(As this is a novel of 130,000 words I have just submitted the first chapter. I'd be very appreciative of any feedback, as I am preparing the novel to be submitted to a literary agent.)

CLOVER

Chapter One

I was having a fat day. Not merely the type when I’d eaten one Big Mac too many and just wanted to bloat out on the sofa, but a seriously fat day. I’m talking about sporting a belly so huge I could pass for a member of the England Darts Squad. In fact I could practically feel it growing with each passing minute until it strained against my clothes like a gruesome scene from “Alien”. I was having the fattest fat day of the year if not of my life.

Okay, so it was my own fault. I should never have eaten last night’s left over pizza or the rest of the Haagan Dazs but somehow cold congealing Meat Feast seemed a more appealing breakfast than the bowl of cardboard that masqueraded as Branflakes. I’d been so hungry this morning that I’d nearly gobbled down my diet sheet as well as the junk food. I’d virtuously hunted out my “Hip and Thigh Video”, fully intending to listen to Rosemary Conley as she enthused about the merits of prune museli and jumping up and down for sixty minutes, but somehow this just didn’t have the same appeal as Pizza Hut’s left overs.

While the workout video played to itself in the lounge I had stuffed my face and reminded myself that it was the thought that counts and I really had thought long and hard about losing weight for today. Honestly I had. I’d tried them all; the grapefruit diet, the drink chocolate milkshake all day long diet (great until the flatulence kicks in), the eating eggs and jumping on and off of a box diet, and here I was. Living and soul destroying proof that diets don’t work. In a frenzy of self-disgust I’d started on the cold garlic bread and convinced myself that diets were so last millennium. Who wanted to be thin anyway?

Well, me actually. It’s just a shame that I possess the will power of a gnat. The consequence of this morning’s binge was the mother of all fat days. Bad news on any occasion and especially bad on this one. Feeling like a suitable mate for the Michelin Man I’d been poured into peach satin and was preparing to follow my sister down the aisle of St Judes, Taply on Thames.

It’s a well kept secret that brides only choose bridesmaid’s dresses in order to make themselves look even better. All brides keep to the golden rule that states “ Thou must find a bridesmaid with a bigger arse than thine” and my sister Debbie was obeying this dictum with sadistic enjoyment. For good measure she’d even stuck a massive pink bow on my bum. Talk about salt and wounds. I was surprised she hadn’t given me a one way ticket to Fat Camp as well just for good measure. Brides are nothing but selfish and manipulative.

I was bitterly aware of these ugly truths because Debbie’s wedding was the fourth time I’d had to wear silly colours, an inane grin and knock revolting little family members into shape. That was the price I had to pay for having four older sisters, as if being picked on and tormented for the past twenty-six years hadn’t been enough. Suddenly after years of carefully applied mental torture of the particularly nasty sibling variety my sisters realised that I had some use after all.

It was like the press gang, I thought ruefully as I tried to hold in my stomach and stop doing an impression of a sausage splitting its skin. One moment you were peacefully trundling along in your own sweet way, going to work, having disastrous love affairs and getting horribly plastered at the weekends, the next you were whisked away to dress fittings, makeup sessions, invitation choosing trips and Church rehearsals. To add insult to injury after hours of being used as a human pin cushion you ended up wearing something that even Lily Savage wouldn’t be seen dead in. I’d seen “Four Weddings and a Funeral” and I felt very cheated. Weddings were not fun. Weddings were Hell in lace, especially when I was in charge of three particularly headstrong bridesmaids and a pageboy who was intent on excavating the contents of his nose.
“Cut it out you little monster!” I yanked my nephew’s finger from his nostril with a display of violence normally reserved for Arnie movies. With the practiced skill of one who was four times a bridesmaid, recently promoted to Chief Bridesmaid, I simultaneously pulled Imogen’s peach skirts back down from over her head and removed the roses from Laura’s mouth. Tear filled infant eyes regarded me resentfully, bottom lips wobbling dangerously. Nasty Auntie Clover! I gave them my most chilling glare just daring them try anything else. Inside I was also longing to throw myself onto the floor and have a good old-fashioned tantrum. Perhaps it was genetic?

