But the idea of arguing over whose family to spend time with sounds nice to me. I let myself have a fleeting thought of Tom and me bickering over whether to spend Christmas here or goup to Dashwell, and smile to myself at the notion. Christmas at Dashwell Hall. That would have been something.
The wedding will be something, too.
There’s been a lot of noise surrounding Cordelia in the press since that story leaked, and I feel protective of her, uneasy at the idea of her being hounded by photographers asking her questions about that night all those years ago. But their interest has been helpful in some ways—a photo popped up on Twitter of Cordelia and Jonathan laughing together while walking down the Paxton high street yesterday, taken by a nosy local.
They’ve made up. The wedding is still on. They’re happy. That’s all that matters.
That’s not all that matters, though, is it? You want to be happy. You want to be there for the wedding. You want to be there for your friend.
I tell myself to shut up.
I sleep badly that night, and the next morning I try to give myself a bit of a lie-in, snuggled warmly under my childhood duvet that’s much better quality than my current one in London, but I’m too stressed to sleep, so, after ten minutes of trying to clear my mind, I get up.
As well as dating next year, I will also get into meditation and yoga, so that I learn how to make my crazy anxious brain Shut. The. Fuck. Up.
It’s just Mum, Dad, and me for the day until I go back, but while I’m brushing my teeth, I text Cara asking if she’d mind popping back here alone for a cup of tea.
“Is everything all right, Sophie?” Mum asks, when Cara pads into the room, having driven here in her slippers.
My growing up so close to Cara’s family has meant that we’re all completely at home in each other’s houses. I always remind Mum of that when she spruces up the house for Christmas,acting as though the Queen herself will be dropping in, but she ignores me.
“Yeah, fine,” I say, watching Cara make a beeline for the fridge and have a good rummage to check what’s on offer. “Tea, anyone? I’ll put the kettle on.”
Once we’re sitting in the living room, lightly discussing how much fun yesterday was, I decide I might as well get this over with.
“Mum, Dad, you know how I had that super-high-maintenance bride? The one I wanted to quit from, but then decided to work really hard for? She ended up firing me.”
Dad lowers his cup of tea, his forehead creased with concern.
“That’s awful. How could anyone possibly fire you?” Mum says, and I sense her brain whirring as she works out the best thing to say next. “What happened?”
“They thought I sold a story to the press about her.”
“What?” Cara sits up, intrigued. “You didn’t tell me what the bad thing you were supposed to have done was.”
I shrug. “I’ve been thinking about it and, to be honest, there’s no reason I can’t tell you. I’m fired now. The contract has been terminated and I’m under no obligation to keep her identity secret.”
“You’re going to tell us who she is?” Cara asks.
“Only you three. No one else needs to know, so please keep it to yourselves,” I say firmly. “But I’ve been struggling with this whole… thing. And if you know who it is, it would help you to understand why I’ve been a little more upset about it than I might have been. I know I can trust you.”
“Who was it?” Cara asks eagerly, and I don’t blame her. The nugget of information about the story in the press means it’s someone famous.
“Don’t freak out.”
“We won’t.”
“Lady Cordelia Swann.”
They stare at me. Mum’s mouth has dropped open. Cara is shaking her head in disbelief. Dad is thoughtful, and I smile, knowing he’s trying to remember who she is and why he’s heard the name.
“You’re shitting me,” Cara says, receiving a sharp look of disapproval from Mum for swearing. “Lady Cordelia Swann.”
“Yep.”
“That’s who you were bridesmaid for. Miranda Priestly is, in fact, Lady Cordelia Swann?”
“Yes.”
