The Wedding in Carlton Square

Chapter 1

Breathe, Emma. Pretend this is just a perfectly normal walk, like the time we went rambling all over Hampstead Heath and even though it started to drizzle and Auntie Rose had spent ages getting my hair straight, I acted like I’d been wishing for a clammy mist to come along and soak me through.

No, wait, that’s when Daniel told me he loved me. With water dribbling off my nose, frizzy hair and all. Oh god.

The important thing is to be cool and calm and not to act like some crazy person about to be proposed to. That’s how I’ll want Daniel to think of me whenever he remembers the day we got engaged. His cool, calm girlfriend who answered with something clever and nonchalant but still genuine and emotional.

Because I’m sure that’s what this is. In the entire history of the South Bank, the only people who’ve ever come here to walk along its wide Thames-side promenade are tourists and lovers.

It’s not only the location that’s alerted me. There’ve been clues, though I’m sure Daniel thinks he’s been subtle. A few months ago as we cuddled on his sofa with a bottle of wine and a film neither of us was very interested in, out of the blue he asked, ‘Do you ever wear rings? I just wondered because Mummy does.’

I should explain about the Mummy thing before we go any further, otherwise you’ll be picturing someone not very appealing. Daniel is very appealing. He’s not a mama’s boy (or a mummy’s boy). That’s just what posh people call their mums. It’s why he speaks like his jaw is wired open and loves red trousers, even though he’s only twenty-five. He might be a bit hard to understand sometimes because he slides over most of the syllables in words but lands on the letters at the ends. Isn’T thaT amaahzing? I’m getting pretty good at translating him into normal, though, so I’ll do my best.

Anyway, that one little question was the biggest clue that he might be thinking in the long term. There were other things too – mentions of future plans, including what sounded like a Christmas invitation to his family’s next year, even though we’ve just passed Valentine’s Day. But he asked about the ring months ago and, forewarned, I did shave my legs nearly every day after that (and definitely for Valentine’s Day, just in case), though lately I’ve reverted to my normal shaving-twice-a-week-if-I’m-lucky stubble.

All of which is to say that I’m not as prepared for today as I’d like. My hair’s got a weird kink and instead of a killer outfit I’m in my usual jeans and trainers and my winter wool coat that I should have replaced last year when it started to pill. It’s too warm for a wool coat anyway. I can feel my face sweating. Just to complete that marry-me look.

Daniel, I now notice, is dressed up. He’s wearing his tan brogues with his red trousers, and the stripy scarf I got him for Christmas is looped over his navy jumper.

I have to catch my breath when I sneak a glance at him. In the early spring sunshine his hair and complexion are golden, even though we haven’t been away all winter. He’s got the kind of skin you see on gorgeous Scandinavians in those adverts selling extra-healthy yogurt, with pinkish lips and just the right amount of stubble for a Saturday afternoon. He catches me with his bright blue eyes, edged with the longest, thickest brown lashes this side of a Rimmel advert.

‘Everything all right?’ His arm tightens around my shoulder, which fits perfectly into his armpit as long as I’m in trainers. Which I am, as previously explained.

‘Everything’s perfect.’ And I mean it. I’ve been in a near-constant state of happiness since the day we got together.

‘I think so too,’ he says. ‘This is perfect.’

Something about the way he says it tells me this is the moment. Even if I hadn’t had the clues first, I would have known.

Gently he steers me to the stone wall at the edge of the river. The tide is going out and it smells a bit fishy, but I wouldn’t mind doing this on top of a rubbish tip. ‘I know we haven’t been going out very long,’ he says. ‘But–’

‘Nearly a year,’ I remind him. Shush, Emma. Let the man speak.

‘Yah, nearly a year.’ He envelops my hands in the warmth of his. ‘And I’ve known for nearly that long how much I love you. You aren’t like anyone I’ve ever met before and I feel like I could spend the rest of my life learning more about you. And the more I learn, the more I love, so … …’ When he drops down on one knee I’m aware of people starting to stare. ‘Emma Liddell, will you please make me the happiest man on earth by marrying me?’

My eyes are so glued to his hopeful face that I almost don’t notice the box he pulls from his pocket.

But I notice the ring when he pops open the box.

‘Daniel! That’s–’ Huge. It’s a square-cut diamond whose sparkles could do permanent retina damage in this sunshine. ‘I can’t let you go into debt like this.’ He only works for a charity.

‘I’m not in debt. It’s a family ring.’

‘Which family? The Queen’s?’