“For goodness sake, Clover,” snapped a vision in frothing white lace, “Can’t you keep those brats under control?”

My sister Debbie, the fourth Grace sister to model the meringue look, glared at me from beneath her foaming veil. This was Debbie’s big day and she wasn’t going to let any of us forget it. Ever since she’d forced me to play weddings when we were small she had lived for this moment. It was a cause of many childhood tears that she’d drawn a beard on my Sindy Doll and made it be the groom. Today, after months of driving the entire family to the brink of a nervous breakdown, Debbie Grace was to fulfil her greatest dream. So much for feminism, I‘d thought as I listened to Debbie yapping on about wedding lists and having a new name. If Germaine Greer were dead she’d be spinning in her grave.

“Is my veil straight?” Debbie tilted her chin a little while I tweaked and fussed obligingly, feeling in my tight dress like Mammy attending Scarlett O’ Hara. Except that compared to Debbie Scarlett was a preferable and sweeter natured option.
“Is Mark here?”
“Debbie, we’re the ones who are late.” I said through clenched teeth. She’d made the chauffeur drive around the block three times just to make sure that Nigel Dempster had time to arrive. The fourth “Amazing Grace” wedding was guaranteed to make the social columns. I was amazed that the wedding list hadn’t requested a ladder to help Debbie with her social climbing. I would have thought it an essential item, although of course the said ladder would have to be purchased from Harvey Nichs.

“You shouldn’t have eaten all that pizza.” Debbie eyed me critically, with the practiced eye of one who’d examined every potential frock and colour scheme in Knightsbridge, “You look really porky in that dress. Still never mind. At least it’s not your wedding; nobody will be looking at you anyway. Just stand behind the children in the photos will you?”

As the lovely rich tones of the organ rang out only the fact that I was twenty-six and not ten stopped me from socking her in the mouth. Debbie always knows how to get to me. I grimaced, remembering the time she’d joined Dateline on my behalf (“ It’s the only way you’ll ever find a man”) and tried hard to persuade me to go on a date with Steve from Slough who enjoyed train spotting and bird watching. Just as well she was getting married and moving twelve miles away. I didn’t know what the word was for sisters murdering sisters but fairly soon I felt sure I’d find out.

Feeling more than ever like Nelly the Elephant after a particularly large Christmas Dinner I braced myself to follow Debbie’s neat rose trimmed backside down the aisle. I tried not to think of my own Lopez –esque derriere.
“Ready?” The vicar asked Debbie.
Debbie nodded slowly, not wanting to dislodge her ornate headdress.
“Marvellous!” he turned to me. “Now, my dear, when you’re happy with that train give the bride a sign.”
“Any sign I want?” I asked hopefully.
The vicar looked at me through narrowed eyes. After enduring two strenuous wedding rehearsals, having to repaint the porch to match Debbie’s colour scheme and nearly breaking his neck on her train he just about had the measure of my sister. He was probably gagging to flick a few v-signs in her direction himself.
“As long as it’s polite. ” he said sternly.

What a total disappointment. God wasn’t on my side after all. I tugged half heartedly at the train, gave Debbie a nod and then we were walking with excruciating slowness down the aisle, Debbie smiling mistily at the congregation. Each time Dad tried to pick up speed she yanked his elbow and tugged him back. Turning her head she gave all the guests a fine view of her glittering tiara and her sparkling blue eyes. She had a special smile for the pew where Nigel Dempster and several other columnists sat. No doubt she was imagining the write up. It had better be on a par those of our sisters or she’d want blood.

