Written in the Stars (2 page)

Amongst all these new shoots there are many decisions to make – and even the most experienced gardener can find it overwhelming. Sometimes I’m sure it feels like all you can see is bare soil. And in my experience, dear daughter, spring has often been the time that I’ve felt an urge to bare my soul. To speak up. Pause and take a moment to reflect on how I’m feeling underneath the surface.

Contrary to popular opinion, I find raking over old ground a very therapeutic – and necessary – exercise. As an experienced gardener I say, cut any dead growth otherwise new shoots will be at risk of being damaged. Don’t be too hard with the pruning though, or you may accidentally cut off this year’s flowers. And remember, don’t let the grass grow under your feet or it will yellow, weaken and die.

Do all this and your garden is sure to bloom as much as you will.

Love, Dad x

Chapter 1

30 April 2013

Bea Bishop is about to take the plun—

‘This is no time to be doing a Facebook status update, Bea!’ my younger brother Caleb chastises, sounding more like a parent than a sibling as he snatches my phone off me.

‘Hey!’ I look at him in annoyance, half-expecting to see standing next to me outside the church the curly-haired kid who used to chase me round the beach like a puppy. Instead, there’s this charming, sensible, responsible twenty-eight-year-old man in a morning suit – a
dad
no less. I still can’t believe Cal has two children. Where did the years go?

I try to grab my phone but he holds it above his head teasingly and then puts it in his pocket. Infuriated, I turn to Loni who is standing on my right but she just puts her hands up as if to say, ‘Off-duty.’ Then she peers down her cleavage and rearranges her neckline so she’s showing more skin.

‘Ready to strut your stuff, sis?’ Cal says lightly. Then he leans in and winks. ‘Because Loni certainly is . . .’

I look at them both, wanting to tell them that, without Dad here, I’ll never be ready. But instead I smile, take a deep breath and turn to face the heavy, walnut church doors. Harder than it sounds in this ridiculously tight lace fishtailed frock. I know it’s the wrong dress for my body shape – made for someone tall and graceful, not petite and a bit tomboyish. It was thrust upon me because I couldn’t make up my mind what I wanted and because my future mother-in-law, Marion, told me I’d look ‘uncharacteristically elegant’ in it. I should’ve hit the eject button right then. Instinct now tells me it’s probably better to look as much like you as possible on your wedding day. A scrubbed-up version of yourself, obviously, but still like you.

Instead, the hairpiece my wayward curls are coiled tightly around is as heavy as lead, as is the enormous Hudson family tiara that is clinging to the top of my skyscraper bridal hairstyle like King Kong on the Empire State Building. Marion told me at my final dress fitting that I had to wear it because – and these were her exact words: ‘Unfortunately, Bea, you’re the closest thing to a daughter I’ll ever have.’ Emphasis on unfortunately!

‘Bea!’ Cal says impatiently, reminding me where I am and what I’m meant to be doing, ‘I said, are you ready . . .’

‘. . . for your prison sentence?’ Loni intercepts, nudging me playfully as her giant purple and pink fascinator bobs on top of her crazy corkscrew hair which bounces down her back in swirly silvery curls.

Cal shoots her a warning glare. She holds her hands up innocently as if to say, ‘What? Joke!’ and then takes a swig from a little bottle she’s clearly swiped from the hotel minibar. ‘Just a little snifter for Loni to ease the pre-wedding wobbles,’ she says with a wink. My mum often refers to herself in the third person. Apparently it’s what happens if you are mad – I mean, a tiny bit famous. She writes books about relationships. Her first one was
Why Be Married When You Can Be Happy?
It was a surprise hit and stayed in the bestseller charts for twenty-three weeks. Over twenty years, and countless books later, people still see her as the go-to guru for marriage break-up guidance. Not so helpful on your wedding day, it turns out.

Loni is not the biggest fan of the institution of marriage. She’s a free spirit, a single soul, and has been ever since my dad walked out when I was seven and Cal was five. She’s always said marriage is an unnatural state. And as a result, so have I.

I blink, the familiar panic rising as I remind myself of what I’m about to do.

