My Sister's Wedding

by Vicky Pattison

Genres: Family Life; Humor & Satire; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

For better or worse, two families are about to become one . . . 'Sassy and romantic' Heat 'The perfect summer read' OK! The Ashworth sisters couldn't be more different. Becky is focused, driven and about to marry her lovely fiancé, Daniel Balfour. Lizzie, on the other hand, bounces from one temp job to another, keeps falling for the wrong man and is a whirlwind of chaos in Becky's otherwise well-ordered life. But they love each other fiercely and the Ashworth way has always been family comes first. As preparations for Becky and Daniel's wedding get underway, it soon becomes clear that the Ashworth way is not the Balfour way. Daniel's family have never thought Becky was good enough for him but he loves her and that's always been enough for the happy couple. But when Lizzie gets caught in the crossfire between Becky and the Balfours, Becky and Lizzie find themselves drifting apart at a time when they need each other the most. Will they be able to repair the damage before Becky walks down the aisle? Warm-hearted, fun, witty and romantic, My Sister's Wedding will have you crying with laughter one second, and then crying with emotion the next. A story of sisters, family, love and romance - perfect for fans of Lindsey Kelk and Sarah Morgan.

Release date: June 15, 2017

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 352

Sample

My Uber driver is the chattiest man in London, possibly the UK. I’ve been in this car for only seven minutes and already I know that his name is Dave, that he lives in Shoreditch (but moved there before it ‘got all up its own arse and full of bloody vegan restaurants’), he likes watching The Chase, loves a good jigsaw puzzle when he’s in the mood, and plans on having a Morrisons’ own brand tikka masala for his tea. I try my best to be nice and polite and interested in Dave – nice and polite and interested are the three words people would most use to describe me – but today has been extra-long and a bit crap. It’s not that I don’t care about Dave’s ‘onion bhaji or naan bread’ side dish-based dilemma. It’s just right now I haven’t quite got the energy for small talk. So shushy please, Dave, shhhhuuusssshhhhyyyy.

Instead I make vaguely interested noises and stare out of the cab window as the hustle and bustle of central London whizzes by in a blur of headlights, engine smoke and speeding motorbikes weaving in and out of the traffic. As Dave segues into a passionate speech about his favourite flavours of crisps, I find myself unable to stop the yawn that escapes my mouth with a sleepy squeak.

‘You all right, love?’ Dave asks into the rear-view mirror, his bushy grey eyebrows raising in question.

I smile kindly, feeling bad for yawning in the middle of his big Quavers versus Wotsits monologue.

‘Yeah, sorry about that.’ I shrug my shoulders apologetically, remembering how tight and stiff they’ve been feeling recently. ‘One of those days, you know?’

He nods. ‘You do look knackered, to be fair. All washed out and fed up. Not being funny or anything.’

Mad Bitchy Dave, Maaaaadddd Bitchy . . .

I pull a face. If he’d said that to my sister Lizzie, she’d have leant over the front seat and probably punched him directly in the throat while giving him an acerbic piece of her mind. Sadly, I don’t have Lizzie’s gigantic metaphoric lady balls but I’m not a complete pushover. That’s right, I can stand up for myself when I need to. And I totally intend to give Dave a three-star rating on the Uber app instead of the five-star rating I’d usually award. AHA! How’d you like me now? Yeah, Dave, that’s right – I roll like that. I’m so thug life.

I pull out my phone and open my camera app, jumping in fright as it illuminates my face. Dave might be a cheeky bastard, but he is right. I’m looking pretty rough tonight – in fact, I look like a bag of piss. I sigh to myself as we drive down Marylebone Road. This day just gets better and better. I love my job, I really do, but it’s hard work and sometimes it gets to me. I’m a commissioning editor at a big publishing house called Richmond Books and one of my authors is behaving like a complete and utter fruitcup just one week before the release of her debut novel. It’s all got out of hand and dealing with her has been incredibly stressful – trying to calm her down is like trying to push water uphill with a fork – and now I look terrible on date night, of all nights. Date night, by its very nature, is the night I’m supposed to look gorgeous, irresistible, like a glowing goddess of seduction and sophistication and instead I look like a foot. Daniel and I may have been together since we met at university in Leeds, he may have seen me with Jolen tash-bleach blobbed on my upper lip and I may have found him lying in bed covered in half-eaten kebab and dressed as a giant baby after one particularly prolific rugby team night out, but Friday night is the night that we forget all that and, regardless of our busy schedules, social lives, family dramas or even the fact that we live together, we go out. Like the two loved-up adults we are. We go out and chat lovely chat, kiss amazing kisses, catch up with each other’s news, laugh and eat and drink and go home and make love like it’s the first time. Okay, perhaps not the first time – we were both virgins the first time and it was super awkward, really fast and a little bit shit. So I suppose what I mean is we go home and make love like it’s the fifth time (we found our stride by the fifth time – it was plain sailing in the sex department from that moment on. I’d give us a four star rating on the Uber app).

