‘Coo-ee!’ Clara knocks on the door of the honeymoon suite before the sun has fully risen the next morning. I jolt awake with a jump and Rohan sits bolt upright on the floor, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath from the shock. He pants a string of swearwords as he pitches himself upright with the sheet tangled around him and stumbles across to the bed, belly-flopping on top of the covers next to me.
‘Are you two lovebirds awake?’ Clara calls through the door.
‘How does she expect the answer to be no when she’s making that racket?’ Rohan mumbles into the pillow, his voice thick with sleep.
‘Of course,’ I call out but she doesn’t come in.
‘I know it’s early but it’s a beautiful day and I’ve got to go over to The Little Wedding Street. I wondered if you’d like to tag along so I can show you around? Everyone’s dying to meet you properly!’
‘I bet she says that to everyone who stays here,’ he mutters.
‘That’d be great, we’d love to!’ I call back, because it’s better than her barging in and finding Rohan on top of the covers with his feet dangling over the footboard, looking like he’s just dived into bed from the floor. ‘What time?’
‘Whenever you’re ready, as long as it’s within the next half an hour.’
Ro laughs.
‘Kittie does a wonderful breakfast in the café,’ she says as if to tempt us.
‘Sounds great, Clara,’ I call, trying to flatten my messy hair and calm my heart rate in case she decides to come in after all. ‘We’ll be ready!’
‘Okay! Toodle-pip!’ Her footsteps echo down the stairs as she walks away.
‘Whatever I’ve ever said about liking Clara, I take it back.’ Rohan snuffles into the duvet.
‘You don’t mean that. You’re just grumpy in the mornings.’
‘I’m grumpy all the time. But that’s too much adrenaline for this time of day. The birds haven’t even finished the dawn chorus yet.’
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him we could have one side of the bed each to save this kind of thing, especially as Clara does seem to enjoy walking into our room with no warning, but I don’t say anything. I’ve already offered and he’s already refused. It won’t be any different this time, and why should I want it to be? I’ve got a king-size bed to stretch out in – if he wants to sleep on the floor, it’s up to him.
He groans softly and snuggles in, turning onto his side to face me and pulling his feet in. I’m sitting up now, the shock of the sudden wake-up still coursing through me, but I can’t help smiling as I look down at him. He gathers some of the duvet and pulls it over him, cuddling into it. I bite my lip because he has no right to be this adorable first thing in the morning. It’s like he’s not quite awake enough to be so guarded yet, and it would be so easy to snuggle down beside him and feel the weight of his arm across my body… Pretend this couple stuff was for real.
I clear my throat instead. ‘Come on, Ro. Do you want first shower?’
He mumbles something unintelligible, sounding very much asleep.
‘Clara’s going to be waiting for us.’ I give his shoulder a gentle shake.
‘Five more minutes,’ he says without opening his eyes. He reaches up and goes to push my hand away, but he drifts off again before he finishes the movement and ends up with his hand wrapped around my arm, pulling it closer and kind of cuddling it.
I freeze in surprise as his breathing evens out, feeling every puff of his breath against my skin, his arms warm against mine. I stay as still as I can while every part of me is buzzing with energy, but it’s a calm sort of energy, like something has settled inside me. I look at him sleeping beside me and I can suddenly imagine every morning like this. Even though I know I don’t mean anything to Rohan, this whole thing is just a means to an end, a way of getting a story and nothing more… With him curled around my arm like that, it’s the most connected I’ve felt in ages and I want to stay right here and not let this moment end.
He’s just asleep, I tell myself. It doesn’t mean he wants anything. He just wants a bit of cosiness and comfort after sleeping on the floor all night.
His blond hair has flopped across his forehead and I resist the urge to slide my fingers into it and brush it back. Instead, I count out five minutes, pretty much counting every second because I can’t concentrate on anything else.
How mad would Clara be if we just stayed like this all morning? Would she storm in here and think it was weird that I didn’t want to wake up my fiancé who I supposedly sleep with every day because he was using my arm as a teddy bear?
I force myself to speak eventually. ‘Rohan.’ I reach over and push his shoulder with the other hand. ‘Time to get up. We’ve got about twenty minutes or Clara will put us both in her next cottage pie.’
