‘Wait,’ Betty said, around yet more salted caramel. ‘You’re going to have us all as maids?’

I nodded. ‘I can’t choose a favourite out of you.’ Lily was sitting down again, then, so I flashed her a quick wink and said, ‘That’s just the sort of shit the patriarchy wants.’

Chapter 8

The doorbell played its sing-song at bang on one, Sunday lunchtime. It was the first time I’d known Rowan to stick to a time schedule, which perhaps should have been my first clue that something wasn’t quite right. When I answered, he stood with his face hidden behind a suspiciously large bunch of white roses. It wasn’t our anniversary or my birthday, and we were well past the ‘just because’ phase of our relationship. Rowan had stopped with spontaneous romantic gestures in our second year of university. The fact that he looked to be making one now should have been my second clue. He waltzed in without a word and kissed me like he did when we were teenagers. I laughed as he pulled away.

‘What’s going on with you?’ I asked, backing away to let him further into the hall.

‘Can’t a man miss his woman?’ He winced. ‘Not that you’re mine, but … God, you know what I mean, right?’ He carried the flowers into the kitchen and rested them on the worksurface. I was already looking for a vase. He nodded to the bouquet. ‘There’s a card buried in there somewhere.’

I filled a square jug with water. ‘I mean, I’m pretty sure I know who they’re from.’

‘Well, maybe it isn’t the name of the sender.’ He nudged me softly. ‘Find the card?’

I pushed my way through soft petals and hard leaves until I found a small white rectangle. Rowan was shuffling in the background, the way he did when he was nervous, and it was taking the edge off whatever surprise this was. His anxiety had always been contagious. I lifted the lip and pulled out the note at a speed, more to halt his obvious worries than anything else. But as I eyed the card, I noticed my share of Rowan’s anxiety soon died down against the growing flames of my own. I scanned the message twice over before the realisation of its meaning fully landed on me: Save The Date. When I looked up at him, he was grinning like a schoolboy with good exam results.

‘I booked Tilbury Manor.’ He pulled me into another kiss before I could say anything, which was likely a good thing. He kissed away my nerves and protests and mild irritation. He’d decided the date; he’d decided the venue; he’d—

‘Rowan, what about the budget?’ I tried to force a laugh to take the edge out of my voice. ‘How did you rig this?’