The introduction to ‘Isn’t She Lovely’ by Stevie Wonder blasts through the overhead speakers.
‘Go, Audrey,’ Grace says. ‘Go!’
Because Grace is wearing flats, Audrey is the tallest for a change, wobbly and uncertain in her high heels as she creeps round the corner and down the aisle towards the music like a cautious baby deer in lilac chiffon.
As rehearsed, I count to five before following her.
The room is packed, kids piled on laps, several people forced to stand at the back because there are more guests than available chairs. There are so many strings of fairy lights I feel like Father Christmas is going to emerge any second yelling, ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ and tossing presents from his sack. Audrey must have legged it because the aisle is entirely clear. As I walk down the centre, the faces on either side are a blur. All I can see are teeth and camera phones and humongous hats until I spot Stella, Mikey and Kimmie waving madly at me and I’m able to focus for a few seconds and give them a grin in return.
There’s a collective sigh from the entire crowd. I turn round just in time to see Grace and her ‘adorable’ baby bump advancing down the aisle towards me, followed by an even bigger sigh for Mum’s entrance. Dad’s eyes are already wet, and by the time Mum joins him they’re both openly wailing at each other, milky mascara tears running down Mum’s face.
The ceremony is being conducted by a woman called Charmaine. Even though Mum’s family is officially Catholic and Dad’s family are super-Christian, neither of them wanted a religious service. The compromise is a single reading from the Bible performed by one of Dad’s billions of great-aunts, offset by Mum’s sister Ali reading a passage from Captain Corelli’s Mandolin.
‘And now I’d like to invite Grace and Sam to the front,’ Charmaine says as Ali returns to her seat.
Huh?
Mum and Dad look equally surprised as Grace and Sam get up, Sam taking a seat at a keyboard I hadn’t even noticed was set up, Grace smiling serenely at us all as Charmaine adjusts the microphone to her height.
‘This is a special surprise for Mum and Dad,’ Grace says breathlessly. She turns towards them. ‘Thank you for being the most incredible parents I could ever wish for.’
She nods to Sam, who begins to play the introduction to ‘Back for Good’ by Take That. It was number one in the charts when Mum and Dad met and is their official song.
Pleasure ripples through the audience as Grace begins to sing, her soprano voice as clear as a bell. Mum and Dad beam, their arms wrapped round each other, Mum’s head resting on Dad’s shoulder. I glance behind me. Everyone is spellbound, snapping pictures and swaying in time with the music. Stella and the others have been reeled in, joining in on the chorus. Kimmie even cries.
‘Did you know about this?’ I ask Audrey in a low whisper.
She shakes her head.
At the end of the song the room breaks into thunderous applause. At Mum and Dad’s insistence Grace and Sam hold hands and take about ten bows.
‘How long have you been planning that?’ I ask once Grace has returned to her seat.
‘Just a few weeks,’ she replies, facing front and not looking at me. ‘We practised while you were at school.’
‘You should have said something.’
‘We wanted it to be a surprise, silly.’
‘Not to Mum and Dad, to me.’
‘Why?’
‘I might have wanted to do something special too.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know,’ I mutter.
‘No one was stopping you, Mia,’ she says, stroking her bump.
I try to concentrate as Charmaine moves on to the final vows, culminating in her announcement that Dad and Mum are now ‘man and wife’ and he may ‘kiss the bride’. They snog for about a minute straight while ‘Happy’ by Pharrell plays and the crowd goes wild. The doors at the front of the room are flung open and we’re ushered out onto the terrace for drinks and photos. Within seconds I’m hijacked by aunts and uncles and family friends I haven’t seen in ages. Instead of their usual comments about tall I am and how grownup I look, all they’re interested in is Grace and the baby.
‘You must be so excited,’ they say, over and over again.
I smile and tell them what they want to hear, that ‘I can’t wait’ to meet my niece or nephew.
The photographer rounds us up for endless photographs on the lawn, the group combinations gradually getting bigger and bigger until all 150 guests are assembled together on the damp grass. It takes for ever to make sure everyone is looking in the right direction and can be seen, heels sinking into the lawn and tempers fraying.
It’s as we’re waiting for my cousin Tanisha to persuade her three-year-old, Dante, to stop screaming and smile nicely for a final shot, that I notice her, standing on the steps wearing a crisp white skirt tucked into black trousers, a tray of Pimms resting on her palm, a weird little smirk on her face as her eyes clock me in the crowd. It’s the exact same smirk she wore when I bumped into her outside Aaron’s bedroom last weekend, his T-shirt barely covering my bum.
Cara.
The photographer seizes his moment. ‘Everyone say, “Best wedding ever!”’ he yells.
‘Best wedding ever!’ the crowd crows back obediently.
Everyone apart from me. I open my mouth and make the right shapes but I’m pretty certain no actual words come out. There’s only one thought on my mind – what the hell is Cara doing at my mum and dad’s wedding?
‘You OK, sweetheart?’ Dad asks once the photographer has dismissed the crowd. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I’m fine,’ I stammer. ‘Just hungry, I think. I only had a bit of breakfast.’
‘Well, not long now until we eat,’ he says, giving my shoulder a squeeze.
The photographer beckons Mum and Dad to join him for a few more shots. Dad kisses me on the forehead and takes Mum’s hand.
