Never Too Late (30 page)

pretending to stretch her arms in an attempt to see what

time it was.

Evie wished she could sneak a glance at her own watch

or even ask Rosie the time but, sandwiched between

Great Aunt Al and her mother’s second cousin, Fidelma,

who’d turned up out of the blue for the wedding, she

couldn’t move. And she wouldn’t ask Cara, who was

sitting the other side of Fidelma. Evie could feel the

waves of hostility coming from her sister. It had been that

way all morning.

Cara was just so irritating. Couldn’t she see that Evie

didn’t want to continue their row?

But once she got in a mood, that was it. Evie had even

tried to talk to her that morning but had got her head

bitten off in the process. She’d only made a simple

comment about hoping Vida wasn’t going to turn up in a

ludicrous white fluffy dress and Cara had been so bitchy in

return. I mean, how dared she make that smart remark

about Evie’s wedding dress? Evie felt herself flush again

with remembered indignation.

If she wasn’t the elder of the two and with an example

to set, she’d have loved to have slapped Cara’s face.

At a signal from the priest, the organist sprang into

action and the low throaty warble of the elderly organ

vibrated around the church. Everyone sat up straighter in

their seats and craned their necks for the first glimpse of

the bride Evie, with a suddenly developed lump in her

throat, looked at her father instead. His lined face, as dear

and familiar to her as her own, was illuminated with joy.

The furrows in his forehead magically disappeared as he

watched Vida walk slowly up the aisle. He looked happier

than Evie had seen him for a long time.

The tears pooled in her eyes, brimming over the fringe

of bottom lashes. Evie held her breath, desperately, trying

to stop them from starting to fall.

She hated herself at that moment, hated all those jealous

thoughts she’d done her best to quell but hadn’t quite been able to. How could she not want her beloved father to be happy? He deserved happiness. Cara was right, she

was a cast-iron bitch. She was sorry she’d been so adamant

about not letting Rosie be a bridesmaid either.

Too late, she realised the tears were falling. She snuffled

frantically, hoping nobody else could see. Thankfully she

was hidden behind Aunt Al’s vast puce wool bulk and

hopefully if anybody did notice her crying, they’d think she

was overcome with the usual wedding weeping fit. She

couldn’t help it, though.

Watching her father stand at the altar and replace her

wonderful mother was still so very painful. But, Evie

decided with a resolute snuffle, she’d mourn during the

ceremony and afterwards she’d start again. She’d show her

father she was happy for him, she’d dance at his wedding tight

skirt suit and Olivia’s toe-crunching shoes permitting

- and she’d smile at his new bride.

If only she could warm to Vida. If he’d been marrying

anyone else, Evie could have been totally, one hundred per

cent happy for both of them. Yahoo, where are the

balloons, let’s all celebrate! Yet she wasn’t happy. There

was something about the cool-eyed American woman she

didn’t like. Evie couldn’t admit to herself that the problem

might be her own jealousy.

As the organ wheezed asthmatically, the bride finally

came into her line of vision, looking just as wonderful as

Evie had secretly suspected she would.

Radiant in a discreet grey suit, Vida smiled at her

husband to be. Her hair was held up in its usual classic

chignon, with a jewelled clip the only adornment. In her

own conservative blue, with her hair done up in rock

hard curls and wearing an overbright lipstick in an

attempt to look cheerful, Evie felt like a ‘fifties Avon lady

by comparison.

Vida handed her ivory bouquet to her one attendant,

her very unmatronly-looking best friend from New York

who was just as chic in a darker grey suit with a helmet of

perfectly coiffed Ladies-Who-Lunch hair. Evie sighed.

How could you compete with that? Vida and her matron

of honour could have stepped out of a Vanity Fair editorial

on Manhattan style. She felt like she wouldn’t make the

grade in the style section of Lumberjack Weekly.

Don’t get maudlin, she told herself firmly. Try and enjoy

the wedding.

Four-year-old Sasha, adorable in white raw silk with a

big silvery grey sash, looked trustingly up at Vida, who

held out her hand to the little girl.

She was a poppet, Evie thought, eyes filling up again as

she remembered Rosie at the same age. At least Olivia and

Stephen had each other, even if they weren’t getting on

brilliantly. When Rosie had been the same age, Evie had

been on her own, a lonely widowed mother.

She still felt as if she was on her own. Simon hadn’t been

able to make the ceremony and was coming later, so Evie

had to endure yet another wedding feeling like the only

single woman in a sea of married ones. She felt another

tear wobble on her eyelashes. Weddings were so difficult.

While the priest welcomed the congregation, Cara hoped

Vida understood that being a bridesmaid wasn’t her thing.

She’d been terrified she’d have to wear the requisite

horrible pink/peach/baby blue satin dress that’d make her

look like something that had just come back from the

upholsterer’s.

Vida’s best friend, Katherine, didn’t look like the sort of

woman who’d take kindly to being jammed in a pink frilly

thing, so maybe that was why she was wearing a very

unbridesmaidy suit. Cara was pretty sure that if she’d said yes to her stepmother-to-be’s request, she’d have been looking ugly in pink.

Or maybe not. Ewan thought she always looked beautiful

so perhaps she could have worn a bridesmaid’s dress

without looking too hideous.

Ewan … Just thinking about him sent a pleasurable

shiver down Cara’s spine. What an incredible week it had

been. They’d spent every evening together: going out to

dinner in a tiny Italian restaurant, going to the cinema to

watch the latest Spielberg movie, and sitting in a quaint

little pub laughing and talking nineteen to the dozen over

far too many bottles of Beck’s afterwards.

