The Wedding Cake Tree (19 page)

Al.

Got your email. Don’t worry about the singing, Sarah will understand, and I’ll keep Grace’s name on the list for grub, no worries.

Reference Grace – what the hell’s happened to you? Your emails are usually one-liners. You’re a bloody mess, man. I’ve never known a woman to get under your skin, and I can’t believe you’re prepared to reason with her – you’ve never reasoned with anyone in your life! The best advice I can give you is to keep her guessing, and for God’s sake don’t grovel, women lose all respect for men who grovel. So, in answer to your question, why not get involved? Your SF work is nearly over – my money is on promotion next year, mate!

See you in the morning. And remember, you have nothing to feel guilty about with my family. After all, without you (and the hard bastard side of your personality) my corpse would be rotting away in Afghanistan.

Alex

P
S. Civilian face? You don’t have one. If you pretend to be someone you’re not, then it won’t work in the end. Don’t overthink it. No one said you had to marry the woman. Maybe she just wants a shag? (Win!)

There was way no way on earth I could resist reading Alasdair’s original email. I dashed onto the veranda and shouted his name. Still no response.

Title: Bloody Women!

Alex

I’ve tried to phone you a couple of times, but no joy. Hopefully this email will reach you tonight if you happen to wander into phone coverage.

Well, it’s your last night as a single man and I’m not there to get you drunk – shocking! It’s not too late though, dude. I can have a getaway car/aircraft/spaceship pull up outside the hotel within the hour if you’re having cold feet. You’ll never find another woman like Sarah though, so I would stay put if I were you (how on earth did you persuade her to adore you … was it the limp?).

Anyway, slight change of plan. Grace isn’t going to be able to sing tomorrow after all. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to pull it off for you, and I know Sarah was excited, but Rosamund should never have said she would sing. Grace suffers from stage fright (proper job) and hates singing in public. I considered arm-twisting her (literally) but trust me when I say it would be unfair to push the matter (not that you could ‘push’ Grace to do anything, bloody woman!).

I think you were right when you said Rosamund set us up. Seriously, mate, it’s a bloody nightmare. Grace is even sexier than I remembered – it’s hard to stay focused when your face is inches from her backside (I’ve followed her up a few hills this week, and all I can say is the woman knows how to fill a pair of trousers). But she’s a bit of a city girl (not my type) and she can be stubborn (ditto). She’s a terrible cook, fidgets when she’s nervous and she’s a bit spoiled (I could go on). But on the other hand, she’s up for anything, she never complains (you should have seen how great she was in the mountains – I even got her to go skinny dipping!), she’s kind, doesn’t spend hours putting on make-up, she’s incredibly beautiful (and yet there isn’t a vain bone in her body). She’s genuinely caring – she even put herself at risk to save my lucky shemagh on the mountain (now that’s a real woman for you!). I suppose there’s just something about her that gets under my skin – arghhhh! Anyway, it’s all immaterial as I’ve buggered it up (I’m good at that with women). Which leads me on to another reason I needed to contact you; sorry mate, but she’s not coming to the wedding. I pissed her off (why do women insist on turning an innocent comment around and then throwing it back at you and then sulking?). She says she wants to carry on alone, but I’m not sure if it was one of those spur of the moment ‘I don’t really mean it’ threats. So now I’m wondering if she meant it, or if I’m supposed to try to talk her round? Again … arghhh! Bottom line, can you keep her name on the seating plan for me, just in case? (This is why I steer clear of women.)

I’ll try to give you a proper ‘man-to-man’ pep talk in the morning, but taking advice from me about marriage is like a
butcher giving a brain surgeon a lesson in theatre work – I’m simply not qualified.

See you in the morning – hopefully with my little companion by my side. Seriously, though. Should I talk her round? Bollocks. Bollocks. Bollocks.

Al

PS
I
f I could chop off my own leg and sew it on to yours, I would.

PPS Meant to say, my sabbatical has been cut short. Something’s kicked off. Grace doesn’t know anything about the SF side of the job and I want to leave it that way. Seriously, Alex, would it be wrong to get involved again?

I closed the screen to 45 degrees, left the fan whirring, shot into bed and ran the details of his letter over in my mind …
he thinks I’m beautiful … he thinks I’m spoiled … he thinks I’m beautiful … he thinks I’m a terrible cook … he thinks I’m beautiful …

Chapter Twenty-Three

The following morning
after a particularly restless night, I climbed out of the bedroom and peeked around the hut. Alasdair still wasn't there. I found a note on the table.

Grace             

Clearly you haven’t received enough letters lately, so I decided to write you a new one. I’m not one for arguments and I have a great deal to do today, so I thought I would leave early and go to the hotel to help Alex. I’m sure you will appreciate having me out of your hair for a while. Perhaps with some time alone you will come to the conclusion that you would like us to carry on with your journey together. If you do – and I hope you do – then I have left a map giving directions to the hotel (it’s on the dresser – the wedding ceremony starts at 1400). If you choose not to come then I have written out full instructions/itinerary to enable you to carry on alone, and I have also left your mother’s letters for you, they are in the envelope, which is also on the dresser, under the car keys. You are covered on the car insurance.

If I don’t see you again, take care.

Al

PS I have left a couple of things on the sofa which may come in handy. I know you hate to be cold.

Bloody hell, the tone of that letter was like a military memo compared to the chatty email he’d sent to Alex.