St Jude’s was absolutely packed, wedding guests in large hats and starchy suits spewed from each row of pews as they craned their necks to get a good look at the bride. The two front rows were reserved for our family who were by now very used to these kind of occasions. It was no wonder what was left of my father’s hair was grey. The cost of four society weddings could probably have sorted out Fergie’s money problems. Even the swathes of pink and white roses would, I thought resentfully, go a long way towards decreasing my overdraft.

Unfortunately for my father Mummy had outdone herself with Emily’s wedding. Everybody had agreed at the time that it could have given the Royal Family a run for their money; my father had muttered that he’d need the Royals’ money to bloody well pay for it all. No doubt he was realising what a dark day it had been for him when he’d sired five daughters. He was probably wishing that he’d done a Henry the Eighth and cut my mother’s head off when she’d produced Charlotte. Still, it was too late now. Each sister’s wedding had to equal, if not outdo, the one before it. He could relax for at least the next millennium though because there was absolutely no way I was going to be following their example. Although I’d fought Ally McBeal style to catch the bouquet at Emily’s wedding I had no real intention of following suit. This was the twenty-first century and I was a post-feminist wasn’t I? With my own car, overdraft and job. I had absolutely no desire whatsoever to meet Mr.!
Right, float down the aisle and stagnate into coupled up life, did I? Still, cynicism aside even I couldn’t help my eyes filling up as I saw Mark waiting at the altar for Debbie, his back so straight and his morning suit so smart. He must really love her not to have noticed what a complete cow she was.

In the front pew were my other sisters Lucy, Emily and Charlotte with their respective husbands and smiling at their beloved offspring who I was herding down the aisle, feeling increasingly like Babe the sheep pig. My sisters were clad in exquisite designer clothes and looked ravishingly beautiful. No change there then.

My four sisters are stunning which is why they’ve earned the nickname the “Amazing Grace” sisters. Speaking as the Unamazing Grace, last in line to a weakened gene pool, I can see why they turn heads and ease their way into the “right” circles. Long manes of blonde hair, hourglass figures and creamy skin that would make super models jealous. Being small with decidedly carroty hair and freckles I don’t even have a super model’s head start when it comes to competing with them. I like to think that I make an interesting contrast.

We pigeon-stepped down the aisle and when we finally reached the altar a respectful hush fell over the congregation. This was the point in the proceedings where Mummy was dabbing at the corner of her eyes, taking care not to smudge the makeup applied at such cost by the beautician, and where my nephew attempted to pull the girls’ head dresses off. At least I hoped that was what he was doing. I glared furiously in his direction. Now was not the time for a game of doctors and nurses.

“Clover!” hissed Debbie, shoving her vast bouquet in my direction and almost suffocating me in neat Floris. “My train!”
Hastily I gathered up acres of lace and silk into some sort of order and shooed the children into a pew. I could feel the underarms of my dress begin to get sticky with a most unladylike sweat. Next time I was asked to be a bridesmaid I decided that I was going to find something far more pressing and pleasurable to do. Like root canal surgery without anesthetic or a meal out with Hannibal the Cannibal.

Placing the bouquet down beside Imogen, who was sniffing meatily, I heaved a sigh of relief. That was another duty ticked off the trusty mental list. Soon I anticipated getting merrily slaughtered on all the free champagne. At least Grace family weddings had some advantages. I sank onto the pew.

“Ouch!” Heads turned, eyebrows were raised and sisters smirked as I shot up into the air. Breaking wind would have been considered more socially acceptable than crying out in agony. I rubbed at my rib cage resentfully and my eyes watered.

Bloody Hell! I’d forgotten that I was wearing the basque! Only a man could have invented such a heinous piece of torture. Clever though to disguise it so prettily; hanging on a pink rail in “Agent Provocateur” it had seemed the very thing to go under a bridesmaid’s dress. Boned, frilled and lacey it wouldn’t have been out of place on the cover of some bodice ripping historical novel and I, being a complete sucker for anything which might buy me a slice of a romantic dream, had bought it. Fine so far until I came to put it on.

