The Wedding Countdown (20 page)

Which one’s the real Mikhail?

With a groan I switch on my mobile and wait for texts to come buzzing through like a swarm of wasps. Knowing my luck something will have kicked off in Bradford the one night I break my ‘no turning off’ rule and my parents are already haring down the motorway like the North’s answer to Formula One.

Sure enough, within seconds the phone is vibrating, although luckily the message isn’t from my terrified parents but predictably from Mikhail.

Can we talk?

Is that it? Outraged at such a short message (come back Aadam, all is forgiven) I text back:

u said it all last nite

The coconut comment really hurts. I hate racism full stop. Just because he’s inverted it doesn’t make the sentiment any more acceptable. Picking up the phone I pull on my dressing gown and pad into the kitchen. I need some coffee to get my brain in gear.

‘God, Mills, you look like shit!’ Eve exclaims, in between shovelling in cereal.

‘Thanks.’ I click on the kettle. ‘Shit is exactly how I feel.’

Eve dumps her bowl in the sink. ‘Mikhail was appalling last night. You can do without a tosser like that.’

Buzz! Buzz! Here’s the tosser, right on cue.

‘Don’t answer,’ advises Eve. ‘The guy’s a waste of skin.’

Meet me? Cafe by the lake? Half ten? Pls?

Damn, he’s good at pressing my emotional buttons. The little café in the park has become one of our special places. Last time we went there Micky hinted I could be the person he wanted to spend his life with. I found this really touching at the time but now all I can picture is his absolute horror of a mother bossing me around for the rest of my years.

Not pretty.

OK
, I text and put the phone down. I’ve no desire to play mobile frisbee all morning.

‘Where are you off to, anyway?’ Dragging my thoughts away from Micky I notice Eve’s dressed and perfectly made up at eight-thirty on a Saturday morning. Nish is long out jogging somewhere but Eve normally needs a crowbar to prise her out of bed before noon.

‘I’m going into work.’

‘But it’s Saturday!’

‘I know. We’ve got a crisis at the office and I’ve been called in.’

‘Poor you.’ And I thought Nina was a demanding boss. ‘Damien Oxley again, is it?’

Eve nods her blonde head. ‘Of course. He’s insisted I go in. Bastard.’

‘Can’t you tell your dad how much he’s picking on you?’

‘No!’ she looks horrified. ‘I can’t do that, it’d look like favouritism.’

Since when did Eve Daniels worry about favouritism? I thought favouritism was the main reason she went to work at B-D International?

‘Anyway,’ she adds, scooping up her Chloé bag (real, no fakes for our Eve), ‘Damien’s one of Daddy’s oldest friends so I guess it’s the least I can do.’ As she whirls to the door she calls over her shoulder, ‘Think hard about old Micky Blue Eyes, won’t you, babes? Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!’

Which leaves me, I think as I carry my coffee back to bed, with more scope than I know what to do with.

By half ten I’m making my way to our appointed meeting place. It’s a chilly morning and although the sun is out it’s only making a token gesture and I’m already shivering. I spot Mikhail sitting on the bench overlooking the lake, snuggled into a fleece and with a beanie hat pulled low over his head. He looks deep in thought. Well, either that or the ducks are far more interesting than I’ve ever realised.

‘Mills!’ Micky cries. ‘Thank God you came. I know that I don’t deserve it.’ He grasps my hands. ‘I was a shit last night. Can you ever forgive me?’

Never mind the unexpected physical contact. As Micky stares down at me imploringly I have the biggest shock. This isn’t Micky! It must be a lookalike evil twin because the eyes that plead with mine aren’t blue at all but puddle brown.

I don’t have a problem with brown eyes but my Micky has blue eyes, the most beautiful blue eyes in the world! This brown-eyed look just isn’t right. If yesterday’s harsh words hadn’t already made him feel like a stranger then his new eye colour certainly does.

‘Your eyes!’

‘Hey?’ For a second Micky looks confused, then he laughs. ‘Oh right! I must have forgotten to put my contacts in! I was so upset after last night I haven’t been thinking straight.’

My mouth could double for the Dartford Tunnel.

‘You didn’t think they were real did you?’

Yes! I can’t believe he’s conned me for weeks into thinking he was a blue-eyed babe. Of all the bare-eyed cheek! What else has he lied about?

‘When were you going to tell me?’

