The Wedding Diary (Choc Lit) by Margaret James

was decluttering, not throwing all my decent stuff away. You can have it when I’m tired of it.’
    ‘I won’t want it then.’
    ‘Do you need any help?’ asked Bex. ‘I mean with this decluttering?’
    ‘No, because you’ll only try to make me give you things. You’ll say they’ve never suited me and will look ace on you.’
    ‘Of course she will,’ said Tess. ‘Why else would she offer, putty-brain? So we’ll pop round about half one on Saturday. We’ll have a bit of lunch at yours and then we’ll hit the shops. I’m at the yard until half twelve, so get the kettle on.’
    ‘I could come earlier,’ offered Bex.
    ‘I want to do this on my own,’ insisted Cat. ‘I don’t need any so-called help, especially from greedy vampire scavengers like you.’
    ‘All right, give us a call when you’ve decluttered,’ Bex said kindly, as if she were talking to a nervous imbecile. ‘We’ll meet you later, have a drink. Oh, and by the way – if by any chance you should decide you’ve had enough of that fake Prada satchel, I’ll take it off your hands.’
    ‘If you don’t want that yellow top with cutwork sleeves, I’ve always rather liked it, so—’
    ‘Yes, all right,’ said Cat, to shut them up.

Friday, 3 June

    She knew she should be sleeping.
    So why was she trying on almost everything she owned, from scruffy, casual, laid-back, lazy-Saturday, to going-to-a-golf-club-dinner-with-her-parents smart?
    She put her hair up, took it down. She made her face up, wiped it off. She put on big hoop earrings, put on studs. But nothing about her face, her clothes, her hair, even her flipping earrings, looked even halfway right for a day trip out with Adam Lawley.
    Why am I doing this? she wondered, as she slung her clothes back in the wardrobe, on the bed or on the floor.
    The girl whose face was in her mirror shrugged and said she didn’t know. But hadn’t she better get some rest?
    So she took a long, relaxing shower. She made herself a mug of something which was meant to help you nod off straight away. She stirred in lots of honey. She put her lavender-and-hop-filled therapeutic pillow in the bed.
    The dawn was breaking when at last she fell asleep.

Saturday, 4 June

    She found she was ridiculously, absurdly pleased to see him.
    When she saw him standing on her doorstep on the dot of half past seven that sunny Saturday morning, looking good (but not too good) in clean jeans that fitted properly (but weren’t ostentatiously designer) and a pale blue shirt which showed off his broad shoulders and his narrow waist (but didn’t have any special style details that would make him look like he was trying much too hard), smelling nice (but not too nice – there was a pleasant hint of soap and shaving foam about him, but he didn’t reek of aftershave or men’s cologne), she didn’t have any trouble smiling as she said hello.
    He managed one of his almost-smiles, too.
    ‘How have you been?’ he asked.
    ‘Okay.’ She shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m sorry I cried all over you that time,’ she added, she hoped casually, as they walked down the street.
    ‘You mustn’t worry about it.’ Adam turned to glance in her direction, and there was that almost-smile again. ‘It often helps to talk our problems through. I’m sorry it’s so dirty.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘My car, it’s very muddy.’ Adam shrugged apologetically. ‘But there wasn’t time to hose it down.’
    ‘This—this thing is yours?’
    ‘I’m afraid so, Cat.’
    It was the most enormous Volvo Cat had ever seen. It looked as if it had been made a hundred years ago. It was all huge bumpers, a bonnet like a battering ram and giant leather seats.
    Its paintwork was all cracked and scuffed and bubbled, sprayed or re-sprayed an ironic green. It was an ecological disaster, a fuel-hungry behemoth of a thing.
    ‘Goodness, what a whopper.’ Cat stood back and stared at it. ‘I thought my dad’s was big, but yours is even bigger.’
    ‘Girls say