Page 34 of The Battle of the Bookshops
“Honestly,” Jules told her, squeezing her arm and putting, with enormous difficulty, a note of absolute authority and reassurance into her voice.
Sighing happily, Freya looped her arm through Jules’s and set off toward the two men.
If Finn and Freya were the two magnets that attracted, Jules and Roman were the ones that repelled. Ignored by Freya now that she had her man to swoon over, Jules reluctantly took up position next to Roman and tried not to look at him.
“Nice dress,” he said, looking her up and down with impertinent thoroughness. “When’s Big Bird getting it back?”
“Nice morning coat,” she retorted. “Which undertaker did you rent it from? Or penguin,” she added, “seeing as we’re talking about birds.”
Additionally—irritatingly—her insult was perfectly ridiculous. His outfit made him look insanely handsome, because the Montbeaus were a family for which having a five-grand Savile Row tailcoat made for you, just so you had the exact right thing to wear at weddings, was totally normal.
“You think I look like a man who rents his morning suit?”
“I think you look like a man who’s supposed to be greeting guests, not insulting the maid of honor,” she growled out of the corner of her mouth before pasting on a smile to greet a couple who, fortuitously, drew level with her at exactly that moment.
After that, it was a flurry of arrivals, men in suits and women in flowery dresses hanging on to their hats in the biting breeze. The sun blazed, the mood was elated, and even being hyperaware of Roman at her elbow, Jules couldn’t help her spirits rising.
Finn and Roman eventually disappeared into the room where the ceremony was to take place, and the guests followed, gallantly chivvied by an army of clean-cut young men who made up the team of ushers.
Silence befell the two women as they waited, alone now, in the marble hallway.
“You okay?” murmured Jules.
Freya nodded, not smiling but serene.
Jules had never seen her look more beautiful.
Finn’s charming father, Brendan, then joined them, planting warm, heavy hands on the women’s shoulders.
“All right?” he queried them both in his lilting Dublin accent, still unchanged after all these years in Devon. He was solid and dependable, the perfect dad. Brendan was the image of Finn but sturdier and grayer—a twinkly, handsome, kindly figure. Jules had fond memories of him from her childhood, when she had had various crushes on other children’s fathers, not having one herself. The fact that she had seen him only a handful of times had not got in the way of her preoccupation. Touchingly, he remembered Jules—or pretended to. Freya was so lucky, and by the radiant expression on her face, she knew it.
The string quartet struck up the opening bars of Pachelbel’s Canon, and Freya and Brendan set off, Freya’s hand hookedtrustingly into Brendan’s elbow. She glanced up at him every few steps for reassurance.
Jules followed three paces behind, so hyper-focused on Freya’s back, and not treading on her little train, she was barely aware of the smiles and tears of the guests who lined their route.
At the dais, Finn and Roman were waiting, Finn’s face stern with nerves but Roman looking relaxed and in his element. Freya beamed at Finn, and Jules saw his eyes soften with love as he gazed down at her.
Would anyone ever look at her in that way?Jules thought. Distracted by her gloomy preoccupations, she accidentally left Freya to wriggle out of her ostrich-feather-trimmed jacket on her own, jumping forward belatedly to take it from her, along with the bouquet, putting both, and her clutch bag, on an empty chair behind. Then the couple took center stage. Finn was steadfast, jaw set firm, while Freya gazed up at him, luminous with joy. It was as if they were totally unaware of anyone around them. Jules, on the other hand, was acutely aware of Roman. There was a brief awkward moment, as they both took their positions behind, with Jules compressing herself into a tiny space so as not to accidentally touch him.
The declaration that anyone who knew of any just impediment to the marriage should speak up was followed by a brief, tense silence. When the celebrant proceeded, there was a communal gush of relief that rippled across the audience, followed by nervous giggling, quickly hushed.
Next, Jules was lost in the sonorous familiarity of the age-old words. Her throat tightened ominously, and heat rose up her face. She had always been a terrible wedding sobber. There was no other way to describe the outbursts of weeping she succumbed to at every wedding she had ever been to. Today was different—it had to be, she told herself sternly. Initially, counting backward insevens worked well enough, but then, with the murmurs of the celebrant, followed by the quiet repetitions from Finn and Freya, who were all the while gazing into each other’s eyes, Jules was lost.
“To have and to hold from this day forth...”
The radiant bride, the handsome groom, the coming together of family and friends to bear witness, with an almost palpable tidal wave of goodwill and sentiment from those gathered in the room... Jules tried desperately to stifle the tsunami of emotion, but it was too late. Her eyes welled, and her nose started to run like a tap. She tried to sniff quietly, but it wasn’t enough. She surreptitiously raised a hand to dab her eyes, alarmed to note her mascara was already starting to run. She dared not draw attention to herself by turning to get her bag. Why, oh why hadn’t she tucked a tissue into the sleeve of the appalling dress. She dabbed helplessly, trying to fit little snot-busting sniffs in with the louder portions of the service.
A handkerchief, a handkerchief—my kingdom for a handkerchief...she thought in vain, tilting her head back a little, willing the snot to go back up her nose and stay there.
Then, just when she realized she had no option but to inelegantly and disgustingly swipe her nose with the sleeve of her dress—it could only improve it—she saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye, as Roman plucked the immaculate silk square from his breast pocket and dangled it in front of her, all the while not removing his gaze from Finn and Freya.
Refusal was not an option. Swallowing her pride, she twitched it from his fingers and dabbed frantically at her face, mortified to see the white silk immediately soiled with makeup and snot. He wouldn’t be wanting it back.
Chapter 15
There was no time to dive into the loos to check her face. As soon as the ceremony was over, people spilled, chattering and laughing, out of the room and across the marble hall to the ballroom where the reception and wedding breakfast was to take place. Late-spring sunshine flooded the room, lighting up the Chinese hand-painted wallpaper and sumptuously molded plaster ceiling, with its elaborate classical frescoes of cavorting nymphs and cherubs. The room opened onto a huge terrace with a stone balustrade. Jules made a beeline for it, hoping to gather herself together out of sight of the other guests.
The view, falling away below her, encompassing the Portneath rooftops and the glittering aquamarine sea in the distance, was magical. Jules could clearly see the wonky, sagging tiled roof of Capelthorne’s and the elegant leaded roof of Portneath Books below. Taking a deep breath, she blew her nose comprehensively into Roman’s silk handkerchief and rubbed beneath her eyes to remove the worst of her migrating mascara. The honey smell of the blossoms from the magnolia trees enveloped her. There was even a confetti-swirl of blush-pink petals tumbling through the air. It was all perfect.
