Page 36 of The Woman Who Said Yes

‘You like this restaurant, Dad?’ Marnie asks him.

‘Yeah, it’s great!’ These days Phil seems to be fine with everything as part of his dramatic rebranding as the Nicest Man in London, presumably to make up for all the damage caused.

‘It’s perfect,’ agrees Trudy, whose brandy-soused crêpe has been set alight.

Phil leans towards me. ‘Tonight we’re going to flambé like it’s 1979!’

With dinner over, Trudy asks to see ‘that big bun mountain’ again. Eva’s intended wedding centrepiece, she means; the croquembouche. ‘Are you sure this is for a wedding?’ she asks, peering at my phone.

‘It is,’ I tell her. ‘That’s what my friend’s going for…’

‘And we’re all invited,’ Jake enthuses.

Trudy’s gaze skims the table, landing on my ex-husband, on whom I suspect she has a little crush. ‘What, you too, Phil?’

‘Oh no,’ he says, shaking his head.

‘I meant me and Kian and Marnie,’ Jake says quickly as Trudy sips her brandy. She is the only person I’ve ever met who insists on a digestif.

‘So, why doesn’t she want a normal wedding cake?’ Trudy asks, frowning.

Marnie shoots me a bemused look. ‘Eva does things her own way.’

However, Trudy doesn’t seem to grasp this. ‘We had a lovely cake, didn’t we, Ronnie?’ She purses her lips, as if Eva’s outlandish choice might somehow cast aspersions on her own.

‘Yes, I remember,’ I say.

‘We did, love,’ Dad adds, patting her hand.

‘Nice and simple,’ she states. ‘I’m not overly keen on showy cakes.’ She swivels towards Dad. ‘What was that lovely thing we had with our tea at Nunnington Hall?’

He shakes his head, unable to bring it to mind. And no wonder. Their life is one rolling conveyor belt of fruit scones and shortbread rounds, and I suspect all those stately home tearooms merge together.

‘A clafoutis!’ Trudy announces, then addresses the table. ‘It’s French.’

I catch Jake exchanging a smirk with Marnie. ‘So, the wedding’s definitely going ahead?’ he asks. I’ve filled them in on the whirlwind nature of the romance.

‘Oh, yes. The registry office is booked, and the venue for the reception do…’

‘And she’s been with him for, what, two months?’ Marnie pulls a worried face.

‘Not even,’ I say.

‘But, Mum…’ She hesitates. ‘Isn’t that kind of… doing things in the wrong order? I mean, getting married before they’ve even got to know each other properly?’

I shrug hopelessly because that’s Eva all over. Picked out her cushions and rugs before she’d even exchanged on her little flat. Falls in love with a vintage Pucci silk scarf and buys the dress and shoes to go with it. ‘I guess so,’ I say. ‘She just seems completely bowled over by him.’

Kian leans forwards, looking intrigued. ‘D’you know anything about this guy?’

‘Not really,’ I admit. ‘Me and Sam have tried to do some digging but we haven’t found much.’ I can’t bring myself to admit that we visited an address I’d spotted in his notebook, as it seems ridiculous now. Sure, it’s a bit of a hovel, and if it is his place – and we still don’t know that for sure – it certainly doesn’t fit the image he’s portrayed. But what are Sam and I planning to do with that information? I’m still not sure what the point of that was.

‘Some people aren’t really online,’ Jake remarks. ‘They don’t do social media at all⁠—’

‘Not like you, Mum,’ Marnie teases, ‘obsessively checking your likes.’ I smile because she sort of has a point. I still interact with my socials as an ‘immersive activity’, as she laughingly puts it: ‘You’re so Gen-X.’ I guess she’s right, as I still go out drinking with my friends and very occasionally tumble into bed with my make-up on, whereas Marnie pretty much only goes to the pub for her knitting group. ‘Who’s Ruby Chard?’ I asked when she was telling me about the communal garden she’d become involved with. ‘Mum – it’s a leafy crop!’ She is naturally gorgeous and knows how to care for cashmere, whereas pretty much all of my knits are bobbled and shrunken and ravaged by moths.

‘You think there’s something off about this guy?’ Kian suggests, having honed right in on my doubts.

‘I do,’ I tell him, ‘and I can’t help it.’