Page 41 of Once Upon a Thyme
The wedding was beautiful. Well, of course it was, it had the financial power of a woman’s magazine, a lot of advertising contracts and Simon behind it.
Tessa wore a simple white dress and an organdie shawl, Mika was resplendent in a tweed suit with waistcoat and a bowler hat, looking every inch the washboard-and-viola-playing star.
The October light was crystal clear and cool, but the sun reflected from the lake at their chosen destination with a fierce light that highlighted the gorgeousness of the guests.
These had, I suspected, been invited more to pique the interest of magazine readers than because they were close friends of the couple.
It was even rumoured that Adele was there, although I didn’t meet her.
The ‘behind the scenes’ people like us were kept well away from the guests, although the rest of the band wandered through occasionally, stealing canapés and teasing the waiting staff.
Zeb and I tweaked the last table centrepiece into order for the fourth time, signalled to Simon that everything was ready, and then ran out of the marquee to hide elsewhere in the grounds of the stately home that was hosting the event.
‘Do you think it went all right?’ I asked Zeb for about the billionth time that day, as we watched the organised gorgeousness trooping across the lawns from being photographed, towards the reception under the watchful eye of a drone camera. ‘She looks lovely, doesn’t she?’
Tessa was still carrying her bouquet, handpicked by me that morning and dashed down the motorway in buckets propped upright with straw bales.
The feathery greenery trailed across the bodice of her gown and made her look even more ethereal than she already did, and that was pretty bloody ethereal. She was radiant, but pale.
‘She looks a bit anxious,’ Zeb observed. ‘But yes, Tallie, everything went beautifully.’
We peered out from behind an acer. ‘I’d look anxious if I were marrying Mika,’ I said. ‘I wonder if it’s a proper wedding or just one of those show-biz jobs and they’ll be divorced in two years?’
* * *
Simon, wearing an incredibly vivid waistcoat so bright that it strobed, and with his hair up in a man-bun for which he was at least twenty years too old, walked down to the marquee with Will and Genevra.
‘I hope he doesn’t play the washboard at her.’ I watched them be greeted by uniformed staff offering champagne flutes on a tray. ‘Simon’s buying a house in the village by the way, near to Mum. Did you know?’
Zeb looked at me evenly. ‘He told me. Are you all right about that?’
‘ I am. I don’t know how Mum is going to react, though.
He did ask me if I thought it was a good idea.
’ I kept my eyes on the wedding party. A breeze blew across the parkland and a few hats went flying to a whoop of laughter and I caught sight of the inside of the marquee, where some of the suspended greenery was swaying.
Nothing fell and I breathed again. We’d done a good job even if the local fishing tackle shops were going to shudder if we ever went near them asking for fishing line again.
We’d used enough to tie up the decorations to land a fair-sized whale.
‘And you said?’ He was keeping his eyes on mine. There were bits of fern in his hair.
‘I said it wasn’t my problem. It’s entirely up to them and I won’t be responsible for Mum and her reaction to things again. They’re adults.’
‘As are we.’ He hugged me then, a brief and sudden contact, surrounded by all this conspicuous wealth and class, and the smell of bruised grass.
Somewhere to our left a fountain tinkled falling water and a late wren sang into the gathering dusk.
‘Oh, and quite a lot of the publicity people asked for our details. I’ve been handing out business cards like a blackjack dealer. ’
Our details. I tasted the words inside my head. I liked them. I really did.
‘It was a great idea of yours to do the flowers for this wedding,’ Zeb went on. ‘Inspired. And it looks as though we might get some more wedding business out of it.’
‘That’s where the money is,’ I said vaguely.
Outside the marquee someone I thought might be Adele was deep in conversation with Simon, while Loke and Genevra were drinking champagne.
Will was staring around at the grounds. He saw Zeb and me lurking and gave us a little wave.
I waved back. ‘Even if we did have to pull it all together at such short notice. I really should have thought it through more carefully.’
‘But now we can go back and start properly planning the barn extension, and what to do with the gardens next year.’ Zeb rubbed his hands together. ‘I’m looking forward to it. I’ve got those hens arriving next week, so Ollie and I are going to build them some proper mobile housing.’
‘A caravan for chickens,’ I said, still watching the activity over on the lawns.
I was really watching Simon, of course. My father, even if we seemed to have nothing more in common than eye colour.
To his credit, he did seem to want to get to know me and my life.
Plus, he was putting money into building us the new barns.
None of what had happened had been his fault, I caught myself thinking as I watched him smile and nod and adjust his hair again.
None of the lies or the obfuscation or the obligation had been anything to do with him.
He’d told me how he’d wanted to meet me over the years, had even driven past Drycott a few times, but had always chickened out.
He’d been too afraid of the repercussions with Mum and, reading between the lines, I thought he’d really been waiting for her to die before he came out of the woodwork.
Funny how a parent you’d never known could be more sympathetic than the one you’d grown up with.
More laughter. The clink of champagne flutes, and then everyone was heading into the marquee for the four-course dinner, dancing, and more photographs.
The Goshawk Traders were, apparently, going to play a set and I hoped Tessa would get to change out of her wedding dress before then.
Our dried and fresh herb arrangements were going to look stupendous in the pictures.
‘We should go home,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing more we can do now.’
Zeb nodded. ‘It’s been a long day. Ollie’s looking after Big Pig tonight, so we can go back and fall into bed. Unless your mum needs you to pop round?’
His tone was so carefully neutral, whilst containing so many questions that the sentence almost bulged. I shook my head.
‘I’ve pulled back a lot on helping her, you may have noticed.’
‘I have. And you’re obviously struggling with that, so I thought I’d ask.’
There was a small silence, broken only by the persistent wren.
‘I want to help her,’ I said, slowly. ‘But it’s hard to get over what she’s done.’
‘It’s an illness,’ Zeb reminded me again, carefully.
‘I know. But I don’t have to like it. And I don’t have to tiptoe around her any more in case she “gets ill”.
She already is ill, but if she won’t help herself then it’s not my problem.
I won’t let her starve and I won’t let her house fall into disrepair, but I’m not popping round every time she summons me. She can go to the shop for herself.’
He nodded. ‘Okay. That sounds healthy.’
Now it was my turn for the small smile and the sideways shrug. ‘My therapist advised it. A watching brief, I think they call it. Now, are we going to head back or shall we wait to see if we can scrounge any more of those hors d’oeuvres? I liked that mushroom one.’
‘Too much cream,’ said the ex-chef. ‘But yes. Let’s go home.’
We left the wedding party without a backward glance.