal grandmother,’ said Annabel, hating that she had to explain. Hating that she had to use the word ‘adoptive’ when she talked about the first Annabel Cartwright. Her ‘Grannie Annie’. It was as though it somehow invalidated the relationship that was far more real to her than any connection she had to ‘Jennifer Benson’, a woman she would never know now.

‘Will you be going back to Daisy?’ someone else asked her.

‘No,’ said Annabel. ‘Of course I won’t.’

‘It’s strange,’ said the someone. ‘I can’t see you as a Daisy.’

‘Funnily enough,’ said Annabel; ‘neither can I.’

She dare not look at Jacqui to see how that had played.

Annabel couldn’t wait for the wedding to begin and be finished so that she could just go home.

Ronnie chose to process down the short aisle not to the ‘Wedding March’ but to the slightly gloomy ‘Un-break My Heart’ by Toni Braxton, which was the song to which she and Mark had their first kiss at a secondary school disco, almost seventeen years before.

Dave escorted Ronnie through the room to the registrar’s desk. They had practised the walk in the kitchen back home. Step, pause. Step, pause. They had to take it slowly. Otherwise they’d have been right in front of the registrar before Toni had time to draw her first breath.

Mark looked nervous. He’d splashed out on a suit for the occasion but, unlike his son, didn’t seem at all comfortable with being so dressed up. He had the top button of his shirt undone and his tie was already skew-whiff. Another of his colleagues from the kitchen-fitting firm – Paul – was best man. Paul had been at the same school as Mark and Ronnie. They couldn’t wait to hear his best man’s speech. Paul was known for his terrible sense of humour, which bordered on rude. He was the life and soul of every party they’d attended since they were teens.

But for now, Paul looked as nervous as Mark as he juggled the rings. He wasn’t used to such responsibility.

‘Tell him to stop it,’ Ronnie hissed at her husband-to-be. ‘He’ll drop them.’

‘See?’ Mark said to the registrar. ‘She’s getting on at me already.’

‘There’s still time to say “no”,’ Ronnie reminded him. ‘I might.’

‘Love of my life,’ said Mark. ‘I’m not leaving this room until you are my missus.’

Even the registrar laughed.

‘Are you ready?’ she asked them.

The bride and groom nodded and the short ceremony began.

It wasn’t complicated. There were no readings. Mark and Ronnie had chosen the most basic wording from the choices they were offered. Just the legal bits. They confirmed there was no reason why they might not marry each other and exchanged their promises without any drama or ‘death do us part’. Mark put a ring on Ronnie’s finger and she did the same for him, though he’d already explained that he would have to take it off for work. Health and safety.

The married couple looked down on their joined hands with the glittering gold bands. They shared a small, rather chaste kiss.

‘Now, if the witnesses could please step forward to sign the register …’ said the registrar.

Chelsea was signing for Ronnie. Mark’s best man Paul was signing for him.

More music played while the paperwork was completed. This time it was LeAnn Rimes singing ‘How Do I Live’, another of the bride and groom’s favourites, from the days when they were ‘courting’, before Sophie and Jack were born. And then they were finally married.

When the registrar told them that everything was done, Mark folded Ronnie into his arms and gave her a proper kiss. It was an emotional moment. Jack jumped up and down, clapping. He was touchingly pleased. Even Sophie allowed herself a grin at the sight of her parents making their family bond official. The guests broke into a round of applause.

‘About bloody time!’ shouted Granddad Bill.

The bride and groom led the way out of the room. Jacqui and Dave fell into step behind them along with Mark’s parents, Eddy and Marie. Then came Chelsea with the children, Jack and Sophie. Then some more of Mark’s relatives. One of Dave’s cousins prodded the Buchanans into the procession next.

‘You’re family too,’ he said helpfully.