I rummage around my handbag for my favourite Charlotte Tilbury bronzer and highlighter, to try to make myself look less like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. It takes me ages to find them because my bag is overflowing with stuff and jam-packed with general rubbish. My best friend Lauren calls me Mary Poppins because my bag is so big and holds stuff for every eventuality. Plasters, needle and thread, spare toothbrush, make-up, ballet flats, iPad, passport, charger, tissues, painkillers and a Tangle Teezer. I just like to be prepared, is all. What’s so wrong with that? When you grow up with a mum who takes off to God-knowswhere when you’re fifteen, a little sister who’s a real handful and a dad who, while totally lovable, is clueless to most practical aspects of bringing up two daughters, you learn to prepare for . . . well, for everything.

Once I’ve found it, I pat the highlight across the top of my cheekbones before fishing out my favourite nude NARS lipstick and applying a slick across my lips. I take out my comb and run it quickly through my dark brown bob so that it settles back into the chic, sleek and sharp style that cost me almost a week’s salary.

There. I smile at myself in the camera screen. That’s better. I look human, at least. A slightly weary human, maybe – a human with the flu, perhaps? Or six small children? But human nevertheless.

When we pull up outside Nando’s in Bayswater, there he is. Waiting outside the glass double doors looking like something out of a Hugo Boss advert. Daniel Balfour. Boyfriend of nine years, fully paid member of the stud muffin society, love of my life and all-round sort. I watch, smiling, as he leans down to pet a pug who’s just run over to sniff his shoes. The owner of the pug – an elderly woman – beams at Daniel in delight as he coos over the dog. Daniel has that effect on people and small dogs apparently. They love him. He’s genuinely good and nice and all of the things you want the love of your life to be (FIT! He is insanely FIT!). I watch him say goodbye to the elderly lady with a charming wave and my rubbish week, my crazy author, my sleep-deprived and haggard appearance start to fade. Daniel Balfour – the ultimate cure for a shitty day.

I laugh as Daniel spots me exiting the Uber. He looks even smarter than usual in a sharp navy Armani suit, his blond hair foppish and shiny, a strand falling delightfully over one gorgeous blue eye. God, what have I done to deserve this man? I thought.

‘Hello, angel.’ He grins, leaning in for a kiss.

‘Hello, you.’ I accept the kiss gratefully, reminded of the way me and Lauren accepted our first gin and tonics in the airport after that juice retreat we did in Marrakech. Ahhhhh, good times.

Mmmmmm. Daniel’s kisses are insane. Not that I have many men to compare with (only two – well, two and a half as I sort of kissed Jonny Miller in year seven but the dinner lady caught us behind the PE equipment shed so our moment of passion was cut short. I still count it though) but I’m pretty sure that if there was a national kissing Olympics he’d take the gold, silver and bronze for Team GB.

I giggle as I take him in in his suit. And then I peer down at me in my TopShop shift dress and River Island shoes. We don’t exactly look like the kind of people who’d frequent Nando’s on a Friday night. But it’s where Daniel took me for our first date in Leeds and I must admit, I do have an enormous soft spot for their hummus and peri-peri drizzle.

Daniel opens the door for me, ever the gentleman, and I’m struck by how quiet it is in here tonight. In fact, it’s silent. There are no other customers! I glance at Daniel with a frown, desperately hoping that they haven’t been closed for bad hygiene standards. As I said, I love their hummus and peri-peri drizzle but if it turns out they’ve got rats or something I’ll be changing date-night venue to Pizza Express quicker than you can say ‘garlic dough balls’. But Daniel just grins, unfazed by the fact that it’s 7.30 on a Friday night and we’re the only two people in Nando’s. This man is cool as a cucumber in a bowler hat, and ah well, if he’s not worried by our restaurant’s apparent lack of popularity, I’m not either. I suppose he can protect me from the killer rats.

Daniel takes my hand and leads me to a booth decked out with roses of pink, white and yellow and tiny candles nestled in little jam jars. The leather seats are scattered with pink rose petals. There is no menu, no placemats, no cutlery, no garlic peri-peri sauce on the table. Huh? And then I notice that the music playing isn’t the usual Nando’s Samba, but the strains of a Pussycat Dolls song. The song that was playing the first time Daniel and I kissed on the sweaty, dark dance floor of Starlitez nightclub in Leeds town centre on their ‘buy three Jagerbombs for a fiva’ night.

