The Winter Wedding (8 page)

She’d turned to me, her pursed lips forming a perfect red bow, her cheeks lightly flushed with annoyance.

‘They won’t write back,’ I’d grumbled, pulling the duvet up towards my chin and turning over to try and go to sleep. ‘They’re not even real.’

‘They are real. I’ve seen them,’ Lila insisted. ‘And I don’t mind at all if they don’t write back. I just want them to know that someone believes in them.
That I believe in them.’

‘I bet if they do exist they wouldn’t even be able to read and write anyway,’ I said. I guess I was the more cynical of the two of us, even then.

She didn’t say anything then, just turned her head, with its halo of fluffy blonde hair, knotted from the day’s adventures on the grass, and brought her attention back to the letter
she was writing. I pretended my eyes were closed, but actually I watched her until I finally fell asleep. I watched as she paid painstaking attention to the shape and curl on each letter she was
writing. Her handwriting was something she was very proud of, and in truth I envied her for it. I envied her too for her capacity to believe in things that had long stopped seeming plausible to
me.

The following Monday, when Lila was gathering her things together for school, packing her dance shoes and outfit, something I didn’t have to think about, I found Dad upstairs in the
bathroom shaving, with that noisy electric shaver he used to use.

I snuck in behind him and when he sensed me he jumped a little. ‘Hazel, hi. You startled me.’ His face broke into a wide smile. Dad had one of those smiles that made you feel that
the world was a good place. Mum smiled a lot, but sometimes the sad things that she saw and heard about crept through, and those smiles she gave out didn’t make you feel as safe as
Dad’s did.

Anyway, Dad and I were standing there in the bathroom, with the whale-print wallpaper that I had insisted we get for it, and mine and Lila’s fluffy purple towels on our pegs on the walls,
and I knew I had a chance to make things right, to make up for the way I’d been mean to Lila at the weekend. Because she deserved to carry on believing. It was a nice thing to be able to
do.

‘What is it, love?’ Dad asked, kindly.

‘Dad, you have to do something,’ I said, certain now, of the action I must take. I took a deep breath. ‘You have to be the fairies.’

Mum called out again for us to get ready, so I knew I didn’t have long to brief Dad on what he needed to do, but I managed to give him the general idea. I knew he had it in him, deep down,
to be a superhero, and being a fairy was really quite a lot easier than that.

That evening, when we got back from school, my dad had winked at me – confirmation that he’d done what we’d discussed and that everything was ready. As I’d expected, my
sister ran into the back garden and out to the long grass and wildflowers, her hands rifling through the flowers and weeds with determination and a sense of focus. This time I followed her over
there, standing back a bit on the lawn, but close enough to watch the scene unfold.

As she located the wild patch of foxgloves and poppies where she’d placed her letter, she let out a whoop of glee. ‘They came!’ she shouted over to me. Her green eyes were wide
and shining with excitement as she held up the card, with her name – LILA – written in purple ink.

‘They did?’ I said, smiling. ‘Well, bring it over here, then. Let’s open it together.’ With a spring in her step, Lila came over to where I was sitting, and
gingerly fingered the sealed envelope. ‘Perhaps we should tell someone,’ she said.

‘Like Mum?’

‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Is there a fairy society? Natural History Museum maybe? I don’t think this is common, you know,’ Lila continued
earnestly.

‘I think it’s OK for us to keep it secret,’ I replied. ‘Anyway, let’s open it first and see what it says. It might not even be from them.’

‘It IS,’ Lila said, confidently. ‘I just know it is.’ Inside was a pretty card with a picture of a fairy on it, and a neatly written note. Dad had clearly worked hard to
disguise his handwriting, and while you could still tell, a little bit, Lila didn’t seem to notice, or was choosing not to.

Dear Lila
, it read.
Thank you for believing in us. It means an awful lot. We always enjoy your visits to our home, this part of the garden, even though most of the time we hide from
you. Don’t take it personally. It’s just what fairies do. You’re very big, compared to us, after all, so there’s always the risk of being trampled on – or, well, you
telling someone about us
.

‘Like the Natural History Museum,’ I chimed in. Helpful like that. Lila nodded. ‘You were right,’ she said. ‘ We need to keep this a secret.’

‘How did they sign off?’ I asked, genuinely curious.

‘Love, Your friends, the fairies.’