He jolts awake, blinking in surprise as he looks down at himself and realises he’s clinging onto my arm. He lets go like he’s been burnt, like when you go to get something out of the oven and your finger accidentally touches the hot tray, and his legs tangle in the sheet as he scrambles to get away from me. He sits on the edge of the bed and drops his head into his hands.
‘Sorry,’ he says after a few moments. ‘Sorry, it’s been a while since I was in bed with anyone. I’ve clearly forgotten how to behave. Just, er, keeping up the pretence though. Wouldn’t want anyone to catch us out.’
‘Yeah, definitely. And you never know when Clara’s going to pop her head in again.’
‘Yeah.’ He glances back at me over his shoulder. ‘That. I was pre-empting her coming back to check.’
‘Good thinking,’ I say as I reluctantly haul myself out of bed and head for the bathroom, smiling because his excuses sound as pathetic as mine. I kind of like that he’s got to make an excuse for it – it means there’s no real explanation to give, or not one that he wants to share.
‘Did you seriously just sit there for five minutes and let me sleep?’ Rohan’s up and dressed with both hands wrapped around a mug of coffee when I get out of the bathroom, rubbing my blonde bob dry with a towel. He nods towards a second cup waiting for me on the dressing table and I smile again at how thoughtful he is.
‘Kind of. I mean, I had nothing better to do and you looked like you needed it…’
‘Is that a polite way of saying I look old and knackered?’
I laugh. ‘No. Just that you’re… kind of adorable first thing in the morning. Waking you up would’ve been like kicking a puppy.’
‘Okay, I’ll take that. I like puppies. I expected you to call me much worse than that.’
‘You probably deserve worse but you made me coffee so we’ll stick with the puppy analogy for now.’ I pick up the red polka dot mug and take a sip. ‘And I wasn’t just sitting there, I was planning what to write about this place in my head. I like to do it that way with lots of pre-planning, then I can sit down with a pen and paper and just get on with it.’
‘No laptop?’
‘It’s at home. I like to handwrite as much as I can. I’ve always got my phone for pictures and recording interviews, and loads of pens and paper. I think weddings deserve that personal touch. Don’t get me wrong, I have to type everything up to submit it to my editor, but when you’re actually sitting with a couple on the morning of their wedding, it makes it feel a bit more special, like you’re really listening to them.’
‘Yeah, me too. Not for the same reason or anything – I just feel like handwriting is something that’s slowly dying out, and I think better when I can feel paper under my fingertips. I don’t get stuck when I write by hand, whereas I can stare at a blank screen for hours and nothing comes. My colleagues think I’m crazy for not being all about the latest iPads and iMacs and iToothbrushes or whatever they’ll make next.’
‘Same,’ I say, not even realising how much I’m smiling until he smiles at me.
‘So what are you writing with our garnered knowledge?’ he asks. ‘Considering we don’t have proof one way or another yet?’
‘I don’t know really. I want to know more about the history of the no-divorce thing… Like, when did they first find out and how. I want to mention the shops, and the B&B, and I’d love to mention Amabel’s story, although God knows how I’m going to get permission from her without breaking our cover…’
‘Yeah.’ He clears his throat and looks at the floor, his fingers twiddling with a stray thread on his chestnut brown jumper. ‘Same.’
He’s lying, I know he is. He either hasn’t planned his article at all yet, or it has nothing to do with a punishment from his boss and he’s writing just another nasty, petty R.C. Art column that’s going to slam everything good about this island, and as this is supposed to be a job-saving article then it’ll probably be even nastier and pettier than usual. And I’m helping him to put Two Gold Rings out of print by agreeing to this stupid façade.
I know which option I want to believe and I know which one is more likely.
***
The cobbles of The Little Wedding Street are painted with an iridescent coating, like someone has spilt petrol on them, and the roof tiles of every building have been painted to match, so they look different colours depending on the light. I’m captivated by them as we wander down the little street hand in hand because Clara’s with us, and they seem to take on a different hue with every step we take, looking purple one minute, pink the next, and green a few moments later.
