‘Bride,’ she said, accepting her order of service printed on thick vellum. As they sat down, Grace discreetly leant forward to look at the groom. She had never met him, but had occasionally read about him in the society pages, thanks to his status as the eldest son of one of Scotland’s richest land-owning lords.
With the triumphant flourish of Handel’s ‘Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’, the two hundred guests all stood and turned to watch the bride make her way up the aisle, resplendent in ivory bridal couture.
It was no surprise to Grace that her old friend from Danehurst Freya Nicholls was marrying well: in a few minutes Freya would become the Countess of Kalcraig. The surprise – to Grace at least – was that she had accepted the invitation. In the twelve years since they had shared a house together in Bristol, Freya had barely been in touch – sporadic postcards and emails and one random visit two years ago when Freya was in Ibiza to spend the weekend on a friend’s yacht. But when a ‘Save the Date’ announcement had arrived at her Ibizan farmhouse four months earlier, Grace had felt compelled to reply. She still wasn’t sure she’d made the right decision; it certainly hadn’t been any fun making the seven-hour journey with two whining ten-year-olds. They had perked up since they had seen the castle, though.
‘Wow, look at this place,’ said Olivia as they followed the procession back from the church to the Kalcraig’s family home, where the wedding breakfast was to be held.
‘It’s like a real palace. Is this where Countess Freya is going to live?’
‘One day, I think,’ said Grace. She suspected that Freya would almost certainly stay in the double-fronted townhouse in Notting Hill the couple also owned; she had never visited, but it had appeared in countless interiors magazines.
‘She’s beautiful, isn’t she? Countess Freya, I mean,’ said Olivia. ‘I bet all the boys used to like her at college.’
‘They did,’ replied Grace. ‘Including some of the boys I used to like.’
‘So why are we at her wedding if she used to do that?’ said Joseph, bristling.
‘I was joking, darling.’ Grace smiled. She loved how Joseph was so protective of her, but she worried that the divorce had affected the kids more than they let on. Gabriel didn’t visit very often and was formal and distant when he did. He had aged visibly since they had left Parador: the party’s fortunes hadn’t improved much and the strain of keeping the movement alive was taking its toll. The children rarely mentioned their father when he wasn’t there and had taken diametrically opposed positions on marriage: Joseph was staunchly against any sort of relationship, saying it was ‘stupid’ while Olivia had romanticised it to the extent that she believed in Disney-style happy endings. So Joe would snarl at any man who came near his mother, while Liv would scare them even more by immediately grilling them on their preference for summer or winter weddings. Not that Grace had the time or inclination for a relationship; she was still licking her wounds from the last one.
‘Can we meet the Countess, Mummy?’ said Olivia, tugging at Grace’s hand as they moved into the huge vaulted hall of Kalcraig Castle.
‘Of course, Livvy, it’s traditional to greet the bride and groom when you arrive at the reception.’
They joined the line crowding to give their congratulations to the happy couple. Ahead of her, Grace recognised a BAFTA-WINNING actor, several famous authors and a Vogue cover girl, but no friends or acquaintances of her own. She supposed the real reason she had accepted Freya’s invitation was because she had been hoping to meet up with old friends from Danehurst and Bristol, almost all of whom had dropped off her radar. Lately she had found herself becoming quite nostalgic; she certainly regretted cutting herself off so ruthlessly after that 1990 summer. Time and maturity made it easier for her to admit that she had been both rash and dramatic, and she had spent many hours on the internet lately, particularly on a site called Friends Reunited, looking up people from the past.
‘Gracie!’ squealed Freya as they shuffled up, clasping her to her breast, smothering her in silk. ‘It’s so amazing to see you.’
‘Congratulations, you look stunning,’ said Grace, suddenly feeling frumpy and old next to her friend.
‘I ought to, I’ve been working towards today for five months. I swear I haven’t eaten anything solid since New Year.’ She lowered her head towards Grace’s ear. ‘I think you’re going to love the table plan. Guess who you’re sitting next to?’
Grace held her breath, half expecting her to say Alex Doyle. She wouldn’t have put it past Freya to reacquaint herself with Alex especially now that he was a Grammy-winning musician.
‘Sasha Sinclair.’ She giggled.
Grace tried not to show her dismay. ‘I didn’t know you were in touch with Sasha,’ she said.
‘We weren’t, but then I met her at a party a few months ago. You know she runs Rivera? Absolutely divine. I told her I was getting married and how US Vogue wanted to do something on the wedding, so she offered to do my gown at cost. And isn’t it fabulous?’
‘Beautiful,’ said Grace distractedly, glancing around for the face she had seen so many times in style magazines; and there she was, already seated at table nine. Calm down, Grace, she thought to herself. It’s only Sasha Sinclair, not Freddy Krueger. After all, she had seen Alex in Ibiza and there had only been a flicker of discomfort. And she saw Miles too, perhaps once a year, and they managed to be civil to each other at least.
‘Hello, Grace,’ said Sasha stiffly, standing to give Grace a brittle embrace. ‘I wondered if you might be here.’
‘Freya’s been talking about marrying a rich, powerful man for nearly twenty years; I couldn’t miss it now it’s happened,’ said Grace.
‘Are we sitting together?’ asked Sasha, looking down at the place cards.
‘You are now,’ said Joseph, moving around the table to put Grace and Sasha’s cards together.
‘Joe, I don’t think you should . . .’
‘No, he’s right, Mum,’ said Olivia, moving another card around. ‘And I’ll sit on the other side of Sasha. I’ve seen you in Vogue,’ she said eagerly, climbing into her new seat. ‘I want to be a fashion designer too.’
‘Do you now?’ said Sasha with an imperious smile. ‘Well I’ll have to see what you know, won’t I?’ adding in mock-confession, ‘Although strictly speaking I’m not a fashion designer.’
Grace smiled. She was not surprised that the self-confident eighteen-year-old had grown up into the slightly intimidating, successful beauty in front of her. They were joined at the table by the groom’s unmarried cousin, his former nanny and her septuagenarian brother, plus a braying friend from Cambridge who monopolised the first half of the meal regaling them with highly inappropriate stories of the groom’s sexual adventures at university.
‘I think we can safely say we got the duff table,’ whispered Sash