Cover

PRAISE FOR LAURA JANE WILLIAMS

‘Laura Jane Williams combines sharp, relatable wit and bold, joyful sincerity’

Dolly Alderton

‘Hilarious, heart-warming and truly authentic – your modern rom com must-read’

Hello!

‘A fresh, smart, modern rom com. It had me totally gripped’

Beth O’Leary

‘A joyful, romantic and life-affirming love story’

Red

‘I can’t remember the last time a book made me forget I had a phone. Pure escapist fiction!’

Stacey Halls

‘Joyful and romantic … tailor-made for summer’

Cosmopolitan

‘Charming and full of warmth. This is the book equivalent of a big hug’

Sophia Money-Coutts

‘LJ’s honesty and voice are unique’

Stylist

‘Smart, sisterly storytelling … You can practically feel modern romance evolving as you’re reading it’

Observer

‘A perfect summer read that will leave you grinning’

Closer

‘Tender, energetic and authentic … Such a current love story, but so timeless too’

Daisy Buchanan

‘This funny, uplifting read is balm for the soul’

Fabulous

‘A thoroughly modern love story. Smart and emotional – I couldn’t put it down’

Sarah Morgan

‘This is the laugh-out-loud love story you need to read this summer’

Glamour

‘Fresh, warm, and honest … a refreshingly different take on modern relationships’

Louise O’Neill

‘An absolute delight!’

Emily Henry

‘Perceptive, funny and ultimately hopeful – the perfect tonic’

Sophie Cousens

‘Clever, hilarious and a total unbridled joy to read, get it now or prepare for the impending FOMO’

Lucy Vine

‘A hilarious and brilliantly written story from one of our favourite writers’

Bella

‘This is the feminist rom-com of the summer’

Holly Bourne

‘A cult hit’

Grazia

‘Real escapism with warmth, a lightness of touch and vivid characters you really root for’

Ella Dove

Dedication

For Katie Loughnane

Thank you for everything you continue to teach me

(and the patience with which you do it!)

1

I was having the best morning of my life.

‘Annie-Doo, you look like a … model. No. Wait. Better than that. A supermodel,’ my little sister Freddie declared, as my BFF Adzo – a name that she once told me means ‘on Monday born’ in Ghana – put the finishing touches to my lip liner. Freddie had called me ‘Annie-Doo’ since she was old enough to talk, which, my mother never tired of reminding us all, was basically straight out of the womb – unlike me, her disappointment of a daughter, who sat brooding and silent for three years, almost giving her an anxiety disorder. She never tired of reminding us all of that, either.

Freddie tilted her head to one side, assessing Adzo’s work. It was pretty handy having a best friend who yes, was a theoretical physicist, but who also knew her way around a contour stick. Not that I was highly strung or anything, but no way would I have trusted anybody else.

‘You look amazing,’ continued Freddie. ‘What’s the word when you’re, like, the boss? The one in charge of everything?’

‘Regal?’ supplied Adzo.

‘Yeah! Especially with the flower crown!’

She gives the best compliments, my sis.

‘Come here, you,’ I mumbled with a grin, pulling her tiny thirteen-year-old wrist towards me. We’d spent the night in the suite of a fancy hotel in Mayfair, paid for by my soon-to-be in-laws as a girly treat. The three of us – me, Freddie and Adzo – had arrived yesterday and settled in for gossiping and giggling and doing silly dance routines for social media in our matching dressing gowns to celebrate my last night as a single woman. It had been perfect – and I had only cried twice. I was excited to get married, but I can truly say that if I accidentally fell into a sinkhole before I got to the church then I would die having had the most beautiful twenty-four hours ever. Everything had been magical.

Adzo fussed about with the tousled brunette waves curling down my back – another thing I entrusted to nobody but her – and I lowered my voice to tell Freddie: ‘You can still stay over as much as you want. This doesn’t change anything.’ I nuzzled into her neck and looked at our reflection in the giant mirror before us. ‘Alexander loves you.’

‘Even on Saturday nights?’ she asked.

‘Bear, I don’t think you’re going to want to hang out with your fusty old sister on Saturday nights for much longer.’

‘I will.’

I scrunched up my nose, making her giggle. ‘We’ll see about that.’

