Cordelia has somehow got worse.
There I was, thinking we had a new connection, a simple shared smile where we were both on the same page, joining in the comedy of a ridiculous florist/artist. It had given me so much hope because when something silly happens you look at your friend as you laugh, right? Your friend. She didn’t make eye contact with her mum, she didn’t look at Jonathan, she looked at me.
It had to mean something. Or so I thought.
Instead of the beginning of a beautiful friendship, though, it seems to have gone in the opposite direction. The “connection” I thought had been there must have been a figment of my imagination. When my phone first vibrated with a message from her after the disastrous meeting with Nicole, my reaction was an excited gasp.
This is it! I thought, opening my WhatsApp. Maybe she’ll be messaging asking to go for a drink and chat about fun wedding stuff!
I could not have been more naïve: Pick up dry cleaning. Tomorrow, 2 p.m.
I thought maybe she’d made a mistake: she’d meant to put it in her diary as a reminder but had accidentally sent it to me. But a slew of instructions has since come through, without a word of gratitude or acknowledgment that I’m not really her PA. I’m her bridesmaid.
It’s been getting worse all week. I’ve been asked—no, not asked, told—to respond to emails that she’s forwarded me with no explanation, book hair and beauty appointments on her behalf, and at one point fetch a coffee randomly for her therapist, whom she wasn’t even seeing that day. The therapist looked stunned to see me standing on her doorstep, saying, “Your skinny almond-milk extra-hot latte,” and slammed the door in my face, clearly thinking I was a total loon.
“Who is this new bride of yours?” Cara asks in disgust.
She had just asked me where I am and I’d told her the truth—on the train to go to a farm shop in Hertfordshire to get a specific truffle oil that Cordelia insisted she needed for cooking that evening. Apparently it’s not sold anywhere else in the country and she doesn’t trust a courier to pick it up. She only trusts her “favorite bridesmaid.”
“She’s a bit high-maintenance, but it’s fine,” I insist, lying through my teeth. “I can do other work on the train.”
“A bit high-maintenance? She sounds like the boss from The Devil Wears Prada. What’s her name? You know, Meryl Streep’s character.”
“Miranda Priestly,” I inform her.
“That’s the one. She’s like a real-life Miranda Priestly, except she’s getting married, not running a high-fashion magazine empire. Why are you putting up with her?”
“Because she’s an important client.”
“Well, in my opinion, she can shove her truffle oil up her—”
“All right, calm down.” I chuckle, looking out of the window at the fields sweeping by. “How’s everything with you?”
“Fine. Work’s stressful. Mike’s obsessed with a new video game, so that’s annoying.” She sighs heavily. “Do you think he’ll ever grow out of video games?”
“If he hasn’t grown out of them at the age of thirty-five, I don’t think it’s likely.”
“I’m going to break it accidentally on purpose. Don’t tell him.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“What are you up to this weekend?”
“Working, I imagine.”
“You don’t have a wedding?”
“No, but I have a lot of wedding stuff to do.”
“Any chance of meeting for a drink?”
“Yeah! I’d love to see you and catch up.”
“Ah,” she says, “not with me. With someone else. Mike’s friend Scott is really nice and he’s super keen to meet you.”
“Cara,” I sigh, “no. I’m not going on a date.”
“Why not? You said you could meet for a drink!”
“Yes, with you. Not with someone I don’t know. It’s hard enough making time for my friends and family, let alone some random guy.”
“He’s not a random guy, he’s Mike’s friend. It would be fun! You might enjoy it.”
“Sorry, I’ve got too much work to do.”
“Come on, Sophie, live a little. In that Devil Wears Prada movie, she realizes running errands for that bitch isn’t worth giving up her social life.”
“This is completely different from that film,” I argue.
“I don’t know, Sophie. It’s early Thursday morning and, instead of doing anything you really care about, you’re currently on a train all the way to Hertfordshire to get a bottle of truffle oil. It sounds very similar to me.”
There’s a beeping in my ear as a call comes through. I check the ID. “Cara, I’ve got to go. I have another call.”
“Is it Miranda?”
“I’ll speak to you later.”
She hangs up reluctantly and I pick up Lady Meade’s call, catching her just before she rings off.
“Emily, good morning.”
Her voice is sharp and stern, and I straighten in my seat as though I’m in trouble with the headmistress.
“Lady Meade, how are you?”
“Where are you?”