‘Are you OK?’ Milly whispers. I turn around and look at her and, as I do, I see a glimpse of Holkham Hall in the distance, the elegant Palladian-style mansion with its stunning grounds that this church sits within and where our wedding reception will take place. The venue is the one decision I managed to make for this wedding. It had to be here, in Holkham. Close to where I grew up, opposite my favourite beach, and where, even as a little girl, I told my mum and dad I’d one day get married. Marion wasn’t happy. She’d wanted somewhere bigger, grander, nearer London than Norfolk. But for once, I stood firm. I didn’t care if they wanted to invite a hundred people I’d never met (which they practically have) but it
had
to be here.

I focus back on Milly. She is the picture of poise and calm in her shimmering gold bridesmaid dress that glides over her Bond-girl body. Milly is a striking mix of her Persian mother and Indian father and is always the most beautiful person in any room. Her dark burnished shoulder-length hair is always perfect. A thick, blunt fringe frames her chocolate eyes, which are usually so serious, thanks to her stressful job as a hedge fund manager. They are now swimming with concern. I’m pretty sure most best friends don’t go to the lengths Milly does to look out for me. She has done ever since she found me on my first day wandering the school grounds like a lost sheep, unable to find my Year Seven French class. She says it was like I had no idea what direction I was meant to be going in.

I still haven’t.

I can’t do this,
a voice in my head whispers.

I glance at Milly with an agonised, rabbit-caught-in-the-headlights expression, trying desperately to bat the doubt away – or for her to do it for me.

‘You can do this, Bea!’ Milly says instantly, reading my mind. She clasps my hand. ‘You’re marrying Adam, remember? The love of your life.’

‘Mills,’ I blurt out suddenly, overcome by panic. ‘I need to ask you something.’

‘Really? Now?’ she says, smoothing back an escaped curl into my tight bridal chignon. ‘OK,’ she sighs. ‘Fire away.’

‘How did you know Jay was The One?’ Milly’s eyes flick to me and then to Cal. She smiles brightly back at me but I can see the alarm behind it.
Watch out, people, this bride’s about to blow!

‘How did you know?’ I press, looking down at Milly’s left finger and the two rings that have been firmly planted on it for three years. Jay is Adam’s best man and her husband. She met him the same night I met Adam, but Milly and Jay’s relationship moved much quicker than ours. Ad and I have been playing catch-up ever since.

‘I – I . . .’ Her eyes dart nervously from me, to Cal and then to Loni. ‘I mean, I can’t explain
how
I knew, Bea, I just did.’

I swear my heart plummets down to my stupidly high wedding shoes because the truth is I don’t ‘know’. I’m not sure, or certain, and I don’t know
why
that is. Why, when Adam is so wonderful, don’t I
know
? What is wrong with him, or rather, me?

‘Come on, sis!’ Cal says as if reading my mind. ‘This is you and Adam we’re talking about. You’re made for each other. You’re crazy and he’s utterly crazy about you.’

‘Ba da doom tish,’ I reply with a weak smile.

I snatch the miniature from Loni and try to take a swig but the combined weight of my hairpiece and tiara has rendered my head incapable of movement.

‘Ready?’ Cal says gently like I’m one of his two-year-old twins.

I DON’T KNOW!
I think. ‘Yes, ready!’ I squeak instead.

Cal goes to open the doors of St Withburga’s Church and I start to hyperventilate a little. The thick lace of my dress is making me itch. I resist an urge to claw at my thighs.

‘Take this, will you, bro?’ I say, thrusting my beautiful bright bouquet of yellow primulas (
I can’t live without you
), blousy honeysuckle ranunculuses (
radiant charm
) and forsythia (
anticipation of an exciting moment
). Milly ordered them for me when I called her in a panic because I’d forgotten. She was still at work but went to her local flower shop in Greenwich just before it closed and asked specifically for the yellow wedding flowers I wanted. My handful of sunshine. They kindly made up the bouquets and buttonholes at the last minute and presented them in a vintage wooden crate that had the shop’s name – ‘Cosmos Flowers’ – painted on the side along with a smattering of stars. She and Jay arrived with it at the crack of dawn this morning. Cosmos are my birth flower and, when I saw the name painted on the crate filled with my favourite flowers, it felt like a sign that I was doing the right thing. But now . . .?

Oh God, I feel sick.

‘You OK, Bea?’ Milly repeats as she steadies me.

‘I think my dress is bringing me out in a rash,’ I groan as she tries to locate the itch. ‘Maybe I’m allergic to it?’

