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  She glided off in her matching lace court shoes towards the bar. Zillah, watching Jake turn into Tom Cruise, recognised the bride’s mother’s outfit as couture. She’d meant what she said to her. Such a warm compliment, when it happened, was always the glossy dark chocolate on the profiterole. Zillah was particularly pleased the family had chosen the bubbly she recommended. The medium dry wine, with its honeyed buzz, was the perfect partner to a slice of rich, fruity wedding cake.

  Zillah rated this reception an A-list one. The beautiful people, whether happy relatives or friends of bride and groom, said it all. These affairs weren’t all the same, of course. Sometimes, in spite of Zillah’s almost military-like planning, the unexpected could detonate like a dented can of fizzy pop, peppering the whole affair with confusion. It could be a helper falling ill at the last moment. Or, a guest who’d forgotten to mention their hen’s egg allergy.

  Jake was eyeing her curiously. Zillah moved towards the bar.

  ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Just wondered what you were smiling about.’

  She chuckled. ‘I was remembering something I’d prefer to forget. Tell you later. I’m off to find a ladies’ room.’

  Immaculate in her silver-grey short-sleeved dress and charcoal and white striped apron, Zillah headed upstairs. On discovering a door bearing a makeshift sign, she tapped discreetly. No one yelled.

  She found herself in a room big enough for a line-dancing session. It had to be the master bedroom and it was a symphony of cream, gold and azure, the air sweet with the scent of lilies drifting from a crystal vase in the fireplace. Sounds of someone in distress filtered from behind a door that had to lead to an ensuite bathroom.

  Zillah almost backed out again. But the cobweb bridal headdress lying on the counterpane caught her eye. Its colour matched the gown – a cochineal drop in a dish of cream. Its fabric was shot with tiny slivers of silver, a fairy-tale veil for a bride whose own fairy story seemed hell bent on trashing the traditional script.

  She could either succeed in embarrassing herself or might just possibly be able to help. Sometimes brides, too jumpy to eat enough to soak up the bubbly, let their imaginations convince them the groom still possessed warm feelings for an old flame displaying a cleavage capable of stunning a short-sighted vicar. On this occasion, instinct told her not to back off.

  ‘Cara? It’s Zillah Robinson. I’ll go away if you say so.’

  Silence. The bride probably regretted not securing the outer door. Zillah heard a tight little voice say, ‘Yes, go away. No, don’t! Sorry, Mrs Robinson – I’d like you to stay, please.’

  ‘Shall I come in or will you come out?’

  The door opened and Cara, surely bride of the year, emerged. But at that moment, she resembled, to Zillah’s compassionate gaze, a lonely nine-year-old dressed up in her mother’s wedding finery, to enliven a dismal afternoon.

  ‘Cold compress,’ said Zillah briskly.

  She shot through the bathroom door and cast her eye round. There was a pile of fluffy guest towels and linen napkins on a shelf. She chose the cloth that felt softest and held it under the cold tap before wringing it out and rejoining Cara.

  ‘Here, hold this against your eyelids. I guess you’re wearing waterproof mascara?’ Maybe she’d been a little too hasty with her A- list wedding rating but surely there was still time to repair the damage? Presuming Cara didn’t plan sliding down a drainpipe into the arms of the real man of her dreams who stood poised to whisk her to a love nest in the Seychelles. But then, wouldn’t she be changing into something less fragile than her bridal gown if she was about to do a runner?

  Cara still sat on the end of the bed with Zillah perched next to her. The bride lowered the impromptu pink eye reducer and managed an almost there smile. To Zillah’s relief, the makeup artist clearly knew her stuff. I must remember to ring the bride’s mum next week for contact details.

  She consulted her watch. ‘We have a little time before the champagne flows for the toasts. Dare I ask if this is hormones raging or something more complicated?’ This bride wouldn’t be the first Zillah had known to be eating for two at her wedding breakfast.

  Cara gulped and did that big, shuddery deep breath thing. Zillah patted her hand, hoped the tears would hold off and was rewarded.

  ‘It’s been just awful these last few weeks,’ Cara confessed, rummaging under her skirts to produce a lace-edged silken postage stamp, presumably from her blue garter. She pressed the tiny handkerchief to her lips.

