It was Christmas morning, and Gemma’s wedding day dawned bright and clear.
She regarded her reflection from her seat in front of the dressing table mirror with a critical eye.
‘You look stunning, love,’ her mother approved, and paused with a can of hairspray in hand. ‘Do you like it? I can take it down if you don’t.’
Mrs Astley – former head hairstylist at the Spit and Curl Salon in Essex – had expertly worked her daughter’s auburn tresses into a French braid, artfully inserting sprigs of baby’s breath throughout.
‘No, I love it,’ Gemma exclaimed. ‘Go on, spray the hell out of it. I want that braid to stay put.’
As a cloud of Elnett filled the air, her mum enquired, ‘What about your nails, then, love? How about a nice French manicure?’
Gemma nodded distractedly as her mobile buzzed. ‘Perfect. Thanks, Mum.’ A text had just come through.
Babes – I hate wearing this fucking monkey suit. And as for this top hat you borrowed from Archie?? I look like a shitting undertaker. Can’t wait to see you in your gown. Can’t wait to take it off. Love you, miss you, scared shirtless. SHITLESS. Fucking auto correct. Dom xx
She smiled and returned her phone to the dressing table. There was a knock on the bedroom door. ‘Who is it?’ Gemma called out. ‘If it’s you, Dom,’ she warned, ‘you can’t come in. It’s bad luck.’
‘It’s me. Caitlin.’
Mrs Astley opened the door a crack and ushered the girl in. ‘You look lovely, dear,’ she approved, ‘but you’re a bit green. Feeling nervous?’
Caitlin shook her head miserably. ‘I’m not nervous...I’m pregnant. And I’m feeling a little queasy.’
‘Morning sickness,’ Gemma’s mother declared. ‘Wait, I’ve got just the thing.’
Caitlin sank down on a chair and waited as Mrs Astley rummaged through her handbag, unearthing pens and cough drops, bits of paper, crumpled candy wrappers, and several tubes of lipsticks before she found what she was looking for.
‘Ah, here we are,’ she announced, and thrust out a peppermint from a small round tin. ‘Take one, you’ll feel better straight away.’
Dubiously Caitlin eyed the round white candy. ‘I don’t know...’
‘Just take it,’ Gemma said irritably, and turned back to the mirror, makeup brush in hand. ‘It’s a mint, not LSD.’
‘Oh, very well,’ Caitlin muttered, and popped the peppermint into her mouth.
‘Well?’ Mrs Astley asked her after a moment. ‘Helps, doesn’t it?’
Amazingly enough, it did. Her stomach already felt calmer and the queasiness had abated somewhat. ‘Thanks. I think I’ll be okay.’
‘I’m so glad,’ Gemma said, her words tart as she expertly wielded the makeup brush across her cheeks. ‘I’d hate to see one of my bridesmaids chunder halfway down the aisle.’
‘Don’t mind her,’ Gemma’s mum told Caitlin, and shot her daughter a reproving glare. ‘She’s got the pre-wedding jitters, she has.’
‘It’s okay, I understand. Thanks for your help, Mrs A. I really do feel better.’
The older woman adjusted the pashmina around Caitlin’s shoulders. ‘Perfect. You look very pretty, dear. And it’s a good thing about that pashmina ‒ it emphasizes that lovely cleavage of yours to perfection.’
Caitlin blushed. ‘Thanks, Mrs Astley. You’re brilliant. Really.’
‘Not brilliant, love,’ she corrected, and winked at the young woman. ‘I’ve just learnt how to work my assets over the years. Now, it’s time you went out and did the same.’
Draemar castle, lavishly decked out in Christmas and wedding finery, had never looked more festive than it did that afternoon. The delicious scents of Mrs Neeson’s roast goose and sage and onion dressing wafted out from the kitchen, harbingers of the family’s private Christmas dinner to follow later in the day.
Tables along the perimeter of the ballroom walls groaned with Scotch eggs, bannock cakes, smoked salmon and thick slices of brown bread, as well as a dizzying assortment of homemade shortbread, cookies, and cakes of every description. A three-tiered wedding cake enrobed in white fondant and lavished with white icing roses had pride of place in the centre of the table; bottles of champagne, wine, and Draemar’s finest Scotch whisky waited.
The small family chapel was filled to bursting as Gemma, glowing with happiness in her Prada wedding gown, came down the aisle on her beaming father’s arm to take her place beside Dominic.
‘Do you, Rupert Locksley, take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?’ the vicar asked as he eyed the rock star solemnly.
Dominic met Gemma’s eyes. ‘Yes, I bloody well do,’ he declared.
A ripple of laughter followed his words.
‘Do you, Gemma, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?’
‘I do.’
Mrs Astley sniffled loudly; Lady Locksley leant forward, patted her hand, and handed over a tissue.
‘With the power vested in me, I hereby pronounce you man and wife.’ He turned to Dominic. ‘You may kiss the bride.’
As their friends and family looked on, faces wreathed in expectant smiles, Dominic lifted Gemma’s veil and kissed her, tenderly and thoroughly.
‘I love you, babes,’ he murmured when he lifted his lips from hers. ‘For keeps.’
‘I love you, too, Dom,’ she answered, her mouth still tingling from his kiss.
He took her hand and lifted it up with his as they turned together to face the crowded chapel pews. ‘All right, then, you lot – let’s go and get this wedding party started!’
As the exuberant strains of Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March’ wheezed out on the organ, played with more enthusiasm than skill by one of the village parishioners, Dominic and Gemma returned down the aisle and out the doors, and led their guests to the castle to celebrate their brand-new union with refreshments and dancing.
And plenty of Draemar whisky...