The Wedding Countdown (21 page)

‘Come on babe, get a move on!’

Talk of the Devil, here’s Minty now, barging past me and placing a slender hand in the back pocket of Wish’s 501s.

‘The girls have been ready for ages. What kept you?’

‘The fact that you live a million miles from civilisation, darling,’ says Raj. ‘But better late than never.’

The look that Minty gives me actually says better never than late – or am I just being paranoid? And surely she didn’t mean to elbow me out of the way? She was just making her usual grand entrance.

‘Let’s get going,’ says Wish, gently removing Minty’s hand. ‘I’m all set up. The models just need to get these outfits on and then we’ll shoot. Hey, Mills,’ he adds to me, ‘do you want to check out the library while Minty and Raj sort the models?’

‘Great!’

‘How’s the dating?’ asks Wish, as we wander down a long oak-panelled gallery hung with portraits of snooty-looking Vane ancestors.

‘I’m having a break from that for a minute,’ I tell him. ‘In fact I’m thinking about getting my kicks another way, actually, like maybe cordless bungee jumping?’

Wish laughs, and it’s a warm sexy sound that makes goosebumps do Mexican waves up my arms. ‘That good?’

‘Worse. I think I need a change of subject matter from dating.’

‘Tell me about it!’ He shakes his head. ‘Dating isn’t all it’s cracked up be.’

For a moment he looks really sad. Then he shrugs. ‘Enough of that! This will take your mind off all the melancholy stuff,’ he promises, pushing a door open.

I’m transported into book Heaven. ‘It’s amazing!’

‘I knew you’d like it.’

‘Can I touch them?’

‘Henry lets me, so I don’t see why not.’ Wish fetches a large tome and brings it to me. ‘Here, take this.’

And suddenly in my hands I have what looks terrifyingly like an original copy of
The Canterbury Tales
.

‘It can’t be real,’ I whisper.

‘It certainly is,’ says Wish. ‘But it’s priceless so the Vanes don’t publicise its existence.’

My hands start to shake, not only because I’m terrified at the idea of holding something so precious but also because it weighs a bloody tonne.

‘You’re trembling!’ Wish leans forward and steadies my shaking hands with his. Something between us crackles like static. Then, just as quickly, Wish lets my hands go, as though embarrassed – or maybe, looking at the state of my nails, he’s repulsed.

He clears his throat. ‘Well?’

‘It’s amazing.’

‘It is, isn’t it?’ says Wish, ‘I knew you’d get it. The first time Minty brought me over she literally had to drag me away. I lost all interest in the rest of the house and refused to budge. I couldn’t get enough. Minty thinks I’m a sad geek for wanting to bury myself in a load of dusty old books.’

I’m green-eyed, or rather brown-eyed, with sizzling envy. As if I needed it, here’s the proof that life is so not fair. Not only does Minty have the long slim legs, the looks, the fame, the cash and of course Wish, but she also has claim to this wonderful library and all its amazing treasures. If only I could swap Jimmy Choos with her for one minute and know what all this feels like.

As Wish gives me a tour I can’t help comparing my own far more humble origins to Minty’s, and although I know comparisons are odious the contrast between my own home in Bradford and Eldred House is stark. Our cupboards bulge with years of assorted tat; wardrobe doors have to be wedged shut and even the attic is groaning with the weight of boxes and junk, all too precious to part with. What must it be like to have hundreds of rooms all for yourself and nobody nagging you to send your old books to the charity shop?

Unless Prince Harry suddenly develops a taste for northern girls of Pakistani origin I don’t suppose I’ll ever know.

I pore over the book.

‘It’s a nice change to see a girl immerse herself in literature rather than hear all about celebrity magazines and how many breadcrumbs celebrities nibble on for breakfast,’ grins Wish.

‘I have my
Heat
moments too, you intellectual snob!’

Wish perches on the edge of a huge oak table. ‘As an avid childhood collector of
The Beano
and
The Dandy
, I’m hurt by that comment. I like my popular culture as much as the next guy.’

‘You collected comics?’ I exclaim. ‘I loved reading comics when I was a kid! I’m sure my collection is still at home somewhere. I had stacks of
Beano
s
and
Whizzer and Chips
! There were a couple of
Bunty
s
too, I seem to recall.’

Wish gives me a cheeky grin. ‘My childhood collection contained a few girly comics of a rather different nature.’

