Page 92 of Not Just for Christmas

‘So in just over twelve hours from now you’ll be Mrs Oakley,’ Dylan says brightly, sipping his Champagne. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Right now?’ I peer at my glass. ‘Wondering if I’ll regret drinking so much in the morning.’

He laughs. ‘Enjoy it – your last night of freedom; no responsibilities, no cares in the world.’

‘No cares?’ I snort. ‘As of tomorrow I’m committing myself to looking after a hundred big smelly animals for the rest of my life. Funny how things turn out. Growing up, I used to play hotels, lining up all my toys and checking them in at reception, dealing with the problems. Mr Fox always had something to say about his room and Miss Panda always turned up to breakfast late.’

‘I bet you were cute.’ He grins.

‘When I was eight, I was absolutely convinced that one day I’d have my own hotel by the ocean.’ I shake my head, thinking back to the conversations I used to have with my mum about what I’d call it, and how I’d decorate all the rooms. ‘Still did, right up until I agreed to marry a farmer. But this is the right thing to do, the practical thing.’

I feel a pang of something then; not regret, but perhaps an acknowledgement that swapping my dreams for life on the farm was a compromise.

‘OK, but listen.’ He turns to me, his expression serious for a change, and puts a hand on my arm. ‘Don’t say you’ve given up on your dream forever, maybe just put it on hold. Your career matters too.’

‘Thanks.’ I smile at him, heartened by his words and wishing Jack were here to hear this. My husband-to-be has such a big character, such energy, that sometimes I feel that my ideas and opinions are overlooked. ‘And never say never, right?’

‘Correct.’ He dips his chin, gazes at me through his dark curls. ‘But you’re happy, right? This is what you want, marriage?’

‘Of course this is what I want,’ I reply, surprised he’d think otherwise. Jack and I have been together forever. Getting married feels like the natural next step. ‘Obviously sad for all the other men out there who adore me.’

‘Like me.’ He presses a hand to his heart and pulls down the corners of his mouth, making me laugh.

‘You’re still allowed to adore me. And I’ll always adore you too.’ I pull his hand away from his chest and squeeze it.

‘Glad to hear it.’ His voice is a little croaky, and he gives me a crooked smile.

For a few moments, we stay like that, my hand in his. I think about how long we’ve known each other, all the good times we’ve spent together. Not just here in Craggy Bay. Jack and I have been all over the world watching Dylan perform. He has an incredible voice.

Sometimes we hear him on the radio, look at each other and laugh, as if to say can you believe this megastar is our friend. My stomach lurches; I’m going to miss having the freedom to travel when and wherever I want – it won’t be easy to jump on a plane to be at his gig in Berlin, or Copenhagen, when we’ve got cows to milk. Heather and Jim talk non-stop about the trips they’re going to take when they retire. Farmers’ holidays are short and infrequent, from what I’ve gathered.

But this is what you want, I remind myself, what you’ve chosen. I look at Dylan and find he’s staring at me wistfully.

‘Adoration is something you’re not short of,’ I say, letting go of his hand. ‘You have your pick of girls these days.’

‘What can I say?’ He feigns nonchalance with a casual lift of one shoulder. ‘Being a singer does have its perks.’

‘Not just any singer,’ I say, reaching for my glass. ‘Hasn’t your new song “Always the One” hit the top spot in fifteen countries or something? Mind you, it is brilliant.’

‘You really like it?’ His eyes widen with pleasure, and I think how modest he is.

I nod. ‘The lyrics are beautiful. Who knew you were such an old romantic? It plays on the radio over here all the time.’

‘Actually that song …’ His voice fades, he clears his throat. ‘Never mind.’

I laugh. ‘Don’t tell me you’re bored of hearing it.’

He doesn’t answer, instead he pours us another glass of Champagne.

‘A toast.’ He raises his glass to mine. ‘To love.’

‘And to you finding a girl to fall in love with,’ I add, clinking my glass against his.

A beat passed between us. And then another.

He lifts his drink to his lips and pauses. ‘What if I’ve already found her?’

‘Seriously? Dylan!’ I squeal in surprise. ‘You should have invited her to the wedding. Where is she? Is it too late for her to get here? I bet you could fly her over on a private plane if you wanted to, there’s still time.’