The Wedding that Changed Everything: a gorgeously uplifting romantic comedy. Jennifer Joyce

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ ruin it. Now isn’t a good time.’

      ‘Will there ever be a good time?’ I ask, but Alice doesn’t get the chance to answer as the living room door swings open. I almost recoil in horror as evil stepmother Francelia appears in the doorway. She’s actually beautiful (on the outside) – though this is more down to her highly paid surgeon than Mother Nature. Francelia is forty-seven (and not thirty-five as she tells everyone) but she doesn’t have a single crease on her face or grey hair in her glossy, chin-length bob.

      ‘What’s going on out here?’ she asks, eyes narrowed (no crow’s feet) and one hand planted on a slender hip. ‘And why have I been left to fend for myself? This is not how we treat guests, Alice. You are a very rude young lady at times. Your father would be shocked at your behaviour.’

      ‘Papa Monroe not here today then?’ I pop my head past Francelia into what I know will be an empty living room. Alice’s father hasn’t been to the house in the ten years I’ve lived here, and I think I’d die of shock if he rocked up now.

      ‘Mr Monroe is very busy this evening.’ Francelia has an icy glare when she’s irritated. It’s actually quite scary. It makes me wonder what would happen if I chanted ‘Francelia Monroe’ three times in front of a mirror.

      ‘He is a very busy man,’ I say, which is clear, as he never has time for his daughter. Alice flashes me a pleading look, silently begging me to leave it. Alice is a strong and feisty woman, but she wilts whenever she’s in Francelia’s presence.

      ‘He is indeed.’ The corners of Francelia’s mouth pull upwards, hinting at a smile. ‘Now, are we going to stand out here all evening?’

      ‘No. Of course not.’ Alice finally releases my arm and follows Francelia back into the living room. She glances over her shoulder, eyes wide and pleading. It’s been a very trying evening and I want nothing more than to drag myself up the stairs and crawl into bed, but I can’t do that to Alice. Taking a fortifying breath, I step into the living room and prepare for battle.

Chapter Two

      The next half an hour with Francelia is as arduous as the date I’ve just endured (my date did not take well to being dumped mid-chew and made a bit of a scene), but I’ve been nothing but polite as I settle myself down with a cup of tea, biting my tongue as Francelia throws out jibe after jibe about Alice, the house and even Carrot, our gorgeous little ginger cat.

      ‘Seriously, girls, you should open a window.’ Francelia gurns as Carrot pads past her again. I like to think he does this on purpose to push the evil one’s buttons. ‘You can always tell immediately which houses have cats living in them. It’s the smell.’

      ‘The house doesn’t smell,’ Alice says, but she gives the air a quick sniff anyway.

      ‘Believe me, it does. What is it those adverts say?’ Francelia lifts her cup of tea to her lips (it’s part of the super-expensive china set Alice bought for use whenever her stepmother descended). ‘Ah, yes. You’ve gone nose blind. Just because you can’t smell it, doesn’t mean the rest of us are as fortunate.’ She jabs a foot at Carrot as he winds his way past again and I would quite like to send any hint of politeness on a one-way trip out of the window and smack her in the gob. Luckily, Carrot skitters out of the way and Alice places a calming hand on my thigh to anchor me in place.

      ‘Maybe I should put Carrot out in the garden for now.’ Alice hops up off the sofa and scoops the little kitty up into her arms. ‘Emily, why don’t you pop the kettle on again?’

      Because it would be an invitation for the witch to stay longer?

      ‘Sure.’ I follow Alice into the kitchen, filling the kettle while she opens the door for Carrot and encourages him into the garden. The poor bugger doesn’t want to go outside, but he’s in danger of sporting the pointy toe of a Kurt Geiger court shoe up his arse if he remains indoors.

      ‘That woman.’ Alice leans against the closed back door and growls. ‘Why did my father have to marry such a cow?’

      ‘You could just tell her to bog off. Or you could let me do it.’ I like this idea. I’d enjoy it.

      ‘No.’ Alice gives a sad shake of her head. ‘My father would never forgive me. He’d never speak to me again.’

      He doesn’t anyway, I want to point out, but I know this will only hurt my friend, and her family do enough of that themselves without me wading in to throw a few verbal punches her way. The only decent member of the Monroe family – aside from Alice, obviously – is Carolyn, but she’s just as cowed as her sister when it comes to Francelia.

      ‘She’ll leave soon,’ I say in my best soothing voice. ‘The gates of hell will close behind her and we can get on with our smelly little lives.’

      There’s a flicker of a smile on Alice’s face before she frowns. ‘We haven’t gone nose blind, have we? What if she’s right and the house does smell?’

      ‘The day Francelia is right about anything is the day the Devil pops his ice skates on for a twirl around his frosty kingdom.’ I pull Alice into a hug, trying to squeeze away the damage Francelia has done – and not just this evening. ‘The woman is a muppet, and we don’t listen to muppets, do we?’

      ‘Not even Miss Piggy?’

      ‘Okay, we can listen to Miss Piggy. That girl is sassy and confident and she doesn’t take any crap. She’s a role model. Francelia Monroe is not.’

      ‘I quite like Kermit too. And Gonzo.’

      ‘Animal was always my favourite.’

      Alice and I grin at each other. Francelia can spew her poison but we refuse to be infected. At least from the safety of the kitchen. I kiss Alice’s forehead and release her from the hug.

      ‘You got this. Don’t let her win.’

      Alice shakes her head and throws her shoulders back. ‘Never.’

      ‘Good girl. Now, am I allowed to spit in her tea?’

      Alice practically rugby-tackles me as I head for the kettle and pulls me out of the way. ‘Absolutely not. We won’t stoop to her evil ways.’

      We make the (spit-free) tea and take the tray through to the living room, where Francelia is studying our bookcase, running her nasty, ruby-red talons along the spines of my historical romance novels.

      ‘You honestly read this trash? I thought you were an actual historian. Doesn’t it rot your brain?’

      ‘It hasn’t so far,’ I say, my voice cheery. I will not let her win. I will not let her rile me.

      ‘I suppose we all have our guilty pleasures.’ Francelia wipes her hands down the thighs of her navy trousers as she sits, as though she’s rubbing away something unsavoury after touching my books. ‘Some of us read silly little novels and some of us covet expensive, irreplaceable jewellery…’ She shoots a glance at Alice, but her stepdaughter is rearranging the scatter cushions on the sofa and doesn’t notice.

      ‘I don’t feel guilty about my book choices in the slightest.’ I set the tea tray down on the coffee table and refill Francelia’s cup. She arches an eyebrow. She thinks СКАЧАТЬ