‘
Childhood
collection? That’s your story.’

‘And I’m sticking to it!’ As Wish laughs, out comes that dimple. I’m so pleased to be reacquainted with it because Wish hasn’t been laughing much lately.

And, come to think of it, neither have I.

Wish shows me more books and we chat away, laughing about our childhood reading obsessions and passions, the icing on the cake being the knowledge that we have both preserved our childhood comics.

‘Wow!’ we say in unison, over and over again as we learn about more and more coincidences and each time it feels like we have more and more in common.

‘I was a right bookworm as a kid,’ says Wish. ‘My brother, Jamal, used to take the piss out of me for it. He was always out kicking a football around or practising bowling with Dad and there was me with my nose stuck in
The Famous Five.
Not cool.’

‘Take that back!’ I wag an indignant finger at him. ‘I won’t have a word said against Enid Blyton! I was obsessed with everything she wrote. I even nagged my parents for ages about getting a dog so that I could be just like George!’

‘I drove mine crazy begging for an island,’ laughs Wish. ‘They threatened to get Richard Branson to adopt me. But, and this is really tragic, my favourite books of all had to be the
Faraway Tree
ones. Did you ever read those?’

‘Wish!’ I say, delighted. ‘You have to be the first person I’ve ever met who knows about those books! The Saucepan Man!’

‘The slippery-slip!’

‘Moon-Face!’

‘Silky!’

We grin at each other like idiots.

‘If anyone could hear this conversation they’d think we’d flipped!’ Wish smiles. ‘Here we are surrounded by great literature and we’re getting excited over comics and Enid Blyton. I don’t think I’ve ever confessed my dubious tastes in reading material to anyone before.’

‘Me neither.’ I shake my head. ‘As an English graduate I’m honour bound to pretend to read Dickens for fun. I won’t even start to tell you about my Mills and Boon collection…’

‘I can honestly say that we don’t have that in common,’ says Wish. ‘Although Jackie Collins is another matter entirely. My mum was always wondering where hers vanished to.’

‘My mum kept hers hidden inside the dust jackets of Jane Austen novels,’ I recall, ‘but Fizz soon sussed that out. I think we girls must be the only females in Britain who received their sex education from
Pride and Prejudice
.’

Wish fans his face. ‘I think we’d better stop there! Or I may be asking you just quite what you learned!’

Then the laughter stops and we fall silent. The atmosphere is so thick that it could pass for soup and I’m inexplicably breathless.

‘There you are!’ Minty’s voice slices through the stillness like cheese wire through cheddar. ‘Could you stop chatting to the staff and get on with the bloody job?’

Her parents really should get a refund on whatever charm school they sent her to.

Wish sighs. ‘OK Minty. I’ll just measure the light again and then we’ll start.’

‘Good,’ she snaps, flicking her blonde mane over her shoulders. ‘I’ll go and get the girls.’

Turning sharply on her Prada heels she stalks out of the library.

Wish shrugs. ‘Better get to work. Feel free to keep browsing, Mills. I’m using the far end, under the window.’

I shake my head as he returns to business and then turn my attention back to
The
Canterbury Tales
. Should I really be wearing gloves if this is the original? Any road, I decide as I turn page after page, I won’t want to wash my hands for a time. How many people can claim to have touched a real Caxton?

Just as I’m gently slotting the book into its rightful place someone directly behind me clears their throat. I start and all but drop the precious tome on the floor. The near miss makes my skin prickle with horror.

‘Sorry, m’dear.’ An elderly man steps out from the shadows. ‘I didn’t mean to make you jump.’

I open my mouth to apologise but not a sound comes out. The man who faces me, all crinkly lined skin and droopy moustache, may be old but behind his spectacles his eyes are the same hyacinth blue as Minty’s and there’s no doubting the slant of the aristocratic cheekbones and the confident posture. This can only be Lord Henry Vane, master of the house and owner of the amazing library.

And I nearly dropped one of his precious books on the floor. I brace myself for a Minty-style blast of wrath.

But to my amazement he just smiles.

‘Isn’t it a beauty?’ says Lord Henry. ‘That has to be one of my favourites. I often wander down here just to look at it. May I say how refreshing it is to meet someone who feels the same? My family thinks I’m potty.’

‘They’re the
pagal
ones,’ I say. ‘You’d have to be crazy not to love this library.’

He chuckles. ‘I’ve always liked a gel who speaks her mind.’