As the terrace swarms with thirsty guests, I try to think about the situation logically. It’s not as if Cara’s going to march up to Kimmie and tell her I shagged her housemate – that would make no sense whatsoever. She doesn’t even know who Kimmie is, never mind the fact that Kimmie fancies Aaron. I remember what Aaron told me, about him blowing Cara off that time and how badly she took it. She was probably only giving me evils because she’s jealous. Yeah, that must be it. Feeling slightly better, I smooth out my dress and go look for Stella and the others.
I find them gathered around Grace and Sam, their hands fixed to Grace’s bump, even Mikey’s, who claims to hate kids as much as I do.
‘Hey,’ I say.
‘Hey,’ they reply, barely even looking at me, their hands still stuck to the bump.
‘Oh my God, I can feel it moving!’ Kimmie gasps, crouching down and pressing her right ear against Grace’s belly like she’s listening to a bowl of Rice Crispies go ‘snap, crackle, pop’.
‘Me too!’ Stella says. ‘Loads!’
‘Of course it’s moving,’ I say. ‘It’s a foetus. That’s what foetuses do. They move. Big fleshy deal.’
‘Not today, Mia,’ Grace says, sighing. ‘Please.’
‘What do you mean?’ I demand.
‘You know what I mean.’
We’re interrupted by some of Mum’s mates, all eager for their turn to touch Grace’s fat belly. I swear from the way everyone’s acting you’d think she was about to give birth to the future king or queen of England or something.
Reluctantly my friends peel away, making room for another three sets of hands.
‘Grace looks so beautiful,’ Kimmie says, looking over her shoulder as we walk away. ‘Pregnancy properly suits her. And Sam is so nice too. I can’t believe how perfect they are together.’
‘Hashtag relationship goals,’ Mikey chimes in.
‘Oh, please,’ I mutter.
‘You look really nice too,’ Kimmie adds, looking guilty. ‘I knew your dress wouldn’t be horrible.’
‘Horrible is exactly what it is,’ I say, glaring down at the lilac chiffon. ‘I look like a little kid at a birthday party.’
But Kimmie isn’t listening. She’s too busy squinting up at the terrace, her hand shielding her eyes from the sun.
‘What?’ Mikey asks. ‘What are you looking at?’
Kimmie grabs my wrist and bounces on her heels, her bitten-down nails digging into my skin. ‘Aaron’s housemate is here!’ she squeaks.
‘What?’ I say.
How on earth does Kimmie know Cara? How?
‘Where?’ Stella asks.
‘Over there,’ Kimmie says, pointing. ‘Holding the tray. She must work here.’
‘No shit, Sherlock,’ Mikey quips.
‘Wait, how do you know she lives with Aaron?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice steady while attempting to ignore my flip-flopping stomach.
‘He posts pictures of his housemates online sometimes,’ Kimmie says. ‘And I’m like ninety-five per cent sure that’s the girl he lives with. Her name’s Cara and she’s a student at Rushton uni – Art, I think. Should I try talking to her, do you reckon?’
‘No!’ I cry, probably a bit too loudly.
‘Why not?’ Kimmie asks, frowning. ‘You’re the one always telling me I need to be more proactive. And she looks nice. You never know, she might put in a good word for me.’
‘I just think it’s a bad idea, that’s all,’ I babble. ‘What if she tells him and he thinks you’re a mad crazy stalker? You wouldn’t want that, would you? I just think it’s a really, really bad idea, Kimmie, honestly.’
I look to the others for backup.
‘I hate to say it but I think Mia’s probably right,’ Stella says. ‘I mean, won’t she think it’s totally weird that you know she’s Aaron’s housemate in the first place?’
Thank you, Stella Fielding, thank you, thank you, thank you.
‘Maybe,’ Kimmie admits.
‘There’s no maybe about it,’ I say. ‘Seriously, I’d just leave it if I were you. You’ll only regret it if you say something. I mean, what if she goes running to Aaron and tells him what a mentalist you are, then you’ll have blown your chances for good.’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ she says, chewing on her lower lip.
‘Of course I am. You need to trust me on this one.’
She nods, resigned, and I breathe an inward sigh of relief.
‘In the meantime, does anyone fancy a tipple?’ Mikey asks, producing a hip flask from his inside pocket and waggling it about.
I snatch it from his hands and hug it to my chest. Because a drink is exactly what I need right now.
‘I love you, Mikey Twist,’ I say, unscrewing the cap.
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ he replies.
‘What’s in it?’ Stella asks.
‘Vodka, of course,’ he says. ‘The drink of champions.’
I glance over my shoulder. Grace and Sam are still surrounded and Mum and Dad are posing for photographs on a bench further up the terrace. We huddle in a tight circle and pass round the hip flask.
‘Oi!’ Mikey cries as I take my turn. ‘Leave some for the rest of us.’
‘I am,’ I say, sneaking in another sip.
Kimmie is last, wincing as she takes her first taste. ‘It’s really strong, Mikey,’ she says.
‘Of course it is, dummy,’ he replies. ‘It’s neat vodka.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll have your share,’ I say, whipping the bottle from Kimmie’s hands and downing the contents.
‘Hey!’ she cries.
‘Oh, please,’ I say. ‘As if you were going to drink it all anyway. You’d be chucking up all night and you know it.’
Kimmie is an infamous lightweight.
I hand the empty hip flask back to Mikey.
‘Bloody hell, Mia,’ he says, turning it upside down. ‘This was supposed to last all night.’
‘Sorry,’ I say, batting my eyelashes.
Not sorry.