The Perfect Christmas. Georgie Carter

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      ‘And always behind a plant?’

      ‘Plants are optional,’ I tell him.

      ‘I’ll remember that, so I will,’ Pat nods. ‘Next time I’m up to something I shouldn’t be I’ll just tuck myself behind a plant.’ He grins, ‘Jaysus! I’d better buy up Kew Gardens!’

      When Pat laughs at himself I remember why I liked him so much as a friend long before we became romantically involved. Before shared bank accounts and children’s names and the tiny stifling cottage in the country came up. Should I be glad that Jo – the groupie who took it all away from me – has turned out to be a significant relationship? Would it have been worse to have gone through all that heartbreak over a meaningless fumble in the dressing room?

      ‘Here, give me one of your business cards, Robs,’ says Pat. ‘You never know, it might come in useful.’

      God this man can be insensitive! But opting to save face, I peel back my fingers from my clutch and take out a card.

      ‘Pat!’ gasps Jo, looking horrified. ‘God, you can be insensitive! I’m sure the last thing Robyn wants to do is plan our wedding!’

      Planning my cheating ex-fiance’s wedding is right up there with all my other favourite jobs, like putting out the bins and root canal surgery. But there’s no way I want to agree with Jo, so I just smile.

      ‘No, no,’ I say. ‘It’s absolutely fine. It’s great, actually.’

      I’ll have to go and punch a pillow later or something.

      Time to make my excuses and tend to Adam and Samantha’s guests. Several of them are looking rather pink in the face and it may be a nice idea to open a window.

      ‘Isn’t it warm?’ I fan my face with my hand. ‘I think that I’d better let some air in before somebody passes out. Good to see you again, Pat. Nice to meet you, Jo.’ And I hurry away.

      It’s painful to think that while Pat is all cosied up with Jo, I’m well and truly up on the shelf and gathering dust. Where are all the eligible men anyway? All the half-decent ones are already married and as for the rest … Well, let’s not go there. What a depressing thought. The nearest I’ll probably ever get to sex now will be walking past Ann Summers.

      With a sigh, I throw open the French windows. The cool evening air soothes my hot cheeks and lifts the tablecloths. But it isn’t just the breeze that drifts into the room but also the unmistakable undertones of a row on the terrace.

      ‘I’ve had enough!’ hisses a woman’s voice.

      Arguing at a wedding? Honestly, some people have no manners.

      ‘This marriage is nothing but a farce!’ she continues. ‘I should have left you years ago!’

      Is fate trying to convince me that all relationships end in tears?

      Tutting to myself, I’m about to fasten back the doors when I feel a horrible prickling nausea of the variety known only to wedding planners who have just made an enormous error of judgement.

      I think I know that voice. And from the looks of it, some of the guests know it too.

       CHAPTER THREE

      ‘I’ve had enough, Geoffrey!’

      I do know that voice! I know it because it’s been berating/thanking/bossing me around for the past six months. These not-so-dulcet tones belong to none other than Susan Ellis, mother of the bride.

      Not good.

      I peep around the French windows and sure enough there she is, hands on hips and mouth wide open, out of sight of the top table but now louder and, unfortunately, within earshot.

      ‘Do you hear me? Enough!’ Susan yells at her husband, drowning out his muttered response. ‘Our marriage is over!’

      The guests nearest the windows hear every word. Those seated further away notice the unease of the faces of the bride and groom and fall silent. Even the musicians in the string quartet sense the atmosphere, their instruments scraping to a discordant halt. The absence of the beautiful music highlights the ugly words slicing through the stillness.

      I’m mortified. What’s the etiquette in such a situation? Do I go outside and tell them to keep it down, or do I shut the windows quickly and hope that we are all English enough to pretend that this isn’t happening? Deciding on the latter, I start to wrestle with the windows.

      Oh no. The doors are stuck. And Susan Ellis is yelling with more volume than a 747 taking off.

      ‘I’ve kept quiet because I didn’t want to ruin our Samantha’s big day,’ she hollers. ‘But she’s married now so I don’t have to lie any longer. And neither do you.’

      A mumbled response from Geoffrey Ellis, that none of us can hear.

      ‘I know you’re sleeping with Marion from next door!’

      I turn to look at the audience – I mean, the guests – and a large woman dressed in violent magenta linen blushes the same colour as her frock: Marion from next door.

      Oh, God. It’s my worst dream come true. My lovely wedding, Sam and Adam’s perfect day, has turned into The Jerry Springer Show.

      ‘I’m not wasting another minute with you!’ shouts Susan and then, just in case Geoffrey misses the point, ‘I want a divorce!’

      A gasp of shock/outrage/callous enjoyment ripples through the guests. Samantha squeals in horror and for one awful moment I think she’s going to faint. I run for my emergency wedding kit and start to rummage for the smelling salts.

      Susan Ellis steps into the room with a fake smile pasted on her face and tears in her eyes. But once she realises that everyone’s looking at her, the smile drops and she looks confused. Then she notices the open windows and gasps.

      ‘Sam!’ she yelps, realising too late that every ugly word has been overheard. ‘Oh, darling!’

      ‘Sweetheart,’ Geoffrey Ellis is right behind her. ‘I’m so sorry.’

      ‘Not half as sorry as me, Daddy,’ Sam sobs. ‘How could you? It’s my wedding day!’

      ‘Darling …’ Susan reaches out to Sam who recoils furiously.

      ‘Don’t touch me! I hate you, both of you! You’ve ruined my wedding! I’ll never forgive you!’

      Leaping up from her seat, Sam flees from the room, sobbing wretchedly, while her groom and the guests look on in stunned horror. The chief bridesmaid bunches her skirts up into her fists and follows.

      Susan glares at her husband. ‘This is your fault, Geoffrey.’

      ‘My fault?’ he echoes, ‘Why is everything always my fault?’

      ‘Because it is, that’s why! I’m sick of this marriage!’

      ‘That СКАЧАТЬ