Four Weddings and a Festival

by Annie Robertson

Genres: Romance; Romantic Comedy; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Four months. Four weddings. One happy ending...

Bea, Lizzie, Hannah and Kat — die-hard romcom fans — have always joked about getting married in the same year: their own 'Four Weddings' summer. But when Bea unexpectedly turns down her boyfriend's proposal, the rest of the girls decide she needs a little Richard Curtis-esque meet-cute.

As Bea's friends set her up with a different date for each wedding in an attempt to find her own Hugh Grant, while navigating their own nuptial complications, Bea is more and more certain that she doesn't want a big white wedding — especially as it seems that there might not be any happy-ever-afters this year, let alone four...

Release date: July 11, 2019

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

 

1

Wednesday 25 April

If I were a character in the opening titles of a Richard Curtis film, I probably wouldn’t be standing here with my hand inside a chicken. I’d be dashing around in my shabby chic Notting Hill mews house, throwing on some fabulous attire, sprinting to a wedding or getting ready for my dream job. Only I don’t live in a London mews because, last I looked, I’d need several million in my account and I’m lucky if there’s several hundred in there at any one time.

No, as luck would have it, I rent a house in Notting Hill’s poor distant neighbour Acton, with my blissfully loved-up flatmate, who, I admit, does have a whiff of a Richard Curtis-esque ‘roomie’ about her. Lizzie isn’t quite as revolting in her habits as the Welsh bloke from Notting Hill, or quite so irreverent as Scarlett from Four Weddings, but she certainly is untidy and exceptionally scatty. But she also happens to be one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, and I’m not quite sure how I’ll cope when she gets married next month and finally moves in with her adorable fiancé, Jack.

‘Hiya, Bea,’ she calls, closing the front door of our small terraced house.

‘In the kitchen!’

Lizzie appears in the doorway, holding a handful of post in one hand and a cake box in the other. Her bicycle helmet is still perched on her head, her blonde pixie hair poking out through the holes. I have serious reservations about Lizzie cycling in London; she can barely walk down the pavement without colliding into a lamppost. She’s always been that way; she used to fall off the balance-beam at school with predictable and spectacular regularity.

‘Bad day at work?’ She gestures to the mountain of vegetables yet to be prepped for the overly ambitious dinner I’m attempting to cook for the girls. Lizzie knows that a spot of cooking is my ultimate wind-down, even if I’m not very good at it.

‘Sir Hugo was in one of his moods.’

‘What was it this time?’ she asks, putting down the cake box and absently flicking through the post – mainly wedding RSVPs.

‘The usual – things not being done that he “absolutely remembers” giving instructions to be carried out.’

‘But I’m assuming that as his PA you made everything shipshape with a sprinkling of your Anne Hathaway magic?’

I laugh drily. If only my work life were quite as rosy as Lizzie perceives it to be. ‘How was your day?’

‘The usual madness.’ She casts the RSVPs aside and hangs her helmet on the edge of the radiator. ‘I’ve a new patient who thinks everyone in the room is a penguin. We spent three hours making papier-mâché fish.’

‘As you do.’ I hand her a potato peeler, wishing that my days were as creative and worthwhile as Lizzie’s. She had her mind focused solely on becoming an art therapist since a Year Ten careers day. It’s possibly the only thing Lizzie’s mind has ever been focused on, apart from Jack and having babies – oh, and maybe dog agility, which was her big obsession when she was twelve. I, on the other hand, had the grand plan of becoming a famous jewellery designer, but when I realised that wasn’t going to pay the bills I wound up working as an assistant to the principal of the art college Lizzie and I went to – my first job of many in the unplanned route to becoming a career PA. I long for the creative freedom Lizzie has at work, though probably not the penguin-seeing patients, and maybe a smidge less of the nine-to-five; I always fancied a more nomadic existence, unlike the one my mother had, tied to the house and her kid. ‘You do remember that Hannah and Kat are coming around at seven thirty for dinner? Apparently, Kat has news.’

She doesn’t say as much but it’s clear from her widened eyes that she’s forgotten.

‘I’ll have a quick shower and then I’m all yours!’ she says, leaving me to peel the potatoes, and to contemplate what Kat might be going to tell us.

 

By the time the doorbell rings, the veggies are prepped, the chicken is in the oven, I’m out of my work clothes and Lizzie is just about decent in her pyjama bottoms though she’s yet to find the corresponding top.

