Hitched

by Zoe Barnes

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

At twenty-five, Gemma and Rory decide to marry. Having been best friends and lovers since university it is a logical move. Just a quiet registry office affair and that will be that. Then both sets of parents get involved, and the idea of a laid back occasion is blown out of the water. Will Gemma and Rory's relationship cope with the strain and can they find their happy ever after . . . ?

Discover Piatkus Entice: temptation at your fingertips - www.piatkusentice.co.uk

Release date: April 4, 2013

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 416

Sample

How it all began …


Thwack!

The leather ball aquaplaned across the waterlogged turf, just managing one leaden bounce before it landed soggily at Gemma
Greene’s feet.


‘Go Gemma, go!’ shrieked somebody from the touchline.

Gemma couldn’t tell who it was; in fact she could hardly see the ball through the rain cascading down her face. Somewhere
out on the right wing, Ruth was jumping up and down and waving her arms about, but she was too far away to risk a pass, and
that big midfielder was galloping towards Gemma like a runaway carthorse. Shaking the sopping hair out of her eyes, Gemma
belted the ball out of the puddle with an almighty scooping kick, and scrambled off after it towards the opposing goal.


It was a wet Wednesday afternoon in December, there was freezing mud inside her knickers, and Gemma hadn’t had this much fun
since she’d discovered the high-speed setting on the spin-dryer. The charity football match had developed into an annual event:
the current Glevum Uni women’s first eleven versus Glevum Old Girls. True, these days Gemma and Ruth were starting to feel
rather more old than girly, but what did that matter? If Bev Yates could still squeeze into a pair of football shorts at thirty-seven,
they could manage it at twenty-five.


Besides, this wasn’t just about football, it was about getting together with mates you hadn’t seen for a whole year, catching
up on the gossip, getting plastered and forgetting for a few hours that you were supposed to be a responsible adult.


The only trouble was that, with each year that passed, there were fewer familiar faces in the Old Girls’ boot room. This year,
they had dwindled to three: Ruth, Tammy and Gemma – and they all met every Sunday anyway, turning out for Sandford Tigers.
Andie was living in Beirut now; Caroline had six-month-old triplets; Jo was presenting a nightly talk-show on Belgian television;
and Miriam was training to be a rabbi … And now even Ruth, good old independent, two-fingers-to-convention Ruth, had announced
that she and Ally were getting hitched. Hitched! Suddenly it seemed like everybody in the world was getting married. Well,
everybody but Gemma – because Gemma had more sense.


Only another ten yards to the box. Gemma’s blood was pumping red-hot with exhilaration. Quick turn to the left, feint to the
right, jump over the ball, quick pass to Bev then pick it up again … and run!


‘On me head, on my head!’ yelled Tammy. But the little fullback with the vicious streak brought her down with a neat foul
when the referee’s back was turned, and Gemma was on her own again, streaking into the penalty box. She was only yards away
from scoring the goal of her life.


‘Watch out, Gem … oh hell!’

At first she didn’t understand what Bev was shouting. Then she saw the football boot hurtling towards her. It was on the end
of a short, muddy, ruthless leg; and in about one second’s time it was going to make contact with her head. Some small, long-forgotten
survival instinct made her slide over the top of it; and a moment later, she landed nose-first in the mud.


A whistle blew. Gemma rolled over, blowing like a stranded whale. Ruth squelched across the pitch and hauled her to her feet.

‘Bloody brilliant, Gem!’

‘What!’ Gemma sneezed mud onto her sleeve. ‘Brilliant? What do you mean, brilliant?’

‘Fantastic dive.’ Ruth grinned. ‘Give that girl an Oscar.’ She tucked a wisp of ash-blonde hair behind her ear, and Gemma
marvelled at the way Ruth Hargreaves always managed to be the only player whose shorts were still white at the final whistle.
‘Bev wants you to take the penalty.’


And the next thing Gemma knew, it was one-nil to Glevum Old Girls.