Adzo stepped back, gave me the once-over, and downed the last of her mimosa – a visible sign that she was satisfied with her morning’s work. She was gorgeous, her Black cheekbones heightened even more than they naturally sat because of how she’d used the highlighter cream, forcing the light to bounce off her face as though she was somehow lit from within. Her dark eyes were lined like a cat’s and her braids piled in thick coils on her head. Thank heavens she wasn’t walking down the aisle with me, for surely all eyes would have been on her.

She’d actually refused to be a bridesmaid before I’d even had chance to ask. ‘I don’t go in for all that,’ she’d stated, after I first showed her the ring. ‘Don’t even ask me, okay?’ I’d chuckled and agreed. Typical Adzo. She doesn’t do what everybody else does. A lot like Freddie, actually, she marches to the beat of her own drum.

‘Are you year eight, or year nine, Freddie-Frou?’

Adzo had quickly caught on that nobody called each other by their proper given name in our world. Everyone was Doo this or Frou that, a bear or a bug or a piggy-poo. Freddie responded to say that she was just starting year nine.

‘She’s thirteen going on twenty-five,’ I teased. Freddie was actually called Frederica, but when she learned about the gender pay gap had decided she wanted a name ‘where you can’t tell if I am a girl or a boy on my CV, so they can’t discriminate’. She’s smart. Smarter than me.

Freddie relaxed into my lap and I inhaled the scent of her: Watermelon body lotion and hairspray lightly dancing through her loose ombré mane. I paid good money to get my roots a darker brown and my tips a lighter colour, but hers annoyingly went that way naturally.

‘Thank you for being my flawless bridesmaid,’ I whispered. ‘You’re my best girl.’

‘You’re my best girl,’ she whispered back. Then she had a thought, twisting up her nose in distaste. ‘But have you got a Tic-Tac? Your breath smells.’

I squealed, reaching to blow a raspberry on the back of her neck a beat too late – she’d already wriggled from my grasp in glee.

‘Not the lip gloss!’ Adzo howled, lunging over to separate us. ‘I’ve never made somebody look so good!’ Freddie bounded over to the other side of the room and, mindful of my dress, I moved comically in slow motion to chase after her. To her luck we were interrupted by the arrival of my dad as he let himself into the room with the key card we’d left at reception. We froze, collectively aware that playtime was over and wedding days were probably supposed to be a more serious affair than we were currently demonstrating.

‘Daddy!’ Freddie padded towards him. ‘We’ve had the best night. We had afternoon tea! And pizza in bed!’

He was wearing his favourite navy-blue suit and a fat red tie with a matching patterned handkerchief in his top pocket, his long Norwegian limbs looking longer than ever in his tailoring. He already had a tiny flute lily in his buttonhole, made to match my bouquet. Putting his arm around Freddie he took a breath and beamed at me.

‘So this is you on your wedding day, Froogle,’ he said as way of greeting, taking me in as I stood before him.

I grinned back. Seeing his eyes glisten made me tear up too, rendering me mute. Bloody weddings. You think you’ll be all nonchalant and not like all those other brides, and then bam: it hits you. You’re just as sappy and emotional as the next chick in white.

‘You look beautiful,’ he said. ‘Truly beautiful.’

Freddie tugged on his arm, slipping her hand into his. ‘I said she looked regal.’

‘Queen of the world.’ Dad smiled, and Adzo waved a tissue in front of my face in anticipation of what was to come.

‘Dab, don’t wipe,’ she instructed sternly. ‘Gently dab or you’ll smudge it all.’

I took a deep breath. My wedding day.

The dress was designer, Dad was walking me down the aisle, and I was taking Alexander’s last name in less than an hour.

Before I started wedding planning, if you’d have asked me how traditional I’d be on a scale of one to ten I’d have said a two or a three. Adzo and I had talked endlessly about how to be a Strong Independent Woman Who Just Happened To Be Committing Her Life To Someone. So much of what was expected of the bride was rooted in the notion that she was somebody’s property (i.e. being ‘given away’) and valuable because she was pure and untouched (hence, the virginal white dress). In our lunch break one day Adzo had wondered if Alexander would double-barrel our surnames, or even take mine, and I considered asking him. But, when it came down to it, I actually found huge comfort in the age-old traditions of a conventional wedding day and gave in to almost all of them without much of a fight. I wanted the ritual of it all, the history and the expectation.

My only outward feminist declaration was that I was going to give a speech at dinner before anyone else. At my friend Jo’s wedding she’d tapped the microphone and said, ‘Good evening. Thanks for coming today. My magnificent father and wonderful best man and handsome new husband are going to give their speeches in a minute—’ at which point everyone roared and cheered. ‘But I’ll be giving one first, because over my dead body am I letting a bunch of men speak for me—’ at which point everyone roared and cheered even louder.

