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Zealy and Paul have hooked up a couple of times over the years but, although I know Zealy would like to make the arrangement more formal, I don’t think Paul’s the kind to settle down. An international art consultant, he’s dark-haired and at least six foot five, his large nose leavening otherwise glossy good looks. They’d make an attractive couple.
Flic Everett, the mother of one of the other bridesmaids, Olivia, signals to a waiter for another cocktail. ‘Are you sure you don’t want Lottie to eat with Olivia and the other girls upstairs?’ she asks me. ‘I’m sure it’d be more fun for her.’
‘I’m not letting her out of my sight,’ I say.
‘My eldest, Betty, is babysitting. Lottie would be fine, I promise—’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
Flic gives me an odd look, and then turns to Marc’s father, Eric, who’s seated on her other side.
Lottie takes yet another roll. I realise she’s not actually eating them, but slipping them into the pockets of her cardigan. ‘What are you doing?’ I say.
‘They’re for my blue mummy,’ she says.
That’s the second time she’s mentioned her ‘blue mummy’. Before I can ask her what she means, there’s a disruption at the other end of the table.
A good-looking man I don’t recognise has entered the restaurant, and Sian rises to her feet to greet him. He’s clearlypart of the wedding group; he must be one of the ushers. But there isn’t a free place for him at the table, and I realise my daughter has probably taken his seat.
‘Lottie shouldn’t be here,’ Sian says to me. ‘It’s just adults. We’ve only paid for twelve people.’
‘I’m happy to—’
‘She’s only a kid,’ Marc says. ‘It’s not like she’s going to eat much.’
I don’t hold Sian’s sceptical expression against her.
David Williams, Sian’s father, touches his daughter’s bare arm. ‘It’s all right, love. I’ll sort it out with the hotel afterwards.’
‘There isn’troom,’ Sian says.
Catherine pushes her chair back slightly from the table and pats her lap. ‘She can sit on my knee, if she wants?’
‘Why don’t we all just move our chairs down a bit?’ Sian’s mother, Penny, says. ‘We can squeeze together, and make space for Ian.’
Sian looks like she wants to object, but she reads the table and subsides. Marc beckons to a waiter and another chair is produced, and everyone shuffles along to make room.
‘Who’s he?’ I ask Zealy.
‘Ian Dutton,’ she says. ‘He’s one of Marc’s friends. He was a professional tennis player for a bit, though I think he’s retired now. He used to coach Marc, that’s how they met.’
He certainly looks the part, his linen shirt failing to hide a rippling six-pack.
‘Sorry I missed the wedding rehearsal,’ Ian says, sitting down. ‘My flight was delayed and I only just got in. Anything special I need to know?’
‘Not really. Paul can fill you in,’ Marc says.
‘It’s more for the little ones,’ Penny adds. ‘And Lottie did a lovely job, didn’t she, Sian?’
‘Yes,’ Sian says, grudgingly.
Two waiters serve our appetisers; Lottie has picked mussels in white wine. Not the choice of most three-year-olds, but then my daughter isn’t most children.
‘Good for her,’ Paul says, admiringly.
‘I don’t know how she can eat those things,’ Sian says, with a shudder. She toys with her rocket salad, no dressing, no almonds, hold the shaved parmesan.
One of the mussels suddenly shoots out of Lottie’s hand, spraying white wine everywhere, and skids along the table, landing neatly in front of Sian’s plate.
An accident, obviously.
Lottie giggles and then claps two starfish hands over her mouth.
Ian roars with laughter. ‘Slippery little buggers,’ he says. ‘Here. Let me winkle a few out for you, kid.’
Lottie, normally reluctant to part with her food, hands him her bowl of mussels without complaint. Ian swiftly finesses half-a-dozen and returns it. ‘There you go. Don’t bother with a fork for the rest; just use your fingers.’
Catherine leans forward. ‘I’ve just realised,’ she says, in a breathy whisper. ‘Now Ian’s here, there’s thirteen of us. Isn’t that unlucky?’
‘I don’t believe in luck,’ I say.