I
looked across to the sofa – his fleece and shemagh were folded on the cushion. I tilted my face to the ceiling in frustration. We were having such a wonderful time and I had blown it – he had obviously taken Alex’s advice.

I
picked up the shemagh and sat down. How on earth had I arrived at this monumental disappointment? Resting my head onto the back of the sofa an unexpected smile emerged – Alasdair really took the biscuit. I had planned a whole reconciliation, only to find that he had pulled the rug from under my feet and buggered off. What was I supposed to do?

My thoughts turned to the wedding and to the c
lothes Mum had bought – the penny finally dropping regarding the fancy clothes and underwear.

I opened
the suitcase and suit carrier and flicked my way through. The obvious outfit for the event was a silk, figure-skimming cowl necked dress. If Alasdair thought I had a sexy backside in my walking trousers, he would certainly appreciate my posterior in
that
dress! I held the fabric of his shemagh to my face and wondered where in the world he had travelled to with his tatty Middle Eastern scarf; what dangers had it witnessed? It couldn’t have been easy for him to leave it for me, in fact, he shouldn’t have left it. What if it really did bring him luck?

I looked at my watch
– it was half past nine. With only a few hours left to prepare for the wedding, I realised I needed to get a move on.

A tepid outdoor shower is not a great way to start when getting ready to go to a wedding. Add to that the lack of electricity and you have the makings of a seriously bad hair day.

On the plus side, my dress fitted perfectly
. But having spent the past few days running around the hills in walking boots, it felt odd when I ripped the blister plasters from my ankles, scrubbed away the plaster marks and, Cinderella-esque, slipped strappy silver sandals onto my feet. They were a perfect fit. She had thought of everything, right the way down to perfectly shaded makeup. But there was one major item she had forgotten to include; a clutch bag. The only bag I had with me was my trusty but battered leatherwork satchel. I decided it would suffice; after all, I was going nowhere without extra makeup, tissues, a hairbrush and my camera.

By twelve o
’clock I was ready to leave the hut. With flat shoes on my feet for driving, heels in one hand and clunky bag in the other, I realised to my disappointment that the image of effortless perfection I had hoped to create was dashed. Thank goodness Alasdair wasn’t there.

I arri
ved at the hotel at around 12.45 p.m. It was a magnificent, baronial seat of utter Scottish-ness, complete with mountain view, turrets, kilted valet staff and the must-have loch.

O
n the one hand I was keen to find Alasdair – it was no fun going to a party alone – but at the same time I felt nervous at the prospect of meeting him as I had no idea what on earth I was likely to say.

T
he foyer was stunning. A wide, tartan-carpeted staircase with a polished oak banister swept up to the first floor, and an enormous fireplace, flanked by floor to ceiling oak panelling, covered the length of one wall. Alasdair was nowhere to be seen. The guests – and there was a considerable number of them – mingled.

M
ost of the men wore Royal Marine dress uniform, which consisted of a finely cut red bolero jacket, smart black jodhpurs (cut very close to the skin) and black boots. A white shirt, black bow tie and waistcoat completed the ensemble. The collective effect was impressive, and I knew if Alasdair was wearing the same get-up then I would – almost certainly – swoon.

T
he seating plan was pinned to a notice board. I studied it while sipping a glass of champagne. My name was shouted from across the foyer. It wasn’t Alasdair calling, yet the voice was definitely familiar. It was Simon, the quiet one from Cairngorm Mountain. He rushed over to greet me, displaying a more relaxed manner than on the mountain.

‘
Hi, Grace.’

‘Simon! What on earth? Fancy meeting you here!
Are you friends of the groom?’ As I asked the question I remembered his brother was a Royal Marine and figured out the link for myself.

‘
Dad was in the Marine Band so he knows Alex really well.’ He sipped on his orange juice then stepped back to look at me. ‘Wow! You look a little bit different to the last time I saw you.’

I glanced down
at my dress.

‘
You don’t think it’s over the top do you?’

‘
You’re kidding, you look great.’             

He surprised
me with his overnight change of persona. Alasdair’s chat had worked wonders.

‘
Alasdair said you might not be able to come,’ he said, taking a glass of orange juice from a waitress as she passed.

‘
Oh, last minute change of plan. I’m pleased to have bumped into you because I was just starting to feel a little bit lost. I don’t know anyone here and Alasdair is bound to be busy.’

‘
He’s out by the loch, talking to the guests. Explaining how the day is going to run etcetera, you know the sort of thing.’

‘
How did he seem to you this morning, Simon? Was he okay?’

‘Alasdair?
Funny you should ask because he seemed a bit edgy, not sure why though.’

Poor Alasdair.
I should never have left him to stare down his demons alone.

I glanced
around the foyer and noticed a uniformed man sitting in a wheelchair by the fireplace.

‘Is
the groom the man sitting in the wheelchair?’ I nodded my head in their direction. He was receiving a peck on the cheek from an attractive brunette. He looked relaxed and happy.

‘Yes, that’s him.’

‘Will you introduce me?’

‘
Sure.’

W
e hovered next to the wheelchair and waited for a suitable opportunity to speak. The brunette was monopolising his attention somewhat. Alex spun his wheelchair around.

‘
I’m guessing you’re Grace?’

I nod
ded.

‘
You made it after all, that's great.’

I shook Alex’s hand
, remembered his email to Alasdair and began to stumble some lame excuse about not being able to sing. He put his hand up to stop my verbal diarrhoea.