How the Hell, I’d thought struggling into positions which a Yoga Guru would’ve baulked at, do you do up twenty hooks and eyes on your own? I’d wriggled, writhed and forced the straining fabric together until, puce in the face, I’d succeeded. Peering over my shoulder into the mirror I’d noticed that several hooks were done up wrongly but not even a date with George Clooney would have been enough incentive to begin the whole agonising process again. Walking like a Thunderbird puppet and moving cautiously all had been well until sitting down when I’d suddenly speared myself in the ribs. Gasping for breath I imagined Dempster’s column now as the Chief Bridesmaid bled to death all over the tiled floor. Had anybody ever been killed by her underwear before?

Gingerly rearranging my tortured torso I looked up and, catching the eye of the best man, smiled cheerfully. Rupert St Ellis looked alarmed at the manic grimace that I shot in his direction. God, it even hurt to smile. In fact it was agony to do anything which remotely resembled being alive. I took my hat off to those Victorian women with the 18-inch waists. No wonder they were always having hysterics and fainting. Having a stomach this flat was a full time occupation.

Rupert was still gazing at me with big brown eyes like the Andrex Puppy on a sad day. I checked the pew behind to see which of my divine sisters was the cause of the stupid dreamy look in his eyes and silly smile. Great Auntie Ethel leered back at me, her false teeth sitting jauntily on her tongue. I turned back to Rupert hastily and felt a little niggle of alarm. He was definitely looking straight at me.

It was fair enough for Rupert to be looking at me, I thought reasonably as I studied the tips of my satin pumps, after all he was at this point of time my boyfriend. Well, my boyfriend in that lighthearted sense of the word that means occasional trips to the cinema, the odd candlelit dinner and snogging session. At least that was the way that I saw it; we weren’t serious in a “let’s play at choosing our children’s names” kind of way. However, recently I was beginning to have the feeling that Rupert didn’t view our liaison in quite the same light as I did. You don’t need to be psychic to work out what romantic cards and bouquets of flowers mean. I was now on first name terms with the man from Interflora.

It was all my own fault, I thought guiltily. Ever since “Four Weddings and a Funeral” I’d had a soft spot for public school boy types with posh accents and floppy fringes. Standing at the altar, next to Debbie and Mark, Rupert certainly looked gorgeous in a nervous and bespectacled Hugh Grant type of way, in fact at any moment I expected to see Andy McDowell waltz past in a huge white hat and sweep him off his well shod feet. I’d definitely feel a lot better if she did. Not only was Rupert my boyfriend but he was also my boss. Not a happy combination if I wanted to finish with him. Filing and typing in a solicitor’s office was hardly mindblowingly exciting but at least it paid the rent. Besides Mark had pulled strings to get me the job and breaking his best friend’s heart seemed ungrateful to say the least. From a selfish point of view if I broke up with Rupert and he sacked me I could wind up back in the parental pad with mummy nagging me to lose weight and find a ma!
n. I shuddered. I’d rather eat glass than go through all that again.

I’d been slaving over a hot photocopier when I first met Rupert, literally. I’d been only two hours into my temping job and already managed to create the paper jam from Hell with a machine requiring a degree in engineering in order to work it. I’d opened up every possible route into the machine, sworn, pleaded and threatened until I’d eventually all but climbed inside to try and pluck out the one sodding piece of paper that was the source of my trauma. With my ink stained face resembling Action Man and only needing a khaki suit to complete the look I’d removed the cartridge and several peculiar looking pieces of machinery and was feeling mutinous. I was an English graduate, the finer workings of such machines would always remain above me, filed embarrassingly under “get a man to do it” along with car repairs and unblocking sinks. It had even taken ages before I’d realised that my Beetle’s engine was actually in the boot. I was not made to understand such things as photo!
copiers.