  Zillah nodded. ‘I can imagine. Everyone on a short fuse. No one seeming to care what you think, when it’s obvious you and the groom are the only ones in the world who really matter.’

  Recognition sparked in Cara’s eyes. Her cheeks were no longer out-pinked by her gown. ‘You understand. You really, really understand. Everyone else has been saying stuff like “Aunt Julia won’t sit at the same table as Cousin Charles so how do we get round that one?” Or, asking me if I’m putting on weight and frightening the daylights out of me in case my gown wouldn’t fit. As it happens I lost ten pounds and the dressmaker was about to start force-feeding me a Mars Bars.’

  Zillah nodded. ‘Anxiety dreams?’

  ‘Only three or four a week.’

  ‘You poor girl. And your new husband? How’s he been coping?’

  ‘I’ve hardly seen Josh this last fortnight. He’s been whisked off to three different stag nights. One in St Andrew’s with his old university mates, one in London with his colleagues and one in Bath with his brothers and the guys he plays squash with. Probably the man from the off-licence as well.’

  Zillah nodded a second time. She wished the two of them could be chatting with a glass of something sparkly in their hands. But time wasn’t on their side.

  Cara was off again. ‘Why does every stag night have to last three days? We’ve hardly had time to talk in private at all. It’s as if I’ve married a stranger and, quite honestly, I dread the thought of two weeks alone with him. I’ve been longing for all the fuss to be over so we could just be together. Now it’s like a big bubble’s burst and I don’t know what to do with myself.’

  ‘But you still love him?’

  ‘‘Of course.’ Her eyes were dinner plates. ‘So, so much. I get this kind of yearning when I think of him. But sometimes lately he’s been so remote, I really wonder if he still feels the same. Maybe he’s gone off me and can’t face confessing the truth. Maybe he’ll wait till we’re on honeymoon, away from our families and blurt out that it’s all a terrible mistake.’ She hiccupped. ‘I can’t bear it.’

  Zillah had to turn her head to avoid Cara seeing her smile. If only this bride knew how typical her feelings were. The whole wedding razzmatazz was on a par with life’s other great rites of passage. It arrived dragging a shed load of expectations and if you were the kind of person who could tough it out, that was fine. But Cara was obviously sensitive and right now she hurt. Playing the role of bride involved accepting a poisoned chalice in many ways. A little stealth was needed here.

  ‘‘Cara, I have to go downstairs to fetch something.’

  The bride pressed her fingers against her cheeks.

  ‘Your make up’s fine, sweetheart. All you need’s a touch of lip-gloss. I just need to fetch my rescue remedy drops from my bag. Be right back.’

  Zillah left Cara sitting on the bed. Her heart ached for the girl. This perfect wedding day scenario was achieved at the expense of two lost souls wondering what possessed them to agree to put themselves through it all. As she left, she removed the sign saying Ladies and pushed it back inside before gently closing the door.

  Halfway down the staircase, Zillah met the bridegroom on his way up. He almost shot past her.

  ‘Hey, just the man I was looking for!’

  Josh stopped a few steps above and peered down. ‘Hi, Mrs Robinson. I don’t suppose you know where my fiancée – where my wife is?’

  Zillah noted the anxiety in his eyes. He was probably all of 2
5 and desperately tired of flirting with sherry-breathing great-aunts telling him how cute he used to look in a romper suit.

  ‘Josh, the new Mrs Maxwell’s in the master bedroom. I said I’d go and fetch my rescue remedy and here you are.’

  He clutched the banister. ‘Is she all right? I can’t seem to get near her. Everyone wants a piece of us.’

  ‘Weddings can be like that,’ said Zillah. ‘Cara’s fine but she’s feeling a little lost. What she needs right now is a cuddle. Just tell her you love her. Tell her everything’s going to be all right.’

  The bridegroom took the remaining stairs two at a time.

  ‘Josh,’ called Zillah. ‘I reckon your father-in-law will want to start the speeches in about ten minutes.’

  ‘You got it!’

  ‘Don’t forget to tell Mrs Maxwell how much you love her.’

