The Vintage Summer Wedding (28 page)

Anna clutched the card in her hand and thought, ‘I did come back. I will be wearing Chanel. But I won’t be better. I will be good enough.’

Chapter Twenty-Three

The hall was filled with a variety of wooden school chairs, orange plastic ones they kept stacked in the store cupboard for Bridge games, and a couple of stragglers from Mrs Beedle’s, otherwise it was standing room only. The make-shift aisle was lined with big red geraniums in bright-coloured oil drums and on the registrar’s table was a vase of purple drooping buddleia cut that morning from the Vintage Treasure garden.

As Anna stepped out of the cherry-red Mercedes, Hermione reached over from the back-seat and handed her a bunch of wild poppies, raspberry stalks and golden ears of wheat, tied in a bow with white ribbon. The sun was teetering heavy and fat behind white clouds. The air just warm enough but not too hot, there had been a murmur of a chance of rain that everyone was choosing to ignore. The only patter of water at that moment was from the fountain, little sparrows perched on the edge drinking, the marmalade cat watching from one of the benches.

Her dad walked round to join her, his arm crooked so she could rest her hand at his elbow. He’d had his hair cut, but the back still brushed over the collar of his neatly pressed yellow-check shirt. She looked down and smiled when she saw his leather flip-flops.

Mary, Lucy and Clara were waiting in a huddle by the doors for Anna to arrive. Hermione stalked over to join them, barking some last-minute orders and glancing distastefully at the outfit she wasn’t happy about, but was going with.

When they got to the front doors of the hall, Hermione gave the signal to the Nettleton High brass band to start up, but they weren’t paying attention so she had to give a sharp clap that made everyone turn and then the boy conducting jumped up with a start and the music bellowed out with a clatter.

Seb had his head down, staring intently at his shoes but then, as they started down the aisle, she watched him look up, watched him take in Hermione and watched the smile start to spread on his lips and then widen as he caught site of Anna, and she thought he might, maybe, have had to wipe a tear from his eye.

His mother was in the front row and raised a brow with obvious distaste at the descending party, but Mrs Beedle was one row back and gave her a beaming thumbs-up and Kim, next to her, gave a whoop.

While the Vera Wang was enjoying a lavish wedding in the heart of Sherwood Forest, Anna Whitehall got married wearing gold lamé leggings and a cream silk tank-top, her hair was piled up under the tiara made especially for the Swan Queen, on her feet were metallic green Jimmy Choos so high that she could barely put one foot in front of the other and clutched in her hand, along with the bouquet of wilting poppies, was a cream, quilted Chanel bag.

Poor Hermione sashayed down ahead of her but behind the other girls, in white tracksuit bottoms and a leopard-print crop-top. While Mary, Lucy and Clara had teamed theirs with Converse high-tops, Hermione had insisted on a pair of diamond-encrusted Manolos that buckled up incongruously round the ankle, just below the elastic of her tracksuit.

Seb choked up mid-vow and had to take a moment. Peter from Razzmatazz snorted at the show of emotion which made Matt giggle and Seb’s mother, Hilary, shush them all. Otherwise, everyone agreed, as they tucked into tea and cake afterwards that the service had been beautiful, and while the band was a little off-key it was nice to have the kids involved.

The trestle tables had been lined up all down the centre of the square in rows with as many benches as they could carry from the school gym. To fill the vacant gaps, the Razzmatazz boys walked chairs from the hall. The crisp white tablecloths were laid with a mismatch of crockery that had lived for years wrapped in paper in the storeroom of Mrs Beedle’s shop. Frilled-edge plates with peonies in the centre sat with teacups covered in red rosebuds or hand-painted bumblebees. There were plates to commemorate royal weddings, best in shows, old crockery from The Savoy and The Four Seasons, cups stamped with Doulton and Wedgewood and others, decorated in black and white, with Woolworths printed on the bottom. Mrs Beedle had a discreet stand to one side, and if anyone wanted their plates and teacup, the set was theirs for a tenner.

More oil drums of geraniums in red, white and fuchsia, lined the border of the square, the sheepdog had a red ribbon on its collar. And down the table were glass jugs from the storeroom over-flowing with wild flowers and weeds ‒ dandelions flopped next to delicate poppies and pale yellow primroses. Mr Milton had come bearing bowls of fresh, sweet raspberries that dotted the tables like baskets of precious rubies.

