Tales From A Honeymoon Hotel: a warm and witty holiday read about life after 'I Do'

Book 0: Honeymoon

by Sheila Norton (writing as Olivia Ryan), Sheila Olivia Ryan)

Genres: Holiday books; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

'An addictive summer read'Closer - 4*

Three newly-wed couples. Three honeymoons. One hotel. And the ultimate question: will true love really conquer all?

Hotel Angelo, Croatia. Offers temptingly romantic views, unexpected exes and some serious doubts after 'I Do'

Gemma and Andy Collins are childhood sweethearts and madly in love. Gemma is determined to have the perfect honeymoon after their perfect wedding - except that nothing seems to be going to plan. Soon she discovers that they are not the only honeymooners at the hotel, nor the only ones with a secret lying between them . . .

Jo and Mark Weston, a young couple who should have stars in their eyes, seem oddly subdued - and strangely matched, while older couple Ruby and Harold Dimmock are finally free to enjoy their lives together, but guilty consciences cast a shadow on their golden years.

Over their holiday, all three couples will discover that an immediate post-wedding happy-ever-after is not always guaranteed, but also that true love is worth fighting for . . .

Praise for Sheila Norton (writing as Olivia Ryan):
'Like a good cappuccino, there's more to this book than just an enjoyable, witty read' Katie Fforde
'This is a delightful novel that many women will relate to' Woman's Weekly Fiction Special

Release date: January 31, 2013

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 384

Sample

Gemma

It’s evening when our little boat approaches the island from the mainland, the sun sinking behind the dark huddle of land that gradually takes shape, as we chug nearer, into folded mountains, gently rippling into slopes of vivid green, and, finally, rising out of the twilight as if they’d been hiding from the night, clusters of houses perched precariously on cliff-tops and hillsides and down on the shore. We hold our breath, watching the dusky landscape gradually drawing nearer, the flickering lights of windows and street lamps casting their shimmering reflections on the inky sea.

The boatman steers steadily closer and suddenly a promontory looms proud of the coast, cluttered with a confusion of red-roofed, stone-walled buildings, sheltered by ancient fortified walls and topped by a high-spired church. There’s a cheerful tangle of white masts on the boats bobbing in the harbour beneath the walls.

‘Korula Town,’ says the boatman. ‘It’s the main town of Korula island. Your hotel is just outside of it.’

‘Do we have to walk?’ says Andy, looking doubtfully at our two heavy suitcases wedged under the seats of the boat.

‘No. I take you to your hotel.’

‘Do we swim ashore?’ I whisper to Andy as we chug a little further down the coast.

But almost as soon as I’ve spoken, we’re pulling into a little wooden jetty where the boatman jumps out, ties up the boat and heaves our cases out.

‘This way,’ he says, heading off into the gloom with a suitcase under each arm as if they were no heavier than shopping bags.

‘Quick, Gem,’ says Andy, laughing as he helps me out of the boat. ‘I think he’s doing a runner with our luggage!’

‘As long as he leaves my case behind …’ I begin, gasping suddenly and holding on to Andy’s arm as I nearly slip over on the slimy surface of the jetty.

This is a new joke between us. We thought we’d lost one of our cases at Dubrovnik Airport – the one with all my clothes in. After all the things I’ve had to think about for the wedding, during the last few weeks, I completely forgot my usual rule about packing half of our clothes into each case, so that if we lose one, neither of us has to go naked or wear dirty clothes for the entire holiday.

‘You’re supposed to be naked for your honeymoon,’ Andy teased me when I said this to him after we finally found the missing case on the wrong luggage carousel.

‘That’s a male myth,’ I retorted, laughing, ‘like the one about not getting out of bed for the whole two weeks.’

‘You mean that’s not going to happen?’ he said, pretending surprise and disappointment.

‘Well, I suppose it depends on how nice you are to me …’ I amended with a flirty smile. But we both knew quite well that, after all the stresses and strains of the wedding preparations, the journey (including the three-hour coach trip from the airport, plus this short boat ride over to the island) was going to leave us both so shattered that if there was going to be any lying in bed naked tonight, it was more likely to involve a long, long sleep than anything more energetic!

We catch up with the boatman on the shore. In front of us, a flight of shallow steps leads up to a white, balconied building with a steeply sloping roof and large open windows overlooking the sea.

‘This – your hotel,’ he tells us proudly, as if he’d built it himself. ‘You go this way, up steps. Reception is through door at top.’

