ONE DAY(89)

The vows now. Emma glanced across in time to see Sylvie reach for Dexter’s hand and squeeze the five fingers as if in solidarity with the happy couple. She whispered in his ear, and Dexter looked up at Sylvie, smiling broadly and a little dopily, so Emma thought. He mouthed something back, and though not a practiced lip-reader Emma thought that there was a good chance it was ‘I love you too.’ Self-consciously, he glanced around and caught Emma’s eye, grinning as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

The cabaret ended. There was just time for an uncertain rendition of ‘All You Need is Love,’ the congregation struggling to sing along in 7/4, before the guests followed the happy couple outside and the reunion began in earnest. Through the crowd of people, hugging, whooping and shaking hands, Dexter and Emma sought each other out and suddenly there they were.

‘Well,’ he said.

‘Well.’

‘Don’t I know you?’

‘Your face certainly rings a bell.’

‘Yours too. You look different though.’

‘Yes, I’m the only woman here who’s drenched in sweat,’ said Emma, plucking at the fabric beneath her arms.

‘You mean “perspiration”.’

‘Actually, no, this is sweat. I look like I’ve been dragged from a lake. Natural silk my eye!’

‘Sort of an oriental theme, isn’t it?’

‘I call it my Fall of Saigon look. Chinese technically. Of course the trouble with one of these dresses is forty minutes later you want another one!’ she said, and had that feeling, halfway through the sentence that she would have been better off not starting it. Did she imagine it, or did he roll his eyes a little? ‘Sorry.’

‘That’s okay. I really like the dress. In fact me love it long time.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘There you go; now we’re quits.’

‘What I meant was that you look good.’ He was peering at the top of her head now. ‘Is that a . . . ?’

‘What?’

‘Is that what they call a Rachel?’

‘Don’t push your luck, Dex,’ she said, immediately scrubbing at her hair with her fingertips. She glanced across to where Tilly and her brand new husband were posing for photographs, Tilly fluttering a fan coquettishly in front of her face. ‘Unfortunately I didn’t realise there was a French Revolutionary theme.’

‘The Marie-Antoinette thing?’ said Dexter. ‘Well at least we know there’ll be cake.’

‘Apparently she’s travelling to the reception in a tumbril.’

‘What’s a tumbril?’

They looked at each other. ‘You haven’t changed, have you?’ she said.

Dexter kicked at the gravel. ‘Well I have. A bit.’

‘That sounds intriguing.’

‘I’ll tell you later. Look—’

Tilly was standing on the running board of the Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost that would take them the hundred yards to the reception, the bouquet held low in both hands, ready to be tossed like a caber.

‘Want to go and try your chances, Em?’

‘Can’t catch,’ she said, placing her hands behind her back just as the bouquet was lobbed into the crowd and caught by a frail and elderly aunt, which seemed to anger the crowd somehow, as if someone’s last chance for future happiness had been squandered. Emma nodded towards the embarrassed aunt, the bouquet dangling forlornly from her hand. ‘There’s me in forty years’ time,’ said Emma.

‘Really? Forty?’ said Dexter, and Emma pressed her heel down on his toe. Over her shoulder he could see Sylvie nearby, looking round for him. ‘Better go. Sylvie doesn’t really know anyone. I’m on strict orders never to leave her side. Come and say hi, will you?’

‘Later. I’d better go and talk to the happy bride.’

‘Ask her about that deposit she owes you.’

‘D’you think? Today?’

‘See you later. Maybe we’ll be sitting next to each other at the reception.’ He held up crossed fingers, and she crossed her fingers back.

The overcast morning had settled into a beautiful afternoon, high clouds rolling across the huge blue sky as the guests followed the Silver Ghost in procession to the Great Lawn for champagne and canapés. There, with a great whoop, Tilly finally saw Emma, and they hugged each other as best they could across the bride’s vast hooped skirt.

‘I’m so glad you could make it, Em!’

‘Me too, Tilly. You look extraordinary.’

Tilly fluttered her fan. ‘You don’t think it’s too much?’

‘Not at all. You look stunning,’ and her eye drifted once more to the beauty spot that made it look as if a fly had settled on her lip. ‘The service was lovely too.’

‘Awwww, was it?’ This was an old trait of Tilly’s to precede each sentence with a sympathetic ‘aw’, as if Emma were a kitten who had hurt her little paw. ‘Did you cry?’

‘Like an orphan . . .’

‘Awww! I’m so, so glad you could make it.’ Regally she tapped Emma’s shoulder with her fan. ‘And I can’t wait to meet your boyfriend.’

‘Well me too, but unfortunately I don’t have one.’