‘I hope for your sake this is one of the girls and not Simon,’ I say, going to the door. Admittedly, it wouldn’t be the first time my boyfriend has seen Lizzie without her top on. She’s constantly in a state of undress, trying to figure out if an item of clothing is clean but hanging somewhere in the house other than her wardrobe, or dirty but still possibly wearable if only she could find it under the bed, over the banister or on top of the microwave.

‘Simon isn’t interested in my breasts – yours are far superior.’ I can hear her in the front room tossing the sofa cushions about looking for her top.

With a roll of my eyes, I open the front door. ‘Hi Hannah, how are you?’

‘Starving!’ She stoops her tall frame over my short one, giving me a light, sweaty hug then undoes her laces before placing the trainers neatly beside the front door.

‘Food’s almost ready, unlike Lizzie.’

‘What’s she lost this time?’

Lizzie pops into the hallway, triumphantly holding her top aloft. ‘Found it!’

I shake my head, laughing, wondering what I’ll do without her. Who will make me smile when I’ve had a tough day? Who will bring me breakfast in bed on a Saturday morning, or drive me crazy by trying and failing to dry several weeks’ worth of laundry all at once in the tumble dryer? I should be doing something about it, advertise for someone new or put out some feelers, but I can’t bring myself to. No one could ever match Lizzie.

‘Why can’t I have a flatmate who walks around topless?’ asks Hannah, scrunching her long dark hair with a towel then wrapping it round her neck to keep warm after the eight-mile run from her work in Lincoln’s Inn.

‘You’ll have one soon enough,’ I say, leading her through into the kitchen to check on the food and to put the tartlets and salad she’s brought into the fridge.

‘Remy isn’t really one for nudity.’

‘Really? That surprises me.’ Given that she’s a diminutive French yoga instructor, Hannah’s fiancée strikes me as exactly the sort who would parade around in the all-together at any given opportunity. ‘Do Grandma and Grandpa Jones know about Remy yet?’

Hannah shakes her head.

‘Do they still think she’s a man?’ asks Lizzie, pulling on her top in the hall.

‘Yup!’ I say, with a chuckle.

‘Hannah, you have to tell them!’

‘I know, and I will, I just haven’t found the right moment.’

‘I can’t believe you’ve managed to keep your sexuality from them this long, it’s not as if it’s ever been a secret from anyone else.’ Hannah never really came out, she just always liked girls and was never afraid of that, other than when it came to telling her grandparents.

‘Remind me again why you didn’t tell them at the time?’ I ask, recalling the moment Hannah told them about her engagement on Skype. The connection wasn’t great and they misheard ‘she’ for ‘he’, and Hannah, for some reason, chose not to correct them. At the time it was funny, now it’s just kind of weird.

‘Because it would have broken their hearts.’

‘Do you really think so?’ I ask. ‘They never struck me as being narrow-minded.’

‘Maybe not, but they’re super traditional. Don’t you remember, when I went to law school, they imagined my life away? They saw me marrying a male lawyer, giving up my career, and never wanting for anything ever again.’

‘Right, but surely they’ll see that you provide for yourself now, and that your love for Remy is more important than any plan they might have had for you?’

‘Bea’s right,’ says Lizzie, now fully clothed. ‘And besides, aren’t they paying for the wedding?’

‘Don’t remind me.’

‘Clock’s ticking,’ I say, opening the oven. ‘Only two months until the big day. You need to tell them soon.’

Hannah pinches a sizzling-hot roast potato from the tray and then does the fast breathing of someone who’s just put something scorching in their mouth.

‘And besides, people who move to Australia in their seventies aren’t the sort who would care about gay marriage.’

Hannah half chokes on the potato. ‘They moved because of my grandmother’s arthritis, not because they planned to surf in their old age. My grandparents aren’t the laid-back type.’

I shrug uncertainly. I only have a dim recollection of her grandparents from when we stayed at their house once when we were about eleven, they let us watch Four Weddings and a Funeral even though it was a fifteen rating. They seemed pretty laid-back to me. That was the first time we saw the film, and we fell head over heels with it, watching it over and over, each of us falling for a different character. Lizzie wanted to marry Tom, Kat drooled over Charles, Hannah was infatuated with Fi, and I always had a soft spot for David, Charlie’s deaf brother. And then one night, when we were about thirteen, Lizzie made us swear a solemn oath that we’d all get married in one summer, to live out the fantasy of our own Four Weddings. Naïve as we were and fuelled by Coke and Doritos, we dutifully put our hands on hers and swore our allegiance to the plan. Thankfully, we’ve all grown up a bit since then.