I’d thought she was hilarious.

Mum thought it was crass for the bride to speak, but I wanted to do the same.

‘Right then, Mrs Mackenzie, are you ready?’ Dad said, his face suddenly falling. ‘Crikey. Mrs Mackenzie. You’re not going to be a Wiig anymore.’

He turned to Freddie and, in a mock-serious voice, insisted: ‘Don’t you ever get married, okay? You’re the next-generation Wiig. We need you to carry on the family name.’

Freddie playfully rolled her eyes. ‘Daaaaaad.’

‘I know, Fred, but you won’t understand how it feels until you have your own kids who grow up and stun you with the people they’ve become. It’s very affecting.’ His hand went up to his heart, as if he could massage his feelings away from the outside.

‘I’m still a Wiig right now,’ I soothed him, reaching out to his shoulder. ‘And even when I’m not, I’ll always be your daughter.’

‘With the added bonus of giving me a son-in-law.’

He smiled as he said it, but I had purposely never asked Dad if he liked Alexander because ever since the first time I’d brought him home for the weekend, I’d been on the edge of a suspicion that I wouldn’t like his answer. Now wasn’t the time to get into that, though. I loved Dad, but I was sure of my future. Don’t stick your hand down the rabbit hole, my grandmother used to say before she passed. You’ll only get bitten.

‘Exactly,’ I said, placating in tone. ‘You’re not losing anything – you’re gaining.’

Dad bent his arm at the elbow, inviting me to take it.

‘Let’s get a vodka shot on the way out,’ he suggested. ‘I need to steady my nerves. They should have some sort of special guide for dads on their daughter’s wedding day. I feel all … jangled up. Nervous.’

‘Come on,’ I said, feeling the heat building in my cheeks and knowing it was a warning sign that I was about to sob if I didn’t change the subject. ‘Let’s do this!’

Adzo gathered up the last of the things she’d need to keep me looking fresh and bridal for the rest of the day, and Freddie did a final twirl in the mirror and picked up her bridesmaid flowers. Mum had already gone ahead to the church to play hostess. She loves an audience, and being the centre of attention, so chose to do that over staying with us in the hotel last night. She said she’d only get in the way, and she’d be better on the day if she slept in her own bed the night before. I was a bit relieved when she’d said that, to be honest. Our relationship is … complicated. I try not to dwell on it. Everyone has friction with their mother to some extent, don’t they?

I looked from my dad, to my sister, to my best friend. The people I loved most in the world were there for me, ecstatic for me. I was loved by Alexander – of course I was – but since we got engaged everyone had rallied around and fussed over my plans and ideas and it had been a slushy, cosy cocoon of magnificent romance and well-wishes. Thinking about it, and how when I returned to the suite later I’d be Mrs Mackenzie – married! Me! Finally! – made my breath catch in my throat. I couldn’t imagine anything making today any more special. It was like all my insides had been supercharged with electricity and even simply existing was amplified. Colours were brighter, emotions stronger.

Everything was just so right.

2

When Jo, my university friend who’d given the funny speech, got engaged, it had really made me question what Alexander and I had. I’d seen it written somewhere before that funerals aren’t about the dead, they’re about the living, and I think weddings often aren’t about the couple at the front of the aisle so much as the congregation. Has anyone ever been to a wedding and thought about anyone but themselves? I haven’t. I mean, obviously when Jo got married I was over the moon for her. She’d met Kwame on an app, swiping right on him one lonely Sunday evening, meeting him for the first time two days later, and within a month was calling him her boyfriend. It had surprised me, if only because the last person she was with was her girlfriend, and I just assumed she’d never date a man again for all she slagged them off. Humans exist to surprise us, I suppose, and who am I to write off a mate’s sexuality into a box just so that I can feel better about where they sit on the spectrum? It was wrong of me to assume anything. (Assuming makes an ass out of u-and-me, was another thing my grandmother used to say.)

Anyway.

Three months in Jo and Kwame were saying ‘I Love You’, and after six months they got a house together. I wanted to be a good friend, as did Bri and Kezza – the two others who, alongside Jo, make up our Core Four friendship group – and so tentatively we approached the idea that it was all moving quite quickly. What was the rush? Jo didn’t freak out or get mad when we raised it; she just smiled. I remember it really clearly. We were at Bridges in Stoke Newington one Saturday afternoon, eating quinoa and sausages, right as spring was starting. She’d shrugged and we’d all known it was the real deal when she dreamily said, ‘This one just feels different. We want the same things.’