Tammy Winters hobbled across the changing room, holding a pad of blood-stained gauze against her knee.

‘Butchers,’ she seethed between clenched teeth. ‘That’s what that lot are – and what did that ref think he was doing? Did
he leave his guide dog at home, or what?’


Gemma and Ruth nodded their sympathy, and Gemma took a queasy peek at Tammy’s war-wound.

‘Ugh.’

‘Still,’ said Ruth, peeling off her shirt and dropping it into the laundry bin. ‘We won, didn’t we? And that’s worth getting
crocked for.’


‘A couple of stitches and you’ll be fixed up,’ added Gemma encouragingly.

‘Huh!’ Tammy pulled a face. ‘You know, I’m seriously considering taking up something safer. Like white-water rafting.’

‘You say that every year,’ pointed out Gemma. ‘We all do. And every year we turn up.’

‘Well, this time I’m serious,’ insisted Tammy, lowering herself gingerly on to one of the benches and sliding the elastic
band off her scraggy brown pony-tail. ‘Anybody got any TCP …?’


‘Don’t worry about Tammy,’ said Ruth, turning up the shower and stepping under the jet. ‘She loves it really. She’d never
give up football in a million years.’


Gemma wasn’t so sure. As the warm water began sluiching away the mud, grass and gravel, she wondered who’d be here next year
to represent the class of ’93. Just Gemma and Ruth? Or maybe even just Gemma? A pang of sadness passed through her, so swiftly
that she wasn’t quite sure that she had felt it.


‘She’s right though,’ commented Ruth, sticking out an arm and fumbling for the soap. ‘Those kids are butchers, I’ve never seen anything like those sliding tackles. And that centre half of theirs is reading Theology!’


‘Did we ever play that dirty?’ mused Gemma, soaping her arms. ‘I can’t remember.’

Ruth stuck out her head, slicked back her wet hair and winked.

‘Only with the boys, Gem, only with the boys.’ She gave a dirty chuckle. ‘Do you remember that rugby fifteen we met in Aberystwyth?
My but they were big lads …’


‘Well you won’t be playing away any more, will you?’ teased Gemma. ‘Not now you’re going to be an old married lady. I bet Ally won’t
even let you turn out for the Tigers any more, in case some randy bloke sees you in your shorts.’


Ruth snorted.


‘If I want to play football I’ll play football! Besides, Ally’s not the jealous type.’

Gemma tapped the side of her nose.

‘Ah, you might think that now, but what if he changes after you’ve married him?’

Ruth’s response was a gale of laughter.

‘Ally? Can you really see my Ally trying to chain me to the cooker?’

Gemma tried. It wasn’t easy. Ally was a sweetie.

‘Well …’

‘Well nothing. I wouldn’t be marrying him if he didn’t meet all my exacting specifications!’ Ruth stepped out from under the shower and started towelling herself dry. ‘That Rory of yours
though …’


‘What about him?’

‘Better snap him up quick, or you’ll end up an old maid …’

‘I will not!’

‘… with those knee-length nylon bloomers that grannies wear …’

‘Yeah,’ piped up Tammy from across the room. ‘And false teeth and a wig!’

‘Shut up!’ squealed Gemma, almost speechless with laughter.

‘It’s true!’ insisted Ruth. ‘Tell you what, if Ally fails the practical I’ll swap him for Rory.’

‘You bloody well won’t!’ retorted Gemma, suddenly very protective of the man who shared her M&S meals-for-two. And she turned
the shower head on Ruth, who leapt back with a shriek and a curse, slipped on the soap and ended up on her backside in a pool
of water.


‘Now, now, children,’ boomed Bev Yates in that distinctive PE-teacher voice of hers, her vast bulk looming in the doorway.
‘Let’s have a bit of hush.’ She reached over and turned off the shower, then tossed Gemma a towel.


‘Speech, speech!’ chorused voices to the sound of stamping feet. Bev put up her hands and magically the noise stopped.

