Nice Day For A White Wedding

And then the captain’s crisp voice came over the Tannoy to announce that they were about to land in Venice.

Chelsea threw herself on the kingsize bed and giggled, watching how Kit just stood there in the doorway and looked at her, a bizarre smile on his face.

‘What?’

‘It’s nice to see you relaxed, that’s all,’ he shrugged and moved to the shuttered windows and door at the end of the room, opening them and walking out onto the balcony. It looked out onto the Canal, and Chelsea joined him, slipping an arm around his waist as the plush heat of the summer afternoon soaked into their skin. They watched in silence as the boats swished through the water, the smaller ones silently gliding, the larger ones offering a low thrum of engines. Everything was vibrant and alive, there was blue everywhere and Chelsea wanted to jump in and float. She leant her head against Kit’s shoulder, wiping her forehead against his shirt.

‘Oi!’ he laughed, pulling her closer.

‘Not sorry!’ she sighed against Kit’s mouth, tasting his smile. Twenty-four hours ago she’d been anxiously getting on the train to Badgeley, prepping herself for the jibes and the screaming and the jokes at her expense. And now here she was in Venice, surprised by someone who loved her. Maybe it was time to leave the old Chelsea in Badgeley, and finally live her life.

Kit was like an excited puppy at times, which was an impressive feat for a six-foot-four lawyer who looked like a Viking.

That evening he dragged her through the city, high on everything. They skipped over bridges and tripped on cobblestones, and everything was ‘more, more, more!’ The little candles on outside tables, the greetings from hosts outside every restaurant, the fairy lights in hidden courtyards and ice cream shops offering expanses of colour – everything made him giddy. And he’d been here before, she knew, he told her about a trip to Venice with his family when he was fourteen, after he’d been kicked out of his second boarding school. Or was it the third? Something comforted her about Kit being a bit of a trouble maker at school, like her. Except in his versions it was taking someone’s dad’s Lamborghini for a drive that got him expelled. It wasn’t quite the same.

‘Baby, you’ve got to calm down,’ Chelsea laughed, pulling back on his hand to slow him from charging ahead to some restaurant he was desperate to try, ‘we’ve got a couple of days here, right? We don’t have to do everything this instant!’ He looked at her, holding her hand even more tightly. He looked like he’d been told off, a puppy who’d been tapped with the newspaper. She’d hit a nerve, and she suddenly regretted her comment. Why not let him be an excitable child for a weekend, before he went back to his high-stress job? Why did she always have to be serious, boring Chelsea?

Kit took a deep breath, shaking his head and leaning back against the stone railing as they looked out on one of the canals. The water was dark and comforting, the cobblestones lit by old-fashioned street lights, and the warmth of the evening settling around them as the smells of coffee and delicious pizzas filtered through the air.

‘You’re right,’ he said distinctively, ‘there’s only one thing I want to do tonight and I’ve been focusing on everything else! It’s not good to procrastinate, you’re always saying that, Chels.’

He was starting to babble and Chelsea frowned at him.

‘There’s just been one thing I wanted to do here.’ He grinned at her, suddenly adorable and dangerous. The same look he had when he turned up at her flat at 5am and told her they were climbing the O2 centre, or he jumped in and started jamming with a busker in Covent Garden and the whole crowd cheered for him. He was going to do something ridiculous.

And sure enough, Kit raised his arm dramatically, showing her the scenery and threw back his head.

‘Just one Cornettoooooo!’ he sang loudly, imitating the operatic style ridiculously well. ‘Give it to meeee!’

Chelsea rolled her eyes, wondering how many poor Venetians had been subjected to such terrible renditions by drunk English tourists. She felt her cheeks colour as passersby smirked, laughing at that silly Englishman. They seemed to stop and hover to look at him, forming a relaxed semi-circle.

Chelsea looked back and saw Kit kneeling on the ground at her feet. He had stopped singing and was simply staring at her, a desperately hopeful look on his face as he held out a small, velvet box. The ring was obnoxiously huge, catching the light of the shop fronts and reflecting back into her dazed eyes. Three huge circular diamonds sat in a row, and a small smile graced her lips as she remembered him buying her a necklace years before, three small drops, and she’d said, ‘I love things in threes. It’s so symbolic, past, present and future,’ and he’d nodded like he was making a mental note. And he had.