Andy thanks him and passes him a couple of notes. He takes my arm and we watch the little boat turning and beginning the journey back to Orebi on the other side of the channel, then he squares his shoulders, picks up the cases and I follow him up the steps.

The insignificant-looking door at the side of the small hotel opens into a surprisingly spacious foyer with an artistic display of greenery and a couple of comfy-looking sofas – although, to be honest, anything would look comfy after a couple of hours on a plane and three on a coach. We head over to the reception desk where a solemn-looking man with wavy dark hair combed over a balding pate, and wearing a bright red bow-tie, welcomes us to Hotel Angelo and introduces himself as Tomislav, the hotel manager.

‘I do not mind,’ he says rather grandly, ‘if you like to call me Tomi.’ And with a little bow he proceeds to give us quite a lengthy speech, in rather formal English, about how much he hopes we will enjoy our stay. He then relieves us of our passports in return for our room key and calls a porter to take our luggage up to the second floor.

Once inside our room, Andy immediately collapses on the bed with a groan of exhaustion. I head straight for the windows where a French door opens on to the balcony.

‘Look at this,’ I breathe, half to myself – but a minute later Andy’s beside me, leaning on the balcony rail, and together we stare at the view. Back along the coast, the lights of Korula Town and the little harbour are blinking up at us. In the other direction the mountains of the mainland undulate against the grey horizon. Little boats, tied up in the harbour, bob gently on the shallow waves. Below us a middle-aged couple sit hand-in-hand at the edge of the sun terrace, watching the light fading across the sea.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I say, sighing and hugging Andy happily.

‘Perfect,’ he agrees. ‘Absolutely perfect. Well done, Gem.’

Croatia wasn’t Andy’s first choice for the honeymoon. He’d originally wanted us to go back to Egypt. We went there a couple of years ago, to one of the Red Sea resorts, and although we both enjoyed it – the weather, of course, was the main attraction, as well as the superb snorkelling off the coral reefs – I was actually a bit disappointed by Sharm-el-Sheikh. As a teenager, I’d fallen in love with the whole idea of Egypt. I’d seen an advert once – a huge golden sun rising over the desert, with a procession of camels being led by a smiling and very good-looking boy in a white djellabah and sandals. I’d cut it out and put it under my pillow. I’d like to say that to me it represented the Promised Land, but in all honesty I probably just had the hots for the camel boy. Of course, I didn’t think I was going to find him in Sharm-el-Sheikh, any more than I expected to find camels. But long after the page with the advert on had been crumpled up and thrown away, long after I’d finished studying the Nile Delta in geography lessons, my fascination with Egypt had continued, bolstered by library books and TV documentaries about Tutankhamun. But, of course, Sharm-el-Sheikh is a modern resort and it had about as much to do with the history and romance of Ancient Egypt as Milton Keynes does. I didn’t want to go back there for our honeymoon.

‘We could go to a different Red Sea resort this time,’ Andy had suggested when we’d started looking at brochures this year. ‘And a five-star hotel, as it’s our honeymoon. All-inclusive.’

‘I don’t particularly want five-star,’ I protested. ‘Or all-inclusive. I just want to go somewhere … a bit more special.’

‘Florida, then? Or the Caribbean? Australia even?’ He was flicking through the pile of brochures we’d brought home.

‘No. It doesn’t have to be far. It just has to be … special.’

He laughed at me gently, teasing me as usual about being a hopeless romantic.

‘You choose then,’ he said with a shrug. ‘It’ll be special enough for me, Gem, just being with you. Being married to you.’

He’s good at saying the right thing, I’ll give him that. But he does tend to leave the major decisions to me. It was great when it came to furnishing our house.

What colour do you think we should have in the lounge?

I don’t mind. It’s up to you.

Do you like this leather sofa? This cream rug? These brown curtains?

Yes. If you do.

Sometimes I could hope for a bit more enthusiasm. It’s not that I ever wanted to take charge, or be the dominant one in our relationship; just that Andy’s so easy-going, and someone has to get things done! But at least I got to choose the honeymoon. The pile of brochures was doing my head in, but a couple of days later I was thumbing through a copy of Weddings Today, and there in the honeymoon section, under the heading ‘Croatian Island Dreams’, was a feature specifically about the island of Korula. The picture showed the view of the little town that we just saw from the boat – but in sunshine, with the roofs shining bright red and orange, a pink morning light warming the church spire and the old stone walls, the sea such a bright turquoise it hurt your eyes to look at it. As I read the article, becoming more and more excited by the description of the little harbour, romantic views and steep cobbled streets packed with restaurants, bars and quaint little shops, a reference to the Hotel Angelo – ‘perfect for honeymooners’ – caught my eye. ‘Charming, friendly small hotel in wonderful location on the edge of the bay, all rooms with balconies and lovely sea views.’