We want the same things.

That stuck with me, because by that point I’d been with Alexander for nine years and we still had separate flats and separate social lives, and even though we had fun together on date nights or the weekends he wasn’t playing rugby, we couldn’t quite seem to align what we were working towards. I didn’t want to be a nag or That Girl. Everyone knows That Girl. The one issuing ultimatums about getting engaged or breaking up. I want all of you, or none of you! That sort of thing. I wanted to be cooler than that. And I was. For the whole of our twenties I was the cool girl, but then as my university friends got engaged, and then married, and then pregnant, bam-bam-bam, I went from being twenty-nine and happily ambling along to the other side of thirty, with everyone moving on without me.

In that time Bri had met her boyfriend, too, and because of immigration stuff got married for the paperwork and only told us afterwards. Kezza had already been approved to adopt as a single woman and was actively family-finding, having used us all as references in her committed support network. She refused to settle for a mediocre man to do the most important job of her life with, she said, declaring that she was happy to go it alone and meet somebody later because motherhood was more important to her than marriage. So that left me, then, out of the four of us, not really doing anything besides treading water. The Core Four broke off into different parts like a star hitting the earth’s atmosphere and cracking into pieces. It made me panic about my place in the world.

It’s a lie what they say about friends being the family you choose. Friends pair off and go on to make their own families, and it did make me wobble, standing beside Alexander in the church as one of my favourite people committed her life to somebody she’d known just over a year. That’s when I finally brought it up with him – that we needed to think about our own future. I think the wedding had moved him too, because the next week he brought over all these bits of paper for houses in Islington that his parents wanted to give him a deposit for. He wanted me to live with him, and I was thrilled – and relieved.

There’s no rush like it, when somebody says out loud that you’re the person they want to build something with. I think the most uncertain bit of my life was turning thirty and feeling like everyone else had plans and I wasn’t quite an adult yet. Moving in with Alexander made me a grown-up, on the same track as everyone else. I made him dinners and organized our furniture, and got curiously into doing stuff I swore I never would – being the one to buy his mum’s birthday card, or suggesting dinner parties so I could meet the partners of his work colleagues and rugby pals. I enjoyed it. Revelled in it. We finally wanted the same things, too.

When I arrived at the church with Dad, Freddie and Adzo, it was a surprise to see the wedding planner outside, looking corporate and businesslike in a black suit with cropped pants and flat ballet pumps, her silky dark hair in a low ponytail. She’d told me the night before, in her lilting Sri Lankan tones, to take all the time I needed to get out of the car, to fuss with last-minute touch-ups and pruning and to take a big breath. Everybody waits for the bride, she’d repeated, over and over. You can take your time, okay? She was supposed to be waiting for me at the church doors, having made sure everyone was seated. Seeing her, I frowned.

‘Who’s that?’ asked Freddie, clocking my furrowed brow.

‘Happy,’ I muttered, my palms immediately clamming up. My body knew before my mind could catch up that things were about to go wrong. My spidey-senses were doing somersaults. ‘Something’s not right. She should be at the church doors.’

Dad peered out of the window. ‘I’m sure everything is fine,’ he intoned, cautiously. ‘I can’t imagine why it wouldn’t be.’

We let what he’d said hang in the air.

Happy approached the car as we pulled up, looking tired and wan – categorically not how you want your wedding planner to look. Instantly I thought that the minister had taken sick and we’d have to get married by somebody we’d never met before. That was the first thing that popped into my head. The second thing was that maybe something was up with the cake or we didn’t have enough ice for the champagne buckets. But catering stuff was at the reception, a problem for later, not for now.

Maybe she’s come to tell me how emotional Alexander seems.

Maybe he’s sent a message for me.

Maybe she’s come to tell me how much he loves me, how he wants me to get into the church as fast as I can.

But that’s not what she said.

‘What do you mean he’s not coming?’

‘Urm …’ Happy stalled, uncomfortably. ‘He messaged me. And it seems he’s had … a change of heart.’

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

Enjoyed this preview? ❤️ Do not stop here!

Read the complete book free online → 🔗

Continue reading now on BooksBarbecue and discover every page!

Love reading? Bookmark BooksBarbecue.com for more amazing books!

Happy Reading!