Freya North 3-Book Collection: Love Rules, Home Truths, Pillow Talk. Freya North

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      Anyway, I am going to be married in the morning. Thanks in no small part to the girls on Dream Weddings magazine and Mark indulging me, it’s going to be a fairy-tale wedding. I’m feeling deliriously excited – but a bit stressed too. I’m even feeling a bit pissed off – like I want everyone to continually pat me on the back and acknowledge how much hard work I’ve put into it all. We only got engaged in March, after all. Eight months later, and I’ve researched and secured the flowers, the dresses, the venue, held auditions for the band, even written the vows. I want it to be the best day of my life. And Mark’s too. And I want it to go down in the annals of the guests as the best wedding they’ve ever been to.

      I must pack for honeymoon. Initially I wanted the destination to be a surprise, but I pointed out to Mark that I’d be a stroppy cow if I packed salopettes and we arrived in Bermuda. Actually, I just pressed and pestered him because I really did need to know. It’s not that I’m a control freak, though I suppose I am, it’s just that I know myself well enough to admit that I’m a nightmare if I’m disappointed. So, if I was going to be disappointed, at least I could’ve had the chance to get over it in advance. Shit, OK, if I have to admit it, I might have subtly persuaded Mark to change the plans if need be! Anyway, bless him, Mark must have picked up on all my not-so-subtle hints and he is whisking me away to St Lucia. A helicopter to the Jalousie Plantation between those two iconic Piton mountains you see in the films, in the brochures. They know we’re honeymooning so hopefully they’ll lay on all sorts of little extras. I am going to be princess for a fortnight. And why not – because when we get home, I’ll be just boring old Mrs Sinclair!

       They gave me a great send-off at work. They must have had quite some whip-round as they’ve gone for the Gaggia coffee machine from the wedding list. Anyway, all my mags will be fine – they can spare me for a fortnight but if they need me, I’ve told them they can phone the Jalousie.

       I’m getting married in the morning. Bloody bloody hell. Ding dong. I really really am. I’ll be thirty years old. And fifty-one weeks. I, Alice Rose Heggarty, am going to marry Mark Oliver Sinclair in approximately twenty-three hours’ time. How do I feel? Still a touch peaky from my hen-night! I feel ready, actually. Everything is going according to plan. All I need to do is turn up and say ‘I do’ and look ravishing. I want Mark to feel that he’s the luckiest bloke alive. I feel good. There really is no better man for me to marry. Lovely dearest Mark. He’ll look after me and cherish me and keep me safe. None of those other wankers ever did. It’s so lovely not to worry. It’s a novelty for me. It’s so wonderful to be loved so unequivocally. Unconditionally. No one could possibly love me more – so what more could I possibly ask for? Tomorrow I’m going to be the bride of his dreams. I’ll make sure I cry a little when I say ‘I do’ because I know he’ll love that.

       I’m so happy Thea is staying over with me tonight. I can’t wait to snuggle up with her and have hot chocolate with marshmallows and reminisce about our olden days. My best, beautiful friend. My bridesmaid. My only bridesmaid. Me being me, I’m glad out of the two of us I’m the first to wed. Just recently, though, I’ve been hoping that perhaps she’ll not be too long behind. Whereas I’m now the first to admit I used to fall in love with a type – and the wrong one – I’ve seen that my path to happiness necessitated me walking off course. And in doing so, I came across my kind, gentle Mark. Who’d have thought it? Who’d have thought!

       I think, at our age, after the highs and lows experienced through our twenties, the time comes to alter your focus, a shift in perspective. I decided to turn my back on a view which actually gave me little joy. I want Thea to take a leaf out of my book – we’re similar and yet so different. I hated ever being single – I used to wait until a replacement was a dead cert before breaking off an already failed relationship. Thea, though, would rather be all on her tod than dally with someone she doesn’t experience her elusive spark for. It’s actually infuriating – I’ve introduced her to a couple of Mark’s friends who are really nice, successful, balanced blokes. But in each instance Thea has said ‘He’s really nice – but he doesn’t do it for me.’ I know she’s hardly on the shelf, but still I don’t think she should be so choosy. I wish for her all that I’m headed for. Though, if I’m honest, as nice and successful and gentlemanly as Mark’s friends are, I concede they are just the tiniest bit dull. Just the tiniest. Well, I’m not marrying them, I’m marrying Mark Oliver Sinclair.

      I’ve just thought – when Thea marries, I won’t be called her ‘bridesmaid’. What is the term? Something like Lady of Honour? No no – that can’t be right – that sounds like an eighteenth-century hooker attempting to turn her life around. Lady in Waiting? No no – that’s what royalty have and although I’m princess for a day tomorrow, my delusions of grandeur are not on that scale! Matron of Honour? Damn and bugger. That’s it, that’s what married women in bridesmaid capacities are called. Bloody Matron. God, it sounds horrendously frumpy. But there again, by the time Thea gets her act together, I’ll be the definitive boring old housewife! Maybe we can fix her up with Mark’s American cousin tomorrow.

      Thea will so fixate on the notion of a dashing hero – it’s her yardstick and she resolutely refuses to alter the scale. I’ve tried to tell her that in my experience – and especially my discovery through Mark – it doesn’t really work like that. But she won’t believe me. She doesn’t want to think that growing up is about understanding that love’s no longer about falling in love. I say to her ah, but look where it’s got me – getting married in the morning and deliriously happy about it. She’ll figure it out, I guess, like I did.

       Jesus, it’s here. It’s the day of my wedding. I have exactly seven hours to go. How on earth am I going to make time pass? I only need to have my hair done and put my makeup on and then my dress. Not even I can make that last seven hours. I slept pretty well, actually. Thea’s the best bed-partner a girl can have because she doesn’t snore, she doesn’t toss and turn and she always recounts the funniest dreams. Last night she dreamt that the groom was Bill but that I didn’t notice and she couldn’t make her voice heard because my veil was 30 feet long and wafted all around her like cheap bubble bath and tasted like marshmallow.

      We tried for ages to find some deep significance to her dream but we concluded she ought to keep away from sugary snacks and that Bill wants to be where Mark will be but will die a lonely old bachelor. Thea brought me breakfast in bed; a tray laden with pain au chocolat, orange juice, tea and a blush-coloured rose. She keeps calling me Miss Almost Sinclair and Nearly Mrs. I told her I wished I could take her on honeymoon – and I do! I want to be able to run around the bathroom with Thea getting over-excited about all the gorgeous toiletries and sumptuous thick towels.

      People keep phoning and asking if I have last-minute doubts, or if I’m a bag of nerves. Actually, I feel pretty level-headed about everything. I’m excited. About my dress. About seeing all the people. OK, yes – about being the centre of attention. Bring it on, I say – all is planned to perfection so bring it on. Yes, I’m full of butterflies but they’re fluttering in excitement and anticipation, not swarming with trepidation or nerves. This isn’t just my big day, it’s huge. I’m going to a wedding in four hours’ time and it’s my own and I can’t wait.

       I’m meant to be having a lie-down – that’s what Thea suggested. She’s just in the bath – she was happy to have my bath water. I do love my flat but it does make sense for Mark and me to sell our flats and buy a marital home. One with a hot water tank big enough for more than just one bathful. A house with a ready-matured herbaceous border in the garden. Tell me there isn’t a catch. That life can be this blessed. I need to double-check the cab to take us to the hairdresser’s.

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