‘This is the place,’ I told Andy, with such conviction that he got straight on the internet and found the hotel before he’d even finished reading about it. We booked the same day. And here we are, Mr and Mrs Andrew Collins, married since yesterday, together since we were fourteen and in the same class at school. Happy in love and together forever.

Ruby

‘There’s another new couple arriving,’ I tell Harold, who’s dozing in his chair next to me. It’s getting dark now; we’ve sat here on the sun terrace outside the hotel since dinner, watching the sun go down over the sea, and it’s still so warm I’ve got no desire to go back inside. ‘I wonder if they’re honeymooners too.’

‘Why should they be?’ he says, opening his eyes and following the direction of my gaze.

The young couple are at the bottom of the steps, by the jetty. They turn and watch their boat heading back to the mainland. The girl gives the boatman a friendly wave as her partner picks up the cases and starts to climb the steps.

‘Because the hotel’s been recommended, apparently – in a wedding magazine. The manager – Tomislav – said so. They’ve been flooded out with bookings from British honeymooners. Quite funny, really. He says almost every couple he’s checked in this week has got the free Champagne and flowers in their room.’

‘Good for their business, then. Nice touch, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. I’m not sure it was a good idea to drink all the Champagne before we had dinner, though! I still feel tipsy, and look at you – you’re half asleep!’

He smiles ruefully and squeezes my hand.

‘Sorry. I’m not very good company, am I?’

‘Don’t be daft. It was such a long journey, wasn’t it? No wonder we’re both tired. We’ll be all right tomorrow,’ I try to reassure him, wondering even as I’m saying it whether in fact he will be all right at all.

He’s made the biggest, most amazing effort to get here in the first place – to please me, to come for our honeymoon to the romantic island I’ve dreamed about visiting ever since I read a novel set here, in the former Yugoslavia before their war. Harold booked the honeymoon to please me. He arranged the flights and the hotel and gave me the confirmation print-outs as a surprise, a couple of weeks before our wedding. I wasn’t expecting a honeymoon, you see: not because we couldn’t afford it, but because Harold had said it wouldn’t seem right in the circumstances. I didn’t argue because I understood. Of course I did. But he must have thought it over, and decided to put his own feelings aside to please me.

‘Isn’t that what it’s all about, Rube?’ he said when I almost cried with surprise and pleasure at his thoughtfulness. Korula, of all places! How had he even remembered that I wanted to come here? ‘Doing whatever it takes to please each other?’

‘But … will you be OK?’ I asked him doubtfully. ‘Is it really what you want?’

‘I want to marry you, Ruby Atkins. More than anything … it’s what I’ve wanted all these years!’ he said fiercely, holding me in a bear-hug as if he was afraid I was going to run away. As if!

‘I know. But – a honeymoon too? You’re sure you feel up to it?’

‘I’m sure,’ he said, nodding as determinedly as though he’d agreed to take part in the London Marathon.

I think that’s how it feels, actually, to him. I almost feel guilty now for agreeing to this. But when we arrived this afternoon, when we saw this sweet little hotel and the view from our window, when we’d showered and changed and sat on the balcony drinking our Champagne, I thought: You’ve done it, Ruby girl. You’ve not only married the love of your life, you’ve mended his broken heart and made him whole again.

Daft old cow. Been reading too many of those romantic novels again, I suppose. Looking at him now, seeing the tired, sad look back in his eyes again, I’m not so sure. The trouble with those novels and romantic films is that there are places they don’t go, things behind the scenes they don’t show you. You never see the beautiful heroine shaving under her arms or coping with nasty periods. You don’t see the tall dark handsome hero caught out with a bad attack of diarrhoea. Or not being able to get an erection.

‘They look like they might be on their honeymoon,’ I say, watching the young couple again as they disappear round the side of the hotel with their suitcases.

‘How can you tell?’ says Harold with a smile.

‘I don’t know. Body language. She reminded me a bit of my Karen,’ I add wistfully. Same long dark hair, same melodic laugh ringing out in the distance. Same sort of age as Karen when she married Stuart. Except that Karen’s been divorced now for nearly a year. Like mother, like daughter.

