Page 57 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
“Cheeky bastard.” She yanks my beanie down over my eyes. “You’re the one who was practically singing my name.”
“Are you worried about them finding out?” I drag the beanie off, tuck it in my coat pocket.
“I’d probably rather they didn’t until after the wedding. Haley’s already starting to spin out. The crew fromShe Said Yesarrives in two hours. I can’t have me causing any drama. And Sam’s her maid of honour. She needs to focus on the bride, not us.”
“Best to keep it quiet, then,” I say. “Christ, if the tv crew sniffs a juicy titbit right under their noses, they’ll sell it to the tabloids for thousands.”
“Liv won’t say anything.”
“Nah. Nor will Garrett. He might give me a hard time about it when it’s just the two of us. But he’s no gossip.”
“Okay, so we just act normal.” The word normal hangs between us, suddenly too small for whatever we’ve become. “And disappear into each other’s rooms when no one’s looking.”
“And I try to keep my hands off you.”
Rachel steps close, lips brushing my ear. “Bet you a tenner you last less than an hour.”
The challenge zings through my veins. Game on. Though if I lose, the prize is her.
Upstairs, a door slams and voices echo down the hall. The clock’s ticking.
Chapter 19
Ididn’tbudgetforthe wedding-prep machine when I made my bet with Teddy. Losing a tenner is the least of my worries as I’m swept away before I’ve hardly swallowed the last bite of my breakfast pancakes.
“I’m really sorry about this,” Haley whispers. She reaches a hand to steady me as I teeter on my strappy black wedding heels. Daphne, the dressmaker, kneels at my feet. I try not to fidget while she pretends to make adjustments to my perfectly-fitting bridesmaid dress.
“All in a good cause,” I say out of the corner of my mouth. A camera hovers nearby, capturing ‘real’ footage of last-minute shoe dramas and manufactured clothing crises that make for good viewing. Right now I wish I was a bloke. None of them has to endure this nonsense. They’re tucked away in rehearsals all day, blissfully free of cameras and fuss.
Still, the fee for this bit of wedding-channel fluff buys something that matters. Haley, fierce about animal rescue, and Loreena, steadfast supporter of women’s shelters, have combined forces on aproject. The plan: a pet-friendly refuge beside the old gamekeeper’s cottage, safe inside the estate’s gates. It means when someone decides to go, they go with everyone—children and pets included. The money matters; the publicity does too. None of us begrudge a few hours under theShe Said Yesmicroscope if it funds their dream and throws a spotlight where it’s needed.
After lunch, the recreated spa segment isn’t half bad. A therapist settles two hot stones between my shoulder blades. My spine—still grumbling after I popped Solly over a couple of logs this morning—finally unclenches. It feels good, but lying there, unable to move, or check an email or a text, the work stress niggles. Miranda knows I’m offline for the next two days, and that Marcus is in charge of the client, but I still want to check on him. It’s not that I think he’ll conjure a brilliant last-minute idea and be a shoo-in for partner; it’s that he’ll taint my bid with some fuck-up I can’t fix because I don’t see it coming. As if she feels the churning of my thoughts under her palms, the therapist begins a slow scalp massage, fingertips combing from crown to nape. “Nothing to do, nowhere to be,” she says, and I let it go, allowing my brain to believe her.
At the end, we film a few pick-ups—staged nods and laughs to stitch the segment together later—and somehow the fake bits unlock the real thing. We giggle like little girls, easy and unforced. As the camera crew bundles their kit into a van, my muscles feel like warm toffee and any nerves about the next stop melt away. That and the promise of time next to Teddy at the wedding rehearsal carry me as Loreena bustles us into the ballroom.
The actual wedding-planner, Carrie, lingers by the doors. Outmanoeuvred by Loreena’s energy, she’s reduced to ticking a clipboard while the lady of the manor runs the show.
Miracle of miracles, I glide down the staircase in my heels without face-planting. The dogs, also on the wedding-party roster, behave themselves. Ollie pulls off a lucky save when Sam catches a heel in the satin drape of the wedding arch.
The two sets of parents hover. Chalk and cheese—Haley’s prim public-school head teachers and Christian’s dairy-farming clan—but they wear the same indulgent smiles the whole way through. Haley’s mum whispers “projecting, darling” at the reader’s first line. To Christian’s annoyance, his dad insists Ollie check the ring box twice, just in case.
“Are you crying, Trouble?” Teddy nudges me gently as Haley and Christian link hands and the celebrant runs them through the exchange of vows.
“Nope.” I swipe under my lashes. “Dust in the contacts,” I mutter. A world-class fib.
That was just the run-through with the traditional vows. Next time the words will carry Christian’s promises and Haley’s faith in forever.How the hell am I going to keep my mascara intact through that? And what the fuck is wrong with me?
I suppose I should’ve expected this surge of emotion, seeing my friend step into the happily-ever-after that was ripped away from me. Still, I’m relieved Pierre and I never made it to the altar. If I’m honest, I suspect this has more to do with the way my heart flips every time Teddy’s near than with any old heartbreak. That’s the really disturbing bit.
I shove the feeling back in its box as we’re herded to the long table for the rehearsal dinner. The mood shifts from nervous to festive as Loreena guides us to our seats.
Fragrant spruce garlands spill down the table. Clementines glow like little suns. The place cards are tucked into pinecones. A tray of mulled wine circulates, breathing cloves and orange into the air. Christmas crackers wait at each place setting. When we pull them, the snaps cue a chorus of happy barks, excitement, not alarm. Haley’s dogs are Christmas veterans; a cracker pop doesn’t faze them.
The earlier damp has left my hair a wild mess of curls. My paper crown sits at a hopeless angle until Teddy straightens it with careful fingers. The brush of his hands is so simple, so intimate, that my insides fizz like the champagne Loreena pours as if it were lemonade.
Tommy outdoes himself again: a feast worthy of a Michelin write-up. As he talks us through roast pheasant with chestnuts, crisp potatoes, sprouts with pancetta and something sinful involving parsnips and honey, I throw restraint out of the window. Tomorrow I’ll negotiate with the zip; tonight I’m saying yes to seconds. Haley’s mum declares she’s stealing him after the wedding. Her dad nods along, then steers him into talk of football scores and government blunders.
Across the table, Loreena tucks Christian’s mum and dad under her wing. Their first-minute stiffness, a quiet this-is-all-a-bit-posh, fades under her care. Two irreverent jokes and a top-up of mulled wine later, even Mr Steele’s weathered face gives up a grin. Mrs Steele and Loreena soon have their heads together over the table garlands, trading tips on wiring holly and taming spruce for church flowers, and agreeing there is no such thing as too many clementines.