“On the train to Hertfordshire. If this is about Cordelia’s truffle oil, I’m on my way to the shop and will be back with it as soon as possible.”
“I’m not sure what you mean by truffle oil, but that can wait. I need you to come to our house,” she says urgently. “When can you be here?”
“Uh, well, I guess I could see what stop I can get off to come back into London.”
“If you would, thank you.”
“Is everything OK?” I ask, gripping the phone. “Has something happened?”
“Yes, something has happened. Please send me a message to let me know your timing. I can send a car to pick you up from whichever London station you return to.”
“Oh! Thanks so much, I’ll let you know as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, Emily. Goodbye.” She hangs up.
I quickly search the fastest way to get back into London and, thankfully, check just in time. The next stop has a train going to King’s Cross in ten minutes, and we’ll be at that stop in five. As I pack away my laptop and gather my things, I wonder what on earth requires such urgent attention.
By the time I get into the shiny black car that collects me from King’s Cross, my mind is whirring through possibilities, ranging from something silly, like Cordelia refusing to wear a priceless family necklace, throwing it into a pond, and they need someone to fish it out, to Jonathan having realized it might be a good idea to marry someone who can be kind occasionally and threatening to call off the wedding.
“Oh, good, they’ve gone,” Joe, the driver, says, as we approach the house.
“Who’ve gone?” I ask, peering out of the window.
“The photographers. They were lurking outside this morning, flicking their cigarette butts all over the pavement.” He tuts. “They must have got bored.”
“There were press here earlier?” I breathe a sigh of relief that they’re gone. “Why?”
“Lord Dashwell was out last night and they photographed him with an American pop star. Now they’ve assumed something’s going on. Happens all the time. One of the family says hello to someone, and the next day it’s all over the papers that they’re romantically involved. Exhausting. Anyway, he’s having his Chelsea house renovated, so he’s staying here at the moment and the press was swarming around the door all morning.”
“Wow. Which pop star? Have I heard of her? What’s she like?”
I don’t know why this annoys me. For goodness’ sake, I’ve only met him twice. It’s completely unreasonable for me to be irritated by this news. Just because he was nice to me at the engagement party. He’s single and good-looking and a viscount. He’s one of Tatler’s most eligible bachelors. He must date all the time. And even if he didn’t, he’s hardly going to look twice at me.
Not that I’d want him to. I’m too busy to date.
Ugh, why am I even thinking about it?
“I’m not sure who the pop star is.” Joe chuckles. “She’s got brown hair.”
“Ah. Her.”
“Sorry, I’ve never been good with that sort of thing.” He laughs, parking outside the house. “I get confused.”
“Right. Yeah, someone like him, he must have a new famous girlfriend every week.”
“You’d think,” Joe says, catching my eye in the rearview mirror. “But not so much, these days. I’d say he’s grown out of that scene. They both have. You should have seen some of the types Lady Cordelia dated! One lad used to stick gum to the roof of the car every time he rode in it.”
“That’s awful!” I say, undoing my seat belt. “Thank goodness she found Jonathan.”
“Exactly. Someone who might finally be good enough for her. Not that I’m sure anyone is, as you’d agree! She’s much too good for all of them, in my opinion.”
“Uh. Sure, yeah. Well, thanks so much, Joe,” I say, climbing out of the car, wondering if we’re talking about the same Cordelia. “So kind of you to come and get me.”
“Any time, Emily!”
Before I’m at the top of the steps, the door opens and Lady Meade ushers me in. She waves at Joe, then shuts the door behind me, saying everyone’s in the kitchen.
The atmosphere is clearly tense. Cordelia isn’t there when I walk in, but the marquess is, with Jonathan and Tom. Jonathan is pacing, looking frazzled. The marquess is staring out of the window, his hands behind his back. Tom is leaning against the kitchen counter, clasping a mug of tea and yawning. His hair has definitely not been brushed this morning—in fact, I’m almost certain he’s just got out of bed. He sees me in the doorway and smiles.
He’s got such a nice smile. It makes me smile in response. It must be the crinkles round his eyes …
Wait. Stop this. Focus, Sophie. You can’t go round with a dopey grin on your face when there’s been some kind of emergency! And you just heard he was with some pop star last night.
Back to serious face. Serious, professional face.
“Hey,” he says sleepily, to me. “What are you doing here?”
