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“Frankie, I didn’t know it was going to be like this,” I tell her, truthfully. “Really, I didn’t. I didn’t even know it was supposed to be an ‘engagement party’. Kathryn only mentioned it yesterday, and she made it sound like it was just going to be Mum and Dad, so they could meet them before the wedding. If I’d known it was going to be a whole thing, thenobviouslyI’d have invited you. And McTavish. Maybe not Maggie Quinn, though, because, like I keep telling you, I don’t know her. But come on, Frankie, you know I wouldn’t exclude you. You’re my best friend.”
She looks at me suspiciously, but I can tell she’s wavering. And also that she’s desperate to ask what’s been going on out there that made me come running to the kitchen, close to tears.
“Okay, out with it,” she says, pulling up a seat at the kitchen table. “I can tell you’ve done something you regret. It’s all over your face. And so are quite a few crumbs from those canapes I saw being carried in, earlier, by the way.”
I scrub at my face with my hand, cringing.
“Right then,” says Frankie when I’m done. “You might as well tell me and get it over with.”
I take a seat opposite her, wondering where on earth to start. Should I lead with the moment I threw whisky over Jack’s sister, or just skip straight to the bit where I accused him of lying to me for the second time this week?.
“Do you want the talking stick?” asks Frankie, handing me a wooden spoon, and looking just like Bella McGowan when she used to force us to work out arguments at primary school like this.
I take a deep breath, then plunge right in.
“Well,” says Frankie when I reach the end of my sorry tale, the wooden spoon still clenched in my hand. “That’s pretty wild, even for you, Emerald.”
“I know,” I moan, putting my head in my hands. “I know, Frankie. I feel so stupid. Why do I do these things to myself? Why can’t I just be a normal person, who… I don’t know,knits, or something? Why can’t I be aknitter?”
“Because you’re terrible at crafts,” says Frankie, matter-of-factly. “Remember when we tried to knit jumpers for our Barbies, and yours had three arms? Anyway, it’s not about knitting; it’s about you and Jack, and trying to rebuild the trust. That has to be your first move.”
“How do I do it, though?”
“No idea,” says Frankie, cheerfully. “I suppose you could start by talking to him? That’s normally a good plan. Oh, and stop throwing things at his sister, obviously. That goes without saying, though. Or it should.”
I twirl a lock of hair around my finger thoughtfully.
“That might be easier said than done,” I say at last. “The talking to Jack bit, I mean; not the throwing whisky bit. I should be able to manage that.”
I’m actually not sure about that one either, to be honest, but, right now, Rose is the least of my problems. The main one is Jack, and the way he looked at me as if I was a stranger he barely knew, and yet didn’t much like.
How do I even begin to apologize for the little stunt I just pulled in the living room?
How do I convince him I trust him, when I’m not actually sure I do?
“Look,” says Frankie, as if she’s read my mind, “I’m happy to step aside as Maid of Honor if it’ll help you get things back on track with Jack. Well, I mean, I’m nothappyto, but I’ll do it. It sounds like the less drama you have to get involved with right now, the better, and the Buchanans do seem a bit… well, overbearing, I guess.”
“No,” I say immediately. “No, you won’t, Frankie. I’m not letting you do that. You’re the person I chose, and that’s all there is to it. I should be allowed to choose who’s in my wedding, for God’s sake. And I feel like if I don’t make a stand on this, then that’ll be it; they’ll just take control of everything. And I’m not going to let them. I know it was wrong of me to … well, do everything I’ve done over the last few days. But I’m not wrong about this. It’s bad enough they’ve got you cleaning the kitchen; they’re not getting to push you aside at the wedding, too.”
I raise my chin defiantly, feeling a bit like Mel Gibson inBraveheart, when he makes that speech with the face paint. This is my Mel Gibson moment: my chance to make a stand — only ideally without the blue face, obviously. It’s just a shame Frankie’s the only one here to witness it.
“I appreciate the sentiment,” says Frankie wryly, “But maybe you should apply that to yourself, too? Because, as far as I can see, I’m not the only one being pushed aside here. You are, too.”
She stands up and pats me on the shoulder before going back to her cleaning.
“You should really get back to the party,” she says. “They’re going to be wondering where you’ve got to. Jack’ll be getting out the helicopter again any minute.”
“I doubt that,” I reply sadly. It hasn’t escaped my attention that he hasn’t even bothered to come and find me, let alone try to help me with this. It’s like he doesn’t care anymore; it’s just him and his family, and then me somewhere on the periphery, always the last to know, and the last to count.
I dig my fingers into the palms of my hands, trying to stop the tears that are never far away with me right now.
Since I met Jack, my life has totally changed — for the better, I’d thought.
So why do I still feel like an impostor?
Chapter 12
Back in the living room, Mum’s still speaking like she’s in a Regency drama, Dad’s “pure blootered”, as he would have it, and people have started to spill out into the garden, shrieking with drunken laughter.