His face reddens. ‘They have a bit of money. I didn’t like to mention it because it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t, does it?’

He looks like he’s just confessed an infectious disease. ‘No.’ I laugh. ‘I think I can manage to love you anyway.’

‘Is that a yes, then?’

‘It’s a yes! Of course it’s a yes, I love you!’ We fling our arms around each other to the enthusiastic applause of the tourists, and maybe even a few of the lovers, on the South Bank.

‘I cannot wait to marry you, Emma Liddell,’ he murmurs just before he kisses me.

Two weeks later …

When Daniel said his family had a bit of money he failed to mention that he grew up in a mansion. Not a mansion block but an actual bona fide mansion – four floors high, white stucco-fronted with black-and-white chequered tiles in the doorway under the portico and an ornate wrought-iron fence to keep out the riffraff. Not that any riffraff probably comes to this part of London.

I can’t stop staring up at the façade. My feet don’t want to move and the rest of me is taking orders from them. If the neighbours catch sight of me, they’ll be straight on the phone to the Old Bill about someone casing the place.

The last time I was inside such a grand home I’d mopped its floors with Mum. She’s never going to believe this.

Huge topiary trees flank the black front door, which is so shiny I can almost see my reflection. I pinch a leaf from one of the trees. Real. Of course it is. The heavy lion-headed knocker makes an echoing boom inside.

Daniel didn’t let on about any of this, not the huge family house or the topiary or the knocker. He was so uncomfortable when telling me about his family having money that I felt bad bringing it up again. He’s right – we’re marrying each other, not our families.

I’ve met Daniel’s parents and sister several times before, but they’ve never mentioned any of this either. I’d assumed we always met at restaurants because his mum doesn’t cook, but now I suspect he’s been keeping this dirty little rich secret from me. It’s hard to get too cross about that.

The slender blonde woman who opens the door is about my age. She smiles her greeting and steps aside for me. She’s wearing black trousers and a white blouse, which makes me feel better. I was worried I hadn’t dressed up enough for this do.

‘Hiya, I’m Emma Liddell.’ I stick out my hand, but she just looks confused.

Maybe I should have cheek-kissed her? Daniel is always kissing people he’s just met.

‘May I take your, erm, helmet?’ she asks.

We both glance at the duck-egg blue helmet under my arm. It’s not exactly a Louis Vuitton. Now I’ve got a second reason to wish I hadn’t driven my scooter. It had looked so little and careworn parked out front amongst all the Rollers and Audis.

‘Sure, here. Sorry, I didn’t get your name?’

She takes my helmet, ignoring my question. ‘The guests are through there.’

I turn away quickly so she won’t see my cheeks flush. She’s not one of Daniel’s friends who happens to be dressed in black and white and answering the door. She’s their maid.

That’s a great start.

I can hear loads of people in the room where she’s pointed. It seems like about a mile between there and the front door. Possibly because Daniel’s hallway is bigger than my entire house. Wide stairs run up on one side and the ceiling must be fifteen feet high. Everything is painted either boring pale grey or white, with a huge silver mirror on one wall and tall vases of lilies on the long black table underneath. The only interesting thing I spot is the giant copper and glass lantern that hangs from the ceiling, like the ones you find outside pubs. I hold on to that tiny little slice of home comfort as I make my way towards the noise.

I should have asked the maid to get Daniel for me so I wouldn’t have to walk in alone. What if I don’t see him right away? What if he’s not here yet? I only know his parents and sister, and I definitely can’t talk to them without Daniel here.

Not that they’re rude. Just in a different world.

The world I’m about to join. If they’ll have me.

There aren’t as many people in the room as I’d feared and of course Daniel’s mother, Philippa, sees me straightaway. So much for hiding in the corner. ‘Emma, darling!’ she cries. ‘It’s so wonderful finally to have you here in our home. We’ve been bothering Daniel for months to invite you and now, finally, here you are with us.’ She hold my hands out, which she’s got grasped in hers. ‘Don’t you look lovely?’

‘Thank you. And thank you for this party.’ I say this to both Philippa and Daniel’s father, Hugh, who’s standing beside her. Hugh doesn’t usually make an appearance unless Philippa makes him, so she’s clearly making him. I’m not surprised he stays in the background with a force of nature like Philippa around. She’s a take charge kind of woman, whether you like it or not. Daniel told me she even orchestrated Hugh’s marriage proposal. But they seem to rub along okay, so maybe he’d have got around to it eventually on his own.

Philippa waves her hand at the room. ‘Oh, this is nothing, just something I cobbled together so we can celebrate!’

