Page 94 of Paper Roses

“Literally, no one haseversaid that,” Cadan mutters to me.

Francis blanches. “Oh no, my friend is marrying her. I’m just the best man.”

Claire gives a nervous laugh. “Exactly. Just the best man.” Mal blinks, and she turns back to me. I resist the urge to cower in a corner. “Can we do something about the cows, Jed? I can’t have all that mooing when I’m exchanging my vows.”

I notice she doesn’t mention her husband-to-be. This has been a common feature of the arrangements so far. He seems like an accessory to the whole ceremony rather than one of the stars.

“That’s sad,” Artie says.

I narrow my eyes. What’s he up to?

“What do you mean?” Claire says, echoing my thoughts, which immediately makes me want to bleach my brain.

“Well, farm animals are just so trendy at the moment.”

“Are they?” she says doubtfully.

“Really?” Cadan says, and Mal nudges him.

“They’re very smelly,” Claire offers.

Artie nods. “Yes, but they echo the bucolic splendour of the pre-French revolution era, and you know how popular that is now.”

I look at him with respect.Artie Walker, you are a fucking genius.

Claire turns to me in question. “He’s right,” I say solemnly. “I’m just amazed we haven’t installed a guillotine yet.”

She looks confused. “Did Marie Antoinette have a lot of farm weddings, then? I thought she invented the nuclear bomb.”

I blink. “You might be thinking of Marie Curie, who discovered radium.”

Artie heroically soldiers on. “Oh yes. Marie Antoinette had a small farm, the Petit Trianon, where she pretended to be a shepherdess.”

“Really?”

“Not that you’d want to go that far,” I add quickly.

She looks thoughtful, which makes me instantly nervous. “Would the sheep not like that?”

“They don’t take directions from random birds in long white dresses,” Cadan mutters, and then winces as Mal elbows him.

Claire stares at Artie as if he holds all the universe’s secrets. I can’t blame her. I often find myself doing the same. “You really think it’ll be okay?”

“Definitely,” he says. “Marie Antoinette is still a trendsetter.”

“And rarely gets a headache,” I offer. Artie bites his lips, his eyes twinkling.

“Well, okay then.” Claire begins to turn away.

Then, with his predictable lousy timing, my nephew appears in the doorway wielding a shovel. He’s wearing a suit and huge wellies. “What am I supposed to do with this shit?” he says, waving the shovel. His voice is edged by hysteria. “The bin you showed me is completely full now. They just keepshitting.” He shakes the shovel to emphasise his point.

As if in slow motion, a tiny bit flies off and spirals lazily through the air until, with the certainty of wedding drama, it lands on the blushing bride.

Her shriek is so loud it startles some birds in a nearby tree. Then she’s in motion, sprinting out of the barn with Francis in hot pursuit. My nephew blinks and then wanders off, having done his worst.

“This is what would happen if Satan was a wedding planner,” I say grimly.

Artie follows in a rush. “Claire, it’s okay,” he calls. “It’ll wash off, and you know it’s actually good luck.”

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