‘Daniel?’ I turn to him, a happy but slightly confused smile spreading across on my face. I look around and there’s no one else around. Not even a waitress.

Daniel gestures to the decorated booth, looking slightly nervous. ‘Is this . . . is this okay?’

‘It’s beautiful,’ I reply softly.

And then it occurs to me.

Is he . . . is he about to do what I think he’s about to do?

Slowly, Daniel lowers himself onto one knee.

Macho Peas! This is happening.

I feel the tears slide down my face before he’s even got the words out. I start to laugh. He laughs at my laughing.

‘Bex,’ he says, his voice catching. ‘Nine years ago today I saw you in the student union, sitting cross-legged, wearing those big nerdy glasses and a Fruit of the Loom jumper, your hair all piled on top of your head like a bird’s nest, nursing a pint of snakebite and black and reading a copy of Pride and Prejudice. I knew then that you were special, that you were different. And I was right. You’re everything to me. The only person in my life who expects nothing from me and in turn gives me so much happiness. You light up my life and I want to light up yours for as long as we, you know,’ he laughs, a little embarrassed, ‘both shall live.’

Through the blur of my tears I see him pull a red velvet box from his inside jacket pocket. He opens it to reveal a beautiful platinum ring with an elegant princess-cut diamond nestling on the top. Holy hummus and pittas, this is DEFINITELY happening.

‘Daniel,’ is all I can manage to choke out.

‘Bex. Will you marry me?’

I’m engaged! I can’t believe that I’m engaged. I always knew Daniel and I would take the step eventually. We’re soulmates, so of course we were always going to get married one day. But I didn’t expect him to ask this year! He’s been so busy working at his dad’s company, trying his hardest to impress his frankly unimpressible father, that I didn’t expect he’d have the time to think about marriage. But he has and he did and now we’re engaged. I have a fiancé! I am a fiancée! Oooohhh, I feel so grown-up and fancy!

A waitress arrives with our food and another sashays over with the off-menu bottle of champagne that Daniel has clearly had them bring in from a nearby wine shop. Two plates piled high with chicken, chips, halloumi, sweet potato mash and of course hummus and peri-peri drizzle are served. I look around and I can’t help thinking how unusual this all is. The candlelit booth, the soundtrack – a playlist of all the songs we listened to at university. It feels surreal, like the most romantic restaurant in the world, not Nando’s Bayswater. I can’t believe the thought and effort he’s put into this. I well up again thinking of all the adorable little personal touches and the lengths Daniel has gone to in order to make this special and perfect.

‘I was thinking a late summer wedding,’ Daniel says, tucking into his chicken wrap. ‘I know it’s only four months away, but why wait?’

A flicker of excitement ignites in my stomach. Daniel and I usually plan and research and plan again and outline every big decision on our lives. Planning a wedding for four months’ time? It feels so spontaneous and romantic, like he can’t wait and wants to become my husband as quickly as possible. My husband. I like the sound of that.

‘Sounds perfect,’ I say. I think about a late summer wedding. Golden skies, bridesmaids in palest pink, Pimms and Prosecco and big bowls of strawberries dipped in white chocolate, candles flickering in jam jars as the sun sets.

I sigh happily and shove a big forkful of mash into my mouth, as Daniel excitedly mentions beautiful St John’s Church near our flat in Notting Hill that might work as the venue.

Work might have been tricky this week, but it’s amazing how much can change in the space of a few hours – my nutty author, rude Uber driver and stressful week have just faded completely away. I’m so incredibly lucky.

‘I’m so excited,’ Daniel says, lifting his champagne glass up in a toast.

‘Me too,’ I say, clinking my glass against his. ‘This is the happiest day of my life!’

I wake up with a mouth drier than a nun’s vagina and a head pounding like there’s a production of Stomp going on up there.

To be fair, I probably did drink an entire bottle of rum last night.

Fuck! Fuckety fucking fuckwinkle tits.

I open one sticky eye. Okay, so the good news: I am in bed alone. Lizzie 1–Rum 0. The bad news? I’m not quite sure whose bed it is. One all. I sit bolt upright and as I do, my head feels like it might fall off.

Argh!

‘Hello . . . ?’ I venture out into the empty room. I rub the dried mascara from my eyes and look around for clues as to where I might be, like some sort of slaggy Sherlock Holmes. ‘Helloooo?’

