Weddings Collection. Кэрол Мортимер

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      She hoisted her shoulder bag a little higher. She’d walk off the bad day with the builders, the endless queries from her mother about details, details, details. She no longer cared about the colour of the ribbons on the pew ends, or whether there would be sufficient roses in the garden for buttonholes. In a world where there were children who’d never had a holiday, never would have a holiday unless someone like Emily Wootton made it possible, such things didn’t rate a second thought.

      But walking was a mistake. She was wearing new shoes and, by the time she’d gone half a mile, the deceptively soft leather had raised a blister on her heel. If she limped up the aisle, every painful step captured on video for posterity, her mother would probably kill her. Which would solve every one of her problems at a stroke. The other option was to catch a bus. As she reached a stop, she joined the queue, eased the weight off her foot and waited.

      ‘Offer you a lift, lady?’ She forced herself to ignore the little heart-lift as Mike pulled up beside her, an unruly cow-lick of honey-coloured hair sliding over his forehead as he leaned across to push open the passenger door of his black four-wheel drive.

      ‘My mother told me never to take lifts from strangers,’ she said, horribly conscious of the envious glances of women with heavy shopping bags. Then she said, ‘I thought you were busy.’

      ‘I was. I am. And I have a headache to end all headaches, which is why I forgot about giving you a lift to Crysse’s.’

      ‘I hope your stag night was worth the headache.’

      ‘Nothing is worth this amount of pain.’ And it hadn’t worked. No amount of alcohol or the juvenile high jinks organised by Cal, had been able to blot out the mess he’d got himself into. He glanced at the queue of people who had stopped straining to see if a bus was coming and were now all watching their little drama. ‘Please get in, Willow.’

      ‘How did you know I didn’t call a taxi?’ She considered taking out her phone and doing just that.

      ‘You were angry.’ And he didn’t blame her. ‘In your shoes I’d have walked.’

      ‘Then, you’d have made a mistake.’ Willow was attracting more attention than she cared for. And calling a taxi would be petty. She took a deep breath and climbed in beside him. Shut the door. ‘My shoes have given me a blister.’

      ‘Oh, hell. Come here.’ Mike forgot all about the bus queue as he put his arms around her and she went to his shoulder like a kitten to a warm blanket. ‘I’m sorry.’ He eased back, looked down at her, took the full force of her electric blue eyes and found himself wishing he’d heeded Cal’s advice, taken yesterday afternoon off and stayed in bed. Until this morning. ‘Do you have to go to Crysse’s this evening?’

      ‘I’m afraid so. There’s the crèche at the reception to be finalised, a panic about a torn bridesmaid dress, some place names still need to be written—’ She was ticking the endless list off on her fingers, but he caught her hand, stopping her.

      ‘Do you know something?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘If I’d known then, what I know now, I would never have asked you to marry me.’

      ‘Believe me,’ she came back without hesitation, ‘if I’d known then what I know now, I’d have said no.’ And for just a second something flickered in the depths of her eyes. Almost, he’d have said, as if she meant it. Then she shivered. ‘I’m getting through by dealing with it the way I would an overdue trip to the dentist. Agony at the time, but afterwards…’

      Her voice trailed off, leaving him to fill in the blank with something appropriate, like ‘bliss’, he thought. Instead he said, ‘Hold onto that thought,’ as he released her. ‘And buckle up.’ He engaged gear and turned to check the oncoming traffic.

      Anything rather than face the everlasting afterwards behind a desk, in an office, balancing the books.

      ‘I’ve been offered a job, Crysse.’

      ‘A job? What kind of job?’ Her cousin looked up from repairing the hem that one of the tiny bridesmaids had somehow managed to put her foot through. ‘Surely the Evening Post isn’t trying to poach you? What a nerve!’ She slipped in another pin. ‘Although, come to think of it, maybe working with your husband isn’t that great an idea. Twenty-four hours a day of perfect bliss might be more than any ordinary woman could stand. Not that I’m in any position to judge.’

      ‘I scarcely see Mike at the office. Besides, it isn’t with the Post. I couldn’t work for a rival paper.’ Crysse looked up from threading a needle. ‘You remember I applied for a job on the Globe?’

      ‘The Globe? But that was months ago. Last year. Before you met Mike. I thought they said they weren’t interested.’

      ‘Not exactly. They said they’d let me know. Well, now they have. It seems they’ve been making changes. Appointed a new editor, going tabloid. They’re putting a women’s supplement in their Friday edition and they want me to join the team.’

      Crysse jabbed the needle into the cream silk. ‘I bet your bread never falls butter-side down, either, does it?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Nothing.’ She continued picking up the hem with neat little stitches. ‘Forget I said that. Congratulations.’

      ‘Crysse?’ She shook her head. ‘What is it?’

      ‘Nothing.’ Then she shrugged. ‘Everything. I’m pea-green jealous if you must know.’

      ‘Jealous?’

      ‘I know, I know. It’s horrible of me, but I can’t help it.’ Her cheeks heated up. ‘You’ve got everything. The full set. A man any woman would die for—a man who actually believes in marriage, a wedding that’s going to be featured in the Country Chronicle, a fabulous new house courtesy of your father-in-law and all I’ve heard all evening is you whining on about how irritating it is to be constantly bothered about the colour of ribbons, and flowers and all those other tedious little decisions that the harassed bride has to cope with. Anyone would think you didn’t really want to marry Mike.’

      ‘No…’ Well, maybe she had been letting off steam, hoping that Crysse would turn it all around, make her laugh, see the funny side of it all, see it straight, the way she usually did. ‘I wasn’t whining. Was I?’

      ‘Big time. And now, as if the icing on your particular cake wasn’t already thick enough, you’ve landed the job of your dreams.’ Willow watched in horror as twin tears welled up in her cousin’s eyes and ran unchecked to drip onto the elaborate little dress she was stitching. ‘What have I got, hmm? I’ve been with Sean for five years—five years and he’s further from marrying me now than he ever was. I’m nearly thirty and I want a proper home, Willow. A house with a garden. I want babies—’

      ‘Oh, Crysse!’ Willow dropped her pen and reached out for her, holding her tightly as she let go of her feelings and broke her heart. ‘Have you talked to Sean? You can’t go on like this. You have to tell him how you feel.’

      She sounded like the weekly advice column in the Chronicle. Talk to your partner. Explain your concerns about your relationship.

      Agony Aunt heal thyself.

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