I smiled. Dad had excelled himself. Lila clutched the card to her chest and smiled broadly. ‘It’s the most, most special thing that’s ever happened to me,’ she said.
‘I’m going to write back to them right away.’

‘You were right to believe after all, I guess.’

‘I was,’ she said, proudly.

Over the course of that summer, Dad must have written to Lila a dozen times. As the autumn leaves began to fall, and Ben and I raked them in the September sunshine, Lila got her last letter from
her friends in the garden.

‘They’re flying south for the winter,’ she explained to me. ‘They said they need to do that, like birds.’ She shrugged as if it were nothing but I could see her
eyes shining with unshed tears. ‘I didn’t actually know that about them. But it makes sense. They say they’ll have to go to another garden next summer. That’s how it works I
suppose. They can’t stay with us for ever.’

I glanced over at Dad, and caught his eye for a split second, but then he looked back down at the rake he was holding. Beside him, Ben was sweeping piles of cut grass up in his hands, and
letting it fall around him, letting out a gurgle of toddler laughter.

It seemed harsh but I knew Dad had done the right thing. Even Lila couldn’t go on believing forever. This gave both of them a way out.

That evening, I went downstairs for some water, and overheard Dad talking to Mum in the kitchen. ‘We should do something for Hazel,’ he said. ‘Something special. Like the
fairies.’

‘Oh no, Simon,’ Mum said, laughing lightly. ‘There’s no need. She’s not dreamy like Lila. You know as well as me, they’re quite different.’

‘A surprise, though . . .’ he said, mulling it over.

‘I don’t think so, Simon,’ Mum said. ‘Hazel’s always been happier looking after the others; she’s not one to be made a fuss of. Let’s just be grateful
for that – she’ll always be our easy child . . .’

Lila coughed, and my attention was brought back into the room. She was looking down at my iPad and the Pinterest boards I’d put together for her, and frowning
slightly.

‘They’re not right for you. I can see that now,’ I said. Her relief showed immediately, the lines between her brows smoothed out, her shoulders went from hunched to
relaxed.

‘What about wildflowers?’ I suggested, drawing the images from our childhood memories back into my mind. ‘Poppies and marguerites . . . We could put them on each table, use
some of the lovely apothecary bottles you have, I can easily source some more, string them up around the venue . . .’ I rattled through the other ideas, coming to me quickly and easily now. I
could picture the scene perfectly.

Lila paused for a moment, and then began to smile. The light came back into her eyes. ‘Like in our garden?’ she said, remembering.

‘Yes, just like that,’ I replied.

‘I think that’s a wonderful idea.’

It was late on Friday evening, and the office had emptied out. It was just me and Josh left, working on a new set design for
Christmas at the Manor
. Josh looked over
my ideas – a lavish pine tree in the living room and tall red candles with frosted white holders on the table. The residents of the manor were rich and not afraid to show it, which was a
dream when it came to designing their Christmas decorations.

‘Have you got some starting points for sourcing this stuff?’ Josh said. ‘It looks fantastic, by the way.’

I smiled, and showed Josh the list that I’d drafted. ‘I’ve got a few quotes.’

‘OK, that looks good. Can I show you the ideas I’ve had for the village pub?’

The village pub was the heart of the community, and where most of the drama took place. The residents of the manor would rarely set foot in it, so it was also the perfect forum for people to
discuss them – and where the best gossip came out.

Josh showed me his sketches of the pub – the cosy fireside where the village dogs stretched out to warm up after long, snowy walks, the mirror strung with fairy lights and the mistletoe
hanging down from the beams of the seventeenth-century building. I thought back to the script we’d been given, and pictured Elise and Joey, two of the show’s most popular characters,
under there. Everyone knew that the audience were going to go wild when they saw these two finally pair up – all that was needed was the perfect set for the encounter.

‘I can make that,’ I said. ‘There’s no way that Elise is going to be able to resist Joey over mulled wine on Christmas Eve.’

‘Fantastic. Look – talking of pubs. I’m meeting Sarah in half an hour, at the Railway. Why don’t you join us? It’s about time you guys met – I think
you’d get on.’

‘Great,’ I said. So, I’d finally get to meet the woman Josh was in love with. This felt like a big deal.

Out of season, there was no mulled wine, but between us, and over two glasses of red, Josh and I began to conjure up the spirit of Christmas in a booth in the corner of the
Railway.

