Madeleine Wickham - The Wedding Girl

Chapter One

Ten Years Later

The room was large and airy and overlooked the biscuity streets of Bath, coated in a January icing of snow. It had been refurbished some years back in a traditional manner, with striped wallpaper and a few good Georgian pieces. These, however, were currently lost under the welter of bright clothes, CDs, magazines and make-up piled high on every available surface. In the corner a handsome mahogany wardrobe was almost entirely masked by a huge white cotton dress carrier; on the bureau was a hat box; on the floor by the bed was a suitcase half full of clothes for a warm-weather honeymoon.

Milly, who had come up some time earlier to finish packing, leaned back comfortably in her bedroom chair, glanced at the clock, and took a bite of toffee apple. In her lap was a glossy magazine, open at the problem pages. Dear Anne, the first began. I have been keeping a secret from my husband. Milly rolled her eyes. She didnt even have to look at the advice. It was always the same. Tell the truth. Be honest. Like some sort of secular catechism, to be learned by rote and repeated without thought.

Her eyes flicked to the second problem. Dear Anne. I earn much more money than my boyfriend. Milly crunched disparagingly on her toffee apple. Some problem. She turned over the page to the homestyle section, and peered at an array of expensive waste-paper baskets. She hadnt put a waste-paper basket on her wedding list. Maybe it wasnt too late.

Downstairs, there was a ring at the doorbell, but she didnt move. It couldnt be Simon, not yet; it would be one of the bed and breakfast guests. Idly, Milly raised her eyes from her magazine and looked around her bedroom. It had been hers for twenty-two years, ever since the Havill family had first moved into 1 Bertram Street and she had unsuccessfully petitioned, with a six-year-olds desperation, for it to be painted Barbie pink. Since then, shed gone away to school, gone away to college, even moved briefly to London and each time shed come back again; back to this room. But on Saturday she would be leaving and never coming back. She would be setting up her own home. Starting afresh. As a grown-up, bona fide, married woman.

Milly? Her mothers voice interrupted her thoughts, and Millys head jerked up. Simons here!

What? Milly glanced in the mirror and winced at her dishevelled appearance. He cant be.

Shall I send him up? Her mothers head appeared round the door and surveyed the room. Milly! You were supposed to be clearing this lot up!

Dont let him come up, said Milly, looking at the toffee apple in her hand. Tell him Im trying my dress on. Say Ill be down in a minute.

Her mother disappeared, and Milly quickly threw her toffee apple into the bin. She closed her magazine and put it on the floor, then, on second thoughts, kicked it under the bed. Hurriedly she peeled off the denim-blue leggings shed been wearing and opened her wardrobe. A pair of well-cut black trousers hung to one side, along with a charcoal grey tailored skirt, a chocolate trouser suit and an array of crisp white shirts. On the other side of the wardrobe were all the clothes she wore when she wasnt going to be seeing Simon: tattered jeans, ancient jerseys, tight bright miniskirts. All the clothes she would have to throw out before Saturday.

She put on the black trousers and one of the white shirts, and reached for the cashmere sweater Simon had given her as a Christmas present. She looked at herself severely in the mirror, brushed her hair now buttery blond and shoulder-length till it shone, and stepped into a pair of expensive black loafers. She and Simon had often agreed that buying cheap shoes was a false economy; as far as Simon was aware, her entire collection of shoes consisted of the black loafers, a pair of brown boots, and a pair of navy Gucci snaffles which hed bought for her himself.

Sighing, Milly closed her wardrobe door, stepped over a pile of underwear on the floor, and picked up her bag. She sprayed herself with scent, closed the bedroom door firmly behind her and began to walk down the stairs.

Milly! As she passed her mothers bedroom door, a hissed voice drew her attention. Come in here!

Obediently, Milly went into her mothers room. Olivia Havill was standing by the chest of drawers, her jewellery box open.

Darling, she said brightly, why dont you borrow my pearls for this afternoon? She held up a double pearl choker with a diamond clasp. Theyd look lovely against that jumper!

Mummy, were only meeting the vicar, said Milly. Its not that important. I dont need to wear pearls.

Of course its important! retorted Olivia. You must take this seriously, Milly. You only make your marriage vows once! She paused. And besides, all upper-class brides wear pearls. She held the necklace up to Millys throat. Proper pearls. Not those silly little things.

I like my freshwater pearls, said Milly defensively. And Im not upper class.

Darling, youre about to become Mrs Simon Pinnacle.

Simon isnt upper class!

Dont be silly, said Olivia crisply. Of course he is. His fathers a multimillionaire. Milly rolled her eyes.

Ive got to go, she said.

All right. Olivia put the pearls regretfully back into her jewellery box. Have it your own way. And, darling, do remember to ask Canon Lytton about the rose petals.

I will, said Milly. See you later.

She hurried down the stairs and into the hall, grabbing her coat from the hall stand by the door.

Hi! she called into the drawing room, and as Simon came out into the hall, glanced hastily at the front page of that days Daily Telegraph, trying to commit as many headlines as possible to memory.

Milly, said Simon, grinning at her. You look gorgeous. Milly looked up and smiled.

So do you. Simon was dressed for the office, in a dark suit which sat impeccably on his firm, stocky frame, a blue shirt and a purple silk tie. His dark hair sprang up energetically from his wide forehead and he smelt discreetly of aftershave.

So, he said, opening the front door and ushering her out into the crisp afternoon air. Off we go to learn how to be married.

I know, said Milly. Isnt it weird?

Complete waste of time, said Simon. What can a crumbling old vicar tell us about being married? He isnt even married himself.

Oh well, said Milly vaguely. I suppose its the rules.

Hed better not start patronizing us. That will piss me off.

Milly glanced at Simon. His neck was tense and his eyes fixed determinedly ahead. He reminded her of a young bulldog ready for a scrap.

I know what I want from marriage, he said, frowning. We both do. We dont need interference from some stranger.

Well just listen and nod, said Milly. And then well go. She felt in her pocket for her gloves. Anyway, I already know what hes going to say.

What?

Be kind to one another and dont sleep around. Simon thought for a moment.

I expect I could manage the first part.

Milly gave him a thump and he laughed, drawing her near and planting a kiss on her shiny hair. As they neared the corner he reached in his pocket and bleeped his car open.

I could hardly find a parking space, he said, as he started the engine. The streets are so bloody congested. He frowned. Whether this new bill will really achieve anything...

The environment bill, said Milly at once.

Thats right, said Simon. Did you read about it today?

Oh yes, said Milly. She cast her mind quickly back to the Daily Telegraph. Do you think theyve got the emphasis quite right?

And as Simon began to talk, she looked out of the window and nodded occasionally, and wondered idly whether she should buy a third bikini for her honeymoon.

* * *

Canon Lyttons drawing room was large, draughty and full of books. Books lined the walls, books covered every surface, and teetered in dusty piles on the floor. In addition, nearly everything in the room that wasnt a book, looked like a book. The teapot was shaped like a book, the firescreen was decorated with books; even the slabs of gingerbread sitting on the tea-tray resembled a set of encyclopaedia volumes.