‘Say something, Chels!’ he whispered through gritted teeth.

‘You haven’t asked anything, Christopher,’ she teased.

Kit looked at the crowd, hamming it up as he grinned and projected his voice.

‘Chelsea Donovan, light of my life, centre of my universe, apple of my eye – marry me, or I shall perish here and now!’

Chelsea rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, tapping her foot as the crowds gathered to look at the silly Englishman’s idea of romance. ‘Ask properly.’

‘I love you, Chels.’ He smiled that gleaming, white smile. ‘Will you marry me or what?’

‘Yes.’ It exploded out before he could finish asking and he nodded, like he wasn’t sure she was serious.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah!’

Kit jumped up and kissed her as the crowd erupted into applause, his arms holding her tight, rocking her back and forth as she laughed against his lips. When she pulled back she felt his tears on her cheeks, and cupped his face, wiping them away.

‘You big softie!’ She kissed his cheek, feeling her own eyes water. Just a little.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur, and none of it was the painful extravagance that Chelsea had dreaded. They strolled through cobblestone streets, hands clasped, occasionally bursting into giggles. They sat in a square eating pizza, drinking Prosecco and commenting on how wonderful everything was, and how amazing their life was going to be.

They drunkenly stumbled back to their room, excitedly showing the doorman, receptionist and bellboy her ring and receiving smiles and pats on the back in return.

Finally, Chelsea collapsed on the bed, arms out like a starfish. She closed her eyes and smiled.

‘I don’t think tomorrow can beat today. Today was perfect.’

‘Well actually, I do have another question to ask you.’ Kit plonked himself on the bed next to her. ‘I mean the first one was worse, but…’

‘Oh God, what?’ Chelsea groaned dramatically, not bothering to open her eyes. ‘You’re secretly a Mormon and you’re wondering if I’m okay with sharing.’

‘No,’ he laughed, and she could feel the bed springs bounce. She opened her eyes.

‘Okay, shoot.’

‘Well, it just so happens that my parents are at their place in Garda for the summer, only a short train ride away…’

‘You want me to meet your parents,’ Chelsea said simply, feeling the fear rise from her stomach, the sparkling wine suddenly turning on her.

‘Well, you agreed to marry me,’ he shrugged, looking at her with wide, hopeful eyes, ‘it’s got to happen eventually.’

‘Does it?’ Chelsea sighed. ‘You hate your parents. I kind of thought we’d make it through to our first wedding anniversary before I had to meet them.’

Kit frowned. ‘I never said I hated them…’

Chelsea rolled over to face him and raised an eyebrow.

‘You said, and I quote, “my mother is a vindictive harpy and my father hasn’t been sober since 1993”.’

‘All said with love,’ he laughed, putting an arm around her waist and pulling her closer, till they were nose to nose. ‘Look, we’ll go, we’ll tell them we’re engaged, we’ll swim in the pool, drink their expensive Champagne, and then we’re gone!’

He kissed her neck and she could feel herself softening, the exhaustion of an exhilarating day and too much wine catching up with her.

‘Okay, we’ll drink their pool and swim in their wine, and then we’re out of there.’ She nodded sagely, then frowned. ‘Wait, where are we going after that?

‘Wherever my future wife wants.’ Kit kissed her shoulder. ‘Rome? Sicily? Leave Italy and jump over to somewhere else? Or go home and plan the wedding?’

Chelsea wrinkled her nose and made a face. ‘Rome, and then wherever you want. We’ll take turns until the holiday is up.’

‘We’ll be like backpacking teenagers, making it up as we go.’ Kit snuggled against her.

‘I never did that as a teenager,’ Chelsea sighed. ‘The idea of being out of control used to terrify me.’ And the fact that I had no money, no skills and had to work. I couldn’t gallivant around Europe cashing in my trust fund.