‘They looked a bit more cheerful than that last pair anyway,’ says Harold, closing his eyes again. ‘I doubt whether they’re on their honeymoon. She looked totally bloody miserable.’

‘I think she was pregnant.’

Harold’s eyes fly open again.

‘Good God, woman! You don’t miss much, do you? We didn’t get much more than a glimpse of them!’

They arrived earlier, while it was still light. While we were drinking the Champagne on the balcony. We watched the boat tying up at the jetty and the boatman, who seems to be a familiar figure here, helping them out with their luggage. Even from our balcony we could hear the guy calling after the girl as she struggled with a suitcase: ‘Put it down, Jo! For God’s sake! You’ll hurt yourself!’

‘I’m not an invalid!’ she called back irritably. ‘I’m all right, it’s not heavy.’

He took the case from her, nevertheless, as they climbed the steps. She was frowning slightly as they came closer and I saw her pass her hand over her stomach, just once, with the expression of mild surprise I remember so well from when my babies were growing inside me. Swimming around energetically like wriggling little tadpoles, before they got so big that the movements were more restricted, more like being dug on the inside of my belly by sharp little elbows and knees.

‘Are you sure you’re OK, babe?’ I heard him ask her anxiously before they disappeared out of sight round the corner.

‘I reckon she’s about four months. Maybe four and a half. Not big enough to be any further on.’

‘Amazing,’ says Harold, still smiling at me. ‘It must be some sort of female instinct. Something you’re all born with – this innate understanding of pregnancy and childbirth. Jeannie used to talk about it and understand it all, too, even though we never had any …’ He pauses and sighs heavily. ‘Sorry, Rube. Sorry.’

‘It’s OK.’ I reach out and take his hand, holding it loosely in mine. Loosely the way I’ve always tried to hold him – as if I always knew that if I gripped too tightly, I’d squeeze all the hope out of him. ‘We can still talk about her, can’t we, Harold? Let’s never think we have to stop talking about Jeannie.’

He swallows a couple of times, not looking at me, staring out over the darkened bay.

‘Shall we go inside now?’ he says flatly. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling dead beat.’

‘Yes,’ I agree, trying to sound cheerful. ‘It’s been a long old day, hasn’t it?’

‘We’ll be all right in the morning,’ he says again, helping me to my feet.

Well, let’s wait and see. That’s what I’m used to anyway. Waiting and seeing.

Jo

I wish he wouldn’t do this. Fuss, fuss, fuss. I keep telling him: I’m pregnant. Not sick, not dying, for God’s sake. I’m sorry, it’s all just a bit over the top. It’s getting on my nerves.

‘You must be tired, babe,’ he says, almost as soon as we set foot in the room. Our room. Our honeymoon room. Jesus, it does feel weird.

‘I’m OK,’ I say, for the twentieth time since we got off the boat.

‘Have a lie down. Close your eyes. I’ll get you a drink of water …’

‘No, Mark! I said – I’m OK!’ I don’t like the tone of my voice – snappy, irritated. I feel like a bitch. I make an effort, try to smile at him.

‘Look, they’ve left us Champagne. Pour some of that out instead.’

‘You mustn’t drink it,’ he reminds me sternly.

‘I know that.’ I drank orange juice all through my own wedding reception yesterday. Am I likely to have forgotten already? ‘I just want a sip. A tiny, tiny sip – before I forget what it tastes like. I’m not going to hurt the baby with one sip. Trust me. I’ve read all the books, too.’

He’s been getting them out of the library. Healthy Pregnancy; The Expectant Father’s Guide to Life before Birth, and Nine Happy Months. That one reminds me of a title of a film I saw once – I think it was just Nine Months – where a surrogate mother runs away to Australia because she changes her mind about giving the baby up. It was supposed to be a romantic comedy but it made me cry buckets, and that was before I got pregnant. God knows what I’d be like if I watched it now; I cry at the least little thing. Hormones, I suppose.

He opens the Champagne and pours it – a full, fizzing glassful for him; a trickle in the bottom of the glass for me. He looks at me doubtfully as he hands it to me, then changes his expression swiftly as he sees me grit my teeth with exasperation.

‘Sorry, Jo. I’m just trying to be …’

Careful. Protective. Concerned. He doesn’t say any of these – he doesn’t have to. He’s said it all enough times already. I know he means well. He cares about me, cares about the baby – which, really, is more than I could have asked for.

Again, I make the effort to smile. To raise my glass to him. To see the answering smile he gives me as he clinks his glass against mine.

‘Here’s to us,’ he says softly. ‘To our honeymoon.’

