Page 6

‘You love him really,’ Hebe teases. ‘Are you ready to go?’

‘I’ll just pop to the loo.’

‘Are you sure you’re OK with my hair?’ I ask Hebe once Mum has disappeared upstairs.

‘Absolutely. I’ll let you into a secret, though. Lucy called me when you left her place, so I had a bit of a heads-up. I bet Mum went ballistic, didn’t she?’

‘Yup.’

‘I think she’s more anxious about my wedding than I am. Seriously, though, it really suits you.’

I wrap my sister in a tight hug. ‘Thank you.’

She pulls back and grins. ‘What are sisters for? Oh, and I bet John will like it too.’

I smile back. ‘I’m not sure he’s the best judge. I think I could probably shave my head completely and he’d love it.’

‘He is a sweetie, though. He told me to remind you that he would wait patiently for you until you were ready.’

Thankfully, any further discussions about my potential marriage to John are interrupted by the return of my mother, bundling us into the car like we were still children. Both Hebe and I had been volunteers at the local homeless shelter for years. It started as a way to give back, and although Hebe initially had to strongarm me into it, I now try to get there as often as I can, when I’m not away on a project, of course. It’s opened my eyes to how lucky I am, and how easy it is to lose everything. John’s story is one such example. He’s a lovely guy, and I find his experience particularly distressing as he used to have it all: a wife and two children who adored him, a well-paid job in HR, and a four-bedroomed house in Leatherhead. However, rather than falling victim to one of my rules of corporate life, he was the author of his own downfall through a drug habit that became a roaring addiction. He’s tried to kick it several times without success, and he’s now a shadow of his former self. I have no idea how he funds it, but there are some questions that are best not asked. He seems to have two moods: either he’s high as a kite, which is generally when he proposes to me, or he’s on a comedown, in which case he tends to spend his time sobbing over a battered picture of his wife and children and swearing that this is the last time and he’s going to get clean.

The real tragedy, to my eyes, is that his wife clearly still loves him despite everything he’s put her through. By the time she found out how bad his addiction was, he’d already remortgaged their house to the hilt and taken out secured loans against pretty much every possession they had which had any value. So she not only lost her husband, but her home and everything she held dear. He’d even pawned her wedding ring, telling her he’d sent it away to be professionally cleaned. And yet she still checks in on him as best she can. I don’t get it, I’m afraid. It just makes me happier to keep my walls up and stay single. At least that way I stay in control of my own destiny.

3

Although I’d describe myself as generally happy with my life, there are times when I do envy Hebe slightly. She and I are very different in almost every way, so it’s amazing that we get on as well as we do. Physically, I’m more like Dad, being relatively tall at five foot eight with a figure that’s most kindly described as androgynous (i.e. small boobs and no bum). Hebe, on the other hand, is a more modest five foot two, with Mum’s dark hair and sumptuous curves in all the right places. I freely admit that I’m much more competitive than either of my siblings, but I put that down to the fact that it’s always harder to stand out when you’re the middle child.

Hebe is a born optimist and, although I guess you could accuse me of being a little cynical on occasion, I don’t see that as necessarily a bad thing. In my experience, beauty is rarely more than a skin-deep layer covering profound ugliness, and I guess I wear my realism like a coat of armour. I know Mum would love nothing more than for me to find love and settle down like Hebe is, but that would require me to put a level of trust in someone else that I just don’t have. Other people, especially men, seem to be hard-wired to let you down. Much better to rely solely on yourself.

The result of this, as Mum is always pointing out, is that the few relationships I’ve had have never lasted more than a month or two at most, and my family think I’m some sort of commitment-phobe. Sometimes, I wonder if they’re right, and it’s actually one of the main reasons my job suits me so well. Being completely project focused means that I generally move on to something new just around the point when I’m starting to get bored of what I’m currently doing. The French project is a classic example. It started off last year in a blaze of goodwill and everyone, including me, was very excited during the design phase. The initial build of the solution was also warmly received, but then the questions inevitably started. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if this module actually worked in a slightly different way?’ ‘Could we have an extra module to do this thing we never mentioned before?’ That kind of thing. Then, as always happens when the scope of the project starts to creep, the bigwigs started querying why it was all costing more than we originally said and the uncomfortable meetings began. We’re in a fairly good place now, but the last few months have had more than their share of tricky moments, so I’m feeling a little jaded and ready to start something new.