There are colourful spring flowers in high-walled beds, in between wide wooden benches, and ornate old-fashioned black streetlamps lining each side of the road giving a gorgeous sense of nostalgia. You can imagine someone having to go round and light them each night, but even in the day, they’re giving out a dark orange glow, creating more hints of colour in the cobblestones and roofs, like a fire you want to sit round on a cosy autumn evening.
‘Kittie closes up the café at five o’clock and the restaurant next door opens up. We used to only hire the chef and his crew at weekends, but we’ve had enough wedding guests and tourists in lately to make it worthwhile him staying full time. He’s got two Michelin stars, you know.’
Rohan shakes his head. ‘I’ve got to admit I wasn’t expecting that. Well, any of this.’
‘I’ve read some of your articles, Mr Carter. I can well imagine what you were expecting. I’d hazard a guess at a decrepit old island inhabited by a group of con artists or cranky old loons with blind faith in a myth about the local church?’
‘Er…’ he mumbles ineloquently, clearly taken aback by her accuracy.
It makes me realise I could read his old columns too. They must be online and I’ve got my phone. Do I want to read them? I know the answer before the question has fully formed in my head. Oliver is a big fan, and I’d heard his name bandied about the office long before the Twitter argument so other colleagues must like him too. Maybe I’m being too quick to judge him based on one column.
The Little Wedding Street is a world away from how it was a few days ago. The shops that were closed before now have their doors wedged open and colourful signs outside. Quiet piano music is playing from somewhere. Last week, you’d be forgiven for thinking you’d wandered into a post-apocalyptic world, but today, everything is bright and welcoming, and Clara steers us into each shop in turn to introduce us to the owners. Most of them already know our names and the date of our supposed wedding, and I’m not sure if it’s slightly creepy or super efficient. Far from slamming the doors on our fingers, shop owners come over and give us a hug each, congratulating us.
There are so many shops, almost like someone has created a whole business park for weddings and shrunk it down to fit into a picturesque little street that’s completely in keeping with the rest of the whimsical island. Everything here is so pretty, from the pink and white bunting to the hand-painted signs above the shops, and the smell… It’s like walking past a Lush shop, combined with a scented candle shop, and mixed with the scent of fresh flowers from the florist’s shop.
Clara’s chattering away beside us, sharing the histories of the shops and the families who’ve owned each one for generations. Another thing that strikes me about the island is that everything seems to be family-run and passed down through the generations. It’s nice, in a way. It makes it feel personal, like the whole island really matters to the people who live and work here, and not like it’s just a good spot for a successful commercial business.
We sit down for breakfast in the café and Kittie joins us, talking wedding plans and catering for the reception. It feels ridiculous to be making concrete plans for a wedding that isn’t going to happen, but by the time we’ve finished our coffees, Clara and Kittie have organised a whole menu and Rohan and I have promised to find out if any of our friends and families have food allergies so they can be accommodated, and Kittie’s sending a mock-up menu over to the B&B for us to approve before we go home.
And the feelings of guilt slink in again, because I don’t know how to get out of it. No one seems to disbelieve us for a moment, no one seems to have any doubt that this wedding will happen, and I don’t know how to tell them not to waste their time without telling them the truth.
Rohan gives me an uncomfortable smile that reflects the awkwardness we’re both feeling. It seemed so easy at first, just a little white lie, but I didn’t realise how much the islanders enjoy organising weddings or how quickly they’d get involved in organising ours.
After breakfast, we say hello to the florist and peer in the window of the jewellers as we pass, an array of diamonds sparkling in the window and wedding bands glinting in the sun. There’s a giftshop where they sell handmade candles, hand-painted cup and saucer sets, soaps and bath bombs, and all manner of other things. It’s a real little curiosity shop full of perfect bits and pieces to use as wedding favours. There’s a luxury chocolate shop with a chalkboard outside boasting locally sourced ingredients and a window display full of handmade chocolates in the shape of Edelweiss flower heads.
I’m desperate to go in and have a proper look around all the gorgeous little shops, but Clara is making me nervous. I’ve always been a terrible liar and I’m convinced I’m going to slip up and say something that will give us away, and even though I feel guilty for lying and for the excitement and the effort the locals are putting in to our supposed wedding, I know above all things that I don’t want this to end yet.
