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“The 20th?” I blink at him, wondering who the “we” he’s referring to is — because it’s definitely not me and him. “But that’s only a few weeks away, Jack! How are we supposed to plan a wedding that quickly? It’s impossible!”
“Well, it’s lucky we have a wedding planner in the family, then, isn’t it?” he replies, conveniently forgetting that Rose hasn’t planned anything in her life. “Rose is going to be staying for a while, too. And you know you don’t have to go into the restaurant; I’ve got the rota covered for the next few weeks, so you can concentrate on planning your dream wedding.”
“Ourdream wedding,” I correct him, not knowing which part of this to address first: the “Rose is going to be staying for a while” bit, or the fact that I appear to have just been pushed out of my job — such as it was.
“Youarehappy about the wedding, aren’t you, Emerald?” Jack asks, looking suddenly worried. “I don’t want to rush you or anything, I just… well, I just thought the sooner the better, you know? Why wait?”
He smiles as he takes me by the hand.
“I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you, Emerald,” he says, dimpling adorably. “I wouldn’t even wait until next month if it was up to me.”
He leans forward to kiss me, and all of my objections instantly disappear.
“Well, when you put it like that…” I say, smiling up at him. “Shotgun wedding it is!”
“Perfect,” he says happily, the awkwardness of earlier apparently forgotten. “Now, let’s go back outside; I really want to show my parents these plans.” I follow him back out to the garden, trying to identify the feeling in the pit of my stomach as I go. I’m pretty sure it’s excitement — I mean, I’ve just found out I’m going to be marrying my favorite person in the world in a few weeks’ time, so that would definitely make sense, wouldn’t it?
So why does it feel like something’s about to go horribly wrong?
Chapter 6
Emerald’s Master List of Things to Do Before the Wedding:
Final Update
The Dress
The Hair
The Gym
The Venue — Jack wants to have it either at the house itself, or at The 39, but Rose says that would be déclassé, so where else can we find at such short notice?
Find out who’s sending anonymous messages accusing my fiancé of lying to me.
Try to become friends with his sister, even though I’m still not totally convincedshe’snot the message sender.
Find way to make my in-laws like me. Or at least nothateme.
“It’s a mess, Emerald. It’s an absolute mess.” When I came to Brian’s back-yard gym for help with my pre-wedding fitness routine, I knew he’d be honest with me; I just wasn’t expecting him to be quite so brutal.
“Are you talking about my overall fitness, or my life in general?” I ask nervously, looking down at my pale legs in their unaccustomed shorts, and wondering if I should add a spray tan to my wedding list, even though the last time I tried to book one, the woman at the salon took one look at my redhead-blue skin and refused to touch me with her spray gun.
“I was actually talking about your hair,” says Brian, taking a lock of it between his fingers and wincing as if the texture pains him. “But, aye, it would apply to everything else as well, I suppose. Ye really manage to get yerself into some scrapes, don’t ye?”
I take a seat on the little sofa he’s got squeezed into the back of the room, next to a treadmill, an extensive set of weights, and a life-sized cardboard cutout of Harry Styles.
Brian’s ‘gym’ — if you can call it that — is, as McTavish said, located in a purpose built shed — or “garden room” as Brian snootily corrects me — at the bottom of Brian’s back garden, and it’s both bigger and nicer than McTavish made it sound. Like a summerhouse, only with gym equipment. As well as the treadmill and the weights, he’s somehow managed to get a few other pieces of exercise equipment into the tiny space, but it’s more of a personal training service than a gym, he tells me as he signs me up to what he calls his “Platinum Plan.”
“If ye get to week 5 without missing a session,” he says, looking at me critically, “Ye get one o’ these towels.”
He shows me a very small gray towel which, on closer inspection, turns out to have the words “Brian’s Bodyshop” embroidered on the edge, in tiny letters.
“Great,” I say, with roughly the same level of enthusiasm I manage to display when Frankie gets drunk and suggests a game of charades.
My life feels like enough of a ‘charade’ sometimes without wanting to do it for fun, let me tell you.
“Ach, we’ll have ye whipped into shape in no time,” says Brian without conviction. “I’ll draw up a timetable for ye. And as for the other thing—”