Clean sheets. That’s a good thing. Hygiene is very important when choosing a sexual partner. I congratulate Last-Night-Me for not choosing to go home with some dude with a bedroom that smells like a mixture of Lynx, garlic sauce and stale sperm. Which has, unfortunately, happened on more than one occasion.

A wooden floor with a lovely Indian rug. Oooh. This man is well travelled and has good interior design taste. Another pat on the back for Drunken Me from last night.

To the side of me, there’s a small bedside table with a whole pint of water, undrunk, sitting on top of it. Awww. This mystery potential bonk has taken the time to make sure I’m well hydrated. How sweet!

This is good. This has potential. Drunken Me has seriously upped her game – the last time I woke up like this the geezer had a room full of hand puppets. Extreme creepy vibes. Not ideal on a hangover. Not ideal ever, really.

And then I spot a white satin dressing gown with pink marabou fluff around the edges.

Oh no . . . That’s a wife’s dressing gown. Did I . . . did I do it with a married guy?

Lizzie! Ugh. You harlot! You home-wrecker! How could you? I mentally punch myself in the face and jump out of the bed, only to realise that I’m fully clothed. Hmm. The plot thickens. Maybe I didn’t shag a married guy, after all.

I’m just downing the pint of now-stale water when the door bursts open and a woman of about forty-five marches in.

Is this the wife? Bollocks! I’ve been caught.

‘I’m so sorry!’ I splutter before she can say a word. ‘I have a rule to not ever get with married guys. I must have been so drunk. Like work-Christmas-party-when-you-end-up-kissing-Barry-from-HR drunk!’

The woman laughs out loud, her kind eyes crinkling at the edges. She doesn’t seem to be bothered about this at all.

‘You were certainly drunk, Lizzie.’

How does she know my name? Holy shit – did I engage in some kind of suburban threesome last night? Am I a lesbian now? Why can’t I remember? This is a new low, even for me.

My thoughts must be pretty clear because the woman says, ‘I’m Darlene. The landlady of the Horse and Machine, remember? This is my pub.’

‘We’re in a pub?’

‘You fell asleep at the bar last night. You told your friend to leave you there. I tried waking you up and you told me that I smelled like strawberry Pop Tarts and summer holidays, if I remember correctly, and that we were going to be best friends for ever, and then you fell back asleep.’

Well, this is awkward. Darlene seems perfectly nice but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to be best friends with her. I already have a best friend and he smells like chocolate croissants and afternoons at the beach which tops whatever Darlene smells like by far. I feel something buzzing in my jeans pocket and pull out my phone. It’s a text from said best friend. One of many texts. And then I notice the time on the phone. Half past four in the afternoon? I jump up from the bed, fly past Darlene and open up the blackout curtain. It’s total daylight. I was supposed to be at work, like seven hours and twenty-five minutes ago. Oh, shit. I can’t lose another job! Becky will go nuts. Dad will be so disappointed! Huge bag of titty ass!

‘Why didn’t you wake me up?’ I ask Darlene in exasperation. Her kind eyes flash a little.

‘Well, in between putting you to bed late last night, and working all day in my pub, I haven’t really been thinking too deeply about whether you’d be late for YOUR job. I assumed you were a student, to be honest.’

‘A student? Aw, Darlene, that’s so sweet of you but I’m actually twenty-three, although everyone says I look younger. It might be this anti-ageing face cream that I use – I think it’s Nivea, or maybe it’s Olay . . . ’

LIZZIE!! What are you doing wittering about face cream with this random, albeit very nice, virtual stranger? You’re late for work AGAIN. Shut up and get out of there, you knob!

Darlene raises an eyebrow slightly. ‘Right. Well, um, oh dear.’

I don’t like the look she’s giving me. It’s judgey. Way too judgey for this time in the morning. Well, afternoon.

Shit.

‘Thanks for looking after me. I need to go see if there’s any way I can save my job. Can I give you some money or something?’

Darlene shakes her head and then looks at her watch. ‘Well, how late are you?’

I pull a face. ‘Seven and a half hours.’

Darlene stares at me in horror for a moment before bursting into laughter. ‘You better hurry up, then.’

With a grimace I grab my handbag from where it’s twisted around the leg of an armchair and take off.

As I hop down the stairs I can still hear Darlene laughing at me.

So that’s another pub I can’t come back to. Shame – this one had real potential.

After an uncomfortable, headachy five-minute run through the centre of Camden, I reach Paulo’s Diner where I work as a waitress. I’ve only been there for three months. Before that I was an usher at the cinema but got fired for drinking all the raspberry Ice Blasts and never paying for them. #yolo

I burst in through the doors of the diner. A couple of elderly gentlemen look up from where they’re sipping espressos in tiny cups.