One shop I can’t resist is the bridal shop. The gowns in the window are on full display today and the door is wide open, beckoning me in.
The shop is just as lovely as it looked from the outside before the shutters went down last week. It’s brightly lit with wide aisles and mirrors everywhere, and more wedding dresses than you would think would fit into a shop this small, but each dress is exquisite. Everything from understated, elegant and simple, to walking cupcake. The owner is a seamstress who has framed photos of brides in her made-from-scratch creations on the walls all around the shop. There’s a huge catalogue of gowns that can be ordered from the mainland, an endless list of alterations that can be made, and sketches of the kind of thing the owner can make herself, along with a selection of vintage dresses that have been updated, and each one feels special, like they’re just waiting here for their bride to find them.
I nearly tear up looking at them.
‘Do you want to try any on?’
I shake my head. I can imagine myself in quite a few of them, but none make me feel the way I felt when I saw the dress in the window of Snowdrop Bridal Boutique, and this whole thing suddenly seems beyond daft. If you’d have asked me a few weeks ago, I’d have been overjoyed to have a legitimate excuse to try on wedding dresses, but now I feel like a foolish little girl playing at being a bride. It all seems pointless. Why do I want a wedding dress when I don’t have anyone to marry?
Rohan’s gone next door to the suit shop and Clara’s gone for a chat with her friend who runs the bakery, so I’m alone in among the wedding dresses, and their white satin lengths are mocking me. Despite the pretence, this will never be my life. I will never get married here.
What’s the point in falling in love with a dress in Marble Arch? It doesn’t increase my chances of falling in love with a man, does it? It makes me feel as sad and pathetic as the girls in the bridal shop undoubtedly think I am when I go in and pay off a bit more each month. Who spends that kind of money on something so superficial? Something that they don’t need, never mind will ever get the chance to use.
‘Overwhelming, isn’t it?’ the owner says. ‘Don’t worry, I often see brides who don’t think they’ll ever find the right one, but I always say it’s the same as falling in love – when you know, you just know.’
I give her a grateful smile, but inside I’m thinking I wish she knew the truth. Falling in love with a wedding dress has been no problem. Falling in love… that’s where my issues are.
Seeing all these dresses, imagining the people who will wear them one day… instead of making me happy like it usually does, it makes me think about how much I wish this could be real.
I pick up a tiara and move it so its stones catch the light of the halogen bulbs glowing overhead. There’s nothing stopping me trying it on, but I put it back on the shelf and walk away. I should be a happy and excited blushing bride, eager to bring my bridesmaids here and sip champagne with the owner while trying on hideous dresses for a laugh, but all I can think about is what Oliver said. His throwaway comment that I tried to ignore, tried to tell myself was just said in anger, something that’s nagged at me ever since.
Is it true? Do I fixate on other people’s weddings just to detract from my own loneliness?
***
When I get outside, Rohan’s sitting against the wall that surrounds one of the raised flower beds waiting for me, and he pushes himself up with a grin and leans down to kiss my cheek when I walk over to him.
The brush of his stubble against my face makes my skin tingle.
‘Just making us look authentic if any shopkeepers are watching,’ he whispers.
‘Good thinking.’ I try to ignore the pang in my chest at how much I wish I really had someone who would wait outside shops for me and smile like that when I approach. I shake myself and nod to the paper bag he’s carrying instead. ‘What’d you get?’
‘Fabric samples for my wedding suit.’ He snorts and holds the bag open for me to look inside. ‘The patterns range from Great Grandma’s shower curtain to Victorian gentleman’s favourite nightshirt. I’d rather get married in one of Clara’s carpets. Personally, I suggested denim but the tailor looked at me like I’d offered him a demonic maggot as a snack. You’d marry me in jeans, right?’
‘Oh, Ro, I’d marry you in anything.’ I flap a hand in front of my face and pretend to swoon. ‘Don’t tell me, you’re going for the really classy denim on denim look?’
‘Yep, and socks and sandals too. That’s the height of wedding fashion, right?’
