Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(48)

Frances huffs. “This is my day,” she says in a menacing way. “I hope things go better from now on.”

Paula, the other bridesmaid, makes a choked sound. “Anyone would think you were getting married yourself, Frances,” she says, standing up in all her scarlet-underweared glory. “But I’m sure things have changed since your happy day. When was that? The Victorian times? People were a lot more uptight then but that was probably because of the corsets. I know I get really crotchety during the weekly Tarts and Vicars night at the Golden Fleece if I’m laced too tightly.”

“I beg your pardon,” Frances says, her tone glacial.

“Well, everything is looking good,” I say quickly.

Erica turns gratefully to me. “Really?”

I nod, smiling at her. She’s the sweetest person. “Yes, the chapel is perfect. It looks gorgeous.” I pace to the window. The loch is a sheet of opaque grey, and the sky is yellow. Even as I watch, a few snowflakes drift past. “Looks like you’re going to have the snow you wanted.”

She squeals and races to the window. “Oh my god,” she says, clapping her hands. “That’s amazing.”

Her excitement is contagious. She’s wanted a Scottish wedding since she watched Four Weddings and a Funeral. The fact that one of the guests died at that wedding hadn’t dented her enthusiasm in the slightest.

“Well, I’ll let you get ready,” I say. “I just wanted to let you know everything looks great. The guests will be escorted to the chapel in a bit. The reception room looks stunning and everything’s going smoothly in the kitchens. We’re ready, lovely.”

She squeezes my hand. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“That’s debatable,” Frances mutters, but we tactfully ignore her comment.

“Is Ryan okay?” Erica asks.

“He’s fine. He was having a coffee in the bar with his brother when I went past. I’ll pop in to see him next and check if he needs anything.” I smile at her. “So now you can relax and enjoy this wedding. Everyone is where they should be.” Unlike my ex-husband.

I look at the women. “Well, I’ll leave you to get ready, ladies. I’ll be back in a bit to escort you to the chapel.”

“Wait,” Erica says, grabbing my hand. “Will you stay while I get ready, Joe?”

“Of course, I will if you want me to.”

She nods. “You keep me sane.”

“Oh, okay.” It won’t be the first time or even the hundredth that I’ve done this.

“He’s a man,” Frances says, scandalised. “He can’t see you in your underwear.”

“He’s gay, Mummy. He wouldn’t be interested if I stripped naked and skipped to the chapel.”

“Only if you had nice shoes,” I say, and she chuckles.

I step back. “Okay let’s get this show on the road.”

Paula removes the dress from its padded hanger and brings it across as if offering it for sacrifice while Frances nods her approval. The two of them, with Cousin Mary watching like a depressed wraith, prepare the dress, holding it low so Erica can step into it. After she does so, they pull up the garment carefully. Once she’s threaded her arms through the sleeves, Paula steps around and starts to zip her up. She stops halfway up and then tries again.

“Fucking hell,” she mutters, her tongue between her teeth and her face going red with exertion.

“Language,” Frances snaps.

“What’s the problem?” I ask.

“It won’t zip up.” Paula puts her hands on her hips and stares at Erica. “Have you had a boob job?”

“So common,” Frances moans.

Erica folds her arms over her chest. “No, I haven’t,” she squeaks.

Her boobs do look bigger. “Let’s try again,” I say soothingly.

Paula steps back. “You do it. It’s making me too nervous.”

“Okay.” I blow on my hands and rub them together. “Let’s have a go.”

“Just the words a mother dreams of hearing at her daughter’s wedding,” Frances mutters.

“Oh, Mummy, stop,” Erica says in exasperation. She cranes her head, looking at me as I examine the back of the dress. “Is it okay, Joe?”

“Oh yes, fine,” I wheeze, my fingers tightening on the zipper. I whisper, “It won’t go up. Have you had a boob job?”

“No,” she whispers back. “Please just try again.”

“Okay.” I take a breath and make one last concerted effort. With a sibilant hiss, the zipper glides up. “Oh, thank god and the sweet baby Jesus,” I exclaim.

Erica grins widely. “You’re so clever, Joe. Thank—”

A horrible ripping sound erupts as the dress’s fabric splits, ripping down the zipper’s length.

“Oh my god,” she screeches, the decibel level as shrill as a dog whistle. It’s right in my ear, and I wince and rub the organ. “My dress!” she screams.

“It’s okay,” I say.

“It isn’t. Oh my god, my dress hasn’t got a back.” Her lip is trembling, her expression wild.

I rub her arm. “Deep breaths,” I urge. “Do you mind if I have a look?”