‘Do you know what Kat’s news is?’ I ask Hannah.

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘She hasn’t said anything at all?’

‘Not a peep.’

‘Wow,’ I say, thinking how unlike Kat it is to keep a secret. ‘It must be something really big!’

 

We’re spinning around to Kylie and setting the table in the dining room when Kat eventually arrives.

‘Sorry I’m late, traffic was a nightmare.’ She takes off her coat to reveal her white physio tunic, which shows off her super-toned upper arms. I’ve always been a bit envious of Kat’s effortlessly athletic physique – one slackers like me can only dream of having. She tightens her ponytail then empties a big bag of crisps into the bowl on the table.

‘It’s fine, dinner’s a bit behind anyway,’ I say, studying her to see if there’s anything to suggest what might be up. Kat and I have been best friends since primary school so if any of us is going to notice something different about her it’s me. I study her face for signs – if she were sick then I’d see it in her green eyes, which always take on a grey hue when she’s under the weather; changing jobs, I’d see it in her neck and shoulders, and moving house wouldn’t be a big deal for Kat so it can’t be that. I’m stumped.

‘What?’ she asks, self-consciously touching her nose and mouth to make sure she hasn’t got anything gross on either. It’s then I realise I’m not the only one staring at her. All three of us have narrowed our eyes, scrutinising her for clues as to what the news might be.

‘Nothing,’ Hannah and I say in unison, trying to hide our curiosity by busying ourselves with laying the table.

‘Lizzie?’ Kat asks, knowing that Liz will definitely blab.

‘They’re trying to figure out what your “big news” is.’

Kat smiles wryly, and pops a crisp into her mouth. ‘You can have one guess each.’

We pause our table preparations. Hannah, ever the analyst, looks her up and down before saying, ‘You’re moving to New Zealand.’

It’s not such a long shot; Kat’s wanted to spend time in New Zealand practising physiotherapy since her geography teacher, Mr Carter, whom she had a massive crush on, taught her about its hot springs and bubbling mud pools. She’s always been one for adventures – a gap year in Thailand, physio placements in America and South Africa, and holidays twice a year. I never seem to have the money to do the same, even though I’d love to, and it doesn’t help that Simon’s idea of a big adventure is a long weekend in Cornwall. But I hope desperately Hannah isn’t correct. The prospect of losing both my flatmate and my best friend at the same time would be too much to bear.

‘Nope!’ she says. I let out a sigh of relief.

‘You’ve been given a promotion,’ says Lizzie.

Kat laughs. ‘Not likely!’

‘True,’ says Hannah.

‘Oi!’ says Kat, casting Hannah pretend daggers, and reaching for another crisp.

It’s then that I see it – the light catches her hand, revealing the unmistakable sparkle of a diamond.

‘Henry asked you to marry him,’ I say, hoping that my voice doesn’t convey the sinking feeling in my stomach that all three of my closest friends are now settling down. I don’t understand how it is that they’re all so established in what they do and in their relationships. I’m still floundering, uncertain about the whole idea of marriage, and looking for the thing that enables me to have the life I’ve always dreamt of – a creative job, and the chance to travel the world.

Hannah and Lizzie’s eyes dart expectantly between Kat and me, waiting for her to confirm one way or another. The pause feels unbearably long, and then, suddenly, Kat’s face breaks into an enormous smile and she squeals, holding up her hand for us all to see the ring.

‘Oh my God,’ Lizzie shrieks, rushing over to hug her.

‘Congratulations, Kat,’ says Hannah, hugging her too. ‘Such great news. Have you settled on a date?’

‘We thought sooner rather than later, so we’ve decided on September.’

‘September?’ says Hannah. ‘How can you possibly arrange a wedding in less than five months?’

‘Because Kat isn’t as OCD as you,’ says Lizzie, baiting her mercilessly.

‘Hah-bloody-ha!’ says Hannah, screwing her face up at Lizzie

I’m still standing, rooted to the floor in shock, when Kat turns to me. My response is too late to pull off genuine excitement, and I can’t conceal the look of astonishment on my face; I fail to know how to react, and I’m angry with myself for spoiling my best friend’s moment.

Kat crosses to me. ‘Don’t worry, Bea. Henry may be my husband but you’ll always be my best friend.’

Immediately I can feel tears welling, and I pull her close.

‘I’m happy for you,’ I whisper, through my snuffles.

She pulls away to scrutinise my face.

‘I am, I promise!’ I laugh, emotionally. ‘It’s just a bit of a shock.’

