Page 42 of A Wish For Wilma
‘Turns out your gran’s always been a fan of Princess Diana. Apparently her wedding was a bit of a show. So that’s where she’s going.’
‘My gran’s going to Diana’s wedding?’ If Jinnie’s jaw dropped any further it would hit the floor. All thoughts of needing the loo vanished.
‘Oh yes. And she’s got a plus one, too.’
CHAPTER27
‘Are you completely off your rocker?’Wilma gawped at DJ in disbelief. ‘You’re granting me a wish to attend the wedding of Charles and Diana?TheCharles and Diana?’
DJ held up his WIFI. It displayed a series of thumbs-up emojis and played Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March’ at full volume. ‘No idea who they are, but Mama’s WIFI somehow picked up on your deep-rooted desires. It turns out you’re a massive fan of this Diana chick.’
‘Have some respect! The poor lass ended up divorced, then died in a terrible accident leaving two wee lads without a mother.’ The memory of young William and Harry following the funeral cortege brought a tear to Wilma’s eye. Imagine grieving like that with the entire world watching.
‘Ah, that’s sad.’ DJ had the decency to look repentant for all of five seconds. ‘So, are you up for it?’
Wilma needed to sit down. She’d always had a soft spot for Lady Di and other members of the Royal Family. In recent years a few had fallen from grace, and she’d marvelled at how the Queen, nine years her senior, carried on amid scandal after scandal. ‘But don’tIneed to make the actual wish? Ach, don’t bother explaining. It’s all too much to take in.’
DJ sat next to Wilma on the sofa and spoke slowly to her, as someone would speak to a young child. ‘This is a bonus wish. You still have a wish to make when you’re ready. Oh, and Mama says can you please hurry, ’cos she’s cross with Papa and needs to get away from it all.’
Wilma lost herself in thoughts of watching the wedding on TV in 1981. That was over four decades ago now. She had been in her mid-forties and happily married, with Rob completing the family. Where had the time gone?
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It’s a big thing. And what would a working-class housewife from a wee Scottish village be doing hobnobbing with the hoi polloi? I’ll stand out like a cheap bauble on a fancy Christmas tree.’
‘Wilma, Wilma, Wilma.’ DJ twiddled with his WIFI again. ‘Embrace the magic. In the genie world, anything is possible.Everythingis possible. You’ll be a different version of yourself: a souped-up, sartorially perfect member of the elite. The Honourable Wilma Cooper of the ancient Cooper lineage, with a fortune made in farming and exploiting the down-at-heel workforce.’
‘No!’ Wilma recoiled in horror. ‘I’ve never exploited anyone in my life. Well, apart from short-changing an old witch when I worked the tills at the Co-op. And that was only because she queried every purchase and called me a liar. We’re talking a minor misdemeanor.’
‘No matter. You will go to the wedding dressed in the finest attire, and on your arm will be a gentleman who aspires to greater things.’ DJ squinted at the screen. ‘I am not sure I understand the term social climber, but it is of no consequence.’
‘Not my husband, then?’
Perhaps it was as well. Much as Wilma had adored the very bones of Eric, he’d been anti-royalty. ‘Waste of bloody space and money,’ he’d grumbled. ‘Swanning around living the cushy life, knee-deep in castles and comfort we can only dream of.’ He’d scarpered to the pub on the wedding day, preferring pool and darts to pomp and pageantry.
‘So, who will I be with?’ Wilma imagined a handsome beau decked out in a military or naval uniform, buttons and medals gleaming, adoration shining down upon her.
DJ consulted his WIFI. ‘His name is Reginald Swipe and he made a ton of money from some dodgy investments in the late seventies. Here is a picture.’
Wilma checked it out.Eurgh.He looked like a cadaver that had been dug up: all bony and angular, with a face devoid of expression. Unless you considered half-dead an expression. He sported circular Harry Potter-style glasses and a bow tie. Not a good look. ‘Is that the best you can match me with?’ Wilma shuddered. He brought to mind that Tory chap, Jacob Double-Barrelled, a candidate for Halloween at any time of the year.
‘Beggars can’t be choosers. All the minor British royals are taken and language would be an issue with the foreign attendees. Unless you’re multilingual, of course?’
Wilma spoke two languages: the Queen’s English and her own, uniquely Scottish, slang. She’d dabbled in French, given up on Spanish, and loved the sound of Italian. Loving the sound of it was as far as she’d got. Pizza, pasta and focaccia. Maybe a cheeky Chianti now and again. And Sophia Loren, one year her senior, who claimed to love pasta but had a waist that suggested otherwise. ‘Ah, fine. But will he know who I am?’
DJ nodded. ‘Your relationship is new. I’m sorry you can’t be with your husband, but this occasion calls for a certain change in circumstances. It’s… It’ll be interesting, but I hope it pleases you.’
Wilma gulped. Was she really about to gatecrash the wedding of the century? And what the heck was she going to wear?
‘Are you ready?’ DJ surveyed his WIFI and counted down. ‘Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four…’
He didn’t make it any further. In a blink of an eye, Wilma found herself in St Paul’s Cathedral, surrounded by posh people in eighties attire. Shoulder pads jostled for space with enormous hats that could probably pick up alien transmissions. Pomp and pageantry oozed from every corner, history written on every pew and slab.
‘My dear, you look simply stunning.’
Wilma swivelled around to look at the man who’d addressed her. He was painfully thin and wearing a suit several sizes too large. His Adam’s apple bulged over his collar and his eyes scrutinised her behind those Harry Potter specs.
‘Ah, thank you.’ Wilma liked her peach ensemble, probably silk and definitely expensive. She checked out her shoes — pointy-toed and likely to cause pain — and fumbled with her head. Yep, a ridiculous hat.
‘We are so blessed to attend this joining of two people so clearly meant to be together.’
