Seven Days of Us(26)

After the call, she went downstairs to moan to her mother. Emma was in the kitchen, listening to The Archers, in a fog of boiling beetroot. Every Christmas Eve she made the same meal, a thick fuchsia borscht, marbled with sour cream and studded with porcini. Phoebe always felt it was unpleasantly close to baby food. She slumped on one of the benches, her head on the table. Her mother looked over. “Daddy’s set me up on you-player!” she said brightly, pointing to her iPad. “So clever.”

“It’s i-Player,” said Phoebe. “George doesn’t want the wedding here.”

“What?” said Emma, turning. “But wouldn’t it work wonderfully, with the Marsham-Smythes so nearby?”

“Smiths. Not Smythes,” she said, for the millionth time. Why, after six years, couldn’t her mother get her head round George’s surname not being as posh as her own? “I don’t know, he just didn’t seem into the whole idea.”

“Where does he want it?”

“Gunston Hall. Because of the food. Or Delling. That’s what Linda wants.”

“But—this is your home.”

“Ish. But he, his family don’t really get that. They’re different.”

Her mother looked down at the AGA. Phoebe could see she was battling Granny’s voice, saying something about the Marsham-Smiths’ new money. She knew Mummy prided herself on not being as snobbish as Granny, but it still came out. Especially when she was annoyed. Phoebe suddenly felt strangely defensive of George.

“What if we had it here, but got Gunston to do the catering?” said Emma.

“It’s not only the food. It’s just, the Marsham-Smiths do things in a more, kind of, traditional way.”

“Traditional? Isn’t it more traditional to have a lovely wedding at home than in some hideously expensive venue?”

How could she begin to explain? thought Phoebe. Her mother had no idea that weddings had become an industry, that most people got married in a venue now.

Andrew walked in. “I think what Phoebe is trying to say,” he said, “is that the Marsham-Smiths prefer to throw money at a problem.”

“Hey! They’re not like that,” said Phoebe, thinking of George’s mother and her Mulberry handbags, and knowing he was right. He was always right.

Andrew took a clementine without saying anything, and strode out again.

“It just seems rather a pity. We’ve got all this space. Why would we spend God knows how much when we have somewhere with such sentimental value?” said Emma. She waved a spatula around to make the point.

“Let’s just look at Delling,” said Phoebe. Why was she now on George’s side, she wondered, when she’d come down for support and got it? They sat down together with Emma’s iPad. Looking at stuff online with her mother was always exasperating. Emma typed any Google search in full, usually making several typos, and then wondered why it didn’t work. Delling Abbey’s website appeared, and they clicked Get Married at Delling. There was a picture of a woman wearing beauty-pageant makeup with her hair in crispy tendrils and a man in shiny morning dress. They were grimacing and ducking in a blizzard of confetti. The idea that she and George might become that couple was surreal. A banner ad on the side steered them to another site called Wedding Bee. Here, all the brides said how intent they were on making the wedding unique, but all had a photo booth and mustaches on sticks. Her mother kept hooting with laughter. Phoebe felt her blood pressure rise, even though she agreed with Emma that the weddings looked terrible. She wanted to say: “If you’d just spend some money on this place, instead of leaving everything to rot, then George wouldn’t be freaking out.” But she knew this wouldn’t go down well. She would have to convince her mother to redo the dining room and drawing room at least. Her father would understand.

She left the iPad to Emma and returned to the mood board she had begun that morning. She was using the back of Olivia’s homecoming banner, the green fitting her Christmas theme neatly. The table was soon covered in tusk-shaped fragments of Brides magazine, as she snipped round photos of winter flower arrangements, white fur capes, and the occasional, non-disgusting dress. “Ooh, this is a jolly idea,” said her mother, “a cupcake tower—sort of a pile of fairy cakes. I suppose traditional wedding cake can be rather stodgy, can’t it?”

“Yummy!” said Phoebe. Her mother wasn’t to know that the world had reached peak cupcake years ago. She needed to be extra sweet, if her campaign to get Weyfield redecorated was to work out. Olivia came in, looking tired. “Can we move this thing? There’s nowhere to sit,” she said, gesturing at the mood board. Phoebe took the board and leaned it against the window. She’d moved on to a wedding playlist now anyway. She was thinking either “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” or “Let It Snow” for the first dance, and her all-time favorite “Please Come Home for Christmas” for the last dance. Or even Mariah. George wouldn’t object; he had typical public school cheesy taste in music. Olivia sat, pushing a mince pie into her mouth as if in a trance, and pulled the newspaper toward her—the way she used to hide behind the All-Bran at breakfast.

“How’s your poor friend?” said Emma.

“No news,” said Olivia, barely looking up. “Though the press have gone to town on him. Including Andrew’s colleagues.”