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This pub is seriously olde worlde! Except for the men, who are young! Get your arse down here pronto and wear something nice! M xxx
Be there in half an hour, I text back, grinning to myself. Maisie. You’ve just got to love her.
I take a quick shower and slip into my jeans and a simple white jumper, despite her style suggestion. I’m not on the hunt, but I’m glad she is. No man can resist her French vintage charm.
As I’m heading down the beautiful wooden staircase, the air already shamelessly filled with the scent of cinnamon and Christmas like a child who can’t wait for the holidays, my mobile rings. It’s Stephen. Hopefully in penitence mode.
‘Hello,’ I say, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. I always try not to hold a grudge for too long.
‘Hi,’ he says. ‘How was the drive?’
How does he think it was?
‘Well,’ I reply, ‘you know when you get into a car and drive for five hours? That’s how it was.’
‘Oh, come on, Emmie. Don’t tell me you’re angry. You seemed fine when you left.’
Perhaps I seemed fine on the outside. But after an ambush like that, five hours on the road is a long time to think, even with Maisie cheerfully chatting away in your ear.
‘Well, as you can imagine, Mum is not best pleased about you postponing our engagement party. But I’ve explained about this woman contacting you.’
‘You mean mygrandmother,’ I correct him, already feeling the annoyance.
It must be that the Stephen effect decreases with the increase of the distance from London, which my maths colleagues would call an inverse proportion.
‘I wouldn’t get my hopes up too high, Emmie. We don’t know this woman.’
‘That’s why I’m here, Stephen. To get to know her.’
‘In any case, Mum has found a new date for the engagement party. December 24th. It’ll be a Christmas Eve and engagement party all in one.’
Well, you can’t fault Audrey’s efficiency. I just wish I didn’t resent her so much for running the show of my life. But I do realise it’s mostly my fault for letting her. I’m going to have to address that when I get back.
‘So a car will come and pick you up and take you to the venue,’ Stephen says.
‘I… wait, we’re not going together?’
‘I promised Mum I’d be there early to greet the guests.’
‘You mean her clients.’
‘Oh, come on, Emmie. It’ll be just like a wedding! I’ll be waiting for you, all gorgeous and in style in a Stone design. By the way, Mum says she loves the dress you chose for the engagement party, even if it’s not one of hers. I hope you didn’t mind me showing it to her.’
I do indeed, but let’s not go there. I’ve just received a compliment from the MIL-to-be! Dare I hope that she might be slowly finding some respect for her poor, unconnected future daughter-in-law?
‘Thank you, so do I.’
‘But she thinks it doesn’t suit you. She says you’re too short.’
‘Ah.’ And here we go again with the fashion fascism. You’d think that by the way she goes on about it, someone’s life depended on bloody couture. All I want is to get married. It doesn’t matter what she thinks about my (lack of) style. ‘Stephen, with all due respect—’
‘Come on, Emmie. What difference does it make to you which dress she chooses for you? It’ll be fun!’
Fun? I’m going to my engagement party on my own. And in a dress I haven’t chosen…
‘Hold on a moment. I never said shecouldchoose my dress.’
‘But think how awful it would look – her own daughter-in-law choosing someone else’s design?’