‘To our honeymoon,’ I echo, the words feeling strange and foreign on my tongue – as strange and foreign as the taste of the Champagne after months without drinking any alcohol.

I haven’t missed it. Even without Mark’s constant nannying, I would have been determined to keep myself fit and healthy for this baby’s sake. My little boy – the reason I’m living. The only reason I haven’t fallen apart. I’ve only known about his existence for twenty weeks but already he’s changed my life. When I think about it too much, it makes my head spin and my heart race with panic, so that I have to sit down and take deep breaths and Mark goes into an overdrive of concern. I’m only twenty-one. Up till a week or so ago I was a student, taking my final exams, and now I’m a married woman and I’m going to be a mother. It’s ridiculous, impossible. I can’t get my head around it. I’ve promised, in church, to love and cherish this man, in sickness and health, till death do us part, forsaking all others, etc, etc, etc. If I get ideas about walking out on him now, I’ll have the vicar, God and all the angels to reckon with, to say nothing of solicitors. I’d have to give him half my worldly goods, always supposing I had any. What the hell have I done?

I put down my empty glass and go out on to the balcony. The older couple we noticed sitting on the terrace when we arrived are still there. She’s gazing out to sea; he looks like he’s dropped off. Is that what we’ll be like in thirty or forty years’ time – me and Mark? Sitting out our days together, dozing and staring into space? If we’re still together. I put my hands up to my head as I catch myself thinking this, wanting to push the thought back into my brain – push it back and keep it back. I can’t think like this on the day after my wedding, for God’s sake! I’ve done it now. Made the promises. Made up my mind. This is it. Get on with it, girl. Mark’s a lovely guy. He loves me. He’ll look after me. No negative thoughts allowed, not now.

He’s joined me on the balcony, sipping his Champagne, his arm slung loosely across my shoulders as we watch another little boat, like the one that brought us across to the island, chugging up to the jetty. A girl and a guy climb out and follow the boatman, holding hands and laughing together. He’s tall and slightly built, sandy-haired, pale-skinned. She’s dark and pretty – vivacious-looking. Their voices carry clearly in the still twilight air – happy voices, teasing and joking, full of cheerfulness and confidence. Here on their holiday, expecting to have fun, have a great time together. I find myself smiling as I watch them climbing the steps. Mark, watching me, gives me a gentle hug as he sees the smile.

‘Happy?’ he asks quietly.

‘Yes.’

It’s a lie, but I owe him this. I owe it to myself to keep up this effort, keep pretending, keep trying to be happy. To myself, to my baby, to my parents who, despite the shock of my pregnancy and the double shock of the sudden engagement, put aside their worries to give me a beautiful wedding yesterday. But, most of all, I owe it to this man who loves me enough to take me on for life – and not just me, but someone else’s baby too.

I’ve made a choice, and I have to make it work. I’m not the baby around here any more.



Gemma

Breakfast is being served at tables out on the terrace, overlooking the sea. It’s hot already at only nine o’clock. I’d planned to have a long lie-in this morning, but to my surprise I woke up just after seven, feeling refreshed, as if I hadn’t just had a long journey – to say nothing of the most exhausting day of my life on Saturday!

‘Hello, wifey,’ teased Andy as soon as I opened my eyes. He was propped up on his elbow beside me, looking like he’d been watching me sleep.

I hit him with my pillow.

‘Don’t call me that! Unless, of course, you’re happy to be addressed as hubby!’

‘I’d consider it an honour,’ he said, laughing and ducking as I clobbered him with the pillow again, just for the hell of it.

Within minutes we were rolling around on the bed, play-fighting like we were still a couple of teenagers. I really do wonder sometimes if we’re actually mature enough to be married. I suppose it comes from knowing each other when we were still at school, young and silly. It’s so easy to slip back into that again. So comfortable, knowing everything about each other, having no pasts, no secrets. Like two halves that fit faultlessly, perfectly, together.

The view over the bay this morning is even more stunning than when we arrived last night. The sea is an even deeper shade of blue than it was pictured in the magazine. Lots of little boats are out on the water; people are putting out chairs and sunbeds on the paved area in front of the hotel, and there are already a couple of brave souls swimming off the rocks.

‘Shall we explore the town today?’ suggests Andy, nodding towards the cluster of buildings rising up above the harbour in the distance. We’ve both been to the buffet table and loaded our plates with all kinds of fruit, bread, jam, cheeses and cold meats – enough to feed an army – and we’re gazing at the view while we’re eating.