‘Definitely—’
We’re interrupted by Clara stepping out of the bakery and beckoning us over. ‘Come and meet my friend, Carol,’ she calls. ‘You must try some of her creations for your wedding cake.’
‘This is going to be like that woman in The Vicar of Dibley, isn’t it? You know, Marmite and sock flavour cake with Nutella and haddock flavoured icing?’
‘You watch too many old British sitcoms, has anyone ever told you that?’
‘You watch too many musicals with singing clergy, so we’re fairly even,’ he says with a shrug, sending a self-satisfied grin in my direction.
The gorgeous smells of fresh-baked cakes and almond icing are making my mouth water from halfway down the street before we even get near the bakery. The lady who comes out to greet us is the same one who shut the door in my face and deliberately turned the sign from open to closed last week, and was one of the many who came down to congratulate us when Rohan proposed. Far from shutting the door in our faces, today she’s welcoming us in.
‘Have a look around,’ she says. ‘I only have a few model cakes in the window to show what can be done, and a small selection of pastries for any tourists who stop by.’ She indicates a bakery display counter at one end of the shop making it look like any other high street bakery at lunchtime but without the queues. ‘You’re welcome to anything free of charge. I also have samples of all of my wedding cake flavours ready to go. You can try them any time you want. We can do any number of tiers, with any flavour, all one flavour or each tier in a different flavour, any icing, any decorations, you name it. We can do it here at Carol’s Cakes.’
‘I love you already,’ Rohan says to her. ‘If I wasn’t already engaged, I’d propose to you in a heartbeat, Carol.’
‘If I didn’t have grandchildren older than you, I might accept, Mr Carter,’ Carol says, little bells on her apron jingling as she laughs.
Ro smiles. ‘Ah, I’m anybody’s after a bit of cake. To take advantage of most guys, you need to get them drunk. To take advantage of me, you just need to ply me with cake.’
Why do I smile at everything he says? Even when he’s not trying to be funny, there’s something about him that just makes me smile. I can feel both Clara and Carol’s eyes on me as I pretend to be engrossed in reading the explanatory sign on the wall behind a plastic model of a cake that Carol once made for Elton John.
I thought I was still full from the breakfast Kittie served us, but after being in here for ten minutes, I’m decidedly starving.
‘Would you like to sample some wedding cake?’ Carol asks. ‘We’ve got seating out the back and I’m always open to a cup of tea. I know your wedding isn’t until next September but it never hurts to get organised early, and if you want something extra special for your cake then I’ve got plenty of time to plan it.’
‘Ooh, cake sampling is my favourite part of any wedding,’ Clara trills, her brown curls bouncing almost independently of her head.
‘We couldn’t take some of those samples to go, could we?’ Rohan glances at me like he can read my mind. ‘It’s a gorgeous day and I’d love to go for a walk along the beach with my fiancée. Apparently there’s a dead jellyfish that’s really something.’
Clara lets out an eardrum-piercing squeal. ‘Oh, a picnic! How romantic! I’ll just nip back to the B&B and fetch you a nice blanket to sit on! Stay right there!’ She rushes out of the shop faster than you’d think a lady in her sixties would be able to go.
I don’t think Rohan even meant a picnic – it was just an excuse to get out of here before we spend all day tasting cake for a reception that is never going to happen.
‘I didn’t know picnics were so exciting,’ Rohan whispers in my ear. ‘With all the ants and wasps, flies in your tea, and persistent ducks that want to share your sandwiches, I’ve never seen the big deal.’
‘I went on a picnic date once,’ I say.
‘Did you fall in love over the ant-infested iced buns?’
‘Not exactly. He pushed me into the duck pond.’
Ro laughs. ‘I wish I didn’t have to ask but you can’t just leave that there. Why did he push you in the duck pond?’
‘Oh, there was this toddler trying to feed the ducks with a bread roll. She threw the whole roll in by accident and started howling because she didn’t have any left. She was only with her old granddad and he was balancing on the edge trying to pull it back in with his walking stick, and I didn’t want to see an old man or a toddler end up face first in the pond, so I got on my hands and knees and tried to reach it, and my date ran up behind me, put both hands on my bum and pushed me in. He thought it was hilarious. That’s the kind of knob I date.’