‘Come up to Yorkshire,’ I suggest. ‘You’ll meet loads of us.’

Henry Vane’s eyes take on a faraway look. ‘Wonderful place, Yorkshire. Brontë country. Marvellous. I’m sure we have a first edition of
Wuthering Heights
somewhere.’

And that easily I’m won over. I can even forgive Henry Vane for being half responsible for Minty’s existence because he’s so knowledgeable about his books and so friendly. Dressed in patched tweeds and shabby cords there is nothing arrogant about him, only a touching keenness to share his joy in his books.

Minty must have inherited her charming personality from her mother.

While Lord Henry tells me about the rare books, the models prance in. OK, they’re probably too thin and hungry to prance anywhere; maybe ‘drift in’ would be a more appropriate verb for these paper-thin girls? Anyway, as they pose and Wish clicks away, Minty joins us, threading her arm through her father’s and laying her head on his shoulder.

‘Hello, darling.’ Lord Henry pushes his glasses back up his nose with his forefinger. ‘Are you having fun?’

‘It’s OK,’ yawns Minty. ‘Wish is taking far too long, as usual.’

I glance across the room. Wish is crouching by the French windows, every muscle in his body tense with concentration as he shoots frame after frame. There’s something so intense about his total absorption in the task that I can’t help but catch my breath.

‘What are you looking at?’ Minty reaches across me to grab the precious copy of
Wuthering Heights.
I have to bite my tongue hard to stop myself crying out in horror because the backs of her hands are streaked with lipstick and foundation. Luckily her father has the eyes of a hawk because he swiftly encloses her wrist in his hand.

‘Araminta! Your hands are filthy!’

‘And hers aren’t?’ shrieks Minty. ‘Who knows where someone like her has been?’

‘That’s totally unnecessary,’ Lord Henry says. ‘Where are your manners, Minty?’

‘Where’s your brain?’ she shoots back. ‘I want her out of here, right now, Daddy! I don’t want her touching
my
books!’

Sheesh!
Even Naomi Campbell would be impressed with this diva tantrum.

‘Minty!’ says Henry Vane. ‘You’re overreacting.’

‘I am not!’ yells Minty. ‘You always go on and on at me about your bloody stupid books. No fingers here, no grease marks there, not a bloody scrap of paper out of place, and now you’re letting some chip-buttie-eating hick touch them!’

‘I’ve never eaten a chip buttie in my life!’ I say, stung by her invective. Why does she have to be such a bitch? Henry Vane only wanted to stop her from smearing Ruby Red all over a two-hundred-year-old book. Mummy-
ji
is always telling me not to go anywhere near her valuable collection of bling jewellery dating right back to the time of Nanny-
ji
. I hardly think Henry Vane is being unreasonable. Respect to him for protecting his heritage, I say!

‘I’m ashamed of you,’ Henry Vane says, his cheeks ashen. ‘Apologise to this young lady.’

‘No way! She should apologise to me for pawing my inheritance.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Henry Vane sighs. ‘My daughter is a very determined young woman.’

That’s one way of putting it.

Although total bitch might describe it better.

‘Look,’ I say hastily, because by now we are attracting attention from the other side of the library. ‘I’ll put the books down. Thanks for showing me, Lord Henry, I’ve really appreciated it.’

‘My dear, it’s been a delight. Carry on browsing, I insist!’ Lord Henry fixes his daughter with a stony look. ‘Minty is totally in the wrong here, and she is well aware of it.’

‘That’s right!’ hollers Minty. ‘Take everyone else’s side like you always do!’ And then she does a terrible thing: she sweeps her arm along a bookshelf, knocking the priceless tomes to the floor. Those that remain she grabs and hurls at her father’s feet.

‘I hate your bloody,’ thud, ‘stupid!’, thwack, ‘crappy!’, wallop, ‘books!’

Delicate pages fly up like a paper snowstorm and flakes of leather drift through the air. I couldn’t be more shocked if she’d started ripping up a Monet. These aristocratic types are insane. Instantly I forget about passionately wanting the library and the amazing house and feel utterly grateful for my own family. I’ll never take them for granted or moan about them again after meeting the dysfunctional Vanes.

Well, maybe I’ll only moan about Fizz, and I reckon she could give Minty a run for her money any day.

Lord Henry turns a horrible shade of grey and for a moment I think he’s going to collapse amongst the fluttering pages.