  He’d vanished. She only hoped she could prise the pair of them apart once the signal came to start pouring champagne. Maybe she should have draped that veil over a chair back.

  Zillah always thought the best functions were those where you cleared everything away and drew a line under the practical part, with the certainty of a cheque in the post within 48 hours. Zillah and helpers had tidied up all the catering impedimenta, leaving Jake and his friend to continue bar service and deal with the remaining glasses at the end of the evening. How satisfying for the bride’s father to hand her an envelope containing a fat tip for her to share among her helpers. Her crockery and cutlery was already stashed in the van, her strategy aimed at getting in with minimum fuss and leaving in similar fashion at the end of the day.

  She found her small team gathered in the kitchen and very pleased to receive their pay.

  ‘You said you were going to tell me something?’ Jake reminded Zillah.

  ‘That’s right. It’s gone brilliantly today, guys and I can’t thank you all enough. But we shouldn’t ever forget the possibility of gremlins. I once attended a wedding where a four-year-old bridesmaid released a kitten from the garden shed. The hosts had decided it would be a safe house. I’ll never forget him catapulting from a windowsill. He looked like a vertical take-off craft!’

  ‘What happened?’ Abi asked.

  ‘The kitten landed on four paws, plumb in the middle of the top tier of the wedding cake.’

  She saw expressions of mixed horror and mirth upon faces.

  ‘The bridegroom lifted the kitten off the icing and handed him to the smallest bridesmaid. The happy couple cut the cake but some guests found claw marks on their slice.’

  Zillah heard laughter from behind and quickly turned round to see the bride standing in the kitchen doorway. She still wore her beautiful dress, minus veil and she’d taken down her blonde hair so it hung loose down her back. Zillah marvelled at the glow you could warm your hands on. Jake and the other two young men sprang to their feet, jaws dropping.

  ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt.’ Cara flashed a devastating smile at them. ‘I loved your story, Mrs Robinson. It just proves nothing can spoil what’s destined to be a perfect day. But I mustn’t keep you. You’ve worked so hard, and you must be shattered. Thank you so much for all you’ve done.’ She looked at Zillah. ‘May I have a quick word before you go?’

  In the impressive hallway, Cara stood on tiptoe to hug Zillah and kiss her cheek. ‘I just wanted to say thanks again. For everything. Especially the rescue remedy.’

  Zillah noted the sparkling eyes with not a hint of pink. Gently taking hold of the bride’s left hand, she said, ‘your wedding ring is beautiful – the perfect choice with your engagement diamond. How’s that rescue remedy now?’

  Cara’s dimples deepened. ‘In very good form. He’d been feeling the same as me. Convinced he was acting in some surreal kind of drama and wondering what it was all about. Afraid to say something in case he upset me.’

  Zillah nodded. She’d read the happy couple’s body language when they descended for the cake cutting. ‘Soon you can forget all the trappings and get down to the reason for the whole show. You and Josh – have you been living together?’

  ‘No. You’ll probably think it’s crazy but we were both in flat shares and we, well, we just wanted to wait till we were married, before we began a new life together.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s at all crazy. I think it’s lovely. And I wish you both a fountain of happiness. Just don’t expect the proverbial roses all the way. Coping with the thorns is the important part.’ Zillah checked her watch. ‘I mustn’t keep you from your wonderful party.’

  ‘And enjoy a long and happy marriage,’ she added under her breath, watching the bride hitch up her train and glide away.

  There was a lump like a Stonehenge stone clogging Zillah’s throat. Why had that fountain of happiness phrase slipped out? Her late husband’s mother had bestowed that particular wish on Zillah and Daniel at their own wedding. If only the fountain hadn’t run dry so much sooner than anticipated. Now here she was, helping other couples have a happy day, while inside she was still hurting. It took her a few moments to compose herself before rejoining her team.

  Chapter Three

  Once adrenalin-fuelled for a function, Zillah found difficulty in unwinding. On returning home, she’d unloaded dirty crocks straight from van to kitchen. It was one of the advantages of living in the garden flat. The packed lunch eaten in a fifteen minutes break with her helpers when the family headed for church seemed far away and now her tummy growled for help. She wanted chicken soup, for the soul as well as for supper, probably. She enjoyed her work but now, fixing a solitary snack on a tray, she felt an unnerving kind of restlessness. It was a bad sign.