He lets out a snort of laughter. ‘Oh, Bon. Why are you dating such losers?’
Because I’m desperate? ‘Seems to be the standard of single men these days,’ I mutter.
He goes to reply but Carol comes out with a pile of cake squares wrapped in wax paper, and Rohan’s arms slide around my waist from behind and he pulls me back against him. We both look up and give her a nod.
‘Well, I hope he didn’t get a second date,’ he whispers, his voice vibrating gently against the shell of my ear.
‘Are you kidding? I smacked him round the face with a pond reed, threw his sandwich to the ducks, and dripped home on the tube by myself.’
He laughs again. ‘Sorry to laugh but has anyone ever told you that you deserve better?’
‘Guess it’s a good thing I’m now engaged to such a gorgeous and charming guy then, huh?’
Carol smiles at us and disappears back through the staff door, but instead of letting go like I expected him to, Ro squeezes me tighter, his head resting on mine. ‘Guess it is,’ he whispers, making me close my eyes as a shiver goes down my spine at the slight hint of stubble against my earlobe after he didn’t have time to shave this morning.
I try to ignore the bolt of dread that follows it. I’m not engaged to this gorgeous and charming guy. When this is over, I’m back to being alone. I’m back to dating guys who think pushing people into duck ponds is an acceptable date activity. And dating is really disheartening. Some men are creepy, and I feel like I’ve been desperately dating any guy I can in search of a connection, a mythical chemistry that I’ve heard of but never found for myself… until a guy offered me his coat on a boat.
Rohan’s arms tighten around me, holding me against his chest, and I wonder if he can feel the sudden tension in me. It’s impossible not to relax with his warmth and solid body behind me, and I lean back against him.
‘What are you doing?’ I murmur, even though I don’t mind in the slightest.
‘Sorry, it’s been a long while since I cuddled anyone. I’m making the most of you while you’re stuck with me. Say if I’m overdoing it. I won’t be offended and I’ll step it back instantly. I just don’t want them to suspect us for even a second.’
‘It’s okay, I don’t want them to suspect us either,’ I say, even though I don’t think them suspecting us has much to do with this cuddle. I decide to be honest. ‘It’s been a long while since I had anyone to cuddle too. It’s kind of nice for a change.’
I feel his face spread into a grin against my hair and I hold on to his arms and try to cuddle him back, closing my eyes and relaxing against him, letting the smell of his aftershave surround me and overpower the smell of cakes baking. I never thought there’d be a day when a man would smell better than a bakery.
‘You two are adorable.’
I don’t know how long we’ve been standing there, but Clara’s voice makes us jump apart like we’ve been caught doing something wrong. I start trying to explain but Clara and Carol are watching us with doting smiles on their faces, neither of them looking like they want an explanation, so I stop trying. Maybe that’s all there is to it. I was cuddling my fiancé. No explanation needed here.
Clara puts a picnic basket on the counter and Carol starts loading the wrapped squares of cake into it. ‘I’ve put a lovely picnic blanket in here that I believe makes every picnic taste better. I also stopped by the café and got you some sandwiches and a flask of tea from Kittie.’
‘Oh, Clara, you didn’t have to do that.’ Rohan gets his wallet out of his jeans pocket. ‘At least let me pay for the—’
‘Don’t you dare, Mr Carter. No one here wants your money. Seeing people so happy together is what makes us happy. You both work hard in that busy, ugly city, and you’re on holiday now. Go and enjoy a lovely afternoon on the beach. I may be biased but I believe there are very few places in the country as pretty as Edelweiss Island, and I’m sure you’ll both be back to work before long, so enjoy it while you’re here. There’s plenty of time for wedding plans later.’
Rohan goes over and gives her a hug. ‘Thank you.’
Carol hands us a set of scorecards and pencils. ‘I’ve made sure to pop in two samples of each flavour and some extras of our most popular combinations. I always tell our couples to mark them out of ten on their scorecards and compare the cards at the end to see if you’ve agreed on any that stand out.’
Rohan looks at me with a grin as he lifts the basket down from the counter. ‘I think cake might be the one thing Bonnie and I will have no trouble agreeing on.’