In any case I’d been weak, in a position of terror and vulnerability when I’d first met Rupert St. Ellis. Never mind the fact that he had long honey coloured hair and a crinkly smile, if Robbie from EastEnders had saved me from that photocopier I’d have married him, what chance did I stand when my handsome boss abandoned the project and took me out for lunch instead? Rupert was kind, generous and had such good breeding that his parents probably fed him on Pedigree Chum. He was a barrister, drove a BMW and wore designer clothes, as Debbie was always pointing out. My mother adored him, my sisters couldn’t understand what he saw in me, and my friends raved about his healthy bank balance.

Rupert St. Ellis was perfect in every way. Perfect in every way except one. I just didn’t fancy him, not one little teensy bit. Not in that toe curling stomach-churning way which, although it sounds rather like an attack of food poisoning, heroines in novels are always supposed to feel. When Rupert kissed me for the first time I’d felt nothing, no measurement on the Richter scale, not the tiniest tremor. None of that teeth-gnashing, hair tearing Heathcliff stuff. Sadly no matter how hard I tried I just didn’t fancy Rupert and for the life of me couldn’t work out why.

As I rose to join in “All things bright and beautiful” my mind was wrestling with this problem like a WWF competitor in the middle of a particularly trying contest. Basically I was an emotional coward, too soft for my own good and for anyone else’s come to think of it. I’d first realised this when I cried during an episode of Baywatch, much to the scorn and amazement of my friends. Well, it had been a particularly poignant episode, watching yet another of David Hasslehoff’s on screen wives die on the beach at sunset had been very moving. In any case such sentimentality was not a bonus when it came to dumping boyfriends. I had a terrible record of dragging things on for years and years until at last they were driven to end it. But somehow, looking at Rupert’s dewy eyed gaze, I didn’t see him minding much about the state of things between us as long as there were still things to be in a state about. It was the big time disaster of the century, I’d found the perfect man bu!
t I just wasn’t in love with him and pleasing my parents just wasn’t enough at the grand old age of twenty-six. With a heart sinking quicker than the Titanic I realised that I couldn’t put it off any longer. I’d have tell him tonight that we were just friends and live in hope that the cliche police weren’t listening.

After that the wedding ceremony passed in a blur of agonised self- reproach. I had so much guilt that I could have kept the Catholic Church going for months in confessions. God knows how I managed to smile for the photos. Finishing with Rupert was, I thought as I ushered Imogen, Laura and Henry into the Rolls, going to be the saddest thing since Romeo died. I simply couldn’t bear to do it. Why was it that every body I knew seemed to meet “the one” with sickening ease, while each time I thought I’d got it right I blundered into yet another situation so sticky it made cream buns look positively healthy?

“Poo.” Said Imogen happily. “Poo.”
Trying to ignore a four-year-old isn’t easy especially when like Imogen, they combine all the most persistent family traits. Gritting my teeth and closing my eyes I tried to imagine that I was in fact Mrs. George Clooney gliding home to my luxury Hollywood pad in my own personal Rolls. Meanwhile George was waiting in the kitchen cooking toast and Marmite and wearing little more than a grin. In fact skip the toast and Marmite fantasy…

“Poo!” shrieked Imogen, as George, Hollywood and Marmite vanished. “You’ve stood in poo!”

She was right. “Damn and blast!” I exploded, wishing that I knew a few more juicy expletives. In our house “bum” had been a forbidden word. I gingerly kicked off my slippers, wound down the window and in a most un- bridesmaid like way lobbed them out of the window. Unfortunately we were on the main Henley to Taply Road and following the river. Nothing wrong with that of course. What was really unfortunate was the fact that we were just passing The Riverman Pub, which on this mellow May afternoon was doing a roaring trade. People were sprawling across the small expanse of lawn, clutching glasses, enjoying the sun and generally minding their own business. It was here that fate decided to pull a moonie at me.