Nobody could ever accuse Hebe of being a commitment-phobe. She and Mark, her fiancé, were secondary-school sweethearts and I don’t think they’ve exchanged a cross word in the ten years they’ve been together. She’s completely fulfilled in her job as a receptionist – sorry, care navigator – at the local doctors’ surgery, and loves nothing more than curling up in the evening with Mark, their two cats and one of those romance novels with swirly pastel writing on the cover and a title like Second Chances at the Little Sweet Shop of Dreams on Hope Street. On the rare occasions I find time to read fiction, I tend to go for books my mother describes as ‘nasty’, such as psychological thrillers or crime.

However, one thing we do share is an eye for detail. Despite being much more laid-back than me, Hebe’s wedding planning has been meticulous. She and Mark have attended countless wedding fairs, she’s built up a comprehensive mood board on Pinterest and, if it were anyone other than my sister, the word ‘Bridezilla’ would be on the tip of everyone’s tongues. But she’s been so calm and gentle about everything that I think we’d all agree to jump naked through hoops if she suggested it, because she’d find a way to make it sound both fun and completely normal. I’m therefore not surprised, as I reflect on our conversation during the journey to the bridal boutique where our final dress fittings are going to take place, that she reacted so calmly to my last-minute change of hair colour. I think I could actually have gone for green or pink and it wouldn’t have fazed her at all. You know that prayer that so many people seem to have displayed somewhere in their houses about having the serenity to accept the things we can’t change, the courage to change the things we can, and the wisdom to know the difference? Hebe is almost the living embodiment of that. Unlike our physiques, I think she probably inherited a lot of her personality from Dad, whereas I’m more spiky, like Mum.

While Mum and Hebe chat about wedding admin, I’m enjoying watching the world go by from the back and thinking about my upcoming trip to Cape Town. The client was happy for me to hire a car, particularly as their offices are actually on the outskirts of the city so it will work out cheaper than using taxis. As my research has told me that the taxis can often be barely roadworthy, this is an extra relief to me. I’ve also found a lovely one-bedroom studio in a block of serviced apartments which, although small, has everything I reckon I need for a three-week stay.

My thoughts are interrupted when I hear Mum mentioning my name.

‘Sorry?’ I ask.

She sighs exaggeratedly. ‘I knew you weren’t listening. I was asking if you checked with Lucy that the dye in your hair isn’t going to leach out and do something unmentionable to your dress.’

‘It’s fine,’ I reply. ‘Lucy said it was quite stable.’

‘Let’s hope she’s right,’ Mum says sceptically.

‘It’ll be OK,’ Hebe reassures her. ‘And, if it does all go wrong, it will give us an interesting story to tell afterwards.’

‘I’m just thinking of you,’ Mum tells her, her tone much softer. ‘You’ve put so much into this.’

‘Yes, but it doesn’t do any good worrying about things that probably won’t happen. And, if they do, we’ll find a way to deal with them. Ah, here we are.’

She swings into the only vacant space outside a small shop. Even if the three mannequins in the window wearing different styles of wedding dress didn’t make it abundantly clear what sort of store this was, the name Bridal Designs by Elizabeth Harrington in a scripted font across the front would give it away. Inside, I can see Andrea, Hebe’s other adult bridesmaid, chatting comfortably with Henrietta, my brother Troy’s wife.

‘Heebs!’ Andrea yells, leaping to her feet and wrapping my sister in an enormous hug the moment we enter. It’s safe to say that Dad’s ‘no truncation’ ambition failed spectacularly with Hebe, as all of her friends refer to her affectionately as Heebs.

‘How exciting is this?’ Andrea says to my mum once she’s released Hebe. ‘I was just saying to Henrietta that I can’t believe there’s only a week to go.’