And then there’d been the lovemaking. They’d gone to

Ewan’s place the first couple of evenings and once inside

the door had fallen on each other hungrily, barely waiting

to take their clothes off before making love, frantically and

passionately. Afterwards they’d sit half-dressed and watch

TV and sip coffee before turning to each other again, limbs

entwined, as they made love at a more leisurely pace.

Cara would have loved to have stayed with Ewan each

night and he asked her to, but she didn’t want to stagger

into work in borrowed clothes again so he dropped her

home every time, sitting in the steamed up car outside her

flat for at least half an hour as they said their goodbyes.

She’d taken him to her place on Thursday, after a

mammoth cleaning up session that morning when she’d

hoovered and tidied her room in an attempt to get rid of at

least three months’ worth of dust and unwashed socks

lurking under the bed.

Phoebe had been out so Ewan and Cara had had the

place to themselves. They’d cuddled up on the old sofa and

had a couple of Cara’s beloved Mars Bar ice creams before

retreating to the dust-free bedroom and losing themselves

in hours of blissful pleasure.

On Friday night, Ewan had to visit his mother who was

still devastated over the death of her one-time lover, so

Cara had to go home on her own for the first time in a

week.

She’d felt empty and lonely as she sat in the silent flat,

flicking channels listlessly and wishing she’d gone out for

that drink with Zoe. She missed Ewan, she realised, missed

his arms around her and missed his goodhumoured

teasing.

When he’d phoned late that night, missing her just as

much as she was missing him, it made up for being on her

own.

‘I wish you were coming to the wedding,’ she said,

cradling the phone as if it was a part of him she was

caressing. ‘I should have asked Vida if I could bring you.

She wouldn’t mind.’

‘It’s a bit short notice,’ Ewan said easily. ‘They probably

have the numbers worked out and another guest would

screw things up for them.’

‘Another guest would make it perfect for me,’ breathed

Cara, ‘if the guest was you.’

But Ewan was playing football on Saturday, she hadn’t

mentioned him to Vida and she was going to have to

endure an entire twenty-four hours without him.

Sighing, she wondered if anyone could see the glow on

her face, what Phoebe called her ‘Sugar, I got me a man!’

glow? Evie hadn’t, that was for sure. Cara had been dying

to tell her sister that she’d just found the most incredible

man in the world but after ten seconds in Evie’s company

that morning, it had been clear that her sister was still in

the throes of her anti-Vida syndrome.

There was no point talking to her when she was like

that, Cara decided, irritated. She’d never seen Evie behave

so badly in all her life. Usually, Evie was a rock of good sense, too damn’ sensible in fact. But their father’s marriage had rocked her like an earthquake and now Evie was

behaving like a spoilt child denied that extra chocolate.

Cara knew she ought to make things up with her sister

but she was fed up with Evie’s childishness - and too

engrossed in thinking about her beloved Ewan to bother.

Evie was a grown up after all, let her deal with it.

Olivia watched her daughter standing at the altar, her mind

far away on this morning’s row. Everything had started out

so well. She’d brought Stephen breakfast in bed: coffee,

orange juice, scrambled eggs, toast and the newspaper.

Sasha had been scampering in and out of the room in her

Winnie the Pooh pyjamas, trying on the artificial floral

headdress Olivia had bought to get her used to the real

thing, a delicate wreath of real rosebuds.

Bright sunlight filtered in through the window, casting

pools of glorious light on the crisp white bedclothes and

shining on the carefully polished dark dressing table where

no clutter was allowed. As Stephen sat in state, eating his

breakfast, Olivia perched on the side of the bed, sipping

coffee and kissing Sasha each time her daughter rushed in.

‘Aren’t you eating?’ Stephen asked finally, mouth full of

scrambled egg.

Olivia shook her head, smiling at him. She didn’t want

to tell him her appetite had disappeared so that forcing a

piece of toast down her throat felt like Chinese water

torture.

‘You must have something.’ Stephen looked mulish.

‘I had some fruit,’ lied Olivia.

Her husband harumphed, letting her know that in his

august opinion fruit was no substitute for a proper breakfast.

‘I suppose you’re dieting? I don’t know why, you’re

too thin already.’

Olivia bit her lip and said nothing.

Half an hour later, she stood in the shower stall and let

the steaming water flood over her face and hair, revelling

in the solitude and the blissful warmth of the water. She

loved the shower, loved the aquamarine mosaic tiles on the

walls and floor that made it feel like showering in a

Mediterranean villa.

‘Olivia!’ yelled Stephen, impatiently opening the bathroom

door and standing right beside the steaming shower.

‘I can’t find my blue shirt. Where is it?’

Knowing exactly where the shirt was — in the washing

machine halfway through the cotton cycle - Olivia felt

that familiar wrenching feeling in her gut. ‘Give me a

minute, darling,’ she stammered, thinking that if she finished

the wash cycle early and stuck the shirt in the dryer,

it’d be ready in thirty minutes.

This didn’t suit Stephen.

‘Christ! Didn’t you know I wanted to wear that shirt

with my good suit?’

No, I didn’t, Olivia wanted to say. I’m not psychic. I

wash and iron all your stuff on the off-chance you might

feel like wearing some of it. I never know exactly which

suit you feel like wearing on a particular day. Instead, she

grimaced meekly and apologised again.

Stephen had been irate after that and Olivia knew there

wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell he’d be civil during the

wedding. She mentally tried to work out which guest she

could beg Vida to put him beside so he wouldn’t be bored.

Vida would understand, she thought blindly. Vida

wouldn’t mind upsetting her carefully worked out seating

plan if it came to making sure Stephen didn’t throw a

tantrum during the day.

She and Sasha got ready silently, the joy of dressing her

daughter in the fairy-tale flower-girl dress diminished by the icy mood in the apartment. The sunlight streaming in at the windows felt wintry now and Olivia shivered in her

thin dressing gown, goosebumps all over her too-slender