At the precise moment that I threw the shoes the Rolls braked sharply to avoid a cute little family of ducklings wandering willy nilly across the road en route for a leisurely swim down the Thames. My shoes sailed in a delicate arc to land, with a precision and accuracy that alas I’d never experienced before, in the lap of some hapless drinker. For a moment he was frozen with surprise. Then he looked at the sky and frowned before suddenly glancing over in our direction.
“Go! Go! Go!” I screeched, while my face did its very best tomato impression. My victim was mouthing wordlessly but I could just imagine what he was saying. His dark eyes were furious. I felt sick, was that a designer suit he was wearing? What made me feel even more sick was the fact that he was absolutely divine, the type of man that I’d normally sell my granny, or anyone in fact, for an introduction to. But not today when I was dressed up like a fancy loo roll holder and merrily throwing my turdy shoes about. In fact I’d do anything, clean all the nasty bits out the sink plughole for the next ten years for instance, rather than meet such a man under circumstances like these. Mills and Boon it wasn’t.

The chauffeur obligingly put his foot down, probably imagining himself in a glamorous Crime Watch reconstruction. My young charges were whooping with glee and a wet patch was spreading from beneath Imogen’s skirt. As we sped away towards Taply upon Thames I looked behind me and saw the man simultaneously waving his fist and dabbing at his suit with a newspaper. I ducked out of sight. Hopefully the police would never recognise me without my peach froth and flowery head- dress. “Wanted! Bridesmaid!” wouldn’t get them very far. I settled into my seat and decided there and then to get completely bladdered at the reception.

The reception was being held at my parents’ place, fortunately for me because I would be able to dash up to my old bedroom and search beneath the Sindy Dolls and Wham posters for an ancient pair of Doctor Marten boots. I might get really lucky and find a half-decent pair of jeans too; even the stone washed ones circa 1985 would be better than the peach monstosity. I was started to feel quite excited at the thought of rediscovering all my old treasures. What I’d really like to do right now was crawl beneath my Duran Duran duvet and read one of my old diaries, cheering myself up with the reminder that however bad life was right now, even throwing shoes at handsome strangers and feeling fat was preferable to spots, GCSEs and suffering an agonising crush on Mr. Taylor the PE teacher.

Unfortunately this wasn’t to be. The Rolls pulled up and at once I was catapulted straight into the chaos of Debbie’s wedding. I had to admit that my parents had done a good job, again. Their house is a mock Tudor affair that backs onto the River Thames and today the lawn was smothered with a huge marquee. Waitresses circulated amongst the guests handing out glasses of champagne, while Debbie and Mark headed a large queue and shook gloved or well manicured hands.

Spotting the likes of Tamara Beckwith and countless others of my sister’s crowd I felt even more like Jabba the Hut wandering by mistake onto a Paris catwalk. I mentally vowed to join “Fat Watchers” and sign up for the gym even though I had the strongest suspicions that people with Caramac tans, highlighted hair, and flawless figures are actually genetically engineered in secret labs. They didn’t sweat and turn puce in their search of perfection like lesser mortals, me for instance.

“Auntie Clover threw her shoes at a man!” shrieked Imogen as she exploded from the car into the arms of my mother, “It was brill!”
The chauffeur, who was examining the wet patch on the back seat, didn’t look as if he thought it was brill at all. In fact he looked as if he could do with a long chat with Clare Rayner.
Mummy raised one eyebrow, and held Imogen at arm’s length. Urine and Coco Chanel mingled in a most unpleasant way. Her beautiful suit and hair do were not going to be ruined for anything, especially now that she’d spotted the “Hello” photographer.
“Kids!” I exclaimed, with a smile, which was again accompanied by a stab of my basque, “What vivid imaginations they have! Ha! Ha!”
Mummy’s gaze travelled from her granddaughter to the grass where sure enough my bare toes were peeping out. I wished fervently that I hadn’t experimented with blue polish the night before. It looked like an elephant had trodden on my foot. I could tell that she was imagining a photo of me looking like an Eco warrior in poor disguise. She shuddered delicately.