Kat laughs too. ‘Imagine how shocked I was! I’m not sure I ever expected Henry to be the one.’

‘But he is?’

Even though I’m not really a believer in ‘the one’, I still want to be certain my dearest friend has made the right decision and hasn’t just been caught up in the moment. When Lizzie introduced them two years ago at a drunken Christmas do at the hospital where both Lizzie and Henry work, it never occurred to me that the slightly bombastic, South African psychiatrist would turn out to be the person with whom Kat would spend the rest of her life. He’s all nit-picky and contrary, and she’s so laissez-faire. I can’t pretend to understand the attraction.

‘He is,’ she says, the certainty in her eyes radiating out. ‘Even if he is madder than most of his patients!’

‘Well, I can’t argue with that!’ I say, laughing through my tears.

We embrace again, me holding her until I’m certain she can feel the happiness I was unable to express in words.

‘Oh my God,’ says Lizzie, her eyes lighting up. I recognise the look, it’s the one that appears when she’s cooking up some crazy plan or other. She claps her hands excitedly and in that moment I know exactly where her mind has wandered. ‘Do you remember when we were thirteen . . .?’

Yup, I think. She’s going there.

‘And we made the pact for all of us to marry in the same summer . . .?’

She can’t really think any of us will get on board with this as grown, responsible adults.

‘Oh yeah!’ says Kat, her eyes dancing up with delight.

‘And three of us are engaged, which means . . .’ Hannah turns to me.

Have they lost their minds? We’re thirty, not thirteen.

‘If Simon proposes, it could be four weddings in one summer!’ squeals Lizzie.

I smear away the last of my tears, laughing at their craziness.

‘Oh my goodness, what an amazing thought!’ shrieks Kat. She reaches out a hand to me, squeezing my arm. ‘Bea you’re so going to be next. We have to get Simon to hurry up and propose so that we can have our Four Weddings!’

‘Guys, let’s not get carried away,’ I say, noticing an alarmingly acrid smell coming from the kitchen. Leaving the girls for a moment, I open the oven door and am greeted by a waft of smoke and a shrivelled, charred chicken. I’m so not cut out for domestic bliss.

As I attempt to rescue the chicken, I try to imagine my wedding to Simon – really visualise it, with him in a grey morning suit and his mother in a hideous hat, wiping an elegant tear from her eye, and the girls grinning at me as I proceed down the aisle in a ludicrous meringue of a dress – but I can’t. It isn’t a real image; it’s a parody of a Richard Curtis wedding. In fact, I can’t imagine marrying Simon at all.

‘You okay?’ Hannah is leaning against the doorway, watching me with concern.

Hannah is the only one who has any inkling about my doubts about Simon. Kat has been so caught up with Henry recently that there hasn’t been an opportunity to chat, and Lizzie is in her own loved-up little world. Hannah knows that I’ve begun to question whether part of the reason I’ve been hanging on to Simon is because of his slightly Hugh Grant-ish charm. Because recently Si’s old-world appeal has begun to wear a bit thin, and, if I’m perfectly honest, the spark we used to have has fizzled to a companionable glow. I’ve kept telling myself that’s just what happens in long-term relationships – that it’s better than falling in and out of love with unsuitable men, chasing ‘the one’, like my mum did.

‘I’m fine,’ I say, shaking off my doubts. ‘Better than the chicken, anyway.’ I hand her the salad to put on the table. ‘Come on, let’s eat!’

With the starter in place and everyone seated, Lizzie raises her glass. ‘A toast,’ she says. ‘To Kat and Henry.’

‘To Kat and Henry,’ we chorus, clinking our glasses together.

‘And to Simon proposing,’ says Kat, with a glint in her eye. ‘And our Four Weddings Summer!’

‘Our Four Weddings Summer!’ I say with everyone else, though my mind is swimming with the prospect of Simon jumping on board the plan and proposing. How would I ever turn him down without breaking his heart, and bursting my friends’ Four Weddings bubble in the process?

 

2

It’s mid-morning, and despite having drunk a litre of water and an unspeakably revolting ‘revitaliser shot’ from the local juice bar, my head is still foggy from last night. After the initial shock of Kat’s news, the evening turned out to be fun enough, with the girls plotting and scheming as we sewed bunting for Lizzie’s wedding. We ate the ‘caramelised’ chicken, drank a couple of bottles of wine, and were all tucked up in bed before midnight. And yet still I woke this morning feeling as if a team of microscopic road workers had set to work on me overnight – one with a pneumatic . . .