The Big Little Wedding in Carlton Square: A gorgeously heartwarming romance and one of the top summer holiday reads for women. Michele Gorman

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СКАЧАТЬ sitting at the bar. ‘The week after would be better. Or you could always bring him round twice. We’ll have to get used to him eventually.’

      ‘He’ll have to get used to you lot, more like,’ I say. ‘I’ll bring him the week after next then. That way he can brace himself to meet everyone at once.’

      I haven’t been keeping Daniel away. He’s met Mum and Dad several times, and my best friend Kell, of course. It’s just tricky trying to entertain when you’re still living at home. There isn’t exactly room for romance in our house. There’s barely room for the family.

      We have to pry Auntie Rose away from her friends, as usual, to get home in time for tea. She’s won at Scrabble again, but I don’t think they let her. She may be losing her marbles, but she’s still a dab hand at board games.

      Later, in bed, just when I’m about to drop off to sleep, Auntie Rose’s voice floats over from the other bed. ‘I don’t have to tell you about the wedding night, do I?’

      What am I supposed to say to that? First off, the idea that my old auntie might explain the Kama Sutra to me makes me shudder. Secondly, she’s not technically even supposed to know about that, since she’s never had a wedding night. And even if she does have some inside knowledge, I’d definitely rather not hear it. ‘No, I know what happens, but thanks all the same,’ I say, really hoping she’ll fall asleep quickly.

      ‘Well, I should bloomin’ hope you do, with a man like Daniel around.’

      She’s quiet, but I know her. She’s not finished. If she asks me any intimate questions about Daniel, I’m going downstairs to sleep on the settee.

      ‘Then you also know you’re going to be too tired to do anything after the wedding, so my advice is, find a quiet spot during the do and get your leg over. Got it, girl?’

      I stifle a laugh into my pillow. ‘Yes, Auntie Rose, thanks for the advice.’

      The walk to Kelly’s fish van the next afternoon is as familiar as my walk to the corner shop each morning to pick up Auntie Rose’s Telegraph. Long before Kell became the reigning fishmonger in her family business empire (if a single van can be called an empire), we used to come together after school to beg spending money off her dad. Going bass fishing, that’s what we called it. We’d get some coins, or not, depending on whether he’d shifted the sea bass – a big ticket item that only the people in the houses on Stepney Green splashed out on. So Kell’s pocket money was dependent on who wanted fancy fish for tea.

      We’ve been inseparable since childhood, except for a terrible two weeks in year six when we stopped speaking over something neither of us can remember, so Kell knows everything there is to know about me. Which should give her hours of material for her bridesmaid’s speech.

      I tell her about Auntie Rose’s advice after making her swear not to mention it at the wedding. She reminds me a lot of her dad when she’s working, and not just because she wears the same white coat and white mesh trilby hat that he always did. They’ve also got the same relaxed, efficient way that makes it seem like they don’t mind when customers take all day to make up their minds. Her dad, Mr McCarthy, doesn’t come to the market as much now, preferring to take care of the buying and the restaurant deliveries, so Kell does most of the retail trade. She ends up covered in fish scales, but it’s better than getting up at 4 a.m. to haggle over the day’s catch at Billingsgate.

      She’s slicing a trout from gills to tail and stripping out its guts. ‘You want me to take the heads off, right?’ she asks the customer standing next to me.

      ‘Yeah, but I’ll keep ’em,’ says the woman. ‘Don’t throw ’em away!’

      ‘You’re here every week, my love. Have I ever thrown them away?’

      ‘Well, don’t.’

      Kell wipes her hands on the apron over her coat. ‘She’s probably right,’ she says to me, meaning Rose about the wedding, not the customer about her fish heads. ‘Give me five minutes to pack up, okay? I’ve got a change of clothes in the van. I can close up and move it when we come back. Sorry, my darlin’, I’m closing,’ she tells the grey-haired black man who’s just arrived. ‘Unless you want the fillets. The snapper, yeah? Okay, give me a minute.’

      I wander down the row of market stalls to wait till Kelly’s ready. Not that there’s anything new to see since I was here a few days ago. It’s busy, as usual, with mostly women shopping. I like to think I know my way around a kitchen, but I haven’t got a clue what some of the fruit and veg is on the Asian stalls. If you promised me a hundred quid, I couldn’t cook it for you. Mrs Ishtiaque next door buys it all the time, though. She’s definitely the best cook in our road, but I’d never admit that to Mum when she needles me. It’s just different food, I tell her. Of course curries are more interesting than plain old roasts when they’ve got all those spices in them.

      Auntie Rose won’t eat any spice at all. She’s even suspicious of basil and won’t touch garlic. ‘I like me food good and plain,’ she says. It’s definitely plain, but I don’t know about good.

      Stacy Boyle is at my favourite shoe stall, on her phone as usual. ‘All right?’ I ask her, because I know she can carry on at least three conversations at once.

      ‘Yeah, all right,’ she answers, pushing her silvery pink fringe off her face. ‘How were the shoes for your party?’ Then, to her caller she says, ‘’e’s got no right. Well, tell him to fack off.’

      I don’t have the heart to tell her they killed my feet so I tell her everyone loved them instead. Stacy’s grandad was a cobbler. Her dad was too till it got cheaper to buy new shoes than fix old ones. Like Kelly’s dad, he comes to the stall sometimes, but mostly it’s Stacy who works here now. When my parents were my age the Boyles had a tiny shop just behind the stall. It’s like that with a lot of the market traders. Take Kelly, for instance. She’s a fourth-generation fishmonger. But instead of a stall, she has a repurposed ice cream van, with a big window in the side. Mr McCarthy had that converted into a fold-down display area to hold the fresh fish on ice. He also wanted to turn the giant ice cream cone on the roof into a sea bass, but Kelly didn’t think that painting scales on it would fool anyone. They sold the cone, which is a shame.

      ‘’e’s always saying that,’ Stacy says. Then, to me, ‘Anything else for you today?’

      ‘Nah, I’m just waiting for Kell to finish, thanks. We’re going to look at some venues for the wedding.’ Just saying it is exciting!

      ‘All right for some,’ Stacy says, either to me or her caller as Kelly approaches. ‘Good luck!’

      Kell’s been working on a list of places to check out for the reception. Not that she’s telling me anything about her ideas.

      She’s not the only one with ideas. Philippa barely waited for me to leave the party before she started firing off emails. Wouldn’t it be amazing, she’d written, to have it at Kensington Palace? Yes, the Kensington Palace, where the future king of England lives. Like we’re the Middletons or something.

      ‘I don’t suppose we’re going to West London?’ I ask Kelly as we shuffle down the bus to make room for a lady with a double pram.

      She gives me the same look she’s done since we started school together. To me, she doesn’t look that different than she did then. She’s got the pale round face and upturned nose of her Irish ancestors, and her eyes turn into crescents when she smiles. СКАЧАТЬ