‘I’ve only got one thing to say to you lot,’ said Bev, a slow grin spreading over her face. ‘Glevum Uni nil, Glevum Old Girls
one!’


Whistles and shrieks bounced off the walls as Bev pressed into Gemma’s hands the tiniest and tackiest trophy she had ever
seen.


‘Player of the match,’ beamed Bev, clapping her on the back so hard that she nearly dropped the trophy down the drain. ‘Here’s
to next year, everybody!’


Somebody opened a bottle. Then another bottle. Then a couple of six-packs and a crate. Then they all jumped in the bath together
and sang four choruses of the Good Ship Venus. It was wonderful. And in a funny way it was also utterly, profoundly sad. Even
as she drank a toast to next year, Gemma was wondering if there’d be a next year. She had the strangest feeling that everyone else’s lives were moving inexorably on, and that she was being left
behind.


And she wasn’t at all sure that she liked it.

‘Ay-ay-ay-ay con-GA, ay-ay-ay-ay con-GA …’


The conga line swayed drunkenly around Jas’s patio and back in through the French windows, shedding a few stragglers as it
went. Gemma skipped smartly out of its way, just managed to avoid spilling her drink down the front of Vic’s reclaimed velvet
dungarees, and ended up treading on her foot instead.


‘Ow!’ winced Vic, wriggling her bruised toes. ‘There’s no need to take it out on me.’

‘I’m not taking anything out on anybody!’ protested Gemma, snatching a sausage roll from a paper plate as it danced past.
If she had to spend New Year’s Eve watching Rory’s mates get bladdered, she bloody well wasn’t going to starve while she was
doing it.


Vic laughed into her organic cauliflower dip.

‘Come off it Gem, you’ve been miserable all night. It is possible to have fun without a bloke.’ She sighed through a mouthful of crudité. ‘I should know.’


‘Yeah, yeah, all right.’ A strand of auburn hair escaped from its moorings and Gemma flicked it irritably back into place.
‘I’m just a bit pissed off, OK?’


Gemma knew she was over-reacting. It wasn’t Rory’s fault his stupid boss had sent the whole management team to the Lake District,
to play ‘team-building’ games in the pissing rain while the rest of the world partied till dawn. It wasn’t his fault that
his boss took a delight in buggering up everybody else’s social life, just because she hadn’t got one of her own. Lisa Hepworth,
Gemma cursed silently, I hope you’re up to your neck in a freezing river, with a dead sheep on your head. This is the first
New Year’s Eve we’ve spent apart in six whole years, and it’s all your fault.


‘Na-na-na-na NAH, HEY! Na-na-na-na NAH, HEY!’ Rory’s mate Jas dropped his pants as the conga-line hurdled the coffee table,
provoking an outburst of raucous cheering. ‘Na-na-na-naaah, na-na-na-NAAAH …’


‘Pillock,’ said Gemma, helping herself to another sausage roll.

‘I don’t see what you’ve got to be so cheesed off about,’ said Vic reasonably, running a hand over the half-inch peroxide
crop that passed for a hairstyle. ‘You’ve got a job and a house and a bloke. A nice, good-looking, faithful bloke who loves you to bits. Oh, and he’s loaded.’


‘Loaded!’ Gemma scoffed. ‘He’s the MD’s PA, Vic, not the MD.’

Vic jabbed a courgette baton under her nose.

‘Listen, Gem. Anyone who buys all his bog roll at Marks and Spencer’s is loaded in my book. Hang on to him, he’s probably
the only decent bloke in Cheltenham.’


A twinge of guilt surfaced through Gemma’s self-pity. Poor Vic. She hadn’t had much luck with men, even in the days when she
and Gemma were at school together. In fact, Vic’s love-life was the romantic equivalent of cowpox.


‘You’ve not really split up with Dave, have you?’

‘Yup.’

‘But I thought …’

‘It was after I got back from that last convoy to Romania. “Vic,” he says, “Orphans, alcoholic pensioners, disabled poodles
– how come you’ve got time for everybody but me? Pack it in or I’m off.” Well I’m not standing for that, am I? So I kicked
him out last Thursday.’