  ‘Hunger pangs plus unexpected agony aunt duty,’ she muttered, taking a bottle of wine from the fridge and unscrewing the top. She’d overcome her prejudices that anything produced by a vineyard was worthless unless corked and sealed but still went for quality rather than quantity, in her personal life as well as her business one.

  Zillah stood at the sink, gazing through the window at nothing. She sometimes thought her landlady employed a magician rather than a gardener and although their colours were dimmed by the late June evening, she knew slug-defying rows of lettuce made bright green splashes against rich dark soil. Sweet baby carrots, too tender to boil, hid beneath feathery tops. The greenhouse dripped with fragrant trusses of tomatoes. The herb garden was like a candy store for Zillah who dipped into the produce whenever she wished, repaying her landlady by freezing single portions when she held batch casserole-making sessions.

  She sipped her wine, looking forward to her soup and rustic loaf supper. Suddenly Zillah had no recollection of feeding the cats. On days when she fed crowds, she sometimes felt as if she should give a sermon to accompany the loaves and fishes. Her landlady was away and now, yes, of course she remembered opening cans for Velma, Roxy and Ruby.

  As if on cue, Velma, jet black with one pure white ear, appeared from behind the runner beans and sashayed down the path towards the house. She headed for the cat flap in the utility room door, flashing a look at Zillah as if to say, what are you staring at?

  Zillah carried her supper into the sitting room and switched on the television without much hope. Maybe she should select a DVD but somehow she couldn’t be bothered. A couple circled a dance floor. The man gave the impression of longing to look down at what his feet were doing, rather like a learner driver changing gear. He wore a slashed gold sequinned top. This was a programme not, strictly speaking, to Zillah’s taste but it would provide something to glance at while she ate.

  ‘A warm bath and telly will relax me,’ she told herself.

  She thought the man wearing the sequinned top looked familiar and might have been a moonlighting weather presenter. She suddenly thought of Hal Christmas and chuckled, imagining those broad shoulders squeezed into a sequinned waistcoat. Macho man in sparkles made for a provocative image and it occurred to her, this was the first time she’d thought of that infuriating chunk of eye candy since her morning chat w
ith Abi.

  *

  In a ramshackle cottage, only a few miles away from Zillah, Hal had abandoned his unpacking and was once more wondering what miserable fate would have propelled such a devastating yet acid-tongued blonde into his orbit. How could someone with eyes rivalling the colour of violets be so uptight? What was the witch’s problem? After their near collision when they sat exchanging insults, his hand had hovered over the gear stick, ready to engage fast reverse. That was before it occurred to him the beautiful but bad-tempered diva might actually prove useful.

  She sent him in the right direction and his inspection had convinced him to rent the unit. He hadn’t got off on the right foot as regards being good neighbours but far worse than a male versus female driver incident was the worrying fact that both of them traded under almost the same name.

  To complicate matters, Hal knew he was the one who must back down. This wasn’t an action he was used to pulling off. He’d capitulated in spectacular fashion as a young, inexperienced accountant, consequently missing out on an important promotion. He’d vowed never again to allow anyone to intimidate him, even a woman with curves he couldn’t get out of his mind and in whose hair he longed to bury his face.

  Hal reached for his phone, searched for the Mrs Robinson number and left a voice mail message, asking her if they could possibly meet on Monday.

  Next morning Zillah served the divas their tuna delicacy in the utility room. The feline trio were excitable and impatient, the smallest one shooting across the floor and rubbing herself against Zillah’s ankle, chattering like a motor engine.

  ‘Don’t let those big girls eat your share, Ruby,’ Zillah whispered to the little cat, in two minds whether to scoop her up and spoil her. There was a leftover half chicken breast in the fridge but it would only cause trouble. The other two would probably gang up on Ruby, even hiss tales to her landlady when Clarissa returned from her travels. Zillah smiled at her nonsensical thinking, hardened her heart and left them to it.