“Hi, Emily,” Lord Meade says, acknowledging me with a nod. “Did Cordelia call you?”
He’s wearing a smart tailored suit and his brow is furrowed in deep concern. Interestingly, his tie is at odds with the rest of him, a bright jolly red with swordfish dotted about on it. I wonder if this shows a splash of humor beneath his serious façade, but from the look on his face, I’m guessing he’s not in a mood for fun at the moment.
“What’s happened?” I ask, as Lady Meade floats in behind me. “Where’s Cordelia?”
“She’s upstairs,” the marquess responds, glancing upward. “She won’t leave her room.”
“Drama queen,” Tom mutters into his tea.
“This isn’t the time to joke,” Lady Meade scolds.
“I get that it’s a big deal, but was it necessary for her to barge into the house this morning and go raging about waking everyone up and making my hangover a lot worse?” he says, taking a sip of tea and wincing. “And now she’s dragged her friend here for emotional support and I’m sure Emily has better things to do.”
“You can surely understand why Cordelia’s upset,” Jonathan says.
“Besides, you shouldn’t be hungover. You should be at work,” Lord Meade reminds Tom.
“I’m working from home today,” he retorts. “I have a meeting this afternoon and it was decided it made sense that I don’t bother going into the office.”
His father raises his eyebrows. “Yes, I can see you’re hard at work.”
“I would be if Cordelia hadn’t been shouting the house down.”
“What’s going on?” I ask, unable to take the suspense any longer. “Is Cordelia OK?”
“This morning we received this.” Lady Meade places a long, perfectly manicured finger on a thick envelope lying on the island in front of her and pushes it across the surface. “Have a look.”
From the style, I know straightaway it’s a wedding invitation. Curious to see whose wedding has caused this much of an upset among them, I pull it out and begin to read. It’s an expensive and traditional invitation, thick cream card with swirly black embossed lettering.
The invitation is from the Earl and Countess of Derrington requesting the pleasure of their company at the marriage of their daughter, Annabel, to Mr. Aubyn Ludlow on 21 May.
I stop. I read it again, just to be sure.
Oh, God.
“It’s the same date as your wedding,” I say, staring at it in disbelief. “It can’t be. Is this Lady Annabel Porthouse?”
“I’m afraid so.” Jonathan sighs, biting his lip nervously. “Such bad luck.”
“It has nothing to do with luck,” Lady Meade says. “It’s sabotage.”
“Mum, come on.” Tom groans, rubbing his forehead. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Why else would they send out a wedding invitation seven months in advance?” she asks bitterly. “They knew that’s the date we’d settled on.”
“We should have sent out save-the-dates,” Jonathan remarks.
“Nonsense. We don’t do that sort of thing,” Lady Meade says plainly, looking disappointed he’d even suggest it.
“Cordelia is very upset,” Jonathan comments, unbothered by Lady Meade’s scolding. “She says Annabel’s done this on purpose.”
“I’m disappointed in Ned,” the marquess says, and I realize he’s referring to Annabel’s father, the Earl of Derrington. “This isn’t like him.”
“What are we going to do about it?” Lady Meade asks.
“Why do we need to do anything?” Tom says, yawning again. “Have the wedding on the same day. Cordelia didn’t want to invite them in the first place, remember? Which I couldn’t agree with more. She went mad when you said she had to invite them and now you’ve got a great excuse for them not to come.”
Ah. That solves that mystery. I thought Annabel and Cordelia were best friends, though. I can’t remember reading anything about a fallout, but there must have been one.
“Don’t be absurd,” Lady Meade says. “We have near-identical guest lists.”
“Right, so you’d see who your real friends are.” Tom shrugs, looking pleased with himself. “Anyone who goes to their wedding and not Cordelia’s you can cross off the Christmas card list.”
“Do take this seriously, Thomas,” his father says wearily.
“Poor Cordelia,” I say, staring down at the invitation. “What a nightmare.”
“I know.” Jonathan sighs. “She so wanted a spring wedding.”
“Is moving the date an option?” I ask the room.
“I suggested a late-summer wedding instead,” Jonathan answers, his eyes falling to the floor. “But Cordelia was quite adamant that her wedding come before Annabel’s.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Before?”
“Cordelia may have mentioned this to you, but there’s always been some … competition between Annabel and Cordelia,” Lady Meade explains. “They were at school together. They used to be good friends, ran in the same circles. But then…” She pauses, searching for the words. “… they grew apart.”
