‘Deal. You’ll have to drive, though. I’ll be way over the limit still.’

‘No! That orange campervan thing? Oh God! Could it get any worse?’

I hoped not. Surely I’d already had the worst experience ever thrown at me. From now on, it had to get better. I just had to get through this weekend and I’d have survived four key occasions: my birthday and what would have been our three-year anniversary, her landmark birthday and our wedding day. It had to be up from there because I didn’t think I had the strength to stop me from spiralling downwards.

6

Jemma

I woke up on the morning after my engagement and reached across to Scott’s side of the bed, but it was empty. I lay there for a few minutes gazing at the ring on my finger, which I hadn’t been able to bring myself to remove when I climbed into bed. Scott had apologised for being unable to afford anything bigger or flashier. I didn’t need flashy. It was the gesture that counted, not the extravagance.

I couldn’t wait to get Scott to myself so we could start planning. If it was completely up to me, I’d choose the village church in Little Sandby, white dress and morning suits, not too big, and a fairly relaxed reception venue; perhaps a pub. I had no idea what would appeal to Scott, though. We’d never talked about anything like that. Neither of us had attended any weddings in the time we’d been together so the subject had never arisen. Ooh, and what about the honeymoon? The Caribbean? South Africa? Canada? So many possibilities.

Pulling on a thin cardigan over my nightie, I padded downstairs in search of my fiancé.

Mum emerged from the lounge with a mug in one hand and a copy of Teddy Bear Times in the other. She smiled up at me. ‘Morning sleepy-bear.’

‘What time is it?’

‘About half eight.’

‘Is Scott down here?’

She nodded. ‘In the kitchen. I think he was trying to organise breakfast in bed for you, but Logan’s been distracting him. I don’t think he’s got much further than pouring the juice. Has it sunk in?’

‘Not yet. Still feels like a dream. I can’t believe I’m getting married.’

‘Neither can I. My baby girl’s all grown up. It makes me feel old.’

‘Well, you certainly don’t look it.’ She didn’t. Mum could easily pass for a woman in her mid to late-thirties rather than forty-six. She’d always had a youthful face, a great figure and, now that Dad had no control over her wardrobe choices, she was very stylish.