“Clover, you really must go inside and freshen up, your hair is a disgrace and your lipstick has completely vanished. We’ll have more photos in a moment and you’d better have a go at covering up some of those freckles. I want a nice picture of you with Rupert that I can show people. Look he’s over there waving at you! Why don’t you go and say ‘hello’?”

Mummy at a tangent is always a trial at the best of times, but once she got onto the topic of Rupert St. Ellis she was virtually unstoppable. Canute would have had an easier time of it stopping the tide than trying to halt Mum in the middle of a rant about Rupert’s endless charms. Mummy adored Rupert and couldn’t understand what he saw in me but was a fully paid up member of the school of thought that I ought to grab a man while I could. Now was not the best time perhaps to tell her that it was over.

Fortunately I was saved from any further lectures by an announcement that the Wedding Breakfast was about to begin. Accepting a glass of champagne and swigging it gratefully I made my escape. Mummy was distracted by her mother of the bride role and would be for at least the next three hours. I knew that from bitter experience. So no more nagging for a while at least. Taking another glass of champagne I felt slightly more cheerful…at least now things were starting to look up. Alcohol and food. What more could any girl ask for?

“Clover!” A little figure at my elbow cried as she tried to balance three glasses of champagne in each hand, “Terrible dress! But then Debbie never did have much taste. Can’t say I’m surprised.”
Sam, my flat mate, is about as subtle as ten tonnes of concrete falling on your head from a vast height. Small and dark haired with a childlike body she was wearing her usual collection of tasseled and bell covered clothes. Her tiny hands were crammed full of silver rings and today she wore a diamond nose stud presumably because it was a wedding. She looked as if she’d just strolled out of Blue Moon, the ethnic shop she runs in Taply, and she probably had. Debbie would have a fit. Old friend or not Sammy and her ethnic clothes just didn’t fit the bill. That was probably why I liked her so much.

“Just don’t mention the fashion taste.” I said pulling a face, “I’m going to drink myself into a stupor somewhere and hopefully forget it all.”
“Well as long as you don’t get blotto and dance on the top table.” Sam warned. “It isn’t so long ago that”-
“I’d rather forget that.” I said hastily. Why do my friends always remember my least gracious accomplishments? The Taply Rugby Club had thought that I’d made a great addition to their team when I’d done my little, um, number. The point that I’d been in the local with my mother’s golfing friends had seemed irrelevant at the time. “ Besides,” I added sulkily, ”The larger was strong.”
“It’d have to be, you snogged my brother.” Sam rolled her eyes. “You’d need serious beer goggles for that.”

Samantha Delamere and I go way back, so far back in fact that the dinosaurs were still roaming the wastes of the Home Counties. Ok, so that’s an exaggeration but it sometimes feels like it. We actually met at St. Hilda’s on a rainy winter day in the Lower Fourth, hiding beneath the coats in the cloakroom. A mutual love of George Michael and loathing of Hockey had sealed a sacred bond and now twelve years on we shared a house in Taply and argued over who was actually going to marry George Clooney.

Sam has a brother, Jay, and when I was fifteen I decided that I was going to marry him. Forget Mr. Taylor the PE teacher, forget George Michael, this was a serious big time crush. For months I’d written “Jason Delamere loves Clover Grace” all over my exercise books and frantically tried to fiddle sums to reach a respectable love percentage, or had signed my name Clover Delamere just to see. I’d even taken to following the Taply under eighteen Rugby League in the vain hope that Jay might notice me waving by the touchline. But it was not to be. Jay had dated a string of gorgeous sixth formers who were tall, braceless and certainly not ginger, while I had played “Careless Whisper” over and over again and cried myself to sleep. This crush had ended after the rather humiliating episode when I drank a little too much lager shandy at “The Riverman” danced on a table and then declared my undying love for Jay. Just thinking about how I’d made a drunken lunge for him made me crin!
ge even now. No doubt the sensation of my railway track braces clashing against his lips had been agonising. In any case my crush had swiftly died a death and I’d been overwhelmed with relief when Jay had gone to University. I’d seen him sporadically over the past twelve years and just about managed not to curl up and die with humiliation. I had been delighted four years ago when he’d emigrated to design yachts in Boston. Several thousand miles had been a large enough distance to enable me to forget the entire excruciating episode. Or forget it as well as I could when I had friends like Sam to remind me.
“God!” Sam fanned the air about my face, spraying me with champagne, “Don’t tell me you’re still embarrassed! That was years ago! Besides,” she lowered her voice and dipped her head in Rupert’s direction, “You’ve got a real admirer over there. I didn’t realise things were so serious. Looks like I’m going to have to advertise for a new lodger.”