I glance at the silver and the sparkling champagne glasses laid on blue linen tablecloths, the stacks of cocktail napkins that look like real linen too. She’s even got matching waiters, and I don’t mean they’re dressed alike. They’re clones of one another.

Philippa looks perfectly put together as usual. She’s got on a navy wool dress that probably cost more than I earn in a year, though if I compliment her on it she’ll say, ‘What? This old thing? It’s been in the back of my closet for ages.’ And then she’ll try to give it to me, even though she’s about a foot taller than I am. Because she’s very gracious like that.

She’s not classically pretty – more handsome. And tall, like I said. Her big booming voice matches her personality and she’s exactly what you’d picture if I told you she’s a hearty woman. She’s somewhere north of fifty, but how far north is anyone’s guess. Could be Manchester, could be the Orkneys. She’s got a few lines around her mouth and a few around her eyes, but she hasn’t tried to Botox or fill them. Too much bother, she claims. She probably colours her hair too, but the dark blonde looks completely natural. Daniel says she used to have it all the way down her back when she was young, but now she wears it in a bob like nearly all the other women in the room. Something about giving birth seems to make women cut off their hair.

I doubt I’d ever do that. Not that my hair is overly long now. If I tip my head back, it reaches my bra strap. It’s naturally wavy, but Auntie Rose did me a blow-dry this morning.

I’ll never be able to subtly hide the grey like Philippa can, though. Not that I need to reach for the L’Oréal yet. I’m only twenty-four and my hair’s nearly jet black, thanks to a great great (great? I forget) grandfather, imaginatively known as Blacky all his life. I’m the only one in the family who’s got his hair. Mum’s even got a natural ginger tinge, or so she claims. Auntie Rose has done her colour forever – it’s always red but veers between Amy Adams and Prince Harry.

‘Right, you must come meet our dear, dear friends,’ Philippa says, leaving Hugh standing on his own with his drink. I catch his wink as his wife drags me off. Better me than him, it says.

‘May I introduce you to George and India, Lord and Lady Mucking? George’s parents were lifelong friends of Hugh and me, and we’ve known George since he was born!’

Lady Mucking is pretty and plump, with the requisite blonde bob. Her nose is slightly big but nothing compared to her husband’s. I could stay dry in a hurricane under that thing. But his face is friendly and they both smile when Philippa introduces us. They’re older than me – probably in their late thirties – but not nearly as old as I imagined lords and ladies would be. Though for all I know the upper classes might give birth to fully grown lords. Or maybe they sprout like tulips every few years in the Queen’s garden.

‘India, George,’ says Philippa. ‘May I introduce Emma Liddell, Daniel’s fiancée!’

I can hardly believe I’m marrying into this lot. I had no idea it was this bad. I mean good. Of course I mean good.

‘Very pleased to meet you both,’ I say as I shake their hands. I’ve never knowingly touched a lord before. His hand is sweaty. Maybe he’s never knowingly touched a commoner.

‘Hellair! Lidl, you say?’ asks George. ‘As in the supermarket? I knew it was family-owned. Are they Lidls?’

I nearly guffaw at the idea that I’m part of some supermarket dynasty, till I catch on that he’s serious.

‘No, no, not related. L, I, double D, E, double L. I think Lidl is German. We’ve been in East London forever. Dad’s traced us back to the eighteen-eighty census.’

‘Yah, our family was in Burma then,’ George says.

‘You’re a cockney?’ India asks. Her hands twinkle with jewels as they fly to her chest. ‘That’s delightful! Let me see, yah, I remember. Did you come up the apples and stairs just now?’

I smile indulgently. Anyone west of Farringdon thinks we all talk like the cast off Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. ‘I did and I’m Hank Marvin for one of those.’ I snatch a tiny sausage roll from a passing tray.

India looks confused. ‘I mean starving. Is Daniel here?’ I ask Philippa, trying not to sound as panicky as I’m starting to feel.

‘Oh yes, he’s just gone to check on the kitchen. They’re being awfully slow with the rest of the canapes.’

Sure enough, Daniel wanders in, amiably chatting with a waiter who’s carrying a tray of what might be miniature pancakes.

‘Em!’ He scoops me up in his arms for a gentle kiss. ‘You look gorgeous.’

‘Not too …?’ Market stall? I want to ask. It’s a plain little black dress with lace on the short sleeves and down the front, but I wonder if Daniel’s crowd can tell it’s not designer. It feels wrong wearing lace when the rest of the room is in wool and silk, and nobody aside from the staff is wearing black.