‘Yes, I’d like that. I wonder how long it takes to walk in?’

‘Ten minutes, love, that’s all,’ says a voice from the next table before Andy has a chance to reply.

‘Sorry?’ I’m a bit put out by the interruption. It’s the middle-aged, rather plump lady who was sitting outside the hotel last night, holding hands with her husband. She’s on her own this morning, at the next table to ours.

‘Don’t go by the road. If you walk along the path here, by the coast, it takes about ten minutes, but the road at the back goes inland and it’s a much longer walk. I went that way yesterday afternoon, soon after we arrived. To stretch my legs a bit – after the journey, you know? Is this your first time here? Is it your honeymoon?’

I don’t know which question to answer first so I just nod mutely at her, hoping this’ll be enough to deter her from talking any more. But, of course, I didn’t reckon with Andy. Here we go, I think to myself with resignation as he turns in his seat, smiles at the lady and introduces himself. Don’t get me wrong – Andy’s the friendliest bloke in the world and I love that about him. It never takes more than five minutes for him to strike up a companionship with someone, and more often than not buy them a beer. That’s fine – in fact, it’s great, normally. We’ve made some good friends in pubs and on plane journeys and even in supermarkets because of his ability to chat to anyone; to charm the birds out of the trees. But right now, this week, just for once – I really wanted it to be just me and him.

‘I’m Ruby,’ the lady at the next table’s saying. ‘Lovely to meet you both. Anything you want to know about Korula, fire away.’

She sits back, arms folded across her considerable chest, apparently expecting a barrage of questions.

‘I take it you’ve been here before, then?’ I say, to be polite and because it’s obvious now that we’re not going to get a quiet breakfast on our own.

‘No, love. Our first time too. Beautiful, isn’t it?’

‘Yes … but …’ I frown at her, puzzled. ‘Are you an expert on the island or something?’

She laughs loudly at this, tossing back her head of close-cropped strawberry-blonde hair.

‘Not exactly an expert but I’ve read a lot about it. Always fancied coming here, you see, ever since I read about it in a novel, years ago, when it was still Yugoslavia, you know? It was about Marco Polo. He was born in Kocˇula, did you know that? Very romantic story, all about the history of the place – got me interested so I borrowed all the books I could out of the library and read up on it. I wanted to come then but of course there was the war here – ninety-one to ninety-five that was. You probably know that already. But Harold … bless him. That’s my husband Harold, you’ll meet him later, he was too tired to come down for breakfast this morning … he’s such a dear that without even telling me he arranged this trip for our honeymoon …’

‘It’s your honeymoon?’ I say in surprise, having had trouble keeping up with her rapid-fire speech up till now. ‘Oh! It’s ours, too.’

‘Congratulations, love. I thought you might be honeymooners. The hotel’s full of ’em – featured in a magazine apparently. Anyway, it’s easy to tell: you look so happy together. Get married on Saturday, did you?’

‘Yes.’ Andy smiles. ‘You too?’

‘Yep.’ She runs her fingers through her hair and sighs contentedly. ‘A quiet do, it was. Just the basics, in the register office – not a full-blown church do like my previous ones.’

‘Previous ones?’ I blink at her. ‘How many times have you been married, Ruby?’

‘It’s the third time for me, love. Second for Harold.’

‘Blimey!’ says Andy, giving her a look of amused respect. ‘Glutton for punishment, aren’t you?’

‘No, it’s third time lucky for me. The other two were both a disaster, mind you, so I’m due a good one.’ She pauses, nodding to herself thoughtfully. ‘We both are. How about you two? Big wedding with all the trimmings, was it?’

‘A bit too big,’ I tell her, laughing. ‘Started off planning a nice quiet little affair with just the family and a few friends, and suddenly – bang! It kind of grew. It was like a monster … out of our control! Every time I turned around, another half dozen people were added to the guest list …’

‘And another couple of hundred quid on the bill!’ says Andy.

‘Ah, it’s worth it, though. Special day. Once in a lifetime, isn’t it – if you’re lucky in love, and you look like you are. Not like me. Shouldn’t have even bothered the first time – too young. We didn’t want a fuss this time. We’re both past the age for having a lot of fuss made. My kids all came, of course – apart from Trevor, but it’s a long way from Australia, I couldn’t really expect it – and their families, my grandsons and granddaughters. It was lovely to have them all together. I had a wonderful day.’

I smile at her.

‘Good for you. Why not!’

‘That’s what . . .