And as everyone sat and sipped tea and champagne, Rachel, Jackie, Philippe, Hermione and the rest of Razzmatazz brought thin finger sandwiches of cucumber and cream cheese and towering trays of cakes to the tables. Stands wobbled with every flavour of fairycake, from dark-chocolate mint to red velvet, dusted with glitter and iced thick with pastel colours of the rainbow. Big four-tiered Victoria Sponges took centre spot on every table, some tipping precariously as the cream oozed out thick as the first slice was cut. Then came the black forest gateaux, booze-soaked cherries dark purple like bruises against black, bitter chocolate. Baskets of scones, squishy with sultanas, were passed up the rows as bowls of thick clotted cream glistened and fresh-made jam slithered off spoons. There was more tea served, and white wine hauled dripping wet out of buckets of ice and champagne corks popped, while plates of strawberries dipped in white chocolate were handed from one person to the next and then there were gasps as Rachel appeared with one dish that hadn’t been ordered but prepared as a beautiful surprise. Anna’s mouth hung open as she watched the teetering tower of profiteroles make the journey from the bakery to their spot at the centre of the table.

It was a giant cone of cream puffs, like a witch’s hat. Rachel winked as she put it down on the table. ‘Every wedding has to have a show-stopping cake,’ she said as Philippe handed her a silver jug and she poured thick chocolate sauce from high above, letting it drizzle down over the soft, golden profiteroles.

Anna felt Seb take her hand under the table and give it a squeeze.

The speeches were short, the eating was long, the champagne and cake flowed as light turned to dusk and candles flickered in the jam jars that Anna had found in the box at Mrs Beedle’s. Strings of coloured lights that usually wrapped around the Nettleton Christmas tree had been strung between lampposts and danced in the breeze above them.

Then it was time for Razzamatazz to provide the entertainment and the little troupe amassed on the make-shift stage at one end of the square, huge speakers sort-of donated by the school rigged up so they could blare out the Rihanna. Dressed in their NYC Academy outfits, they danced their
Britain’s Got Talent
audition to perfection. Not a step out of place.

Anna clapped till her hands were raw and her cheeks hurt from smiling. She turned to look at Seb to see that he had enjoyed it, but found his place empty.

Glancing round the guests she couldn’t see him anywhere.

‘Where’s Seb?’ she whispered to Hermione across the table.

‘How should I know?’ Hermione said back, but wouldn’t catch her eye and seemed to be on the verge of the giggles.

‘What? What’s going on?’

‘Nothing’s going on. Anna, you’re so paranoid!’ Hermione laughed.

But just then the sound system clicked over and a massive spotlight that usually lit the branches of the plane trees beamed out onto the centre of the stage.

Matt, Mary and Lucy remained on the edge of the stage while the rest of Razzmatazz had all moved down to the space just in front.

Anna glanced around, dubious. ‘Hermione, what’s going on?’

And then Seb appeared in the spotlight.

‘Oh god.’ Anna sucked in a breath. ‘What’s happening? Hermione what’s happening?’

The
Dirty Dancing
soundtrack kicked in, loud.

And there he was, dancing. Seb was dancing with Lucy and Mary with Matt. A full
Dirty Dancing
routine, and Anna could barely look between eyelids narrowed as almost shut as they could get.

‘Oh my god!’ she whispered, her hand over her mouth.

His brothers were whooping and cheering from the crowd as everyone clapped along to the beat.

‘But he doesn’t dance,’ Anna said to nobody in particular.

‘He’s been learning,’ Hermione smiled gleefully.

Anna shook her head in disbelief. It was pretty scrappy, a hundred percent mortifying but, at the same time, somehow, magnificent. And, gradually, she allowed her eyes to open more than just a slit and let her face relax into a smile, and bit her lip watching with pride at his awkward, but enthusiastic, effort on stage.

It wasn’t until it neared the end that she suddenly realised what was going to happen next. It dawned on her just as Clara and Billy ran round to grab her by the hands and pull her to the aisle between the trestle tables.

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘No, I’m not getting involved.’

Billy grinned. ‘You have to, Miss.’

‘No.’ Anna shook her head vehemently. ‘No I can’t.’

‘Yes you can,’ Clara made a face. ‘You made Mary do it.’

‘No, this is different.’

‘You should probably take those shoes off, Miss, you might break your ankle.’

‘No,’ Anna was rigid. ‘No not in front of all these people.’

Clara glanced around. ‘But they’re your friends.’

