Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(41)

“I might stay in here,” I say, unbuttoning my coat since it’s not doing much anyway. “It’ll be lovely and peaceful.”

He chuckles. “You won’t be saying that when I turn off the heaters.” He pulls his own checklist from under his arm and opens it. “Okay, the band is here.”

“DABBA,” I say with a wince.

He laughs. “I believe so. They’re setting up in the reception room. The wedding party will eat, make their speeches, and then Erica and Ryan are doing their first dance.”

“To an ABBA song,” I say gloomily. “Well, it’ll make a nice change from ‘Everything I Do’ by Bryan Adams. At this stage, I think I’ve heard that song more than Kevin Costner.”

He winces. “I heard the band doing a sound check.”

“Oh dear. Poor you. Erica dragged me to one of their live performances, and I have to say Benny, Bjorn, Agnetha, and Frida have absolutely nothing to be worried about.” I shrug. “But she and Ryan love them, so that’s all that matters.

He nods and holds the door open for me to exit. I shiver as we walk. Soon the hotel looms into view. A car is on the forecourt unloading luggage. Even as we watch, Frances comes out of the hotel wearing a long blue silk coat and matching dress. The doors of the taxi open and—

“Oh shit,” I groan.

Dougal shoots me an amused glance. “Bad news?”

“Erica’s brother and his wife have arrived with their children, who are fucking demons in child form. I’m not a fan of children per se, but these plumb new depths.”

Erica’s nephews emerge. They’re called Tristram and Rupert—or Beleth and Beelzebub, if we’re going with true-to-life names. They run screaming up the steps, and I’m sure I’m not imagining the wince on Frances’s face. Nevertheless, she smiles gamely and leans down to embrace them. Within a second they’re gone, rampaging into the hotel the way the Vikings must have done with York, only they probably did less damage than the twins.

“Oh,” Dougal says in a tone of revelation.

I snort. “I don’t like to be the harbinger of doom, but you have them for two days.”

He grimaces. “Well, I’m sure they’re not as bad as some we’ve had.”

I pat him on the shoulder. “You little optimist. Those two children are leagues ahead of anything you’ve ever experienced. Last week I met Erica for lunch and one of the boys glued their tongue to the underside of the table. Can you believe she was considering having them as page boys? She’d have had more luck with Satan.”

“Lovely,” he says faintly. He looks around. “Do they travel on their own?”

“Not unless their broomsticks have stopped working. No, Noah and Violet will be somewhere nearby.”

Proving me right, Erica’s brother emerges from the taxi. He’s a thin blond man with long hair and a fondness for tie-dye clothes.

“That’s Frances’s son?” Dougal checks.

I nod. “He has a great social conscience which I think is his ultimate rebellion against the queen of darkness. The last time Frances took notice of social concerns she was complaining because Waitrose didn’t have any gold-top milk.” He snorts and I say, “You laugh, but you’ll stop when you realise that Noah doesn’t approve of telling children off. He says it breaks their spirits.” I shake my head. “No concern for other people’s spirits, though,” I mutter disapprovingly.

As we approach the forecourt, the taxi driver is gathering the luggage and directing haunted glances towards where the twins vanished into the hotel.

I smile at Erica’s brother, Noah. “Good morning,” I call. “How was the journey?” Noah winces and I quickly change the subject. “The others are in the bar. Why don’t you go and have a drink?” I turn to smile at his wife, Violet. She’s a dark-haired woman with a permanently apologetic look on her face, no doubt put there by having Frances as her mother-in-law for ten years. “Morning,” I say cheerfully.

She offers me a faintly welcoming expression that changes when Frances paces down the steps.

“You’re late,” she snaps at Violet. “We were expecting you ages ago.” Her face changes when Noah comes up. “Hello, darling,” she says in a syrupy-sweet voice, offering her face for a kiss. She misses the gargoyle grimace Violet is giving her behind her back.

“The whole family together. How lovely,” I say heartily and very untruthfully.

Dougal takes the sensible option and vanishes into the hotel. I turn as another taxi pulls up behind us. The door opens and Ryan’s mum and dad emerge.

“Joe,” Sophia exclaims, coming over immediately and enfolding me in a hug. I inhale the scent of Dior’s J’Adore and sneeze as the feather on her hat goes up my nose.

“How lovely to see you,” I say, truthfully this time.

I grin at her and her husband Bernard, who’s gathering their luggage together and shooting his wife a fond look. They’re nice people who’ve produced a lovely person in Ryan. The only fly in the ointment is—

“Good morning, Sophia,” Frances says glacially.

“Frances,” Sophia says, her friendly face chilling like an arctic wind.

Yes, that fly in the ointment. The mothers cannot stand each other and make it very obvious. To be fair to Sophia, her enmity only came after she hosted an engagement party and heard Frances describing her house as poky. Their subsequent relationship resembles a battle that medieval monks might have written about.