Milly grasps my chin and makes me look at her. ‘You have nothing to worry about. All you have to do is walk down that aisle. I’ll be right behind you, OK?’ She lifts up my train and Cal nods in agreement and squeezes my hand.

I take a deep breath and tell myself that most brides feel this amount of fear, doubt and overwhelming anxiety. It’s perfectly normal. But once you get that ring on your finger, all your misgivings fall away. Yep, I’m positive that’s what happens.

‘Adam
is
the right guy, Bea,’ Cal says as if reading my mind. ‘He always has been. It just took a while for you to realise it. Now, remember, all you have to do is take it one step at a time . . .’

I nod, marvelling at how my little brother got so grown-up. And how I got so scared.

‘Let’s do this thing!’ I squeak and give a little mini air punch for good measure.

Cal heaves open the church door and looks at me. I notice his porcelain-blue eyes so like Loni’s are glistening with emotion as Mendelssohn’s Wedding March floods through the open doors and the guests’ heads execute a perfect Mexican wave as they turn to gawp at me. I take Cal’s arm and smile nervously behind my veil.

‘You look beautiful, sis,’ Cal whispers through his smile as we begin to walk slowly down the aisle. ‘Now,’ he adds with a grin, ‘whatever you do, don’t wee at the end like you did at Auntie Cath’s wedding.’

‘I was
three
,’ I hiss but I laugh anyway.

As we carry on down the aisle I find myself desperately looking for Dad. No one knows this – not even Cal – but he’s the real reason I was so determined to get married in this church so near my childhood home. I’ve never let go of my dream that it would be here on this special day that we would finally be reunited. I’ve spent months telling myself that even if the invitation I insisted on sending to Cley-next-the-Sea, his last known local address before he disappeared, didn’t reach him, or if he didn’t see the wedding notice Adam put in his favourite national paper, then maybe, through some cosmic connection, he might just sense that his daughter was getting married today. He’d instinctively know that I’d never wanted to get married without him. He’d recall how I told him when I was a little girl that I’d get married in this church one day. He would sense that, even at the age of thirty, I still missed him every day. And that’s why I can’t help but hope, even though I haven’t seen or heard from him for twenty-three years, that maybe, just maybe, he’ll be here to watch his daughter walk down the aisle. I know it’s ridiculous. I know I should just let go, move on, but I’ve never lost hope that my dad will one day come back into my life. Today feels like his last chance, the final milestone before I say goodbye to being his daughter, Bea Bishop, and begin a new life as Mrs Bea Hudson.

My eyes dart desperately over the guests seated either side of me. Caleb squeezes my arm and I know he’s realised who I’m looking for. He tries to understand but Cal has never seemed to feel Dad’s absence as much as I do. My little brother’s always just . . . got on with his life – in an understated but rather incredible way. Not only is Cal a brilliant dad to his two-year-old twin girls, a loving partner of their mum, Lucy, his girlfriend of almost ten years (commitment problems clearly
don’t
run in the family . . .) but he’s a great support to me. And he lives close to Loni (which means I have the freedom to live where I choose) and on top of all that, he saves lives every single day in his work as a paramedic. In other words, my kid brother, who used to run around wearing Superhero costumes, is now basically a real-life one. Dad would be so proud. It always amazes me that two siblings with the same roots can grow to be so different.

A memory reverberates in my mind as I see an image of Dad, arms outstretched to me.

Come here, my little climber
. . .

I feel a sharp jolt of pain as I recall Dad’s nickname for me, given because I was so clingy. I close my eyes for a moment and replay the memory of running into the garden and entwining myself around his legs, looking up at him as he laughed and pulled me into his arms.

I continue to scan the congregation, stumbling as my eyes fill with tears and my heart with disappointment when I realise that of course Dad isn’t here. It was stupid to hold on to such a farfetched dream.

It doesn’t matter,
I tell myself sternly.
I don’t need him any more. I’ve got Adam now . . .

Everything will be fine if I can just make it to him,
but the end of the aisle seems so far away that it is almost in soft focus. Everything goes blurry.

I gasp and briefly put my hand to my forehead whilst trying to keep walking towards Adam. But it’s like I’ve stood up too quickly and someone’s turned the lights out. The itchy dress is unbearable, I feel like I’m being suffocated and my head is ridiculously heavy. A hundred people are looking at me and taking photos, and I realise I’m holding my breath like I’m about to dive into the sea.