‘Fuck.’ Anna put her hand in front of her eyes. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

‘Miss, you shouldn’t swear.’

Seb had jumped down off the stage and was waiting for her while Razzmatazz were dancing away next to him. Anna glanced around at all the guests, all eyes on her, Hermione grinning delightedly, her dad nodding in encouragement, Hilary and Roger murmuring something bitchy to each other, Jackie wiggling around waiting to dance, Philippe with a mocking smile and one brow raised, Rachel beaming, Kim already up on a chair dancing, a cigarette dangling from her lips, Mrs Beedle holding a smile in tight but looking on like a proud mother hen, swaying her ample bottom in time with the beat.

‘Fuck,’ Anna said again.

‘Miss!’

Then she caught sight of Lucinda Warren, who had her hands resting on the edge of the table and was leaning forward watching, waiting and when she caught her eye, Lucinda winked and it felt like she was suddenly giving her back her moment.

It may not be
The Nutcracker
but, Christ, it was as good as the next best thing.

‘OK. Fine. Right. Good,’ Anna muttered, kicking off her shoes, handing her tiara to Clara, taking a really deep breath and suddenly she was running really, really fast and a second later she was jumping and Seb’s hands were on her waist and then, the next minute, she was flying. She was flying and her leggings were shimmering and her hair had tumbled loose and she was up there, up there with the stars.

Loved
The Vintage Summer Wedding
?

Then turn the page for an exclusive extract from Jenny Oliver’s debut novel
The Parisian Christmas Bake Off

Out now!

Chapter One

‘Why is Jesus a Buzz Lightyear?’

Rachel came into the hall carrying two Starbucks Eggnogg lattes, a blueberry muffin and a Rocky Road.

‘Purely for my own amusement,’ said Jackie, sitting back, feet up on a nursery-school chair as she picked the muffin off the tray. ‘And because the arm fell off the normal one and Mrs Norris’s husband is fixing it.’ She nodded towards the stage. ‘It’s good this year, isn’t it?’

Rachel turned to where fourteen five-year-olds had forgotten the words to
Away in a Manger.
‘I’d say it bears a remarkable resemblance to last year’s.’

‘Except for the genius addition of the hip hop WyZe men and One Direction’s visit to the manger.’

‘The head’s going to kill you.’

‘It’s just a bit of fun.’ Jackie flicked open her ancient laptop. ‘So fire me. Who else are they going to get? It’s not as if Nettleton has anyone pre-retirement age left—’

‘Look,’ shouted one of the kids on stage. ‘Miss Smithson’s here,’ he said, breaking off from the song as the others were belting out the second verse
.

Rachel waved. ‘Hi, Tommy. Keep singing though—you don’t want to ruin the song.’

‘But I don’t know the words,’ he said, looking as if he was about to cry.

Rachel jogged up to the front of the hall and climbed on the stage, whispering to Tommy as quietly as she could. ‘That’s OK, I never knew the words—when you don’t know them just open and shut your mouth like this.’ She did an impression of a goldfish.

Tommy giggled. ‘Can I go to the toilet?’

‘Yes, Tommy.’

‘Miss Smithson?’ said Jemima in the back row. ‘My wings keep falling off.’

Everyone had stopped singing now.

‘OK, I’ll have a look.’ Rachel tiptoed round in crouch trying to be as unobtrusive as she could manage while Jackie tried to cajole them all back into singing.

‘Will you sing with us, Miss Smithson?’

Rachel swallowed, listening as the little voices had started up again on the fourth verse. ‘I erm…’ She found herself caught off guard with no ready answer.

‘Sing with us, please?’ Tommy was running back on stage, tucking his T-shirt into his cords.

‘No. I’m just going to watch.’ She shook her head, blocking out memories of being on that stage herself with her parents clapping wildly from the front row. ‘I like listening to you,’ she answered, before jumping back off the stage.

Mr Swanson, Tommy’s father, was standing by the steps screwing together the roof of the manger. ‘Difficult time of year for you, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, it’s OK.’ Rachel waved a hand. ‘Great set this year.’

‘No need for a brave face, you know. We’re all here. All of us.’

‘I know—thanks.’

He nodded and went back to changing the bit on his drill. ‘You did a good job at the bake sale. Excellent scones. I’ve missed them, you know?’

She smiled. ‘Well, not quite as good as Mum made.’

He thought about it and shrugged. ‘Nearly.’ Then, locking the drill, he put his hand on the wonky roof and said, ‘You’re a good girl.’