I was just about to tell her how things really stood but everyone was taking their seats and I could tell by the glint in Debs’ eye that she didn’t appreciate me and my “weirdo friend” holding up her reception. I’d ask Sam exactly what she was on about later, I decided, as I plonked myself down at the top table, cursing the person who invented that tradition that the Chief Bridesmaid and the Best Man had to sit together. I almost considered moving down a gap to sit with Imogen, but the sight of her avidly blowing spit bubbles was too much even for an experienced Aunt like myself to cope with. So I downed my second glass of champagne and started on a third.

A hush fell over the wedding guests as Rupert tapped his knife against a wine glass. Inside the dappled shade of the marquee he looked so very English in his morning suit and top hat. I almost expected a film crew and Helena Bonham Carter to burst in and start filming a Merchant Ivory Production. Catching his eye I smiled, partly from this thought and partly from guilt.

Rupert cleared his throat and nervously pushed a lock of blonde fringe out of his eyes. All eyes were on him, although I did notice that Dempster was fiddling with a pen. My mother was looking at me in a very peculiar way. I started to feel a little edgy. What I wouldn’t give for a Mars Bar and a cigarette right now.

“Ladies, gentleman, children,” Rupert began, “I’m certain that you’re all simply dying to taste the marvellous spread that the Graces have supplied and as a barrister I know that you are well within your rights,” there was a polite ripple of laughter at this and I stifled a yawn. The alcohol was making me sleepy, I hoped he wouldn’t take long. I seriously needed to line my stomach if I was to last through to the speeches, although the thought of crumpling into a heap underneath the table was tempting.

“I seriously admire Mark and Debbie for making this commitment today,” Rupert carried on, “and being Best Man has prompted me to do a little serious thinking about a commitment that I myself want to make.”
He paused dramatically and a little ripple of interest spread across the guests. I looked up hastily from my drink and met his gaze, crumbs! It was a re-run of the church scenario except ten times more Bambi -eyed. Then I noticed my mother’s gloating smile; my father’s deepening worry lines and Sam’s grin and I started to feel distinctly hot under the collar. I hadn’t felt this self-conscious since I’d had a disastrous experiment with “Sun In” in 1985.

“Clover and I have been seeing each other for a while now,” Rupert continued, smiling in my direction. I stared back like a rabbit in trapped headlights. How I’d always wanted to use that simile and now how I wished that I didn’t have to. “And it will come as no surprise to anybody that today, when two other people promise their lives to each other, that I take the opportunity to say something to Clover that I’ve been longing to for ages.”

Oh God! Every Saturday I sat glued to the lottery desperately trying to predict the big money balls and now, in a stuffy marquee on a May afternoon, I had a sudden flash of psychic genius which would’ve given Mystic Meg a run for her money. I knew even before Rupert moved from the table and fell on one knee what he was going to say, and from the rapt expressions on the faces of the hundred odd spectators, so did they. Delving into his waistcoat pocket Rupert plucked out a small box and opened it delicately. Sitting on a bed of smooth Asprey’s velvet was a large diamond ring, the solitaire glinting at me like an eye. Suddenly I wasn’t hungry any more, in fact I felt very, very sick.

“Clover,” said Rupert clearly, reaching for my cold and now sweaty hand, “Clover, will you marry me?”