‘Oh Vic,’ groaned Gemma. ‘How are we ever going to get you fixed up with a bloke?’

‘Who says I want to be fixed up?’ demanded Vic, her small, solid body bristling defiance.

‘’Course you do.’ Gemma loved playing the matchmaking game. It was years since she’d been out on the pull herself, so she
got her fun trying to pair off her single mates. Mind you, Vic was a challenge. It wasn’t easy trying to fix up a peroxide
vegan whose idea of social life was serving hot soup to vagrants. She scanned the room. ‘Look, there’s loads of blokes here,
there must be someone you like. What about … Jas?’


‘Oh yeah, I really fancy shacking up with an amoeba.’

Right on cue, Jas came thundering past, a pair of false breasts strapped to his chest and a pair of knickers on his head.
‘Come on girls, who wants to feel my tits?’


‘All right, maybe not Jas. Gabriel?’

Vic scowled through a mouthful of vegetables.

‘Come off it Gem, I’m not into necrophilia.’

‘Simon then.’

Gemma’s green eyes followed Simon Welby across the room to Jas’s chaotic party spread, where he helped himself to a small
glass of white wine and a cheese straw. Sweet. That was the word to describe Simon, thought Gemma. He’d been Rory’s best mate
ever since primary school, and at twenty-six he still looked like an overgrown schoolboy.


‘Simon?’ Vic’s face registered disbelief. ‘Gem, he’s an estate agent!’

‘Yes,’ conceded Gemma, ‘but he’s a very nice estate agent.’

‘No such thing.’

Gemma giggled. ‘Just think, he could help you find a nice flat to buy.’

‘I don’t want a nice flat! I want my grotty flat. And I don’t want to buy anything – I’m an anarchist, remember?’

‘Oh yeah, I forgot,’ smiled Gemma. ‘Does that mean you’re giving up Kit-Kats and donating all your Doctor Who videos to the poor?’


‘Piss off, Gemma. A girl’s got to have a few vices.’ Vic put down the last of the cauliflower dip and wiped her mouth. ‘God,
that was foul.’


‘Then why did you eat it?’

‘Because it was free! And there’s nothing else to do but eat, is there? I mean, if you’re not into bouncing around to the
Smurfs …’


‘You could cop off with Simon,’ teased Gemma.

‘I’ve told you,’ insisted Vic, ‘I’m leaving domestic bliss to you and Rory.’

Gemma pulled a face. ‘You make us sound like an old married couple!’

‘Well you are!’ Vic retorted. ‘As good as. Just like Ruth and Ally.’

‘We are not!’


‘Yes you are. Just you wait – in a couple of years’ time Rory’ll be wearing zip-up tartan slippers and you’ll be doing cross-stitch pictures of fluffy kittens.’


It was horrible, too horrible to contemplate. Gemma put her hands over her face and squealed.

‘Stop it! No way, no way, no way!’

Jas chose that moment to come up and belch fondly in Vic’s ear.

‘Fancy a nibble of my baguette?’

‘Sod off.’

‘Please yourself.’ He leered squiffily at Gemma. ‘Lover-boy’s on the phone for you.’

Gemma’s mouth fell open.

‘What – Rory?’

Jas winked.

‘How many have you got? Yeah, you can take it on the one in the hall.’ He swayed slightly and put his hand right in the cauliflower
dip as he lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. ‘He sounds pissed as a fart if you ask me.’


‘I didn’t.’ Gemma escaped into the hall and closed the door behind her, shutting out most of the zoo noises. She grabbed the
receiver.


‘Rory? Rory, are you still there?’

‘H-hello Gemma. Are you having a good time without me?’

Somewhere in the background, Gemma could hear crashes, bangs and the cacophony of distant merriment.

‘What the hell’s going on there?’

‘Some of the chaps are having a bit of a … party. Oh Gem, I’m missing you.’

