embarrassed.
‘Sorry, sorry.’ Fran laughed. ‘It was your face. Now have a look at what I want to wear.’
The next hour was spent happily poring over magazines and catalogues of bridal wear, most of it entirely unsuitable for a mature bride, as Fran said, but there were some rather more off-the-wall designs that Libby immediately homed in on. One was a positively medieval dress with a collar that framed the face, photographed on a young woman with distinctly Goth-like make-up.
‘You can wear that one,’ said Fran. ‘Look, they do it in several colours. It would suit you.’
‘Me?’ said Libby. ‘I get to wear a posh frock, too?’
‘Well, of course.’ Fran looked at her in surprise. ‘That’s what attendants do, isn’t it?’
‘What about your daughters? And Sophie?’
‘At my age? I want a friend, not a daughter.’
‘Oh.’ Libby beamed. ‘OK then.’
By the time Guy and Ben arrived at a quarter to ten, Libby and Fran had chosen their outfits, the menu and the flowers. Guy laughed.
‘Do I get any say in this?’ he asked.
‘You can change all of it except our outfits,’ said Fran, reaching up to give him a kiss. Libby marvelled at how natural and open her friend had become since announcing her engagement. Fran had always been a bit buttoned-up in her opinion.
‘Actually, I approve of it all,’ said Guy, looking at Fran’s notes and handing the brochure to Ben. ‘What do you think, mate?’
Libby swallowed hard and got up to fetch glasses. ‘Whisky?’ she croaked. ‘Or coffee, Guy?’
‘Scotch’d be lovely, thanks, Lib,’ said Ben, not looking at her.
‘Coffee, thanks, love,’ said Guy.
Ben took the brochure from him.
‘This place is great,’ he said. ‘How did you find it?’
‘Internet,’ said Fran. ‘I just Googled wedding venues in Kent. Most of them were big hotels, or part of chains. I couldn’t go to Anderson Place after …’ she trailed off.
‘Pete and Harry’s do? Or the other business?’ Ben squinted at her.
‘Both, really,’ said Fran, looking embarrassed. ‘Harry and Pete’s civil partnership was lovely, and that wedding planner – what was her name?’
‘Melanie,’ supplied Libby.
‘She was great. But we don’t want quite that level of organisation and grandeur. Do we?’ She looked up at Guy, who bent and kissed her.
‘No,’ he said and, settling on the arm of her chair, grinned happily at the other two.
‘And because we got involved in the murder, and it was such a sad story,’ continued Fran, ‘I just wouldn’t feel right going there.’
Libby handed Ben his whisky and went into the kitchen to pour Guy’s coffee. Behind her, she could hear the other three talking wedding plans and was surprised to feel a tightening in her chest and throat. It came out of nowhere and threatened to erupt like Vesuvius, leaving her shaking and damp with perspiration. ‘Menopause,’ she muttered to herself unconvincingly, heaving a huge breath.
‘Lib? You OK?’ Ben’s voice behind her almost undid her again, but she bravely lifted the kettle and poured water into the empty mug. ‘Bugger,’ she said, reaching for the coffee jar.
‘You wool-gathering?’ He sounded amused as he came up behind her and put an arm round her. Her throat closed up again and she nodded.
‘Here, I’ll take that in. He doesn’t take milk, does he?’ Libby shook her head and reached for the sugar bowl. Keeping her face averted, she didn’t see Ben’s frown of concern as she handed it to him.
She heard his voice as he gave Guy the mug, and took another deep breath before turning to go back into the sitting room. They were still talking, Ben now sitting on a chair at the small table in the window, while Fran and Guy had moved to the cane sofa. Sidney had turned his back on them all in front of the empty fireplace, his ears flattened to his head. Libby sat in the armchair, grateful that Ben was now partially behind her. Out of the corner of her eye she
‘Sorry, sorry.’ Fran laughed. ‘It was your face. Now have a look at what I want to wear.’
The next hour was spent happily poring over magazines and catalogues of bridal wear, most of it entirely unsuitable for a mature bride, as Fran said, but there were some rather more off-the-wall designs that Libby immediately homed in on. One was a positively medieval dress with a collar that framed the face, photographed on a young woman with distinctly Goth-like make-up.
‘You can wear that one,’ said Fran. ‘Look, they do it in several colours. It would suit you.’
‘Me?’ said Libby. ‘I get to wear a posh frock, too?’
‘Well, of course.’ Fran looked at her in surprise. ‘That’s what attendants do, isn’t it?’
‘What about your daughters? And Sophie?’
‘At my age? I want a friend, not a daughter.’
‘Oh.’ Libby beamed. ‘OK then.’
By the time Guy and Ben arrived at a quarter to ten, Libby and Fran had chosen their outfits, the menu and the flowers. Guy laughed.
‘Do I get any say in this?’ he asked.
‘You can change all of it except our outfits,’ said Fran, reaching up to give him a kiss. Libby marvelled at how natural and open her friend had become since announcing her engagement. Fran had always been a bit buttoned-up in her opinion.
‘Actually, I approve of it all,’ said Guy, looking at Fran’s notes and handing the brochure to Ben. ‘What do you think, mate?’
Libby swallowed hard and got up to fetch glasses. ‘Whisky?’ she croaked. ‘Or coffee, Guy?’
‘Scotch’d be lovely, thanks, Lib,’ said Ben, not looking at her.
‘Coffee, thanks, love,’ said Guy.
Ben took the brochure from him.
‘This place is great,’ he said. ‘How did you find it?’
‘Internet,’ said Fran. ‘I just Googled wedding venues in Kent. Most of them were big hotels, or part of chains. I couldn’t go to Anderson Place after …’ she trailed off.
‘Pete and Harry’s do? Or the other business?’ Ben squinted at her.
‘Both, really,’ said Fran, looking embarrassed. ‘Harry and Pete’s civil partnership was lovely, and that wedding planner – what was her name?’
‘Melanie,’ supplied Libby.
‘She was great. But we don’t want quite that level of organisation and grandeur. Do we?’ She looked up at Guy, who bent and kissed her.
‘No,’ he said and, settling on the arm of her chair, grinned happily at the other two.
‘And because we got involved in the murder, and it was such a sad story,’ continued Fran, ‘I just wouldn’t feel right going there.’
Libby handed Ben his whisky and went into the kitchen to pour Guy’s coffee. Behind her, she could hear the other three talking wedding plans and was surprised to feel a tightening in her chest and throat. It came out of nowhere and threatened to erupt like Vesuvius, leaving her shaking and damp with perspiration. ‘Menopause,’ she muttered to herself unconvincingly, heaving a huge breath.
‘Lib? You OK?’ Ben’s voice behind her almost undid her again, but she bravely lifted the kettle and poured water into the empty mug. ‘Bugger,’ she said, reaching for the coffee jar.
‘You wool-gathering?’ He sounded amused as he came up behind her and put an arm round her. Her throat closed up again and she nodded.
‘Here, I’ll take that in. He doesn’t take milk, does he?’ Libby shook her head and reached for the sugar bowl. Keeping her face averted, she didn’t see Ben’s frown of concern as she handed it to him.
She heard his voice as he gave Guy the mug, and took another deep breath before turning to go back into the sitting room. They were still talking, Ben now sitting on a chair at the small table in the window, while Fran and Guy had moved to the cane sofa. Sidney had turned his back on them all in front of the empty fireplace, his ears flattened to his head. Libby sat in the armchair, grateful that Ben was now partially behind her. Out of the corner of her eye she
Similar Books