He glanced at his phone. ‘Sarah’s running late. Which is pretty standard. She kind of runs on her own time.’ He smiled, and didn’t seem particularly bothered by it.

‘Cool,’ I said. ‘No hurry.’

‘I like this place,’ Josh said, glancing around. ‘Right in the heart of London but it feels almost like a countryside local, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes. Reminds me a bit of home, actually.’ I thought of the pub, on our village green. Lila and I had had to wait patiently for our eighteenth birthday, with the landlord being one
of Dad’s best friends, there wasn’t a chance that we’d be let in underage – but it made it even more special when we were finally allowed to spend the evening there.

I came back to the moment, Josh watching me with a smile on his lips. ‘Where did you go to just then?’

‘Oh, nowhere,’ I said, uneasy that I’d been caught daydreaming. ‘Well, eighteen years old, if you must know.’

‘Good memories?’

I mulled over the question.

‘Some,’ I said.

‘Weird time, isn’t it, being a teenager? I can’t say I look back on it very nostalgically. Twenties were a lot better. And thirties seem to be shaping up to be better
still.’

‘You’re happiest now?’ I asked.

‘Definitely.’ And he looked it – content, relaxed in his own skin. ‘I think that’s why I met Sarah now. When I was ready to meet her.’

Right then, she arrived.

Sarah seemed to float into the pub. She wore a strapless dress wound out of turquoise sari fabric, and leather sandals, despite the drizzly weather. Her long, wavy hair was loose, and she had
faint freckles on her shoulders.

Josh kissed her hello and introduced us. There was a twinkle of mischief in her wide blue eyes.

‘Hi,’ I said, holding out my hand to greet Sarah. She laughed and instead came in close to kiss me on the cheek. Her hair was soft and smelled of honey.

‘Great to finally meet you,’ she said brightly. ‘Josh has told me so much about you.’

‘He has?’

‘Oh yes, loads. Good stuff, obviously.’

I smiled.

‘Said you’ve got a sideline in wedding planning at the moment?’

‘Kind of. Only informally. I’m planning my sister’s wedding at the moment. Their wedding planner bailed on them, so I’ve stepped in.’

‘Your sister’s wedding – how sweet,’ Sarah said.

‘And you work at an art gallery, is that right?’

‘Oh I did,’ Sarah said, waving her hand, and laughing. ‘That didn’t last long.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘“
Too many
opinions
”’, they told me. Can you believe it? In the art world of all places? I was brought up to think that having a mind was a good thing.’

Josh smiled. ‘Sarah doesn’t back down easily.’

Over the course of the evening, that was definitely the impression I got.

Later that week, Lila and I were sitting cross-legged on the rug on the floor of her and Ollie’s living room, threading paper chains. They were made from silver paper
doilies, so had the appearance of being lacy – delicate and fragile. Or perhaps, on reflection, a bit like a bridal spider web.

‘These are going to look gorgeous,’ Lila said cheerfully.

‘It’s all coming together,’ I said. And they weren’t just words to reassure Lila and calm her pre-wedding jitters. Things really were looking good. The RSVPs had flooded
in quickly, and most were yeses.

‘Any word from Ben, yet?’ I asked.

‘Yes, but no firm answer. He left a rambling voicemail. Said he’s busy over the summer – work commitments.’ She said the words sarcastically. ‘I mean, I know
we’re not that close, but I really thought . . . I never imagined that our brother might not be there to see me get married.’

‘He has to be there,’ I said. ‘I’ll make sure he is.’

The following Saturday, we met Mum at the wedding-dress shop, in a courtyard just behind Columbia Road. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but the dressmaker,
Jane, who I’d met while researching costumes for the TV company, was creative and practical – perfect for getting my sister the wedding dress she needed, in record time.

Mum hugged us both hello, and then we walked up the narrow spiral staircase together. Jane greeted us at the door, her hair piled on her head and tied with a length of gingham fabric. She had on
jeans and a fifties shirt knotted at the waist, and for a moment I sensed Lila stiffen, perhaps doubting whether this was the right person to be designing her dress. But the moment we stepped into
the room, Tardis-like in its dimensions, the atmosphere changed. White satin and silk covered the walls, dresses sparkling with diamante and silken embroidery hung on their hangers. Structured
bodices, with full, romantic skirts, empire line dresses straight out of
Pride and Prejudice
, and then more unusual designs, one-shouldered and asymmetrical, one with a bright-coloured
petticoat and sash.