Gemma wished Rory was with her so she could box his ears for him.

‘How much have you had to drink, Rory?’

She thought she caught the sound of a mournful hiccup.

‘Just a couple. I’m in the pub. Conding with my bo …’ Rory stopped and started again, choosing his words like a high-wire
walker picking his way along a rope. ‘I’m … bonding … with my … co-workers. I think.’


Gemma sighed. Pissed. As a fart. When would Rory learn that he simply couldn’t hold his drink? Tomorrow morning he’d have
eyeballs like pickled walnuts.


‘Drink some water before you go to bed.’

‘What?’


‘Water. Lots of it. It’ll stop the hangover being too bad.’

‘Water? What about water?’

She knew he was past taking anything in. ‘Oh please yourself, it’s your own lookout.’ Bless him, she thought with a sort of
fond exasperation. He’s hopeless at taking care of himself. Well of course he is. He’s a man.


‘I’m missing you, Gem. Are you missing me too?’

He sounded just like a little boy, thought Gemma, and she couldn’t keep the smile out of her voice.

‘Of course I’m missing you.’

‘Really really?’

‘Really really.’

‘Cross your thingy and … Gem, I can’t remember, what was I saying?’

‘Cross my thingy. What’s up, Rory?’ On the phone line, a woman shrieked with laughter, and then came the sound of running
feet. ‘And what’s all that noise in the background?’


‘Nothing. Just a bit of messing about. Gem …’

‘What?’

‘I’ve got a surprise for you. Do you want to know what it is?’

‘Go on then.’

‘It’s … I can’t remember …’ Suddenly the laughter became so deafening that Gemma could hardly hear Rory.

‘Rory?’

‘Get off, what are you doing? You can’t do that!’

‘Rory?’ Gemma frowned. ‘Rory!’

And then there was a really weird gurgling noise, exactly like the sound of a mobile phone being flushed down the toilet.

And then nothing.

‘Oscar. Oscar no, you can’t eat that!’

The big white bunny rabbit looked up at Gemma with innocent pink eyes, chomping placidly on a hank of red tinsel. She gave
up trying to dismantle the Christmas decorations and scooped him up in her arms. ‘Right, that’s it. You’re going in the kitchen
till I’ve finished.’


It was all very well having a house-trained bunny for a pet, but Oscar’s appetite for everything from cardboard boxes to electrical
wiring made him hard work sometimes. Gemma carried him into the kitchen, shut the door on him and went back into the front room, moving very, very slowly because if she made any
sudden movements it felt as though her head was about to topple off her shoulders. So much for the hangover cure she’d offered
Rory – pity she hadn’t remembered to try it on herself. And that had been quite a party.


The front room of Rory and Gemma’s little terraced house alternated between cosy disorder (when it was Gemma’s turn to do
the housework), symmetrical tidiness (when it was Rory’s), and complete chaos (when neither of them could be bothered). Today
it looked worse than usual. There were Christmas tree baubles scattered all over the new blue carpet, paper chains piled on
top of the Ikea display unit, and the wooden zebra on the hearth was scarcely visible under all the withered holly and mistletoe.


Normally, Gemma would have waited for Twelfth Night to take down the decorations, but this year Christmas felt as if it had
finished early. She was due back at work the next day, and anyway it didn’t feel like Christmas without Rory complaining about
pine needles in his underpants. Today, Gemma felt like sulking.


He was coming home today. Gemma tried very hard to convince herself that she wasn’t really that bothered – after all, she’d
managed perfectly well for these few days on her own, hadn’t she? She had her own friends, her own interests, her own life.
Too right, she thought. And I’m not letting on to Rory that I’ve been completely miserable without him.


She eyed up the mess around her. Five empty coffee mugs, a half-eaten Wispa and a few hairy strips of leg-wax. Could be worse.
Bung the lot in a bin bag, hide it under the stairs and sort it out later. Whizz the hoover round, rearrange the dust a bit,
Rory would never guess she’d spent the last four days slobbing out on the sofa.


