Queen, and then carried on eye-flitting, as if she was merely perusing the crowd. Jo’s red and blackness was harder to deal with. Stevie couldn’t bring herself even to glance in that direction so it was wiser to pretend Jo wasn’t there. Her suit seemed to keep creeping into Stevie’s peripheral vision though, and she had to keep constantly finding places for her eyes to rest away from Jo and Matthew and MacLean. It was exhausting.
‘Last photo–group shot of friends!’ announced the photographer, about three million years later, when all the old people were starting to ask loudly, ‘How much longer before we sit down and have something to eat?’
Oh God, thought Stevie as all the people in her worst nightmare seemed to converge onto the lawn. Catherine protectively dragged Stevie between herself and Eddie and moved forward into the throng. Jo was posing at the other end, Matthew was in the middle and Adam was nowhere to be seen, which meant he was probably somewhere behind her.
‘That’s one for the album–not,’ said Catherine wryly, giving her a nudge.
‘Right, has everyone got lifts back to the Ivy?’ enquired big Adam MacLean in full duty mode. He didn’t have to shout to be heard. His voice showed up on the Richterscale between the San Francisco earthquake and a Def Leppard concert.
‘We haven’t,’ replied Eddie, who had left the car at home so they could all have a drink. He hadn’t said it that loudly, but it appeared that Adam also had the ears of a bat (as well as the face of a bashed crab, thought Stevie with a smirk) and he expertly organized them into a car with William’s ancient Uncle Dennis. Stevie took a sly look over at Matthew, who appeared to be making a pretence of saying, ‘Hi,’ to Jo and asking her if she had a lift, if the extravagant hand gestures towards the church car park were anything to go by. It was like watching someone conduct something complicated by Rimsky-Korsakov.
‘There, that wasn’t too bad, was it?’ said Eddie as they were crammed together in the back of a treasured old car that belonged in a museum, driven by someone who belonged in the same place.
‘What?’ said Catherine. ‘Are you thick? If she’d shook any more, her blood would have turned to yogurt.’
‘I think I might skip the reception and go home,’ said Stevie, who felt nauseous, something that couldn’t be blamed on Uncle Dennis’s wild driving. Tortoises and snails were overtaking them on both sides.
‘No chance,’ said Catherine. ‘You’re doing great. Think of “your plan”.’
‘Did he look at me at all?’ asked Stevie, thinking how the last time she had asked Catherine that, was at the sixth-form disco about the cool and gorgeous Oliver Thompson, resplendent in a burgundy jacket and black trousers. She had gone totally off him twenty minutes later, after findinghim dancing like a nerd to ‘Are Friends Electric’. Ah, the fickleness of youth!
‘I honestly don’t know,’ said Catherine. ‘I was trying not to look at him.’
Behind her back, Catherine’s fingers were crossed on the lie. She did not tell her friend that on the couple of occasions she had looked over, Matthew seemed only to have eyes for Jo. It was all she could do not to march over there and bang their heads together.
Alas, the Ivy wasn’t the Ivy, but it was a very nice country hotel less than a mile away, with a small golf range and a rather magnificent entrance hall, where trays of sherry and malt whisky were awaiting. Stevie’s hand was shaking so much that she managed to spill most of her sherry down her skirt. She did a quick sweep of the room to make sure no one of importance had seen her be so clumsy.
‘Calm down,’ reprimanded Catherine. ‘You look like you’ve got the DTs.’
Adam was laughing, circulating and being jolly Ginger Man. He looked totally different with all that hair off, thought Stevie. She wouldn’t have said ‘softer’, because no one with that nose and
‘Last photo–group shot of friends!’ announced the photographer, about three million years later, when all the old people were starting to ask loudly, ‘How much longer before we sit down and have something to eat?’
Oh God, thought Stevie as all the people in her worst nightmare seemed to converge onto the lawn. Catherine protectively dragged Stevie between herself and Eddie and moved forward into the throng. Jo was posing at the other end, Matthew was in the middle and Adam was nowhere to be seen, which meant he was probably somewhere behind her.
‘That’s one for the album–not,’ said Catherine wryly, giving her a nudge.
‘Right, has everyone got lifts back to the Ivy?’ enquired big Adam MacLean in full duty mode. He didn’t have to shout to be heard. His voice showed up on the Richterscale between the San Francisco earthquake and a Def Leppard concert.
‘We haven’t,’ replied Eddie, who had left the car at home so they could all have a drink. He hadn’t said it that loudly, but it appeared that Adam also had the ears of a bat (as well as the face of a bashed crab, thought Stevie with a smirk) and he expertly organized them into a car with William’s ancient Uncle Dennis. Stevie took a sly look over at Matthew, who appeared to be making a pretence of saying, ‘Hi,’ to Jo and asking her if she had a lift, if the extravagant hand gestures towards the church car park were anything to go by. It was like watching someone conduct something complicated by Rimsky-Korsakov.
‘There, that wasn’t too bad, was it?’ said Eddie as they were crammed together in the back of a treasured old car that belonged in a museum, driven by someone who belonged in the same place.
‘What?’ said Catherine. ‘Are you thick? If she’d shook any more, her blood would have turned to yogurt.’
‘I think I might skip the reception and go home,’ said Stevie, who felt nauseous, something that couldn’t be blamed on Uncle Dennis’s wild driving. Tortoises and snails were overtaking them on both sides.
‘No chance,’ said Catherine. ‘You’re doing great. Think of “your plan”.’
‘Did he look at me at all?’ asked Stevie, thinking how the last time she had asked Catherine that, was at the sixth-form disco about the cool and gorgeous Oliver Thompson, resplendent in a burgundy jacket and black trousers. She had gone totally off him twenty minutes later, after findinghim dancing like a nerd to ‘Are Friends Electric’. Ah, the fickleness of youth!
‘I honestly don’t know,’ said Catherine. ‘I was trying not to look at him.’
Behind her back, Catherine’s fingers were crossed on the lie. She did not tell her friend that on the couple of occasions she had looked over, Matthew seemed only to have eyes for Jo. It was all she could do not to march over there and bang their heads together.
Alas, the Ivy wasn’t the Ivy, but it was a very nice country hotel less than a mile away, with a small golf range and a rather magnificent entrance hall, where trays of sherry and malt whisky were awaiting. Stevie’s hand was shaking so much that she managed to spill most of her sherry down her skirt. She did a quick sweep of the room to make sure no one of importance had seen her be so clumsy.
‘Calm down,’ reprimanded Catherine. ‘You look like you’ve got the DTs.’
Adam was laughing, circulating and being jolly Ginger Man. He looked totally different with all that hair off, thought Stevie. She wouldn’t have said ‘softer’, because no one with that nose and
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