streamers if anything happens to that dress. The bride and I had to trawl practically every wedding emporium and design studio in London for it, howling in desperation when each dress turned out to be just slightly wrong. Some dresses were too white, some were not quite white enough, some were too plain and some were too fussy. It was the wedding dress equivalent of Goldilocks’ porridge-tasting. I’d almost lost the will to live when Samantha finally declared that the final dress was just right.
‘I will not let her wreck that dress before their first dance.’
‘Get on the case, Wedding Planner Woman!’ Simon orders.
I’m just on the brink of snapping shut my mobile and snatching the dangerous dessert away when the groom leans forward and gently wipes a smudge of brûlée from the corner of his new wife’s mouth. The tenderness and pride in his eyes when he smiles at her stop me in my tracks. I feel my eyes begin to moisten.
‘What?’ Si asks when I go quiet.
‘It’s so romantic,’ I gulp. ‘Adam’s spoonfeeding Samantha.’
Simon makes vomiting sounds. ‘Is this the same Samantha you said was so self-absorbed that if she was cut in half the word “me” would run through her like seaside rock?’
Did I say that? It must have been after the marathon wedding dress hunt. Looking at Samantha now, all smiles and Swarovski crystals, I know every stressful minute has been worthwhile.
‘She looks beautiful,’ I whisper, watching the happy couple share a lingering kiss. ‘I love weddings, Si, I really do.’
‘That’s because you’re a hopeless romantic,’ Simon says indulgently. ‘One in three marriages end in divorce, remember?’
‘Says you, the most happily married man I know.’
Now Simon’s end of the line goes quiet. I wonder if he’s got distracted by the rugby in the background, but then he adds soberly, ‘It’s not all moonlight and roses, Robs. Marriage is bloody hard work. It’s about who’s bought the milk and who’s picking up the dirty socks. But, yes, I am lucky.’
‘Faye deserves a medal for picking up your socks.’ I shudder. ‘I still have nightmares about that pair that grew mould.’
‘OK,’ grumbles Si, ‘dig up the past, why don’t you?’
‘I had to dig up your socks from the carpet!’
‘You exaggerate about that,’ Simon laughs. ‘But the point is that marriage is about mundane stuff most of the time.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I agree. ‘I should know how hard marriage really is. My parents have hardly set the best example.’
My parents’ marriage survived for about six years and I can’t remember the last time they had a civil word to say to each other. I try not to focus on this, concentrating instead on creating perfect wedding days for other people. At least I can get that right. The happily-ever-after bit I leave to my clients. I can’t believe that I still well up like this at the idea of true love because I’ve experienced all kinds of emotions since Pat and I split up, seesawing wildly from total disillusionment to a fervent optimism that true love can still overcome all.
So long as there are no comedy circuit groupies around, obviously.
Blast. Sometimes disillusionment wins.
‘Introspection over,’ I inform Si, who expresses his relief. ‘My pragmatic head is now firmly back in place and … oh God,’ I add, my heart sinking when I see who is coming my way. ‘Not a minute too soon either. I’ll call you back, Si.’
So much for my cunning hiding place.
It’s Patrick. And he’s making a beeline for me.
Here we go.
My ex-fiancé is looking ridiculously handsome in his morning suit. The thick chestnut curls, which I used to love threading my fingers through, are longer than I remember, but the lopsided smile and twinkling eyes haven’t changed one bit. He broke my heart and totally humiliated me. I will not still find him attractive.
I take a deep breath and prepare myself for a game of social chess.
Snapping the phone shut, I paste a bright ‘I’m fine’ smile onto my face. No girl wants her ex to see her teary-eyed at a wedding. Patrick would be bound to think I’m blubbing over him and, let’s be honest, he’s certainly given me enough cause to cry in the past.
‘Hello, Robyn,’ smiles Patrick, his peat brown eyes twinkling. ‘You’re looking lovely, so you are. How’s it going?’
Patrick is a born flirt. He probably drew his first breath and then started chatting up the midwife. With his dark good looks, razor-sharp wit and that Irish blarney, he’s pretty irresistible. Or so he thinks. Believe me, I’m resisting these days.
‘Fine, thanks.’ My smile is so forced it feels as though my skin is going to rip. I don’t love Patrick any more but I’m not sure if I’m over him, and I’m a long way off from forgiving him. That’s what the Christmas wish list is all about.
Faye says that I have issues to resolve. Simon says that Pat’s a tosser.
No prizes for guessing that I’m with Si on this one.
‘I haven’t seen you for ages,’ he continues, loosening his tie and raising an eyebrow Roger Moore style. The suave effect of the gesture rather is ruined because I know he practises it in the mirror. ‘Have you been away?’
Patrick may not have seen me for several months but unfortunately I’ve been seeing an awful lot of him and so has the rest of Britain. I haven’t encountered him in the flesh but there’s no escaping Patrick on the telly. Judging by the expensive haircut and the perfectly manicured nails, Patrick McNicolas has come a long way from the impoverished stand-up comedian/bookshop assistant that I used to know. His agent must have made a pact with Satan or something because now Pat has a lead part in the cult BBC 3 cooking sitcom Nosh! and regularly appears to make smart-alec comments on shows like Have I Got News for You. He’s also started to feature in the tabloids for his exploits out and about with other celebrities, while kids the length and breadth of Britain are driving their parents insane with his catchphrase ‘Jaysus!’
It’s a catchphrase I feel like uttering right now as I face my wedding-wrecking ex-fiancé and try to hold back from punching him on the nose.
Maybe Faye has a point about issues.
‘I’m fine, thanks, Pat,’ I say, delighted that my voice is calm and low. ‘I’ve been really busy with the wedding planning business. It’s doing OK. More than OK, actually.’
If the mention of weddings embarrasses Pat then he does a good job of hiding it. Instead he nods approvingly and helps himself to a flute of champagne from a passing waiter.
‘Adam said that this was one of your dos.’ Pat glances around the room before turning the charm back onto me, his eyes lazily sweeping my body in that old familiar way. ‘It looks amazing,