As she stood up she caught sight of herself in the mirror over the fireplace. Hmm. Daylight didn’t do her post-party face
any favours. Her pale, lightly-freckled skin had the waxy translucence of dead cod, her unwashed hair was tied up in a pair
of old knickers, and without a bra her bust looked more saggy than voluptuous. Was that a spot forming on the end of her nose?
She leaned forward and stuck out her tongue. It was as grey and furry as the mouldy sausage she’d discovered behind the fridge.
Face it Gemma, she told herself, you’re so sexy you’re dangerous.


Just as she was cramming the last chocolate Santa into her mouth, she heard the back door open. Then Rory’s voice.


‘Hello Oscar. Give us a cuddle then.’

Typical, thought Gemma. He’s been away for four days, and what’s the first thing he does? Snogs the rabbit.

She didn’t call out to him, she wasn’t sure why – but she definitely didn’t intend playing second fiddle to Oscar. Besides,
her mouth was full of chocolate. If Rory wanted her he could come and find her.


There was a rustling noise, like someone rooting through plastic carrier bags, then a soft thump.

‘There, have a carrot. Gem? Gem, where are you?’ The sitting room door opened and Rory stuck his head in. ‘Oh Gem, you’re
in here.’ His face split into a faintly nervous grin. ‘Don’t I get a kiss?’


Gemma threw him a withering look.

‘I’m not sure you deserve one,’ she sniffed.

Rory came into the sitting room and closed the door behind him. He looked worn out, thought Gemma. His jogging pants were
stiff with mud and his rugby shirt was inside-out. His dark brown hair, which always had a mind of its own, had formed a ludicrous
tuft on one side of his head, like a koala’s ear. His square-cut jaw was shadowed with stubble, and even his mischievous grey
eyes had lost their twinkle. For once in his life, Rory the perfect PA looked perfectly helpless.


‘Oh Gem, I’m sorry about the phone call.’ He scraped his fingers through his hair. ‘That cretin from Purchasing swiped my
mobile and threw it in the fish tank.’


‘Oh, right. So they don’t have telephone boxes in the Lake District then?’

Rory winced.

‘I know, I know. I should’ve found a payphone and called you back. But I was a bit …’

‘Pissed?’

‘Completely. And the next day we got dragged up the mountain again, and by the time we came down it was today and I thought
I might as well wait until I got back. I did try calling you from the motorway services, but you were out.’ Rory slipped his
arms round Gemma’s waist. ‘Sorry.’


‘I should think so!’ Gemma let him have a grudging kiss and resisted the urge to drag him straight upstairs to bed.

‘I missed you.’


‘How much?’

Rory grabbed her, engulfed her mouth with his and didn’t let her go until they were both gasping for breath. ‘That much.’

Gemma gazed lovingly into his eyes. ‘Rory.’

‘Hmm?’

‘You smell of sheep.’

‘Do I?’ Rory sniffed his sleeve. ‘Don’t suppose it’s a turn-on, is it?’

‘It might be if I was a sheep.’ Gemma melted as she cuddled close against Rory’s stubbly cheek. ‘So where’s this surprise
you were promising me? Or was that just the drink talking?’


Rory shook his head vigorously.

‘Nope, it’s absolutely real.’

‘Where is it then?’

‘In the kitchen. Oscar’s got it.’

Gemma drew back and gave Rory a funny look.

‘Oscar?’

‘Come on.’ Rory grabbed her head and dragged her towards the kitchen. ‘I want to show you.’ At the kitchen door he put his
hands over her eyes, then nudged her forwards. ‘Right.’ He removed his hands with a flourish. ‘You can look now.’


Gemma blinked. Rory bristled with anticipation.

‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

‘What can you see?’

She looked round the kitchen. ‘Three days’ washing up and …’ She turned to see Oscar sitting on the kitchen table, placidly
munching a carrot. ‘Oh Rory, you shouldn’t put him on the table, he might fall off and hurt himse— what’s that round his neck?’