Micky shrugs. ‘Dunno. I’ve been wearing them for so long I don’t even think about it. Everyone I know thinks I’m made that way. Ha! Ha! Fooled you too!’

I’ll give him ha bloody ha.

‘Come on, Mills, they’re only contact lenses,’ says Micky when I don’t laugh. ‘Let’s grab a coffee. It’s freezing out here! ‘

I know I’m overreacting but all I want to do is walk away – except I don’t feel that I can over something as trivial as contact lenses. He’s certainly got some explaining to do about yesterday’s little performance. Fuming, I follow him to the café where I sit listening to him bleat excuses for his behaviour the night before, something along the lines of how hard it is to be the only boy in a family of dominant women.

‘But if a woman truly loves me,’ Micky says, stirring his coffee thoughtfully, ‘she’ll understand how important I am to my family and would be willing to live with them. We’ve got a massive house in Northwood, big enough for all of us. Any woman I marry will be lucky to live there.’

‘Mmm,’ I say. Whatever.

Unfortunately Micky takes this as agreement and presses on. ‘If that woman is you, Mills, I’d expect you to make some changes. My mother was shocked you would contemplate friendship with a Jew.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘The Jewish girl. Eve.’ Micky shakes his head. ‘She’s really unsuitable company. If you want things to work out between us you’ll have to end that particular friendship.’

I can’t believe my ears. ‘You want me to ditch Eve because she’s Jewish? What sort of bollocks is this, Micky?’

‘Your language too, Mills.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that my mother and my sisters were not impressed with what they saw last night. You’ll have a lot of ground to make up with them.’

I jump to my feet. ‘Do you know what, Micky? I’m not particularly impressed with your family either. They’re rude and backward thinking and racist.’

My pity is well and truly exhausted. Micky’s nothing but a spoilt brat and no way do I want to compete for his affections. I’m no match for the overbearing ladies in his life any road. Even Auntie Bee is less demanding than his
Hammer House of Horror
rellies. I don’t bother to ask him to apologise for what he said last night because there’s no point. He’s racist and ignorant and pathetic. A guy who hides behind his mother, sisters and blue contact lenses is not the man for me.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘but I really don’t think this is going to work out.’

Micky looks shocked. ‘Are you dumping me?’

‘I suppose I am,’ I say sadly. As his head droops I see the similarity to Qas and finally understand what made him appeal so much. It’s got to be some atavistic Pakistani thing about nurturing the precious male, the heir, the baby boy. And I didn’t even know I was doing it.

How scary is that?

‘You can’t dump me!’

‘Sorry,’ I say, putting a fiver down for my coffee. ‘But I just did.’

I leave the café and make my way back to the tube. I don’t look back but I know he remains staring out of the steamy window, shocked because a woman has turned him down.

I don’t regret it but as I hurtle down the steps to reach my train my eyes are blurry with tears. I was really starting to have feelings for Micky. He’d been sweet and fun and I’d enjoyed his company, but in the end I never really knew him at all. I’m months into my husband hunt and no nearer to success than when I started. I’ve spent a fortune dating, my own judgment has proved to be a total disaster and I’ve no time left to waste.

Did my parents really know best after all?

But I can’t give up now, what about my soul mate?

I dash tears away with the back of my hand because for the first time in twenty-two years I’m beginning to doubt that my soul mate even exists.

Chapter 20

‘
Built in the early seventeenth century, Eldred House is one of England’s finest Jacobean mansions,
’ I read from the guidebook while Raj steers the four-by-four along a winding drive. ‘
Eldred House has been the ancestral home of the Vane family for over three hundred years. The state rooms contain original furnishings, décor and objets d’art from various epochs.
’

‘Puts my parents’ place into perspective,’ says Raj, dropping down a gear as the drive bears to the left. ‘No wonder Minty has such a superiority complex.’

‘Now, now,’ I scold. ‘Remember what Nina said? Getting permission for a fashion shoot here is a real coup for
GupShup
. We can’t upset Minty, however revolting she is, OK?’

‘I don’t know why we couldn’t just have gone along with my original idea,’ he grumbles. ‘The shoot would’ve been perfect in the warehouses I’d lined up. And I wouldn’t have had to lug all our equipment miles either.’

It’s a sore point with Raj that after weeks of scouting for locations for the Ana Pana photography session the Great Library at Eldred House has been picked to provide a classy backdrop for today’s fashion shoot. Wish came up with the venue and of course Minty was only too happy to show off… I mean oblige.

