“Mary-Ann, so pleased you could make it—all the way from Northern Ireland. Pleased to meet you, Shona. Leonard! Hello. Karl-Heinz, that’s an amazing buttonhole. Thanks for coming, Milan. Lydia.”
Vanessa risked her perfect posture to give her friend a heartfelt hug.
“All’s well that ends well,” she whispered.
“However unconventional,” Lydia whispered back, with a broad smile.
“The more unconventional, the better,” she said, squeezing Lydia tight once more.
They took their seats at the top table, in front of a red plush-lined cabinet full of precious crockery and silverware.
“How do you feel, Mrs Chancellor?” asked Ben, pouring her a glass of wine.
“Hey, I’m keeping my own name, remember.”
“I know. I kind of want yours, though. Can I be Mr Robertson?”
“Shall we be Chancellor-Robertsons? That sounds fantastically grand.”
“Yes, I like that. D’you think it’ll fit on the concert programmes though?”
Vanessa was infected by his mischievous smile and she leant forward to rub noses and swap a brief kiss.
“Chancellor-Robertson,” she said, raising her glass in a private toast.
“Robertson-Chancellor,” he replied, clinking.
She could barely eat a thing out of excitement, turning instead to her wine glass until Ben put his hand over it.
“Don’t get wasted, Ness,” he hissed. “What about that hotel? It seems a lot of money to spend to pass out on the bed.”
She felt her cheeks burst into flame.
“I’m not getting wasted,” she objected, but she took his point and slowed down.
The night in the boutique hotel around the corner was going to be a highlight of the day. She and Ben had not spent a night together all week, as a way of building anticipation. It would be wrong of her to waste all that on too much Dutch courage.
So she kept her glass empty during the speeches—Ben’s funny and touching, her father’s hilarious, Ben’s best man—an old school friend—so nervous he dropped his notes all over the floor.
She looked out over the tables, trying to memorise the outfit each of the guests wore, enjoying a little glow of satisfaction when she saw Lydia, perfectly glamorous, sitting between her two lovers. Who would have foreseen that, back in January, when the anxious girl in the battered fleece and round spectacles showed up for her first rehearsal?
After dinner, the guests mingled with drinks while Milan, Lydia and two of the other string players formed a quartet and entertained.
Later on, when a band took over, Ben and Vanessa said their goodbyes and departed, on foot, for the hotel.
“Oh, it’s snowing!” Vanessa held out her hand and watched snowflakes fall, in the twilight, on to her fingertips.
“About time. I was going to ask for my money back if the snow didn’t show up soon,” said Ben, in a mock-huff.
“You numpty,” said Vanessa, giving the tip of his nose a kiss of forbearance. “This is what I’ve signed up for, isn’t it? A lifeti
me of your daft jokes.”
“For better, for worse,” said Ben. “Mostly worse. You should hire that therapist as soon as you get a minute.”
He wrapped an arm around her waist and began to run with her, through the thickening snowfall, to the hotel around the corner.
“Careful, it’s slippery,” she cried. “I don’t want to ruin this dress.”