‘I’m sorry!’ I shout to Paulo who is behind the counter, arms folded. He doesn’t look happy. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I forgot to set my alarm and I woke up in a pub, well, upstairs in a pub, you know, in the living quarters, and I thought I’d had a threesome, but don’t worry I hadn’t, but I still I didn’t know where I was and this job is very important to me and I will make this up to you, I promise.’ I grab Paulo’s hands, pleading, aware that I’ve probably just given him a little bit too much information.

‘Ah – five minute late, I understand. Ten minute. Maybe even twenty or thirty minute because Paulo is understanding guy. But a whole day late? I’m sorry, bella. I cannot accept this.’

‘Noooo!’ I run my hands through my curls. ‘I’m already crashing on the sofa at my best mate Jay’s house, and I owe Bex so much money already – I reeeeeally need this job!’

‘I don’t know Jay. I don’t know Bex. Why you shouting at me the names of people I do not know?’

I try a different tack – he’s right, of course, he has no idea who those people are. ‘Other than today, I’m a really great waitress. Well, I’m a good waitress.’ I see Paulo’s face twisting in disagreement. ‘OK, OK . . . I’m a slightly above average waitress? But I really try!’

‘Lizzie, you are a bad waitress. You are an OK waitress on a very good day . . . You spill things, you do not remember people’s orders—’

‘All right, Paulo. Way to kick a girl when she’s down. Come on, please give me another chance.’ Oh God, oh God, oh God. I can’t lose another job.

‘No, Lizzie, your chances have ended. I cannot set this example for my other staff. I’m sorry, bella. You snooze you lose.’

A couple of the customers tut and sigh in my direction. I exhale, defeated. I literally did snooze and lose. Even I can’t argue about that. Balls. Why can’t life just be simple and fun and easy? Jeeeeez.

‘OK. I guess that’s it. Bye then, Paulo,’ I say sadly, slinking towards the doors. Away from a perfectly good job. I quite liked it there too. They played old school American rock ’n’ roll and the tips were good. Where else will I find a job that plays American rock ’n’ roll and gives me a free cheeseburger for my lunch? I could try Frankie & Benny’s, I suppose, but I’m too distraught to even think about applying for another job right now.

‘Bye, Lizzie,’ Paulo replies cheerfully, as if he hasn’t just fired my spaghetti-spilling, excuse-making, perma-late arse. You cold-hearted tosser, Paulo.

Outside the diner, I take a fifteen-minute walk to the high street (stopping via Boots for some paracetamol, Berocca and water – now that I can add jobless to my list of problems, this hangover headache just became a whole lot more aggressive) where Jay works at Edge Men’s Boutique, a pretentious clothes shop for pretentious men who call each other ‘bro’, or have beards and tell everyone they’re vegan or businessesy types who spend more on a belt than most people would a couple months’ rent. It’s almost 5 p.m. so he should be finishing soon. He’ll cheer me up. He always does.

As I enter the store I notice Jay is helping a suave businessman pick out some jeans. I plonk myself down on one of the plush leather armchairs by the fitting rooms, watching Jay’s interaction with amusement. The customer is married – I can tell by the big wedding ring on his finger – but Jay is still flirting up a storm. Jay has a thing for straight men. And he’s successful with them more often than you’d think. He’s tall and tanned and more groomed than any woman I’ve ever met. His green eyes sparkle with mischief and he is always in a good mood. But more than that, he’s fun. People like hanging out with Jay because he’s good old-fashioned fun. I recognised this in college, before he got his teeth done, before he got the tan and the confidence and the style, back when he was obsessed with Eminem and had terrible bleached hair. I bagged him as my bestie nice and early, before his uber glow-up. He is mine and I am his. And I can safely say ours is the most successful and healthy relationship I’ve had with a man ever.

Five minutes later the married man has left with a new pair of jeans, Jay’s phone number and a slightly redder face. Jay shimmies over to me, shaking his shoulders in a way that makes me laugh, despite the fact that I’m having a pretty shitty day.

‘Bitch needs to answer her texts,’ he mock tells me off. One of his pet peeves is to be left textually hanging. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be at work anyway?’ he says in his lilting Geordie accent, leaning down to give me a kiss on my cheek.

‘Got fired. I was late. Seven hours late. Why did you let me fall asleep at the pub?’ I give him my grumpy face.

Jay sits down on the chair beside me. ‘I tried to wake you up, Lizzie! You told me to fuck off. You told me that bar stool was like sleeping on a cloud. And then that landla. . .