“Maybe when Cordelia’s had time to calm down, she’ll be more reasonable about dates,” Jonathan says, trying to persuade himself as much as everyone else in the room. “It’s just come as a shock. That’s all.”
“Yes, it has,” says a voice behind me. “But I have a solution.”
I spin round to see Cordelia entering the room, dressed in a smart emerald-green minidress with tights and high-heeled boots, her sunglasses swinging from her fingers as though she hasn’t a care in the world. Smiling broadly, she breezes past me to go into the welcome arms of her fiancé and I’m hit by a wave of expensive perfume.
“Look, Cordelia,” Jonathan says, his face brightening as she approaches him. “Emily came to cheer you up.”
“How thoughtful,” she says, not looking at me.
“Cordelia,” her mother says, bewildered, “you’re feeling better?”
“Much. I apologize for my behavior this morning, but I’ve had time to put things in perspective. If Annabel wants that date for her wedding, it’s hers.”
Jonathan kisses her. Lord and Lady Meade look shocked. Tom simply nods in approval before taking another gulp of tea. “Great. I can go back to bed, then,” he announces. “I mean, back to work.”
“It hit me as soon as I heard Emily arriving,” Cordelia continues, ignoring him and beaming at me. “Just the sound of your footsteps inspired me.”
Uh-oh. This can’t be good.
“Really? Great,” I say, a lump forming in my throat. “Well, a late-summer wedding will be absolutely lovely—”
“Oh, no, silly billy, the solution is not to have a summer wedding.” She laughs loudly, as though I’ve said something simply hilarious. “The solution is to have a winter wedding.”
“Splendid,” Jonathan enthuses. “Sounds good to me.”
“I suppose it gives us more time,” Lady Meade admits, sharing a look of confusion with her husband.
“More time? Don’t you mean less?” Cordelia chuckles. “You are funny.”
“Have you banged your head? It goes spring, summer, autumn, winter,” Tom says, frowning at her.
“Oh, I’m sorry, you think I mean next winter!”
“Which winter do you mean?” I ask tentatively, already knowing the answer.
“This winter,” she confirms cheerily.
“Cordelia,” Lady Meade says, aghast, “you can’t possibly—”
“A New Year’s Eve wedding,” she states. “Perfect, don’t you think? Friday, the thirty-first of December, 2021. Isn’t that a lovely date? Something about it. Anyway, I’ve already spoken to the vicar just now on the phone and he says that date is free. So I’ve booked it in! Didn’t want to miss out.”
There’s a stunned silence in the room.
“Why are you all looking so surprised?” Cordelia continues, laughing at our horrified expressions.
“Because you’re suggesting you get married in December,” Tom says. “And it’s October.”
“So? It’s not like it’s going to be hard. I have the best family and the best bridesmaid in the world. Emily can help me with everything.” A smile slowly spreads across her face. “Right, Emily?”
“She has a life, Cordelia.” Tom scowls. “The world doesn’t revolve around you and your wedding.”
“I disagree,” she says curtly.
“It’s going to be a lot of hard work…,” Lady Meade says, trailing off deep in thought.
“Fun work, though,” Cordelia corrects. “So, what do you think, Emily? I know helping Mum and me organize such a big wedding in two months is rather a lot to ask, so I completely understand if you simply can’t take on the responsibility of bridesmaid. No one will think any less of you. Perhaps it’s better if I have no bridesmaids.” She tilts her head at me. “You’re such an amazing friend and I’d hate you to feel pressured into doing something you don’t want to do.”
I see what she’s doing. I won’t let her win. I lift my eyes to meet hers, holding her gaze. God, I hate the way she’s looking at me. So superior. As though she’s got me. As though she knows she’s got me. Quit, her eyes are saying. Just like I said you would. Go on, quit.
Well, sod that. “Don’t be silly. Being your bridesmaid is an honor,” I say calmly, smiling back at her. “Two months for us to organize the wedding of the century? No problem. Let’s get to work! What can I do to help?”
Jonathan squeezes Cordelia’s shoulders excitedly, thrilled that all tension seems resolved. Lady Meade shifts uncomfortably, her eyebrows knitted together as she looks from me to Cordelia and back again. She’s the only one in the room who can translate our exchange as being a standoff.
Challenge accepted, Cordelia.
Challenge. Fucking. Accepted.