‘Take a look.’

Gemma bent over the rabbit. Round his neck was a red ribbon, with something shiny threaded through it, like a medal from the
rabbit Olympics. As she realised what it was her heart began to thump.


‘Rory. What …?’

‘It’s a ring,’ said Rory helpfully.

‘I can see that, but …’

‘A ring, Gem. An engagement ring.’

She stared at him, not sure whether to faint or burst out laughing.

‘Is this some kind of joke?’


Rory looked dismayed. ‘OK, I’ll do it properly.’ Pushing a chair out of the way, he dropped to one knee, slipped on a smear
of wet mud and ended up on all fours instead. ‘Gemma,’ he said, a lock of damp hair slipping down over one eye. ‘Gemma … will
you marry me?’


A couple of days later Gemma and Vic were having lunch at the Tipsy Fox café-bar, behind the theatre. Vic was hanging on Gemma’s
every word.


‘Bloody hell. So what did you say?’ Vic’s mouth was open as she chewed and she looked, thought Gemma, like a miniature cement-mixer.

Gemma picked an olive off her pizza and ate it.

‘I said, you’re pissed aren’t you? Well, Rory said he wasn’t but I said come off it, you must be. Then he said he’d just had
a quick one at the Red Horse on the way home …’


Vic’s face screwed up in exasperation.

‘But what did you say? About getting married?’


‘What could I say? I said I’d think about it.’ The corners of Gemma’s mouth twitched as she remembered the moment. ‘And then
the next morning I came down to breakfast, and he’d spelt out WILL YOU MARRY ME GEM in alphabetti spaghetti, all over the tablecloth. Oh Vic, it was so cute.’


Vic shook her head in disbelief.

‘Cute!’ She stopped in mid-munch, as if something terrible had just occurred to her. ‘You haven’t said yes, have you? Don’t
tell me you’ve said yes!’


Gemma laughed.

‘Of course I haven’t!’ She looked down and took an intense interest in a small chunk of pepperoni. ‘But I … er … haven’t exactly
said no either.’


Vic set down her knife and fork with grim deliberation.

‘Gemma …’

Gemma glanced up.

‘I know, I know.’

‘Who was it said she’d rather slice off her own ears than get married? Who was it said Ruth and Ally needed their heads examining?’

Gemma grimaced.

‘OK, it was me.’


‘Bingo. Give that girl a prize.’

‘But Vic … that was before Rory asked me to marry him. Suddenly everything feels so … different.’

Vic rolled her eyes heavenwards.

‘Go on, this I have to hear.’

‘It’s just made me think, that’s all. About where our relationship’s going. It’s been six years, Vic. Maybe this is the right
time to think about getting married. After all, we do love each other – and it’s not as if we’ve ever going to split up, is
it?’


Vic let out a small, fatalistic groan.

‘What did I tell you? Tartan slippers? Fluffy kittens?’

‘And I told you – no way! Besides,’ pointed out Gemma, ‘I haven’t made up my mind yet, have I?’

‘No?’ said Vic sceptically.

‘No. I need time to think. It’s a big decision.’

‘You can say that again,’ replied Vic darkly. She took a swig of Guinness. ‘Look Gem. We’re good mates, aren’t we?’

‘The best.’

‘I’m not trying to say you shouldn’t get hitched, OK? I’m just not sure you know what you’re getting into. Look at Ruth and
Ally’s wedding.’


Gemma had rather hoped Vic wouldn’t bring Ruth and Ally into it. Their wedding was turning into a perfect example of how not
to do it – and there was still another four months of family feuding to get through before their big day. Who’d have thought
such nice, normal, sane people could get so worked up over a few vol-au-vents and a white frock?


‘It needn’t be like that.’ Gemma wondered who she was trying to convince – Vic, or herself. She reached into her handbag,
and took out the little cube-shaped box. She snapped it open. Inside, a solitaire diamond ring nestled on a