Page 18 of Not My Greek Wedding

‘Mia,’ he says, greeting me with a kiss on both cheeks. ‘How are you?’ he asks with a beaming smile.

‘I’m good, thanks, and so excited to be here. Hope you didn’t mind us stealing Tasha away last night.’

‘Not at all. We ended up having a bit of a boys’ night, although I never had a real drink until I had collected Tasha. It ended up being a bit of a late one, although I was sensible.’

He introduces me to his friend Bryn, a tall, fair-haired bloke who shakes me warmly by the hand.

‘So how are the nerves holding up?’ I ask Owen.

‘Good, good.’ He grins. ‘I think I feel more excited than anything, although I am a bit worried about fluffing my vows.’ He pulls a face. ‘Sometimes I think we should have just eloped.’

‘I bet everyone worries about that,’ I reassure him. ‘I’m sure you will be just fine.’

‘As long as he doesn’t cry,’ says Bryn. ‘You are a bit of a crier, aren’t you?’ He laughs, and Owen looks mortified.

‘Not really, well, yes, maybe sometimes.’ He laughs it off good-naturedly.

‘Sometimes?’ his pal carries on regardless. ‘I have known you to cry at TV ads, episodes ofAmbulance, you name it,’ he says in his Australian accent that has a Welsh undertone.

‘Once,’ says Owen, raising a finger. ‘I shed a tear once duringAmbulance, and that was when the old bloke lost his wife, and looked so lost,’ he reasons.

‘I get that, I do that too.’ I touch him gently on the arm. I’m not sure I like this pal of his. ‘Anyway, Owen, you look great, and just wait until you see Tasha. She looks sensational. See you at the wedding shortly.’

‘See you later.’ Bryn winks at me, and I think to myself, not if I see you first.

A short while later, a hotel worker appears and asks us all to make our way outside to the large, covered stone balcony where the wedding will take place.

The terrace has been beautifully decorated, and a stunning white drape overhead keeps the glare of the sun at bay. There are striking displays of flowers in huge urns and the chairs are covered in an ivory-coloured fabric, with a pretty bow.

On a table at the end of the terrace is a register, and a bottle of something chilling in ice. A registrar in a navy suit and white shirt stands patiently waiting for the happy couple to emerge.

The stone railing of the terrace has small posies of flowers intermittently threaded through it, in colours of those matchingTasha’s bouquet. The huge terrace gives a wonderful view of the three bells of Fira, an iconic church landmark. It looks absolutely picture perfect.

I take a seat on a row next to Tasha’s aunts and Lulu as the rest of the guests begin to file in from the hotel reception area. I furtively take some pics before Tasha arrives, unable to resist the stunning vista, but of course I won’t post any pics of the wedding until the official ones have been released.

‘Are you okay?’ I glance at Lulu, who seems to be miles away as she stares out across the gorgeous view.

‘Fine,’ she replies quietly. ‘It’s just being at a wedding makes me think of my own,’ she admits.

‘Gosh, I never thought about that,’ I tell her.

‘It’s fine. I can’t go avoiding weddings for the rest of my days, can I? And to be fair, our wedding day was really something.’ She manages a smile.

I squeeze her hand, as just then all eyes are on Tasha as she makes her way down the aisle with her father. There are audible gasps as guests take in the sight of her looking resplendent in her cream dress that has a sweetheart neckline, the bodice encrusted with crystals. Her hair and make-up are flawless, her peach lipstick matching the shade of the flowers in her hand-tied bouquet.

Owen is standing at the front waiting for her, tapping his thigh with his fingers, I notice. When she arrives beside him, he looks like the happiest man in the world.

The gentle chatter from the assembled guests ceases then when the registrar clears her voice and begins to speak.

Irene and Patsy dab at their eyes with a tissue as Owen and Tasha exchange vows and I am filled with joy for my oldest friend, even though I can’t see myself ever getting married. At least not for a long time.

Soon enough, they are declared husband and wife, and a wedding song plays as the newlyweds walk back down the small aisle, beaming with happiness, beneath a shower of confetti.

‘Gosh they look so happy, don’t they?’ Patsy says, with a smile on her face and I must agree.

‘They do.’ I nod. ‘I truly hope they live happily ever after.’

We take it in turns squeezing and congratulating them both, before we file into the reception area, where lines of staff and residents burst into applause and shouts of congratulations, to the delight of the happy couple.

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