The fashion statement to be captured on camera is the latest
desi
designer couture wear for young Asian professionals. I can barely contain my excitement that in the back of the Range Rover are boxes of fabulous sample garments, including some gorgeous
shalwars
that Jemima Khan was wearing only the week before. The models will be dressed in different styles and wearing dark glasses with their hair back in a tight knot. The overall look, Wish says – and thank God he’s talking to me again – a sort of sexy librarian meets Robert Palmer babe.

‘How long is this bloody drive?’ asks Raj when after a good five minutes of trundling through thick swathes of rhododendrons and beech woods we are still nowhere near the house. ‘Why can’t these people just live on a normal street like the rest of us?’

‘Because they’re
not
like the rest of us! Come on, Raj, aren’t you just a teeny bit excited? We’re going to get to poke around a genuine stately home.’

‘Big deal,’ he sniffs. ‘It’s too far away from London if you ask me. What’s to be excited about when you’re miles from Harvey Nichs and with not even a
whiff
of a decent coffee shop?’

‘What about the library?’ I can hardly wait to see it. ‘Aren’t you even looking forward to seeing that?’

‘Girlfriend, you need to get out more,’ says Raj, shaking his head. ‘What’s to get excited about over a load of dusty old books?’

He’ll never get it in a billion years so I’m not going to waste my breath trying to explain. Raj is so trendy that it hurts – literally today because the sunshine is glancing off his bright yellow shirt with a migraine-inducing intensity – and he can’t understand my passion for Austen and the Brontës at all. Basically if it isn’t designer or made by Apple then Raj doesn’t want to know.

But I can hardly contain myself because (dearest readers) Eldred House’s Great Library is the library of my dreams. I have always promised myself that once I have finally made it and been promoted to the very top rung of my career ladder then not only will I buy land in the serene Yorkshire countryside and order the builders to start erecting my own dream home, but I will also ensure that a library is a priority room, highlighted in the blueprint plans.

But there’s no point in sharing this with Raj. He’ll think I need to check myself into The Priory to overcome my unfortunate book addiction. There’s no use either in trying to make him understand how Eldred House is unique because it houses one of England’s finest private collections of rare literary works.

I just hope I get to look at them.

‘Of course you can see the books,’ Wish had promised, when I told him how excited I was at the prospect of being in the same room as an original copy of
The
Canterbury Tales.
‘Lord Henry, Minty’s dad, is bonkers about the books. He’ll be over the moon somebody wants to see them.’

‘And you’ll ask him for me?’ I could hardly believe it.

Wish had given me that crinkly jade smile. ‘Of course I will, if it will make you happy.’

It’ll make me happy, all right, I think, as the Range Rover bumps along the drive. I have another look in my guidebook, doing my best to mug up on facts and figures before we arrive. If I do happen to meet Lord Henry Vane I’d prefer it if he thought I knew what I was talking about rather than that I’m a northern bumpkin.

‘At last,’ says Raj as we break out of the woods. ‘That has to be Eldred House.’

I catch my breath because I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a beautiful place. Nestling in the tawny and gold trees is the house, all glittering diamond panes and elaborate chimneys, like a golden haired princess reclining on russet cushions. Just in front is a lake, which echoes the racing clouds and endless shimmering reflections until it seems as though Eldred House is rippling and dancing in the water. Across the ha-ha shaggy cattle graze peacefully while in the smooth paddocks two thoroughbred horses wheel and spin, as leggy and as aristocratic as Minty Vane herself.

‘
Whoah
,’ I breathe. ‘It’s stunning!’

‘Yep,’ Raj agrees, pulling into a gravelled courtyard alongside Wish’s Harley. ‘I’m starting to appreciate what Wish sees in Minty.’

‘About time,’ says Wish, when Raj and I, laden with boxes and accessories eventually join him in the Great Hall. ‘I was starting to think you were lost. Welcome to Eldred House.’

I look around me in awe. My parents went through a National Trust phase when I was a kid: endless summer Saturdays were spent trawling through closed-up spaces watching dust motes dancing in the sun, so I’m not unused to visiting mansions. But this is something else again because real people still live here. The walls are crammed with forbidding-looking portraits of the Vane family from as early as the seventeenth century up to the present day, where the most recent addition is an overblown portrait of Minty herself, all heaving bosom and flowing blonde locks.