‘It’s just right,’ Daniel says. ‘You’re beautiful. You haven’t been here long, have you? I got caught up talking with Pavel in the kitchen. We were in the same village in Laos in the same month, isn’t that amazing?’

Pavel seems to be the waiter that Daniel walked in with. Sure enough, when Daniel waves at him, Pavel waves self-consciously back.

Daniel’s got one of those naturally friendly faces that means strangers are always stopping him for directions, and he’s so nice that sometimes he even walks them to their destination. I love that he’s always striking up conversations like this. If he didn’t, we’d never have met.

‘I’m awfully sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived,’ he murmurs as we edge out of earshot of Lord Mucking. ‘You’re ever-so brave to face this mob on your own.’

I think it’s kind of brave too. But then I’m going to have to get used to it sooner rather than later. ‘You didn’t mention that you’re stonking rich,’ I say. ‘I thought you took our course because you were interested in the historical architecture of stately homes. Not because your family lives in one.’

His expression is slightly bemused, like he’s seeing his family’s lounge for the first time. It’s about the size of one of the galleries at Tate Britain, and if I’m not mistaken, the painting on the burnished panelling over the fireplace is a Constable. They could have put velvet ropes around Lord and Lady Mucking and charged an entrance fee.

‘But I did tell you what Father does,’ he says.

Something for Lloyds, he’d told me. We used to have a Lloyds branch not far from us, but it closed down. Nobody working there looked like they could afford all this, even if they were the manager.

But I’ve got it wrong. It’s not Lloyds the bank but an insurer by the same name, and Daniel’s father is a lot bigger than a branch manager.

‘He helps underwrite their insurance.’ Daniel catches my expression and shrugs. ‘It means he provides the money to pay out when insurance claims are made.’

‘Like when someone wrecks his car or gets his phone nicked,’ I say. ‘What’s in it for him if he’s fronting all this money?’

‘They give him a percentage of the insurance premiums and he hopes there aren’t too many claims. They’re specialist insurers so they underwrite bigger things than stolen phones. More like military coups and earthquakes. Or Michael Flatley’s legs or Bruce Springsteen’s vocal chords or …’ He clasps his chest. ‘Dolly Parton’s breasts.’

‘Dolly Parton’s breasts are definitely bigger than a mobile phone. And your dad gets a cut of these premiums.’ My head swims as I take this in. ‘I see. Is this his only job? I only ask because keeping up a gaff like this must be expensive. My dad had the same problem with our council flat, so he was a taxi driver and a trader down the market, as you know.’

He laughs at my lame joke. ‘He’s got his own investment portfolio too. I’ve told you, it really doesn’t matter.’ Pronounced rahly. He looks worried that I might bolt at the news that he’s genuinely minted. ‘You’re marrying me, not my family.’

‘I know, it’s just that I’m not used to a house quite like this.’ That’s the understatement of a lifetime, considering that I share a bedroom with Auntie Rose at home.

He runs his fingers through his blond thatch. ‘Right, darling, I haven’t been completely honest with you, but please promise you won’t judge me.’ He waits for me to nod, though my tummy is starting a series of forward rolls that doesn’t feel nice. ‘I did mean to tell you about my family. I don’t usually have to say anything when I meet people in our circles. Everyone knows everyone, at least by reputation. But we met and I liked you so much and it’s just that you’re so …’

‘Poor? Working class? Not like you?’

‘Normal. I was going to say normal, Em. And we got along so well that our backgrounds didn’t seem to matter. Or at least I hoped they didn’t. You can see why I didn’t mention anything at first, can’t you? Then as time went on it got harder to say “Oh, by the way, my family is wealthy” without sounding like a tosser. Besides, that’s them, not me. I only work for a charity, remember?’

He looks honestly anguished about his family. ‘You make it sound like they’re criminals,’ I say. ‘So you’re a rich boy done good, eh? Breaking that horrible cycle of wealth?’

That makes him laugh. ‘I sound like a spoiled twat, I know, I’m sorry. It sounds ridiculous no matter how I explain it, but wealth does seem like a crime to some people.’

‘And you were worried that I might think so too?’

‘I was too bowled over by you to take a chance like that, even though I should have known you wouldn’t judge. I’m rahly sorry my family is wealthy,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing I can do about that.’

So he did shield me from the worst of it. I mean the best of it. I’ve got to stop saying that. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get over it,’ I tell him. ‘Somehow I’ll manage to overlook your bank account.’