The Wedding that Changed Everything: a gorgeously uplifting romantic comedy

Alice shakes her head and throws her shoulders back. ‘Never.’

‘Good girl. Now, am I allowed to spit in her tea?’

Alice practically rugby-tackles me as I head for the kettle and pulls me out of the way. ‘Absolutely not. We won’t stoop to her evil ways.’

We make the (spit-free) tea and take the tray through to the living room, where Francelia is studying our bookcase, running her nasty, ruby-red talons along the spines of my historical romance novels.

‘You honestly read this trash? I thought you were an actual historian. Doesn’t it rot your brain?’

‘It hasn’t so far,’ I say, my voice cheery. I will not let her win. I will not let her rile me.

‘I suppose we all have our guilty pleasures.’ Francelia wipes her hands down the thighs of her navy trousers as she sits, as though she’s rubbing away something unsavoury after touching my books. ‘Some of us read silly little novels and some of us covet expensive, irreplaceable jewellery…’ She shoots a glance at Alice, but her stepdaughter is rearranging the scatter cushions on the sofa and doesn’t notice.

‘I don’t feel guilty about my book choices in the slightest.’ I set the tea tray down on the coffee table and refill Francelia’s cup. She arches an eyebrow. She thinks I should feel guilty. I think she should take a long run off a short pier.

‘So. Francelia.’ Alice is starting to get hot and flustered, so I retreat to the sofa and vow to keep it zipped. ‘How was your trip to Aruba?’

‘Ghastly.’ I think Francelia’s lip is curling, but it’s hard to tell with all the fillers. She doesn’t offer up any more information.

‘Good to be back home then?’ I can see beads of sweat starting to form on Alice’s forehead. I hate the way this woman’s mere presence turns my friend to mush.

‘I wouldn’t exactly say that.’ Francelia places her teacup down and clasps her hands on her lap. ‘Anyway, the reason I popped over this evening…’

Yes! This is what Alice and I have been waiting for. She’ll tell us why she’s here, we’ll deal with whatever it is and then she can clamber back onto her broomstick and fly back to Harrogate.

But Francelia doesn’t get the chance to divulge her reason for descending (uninvited and without warning) as there is the unmistakable – and panic-inducing – sound of key meeting lock from the front door. I turn to Alice and our eyes meet, wide, startled, conveying what our mouths are desperate to say.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuck.

We’re up off the sofa and barrelling into the hallway in a split second, Alice reaching the front door milliseconds before me. Kevin takes an alarmed step back when he opens the door to see us standing there, panting like rabid dogs.

‘Go!’ Alice hisses, eyes darting backwards to make sure Francelia hasn’t followed.

Kevin laughs, but he’s frowning. ‘What?’

‘Didn’t you get my message?’

‘What message?’ Kevin, painfully slowly, takes his mobile out of his pocket, holding it out to show a blank screen. ‘I turned it off during the performance. I must have forgotten to switch it back on.’

‘Francelia’s here.’ Alice’s eyes dart back towards the living room before she addresses her boyfriend again. ‘You have to go.’

Kevin sighs, long and heavy, but he knows the deal.

‘Fine. Text me when she’s…’

‘Hello? Who’s this?’ A shiver runs down my spine at the sound of Francelia’s voice. She looms behind us, no doubt fighting against the Botox in an attempt to arch a practised brow at poor Kevin.

‘This is Kevin,’ Alice squeaks. ‘Emily’s brother.’

I look at Alice, then Kevin (who is in the process of folding his arms in an ‘oh, really?’ way), then back at Alice.

‘Emily’s brother has a key to your house?’ Francelia doesn’t miss a bleeding trick.

‘For emergencies,’ Alice says.

‘And what’s the emergency right now?’

Alice’s mouth opens. She shuts it again. She’s got nothing.

‘He’s also staying with us for a few days.’ I shouldn’t encourage Alice’s cover-up of her relationship, but I can’t stand to see her flounder. ‘On the sofa.’ I roll my eyes at Kevin. ‘What are you standing out there for, bruv? Get inside, you big dope.’

If Alice notices the majorly pissed-off look on her boyfriend’s face as he steps over the threshold, she doesn’t show it. She leads us all into the living room, where the three of us sit on the sofa – Alice on the left, Kevin on the right and me in the middle.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,’ Francelia says as she arranges herself in the armchair. She flashes Alice a reproachful look.

‘It’s Kevin. Kevin Jackson.’ He holds out his hand, but Francelia doesn’t acknowledge it, never mind shake it.

‘You have a different surname to your sister?’

‘Different dads,’ I say as Kevin settles back down into the sofa.

‘Hmm, it figures,’ the witch mutters before turning her attention back to Kevin. ‘So, Kevin Jackson. Why are you – a grown man – sleeping on your sister’s sofa? Don’t you have a home of your own? Don’t you work?’

‘I’m a music teacher,’ Kevin says and Francelia nods.

‘At the local school like Emily? That explains it then. No wonder you’re “sofa surfing”, as they say.’

‘I’m not sofa surfing. I have a place of my own.’

‘Oh?’ There goes the eyebrow again. ‘Then why aren’t you sleeping there instead of on this sofa?’ She points at the sofa we’re all sitting on, in case he needs clarification.

‘His flat’s being fumigated,’ Alice says. ‘For rats.’

Francelia recoils. I quite enjoy seeing her so uncomfortable, but Kevin is taking less pleasure from the experience.

‘How unfortunate.’ Francelia rubs at her calf with the pointy toe of the shoe that had designs on Carrot earlier. Her eyes roam the carpet for rodents, as though Kevin has turned into the Pied bleeding Piper and brought his little infestation pals along with him. ‘Anyway, the reason I popped over…’ She peers into her handbag, as though expecting to find a furry critter nestled there, before reaching gingerly inside. ‘Emily, this is for you.’

Chapter Three (#ulink_4b323aca-28db-55c6-8892-5bfd211bdb87)

‘For me?’

I observe the proffered envelope with suspicion. What is this? Surely no good can come of accepting anything from this woman? I do not trust Francelia Monroe. Not one little bit.

‘What is it?’ I ask, but my question is swallowed by the gasp beside me, followed shortly by a squeal and handclapping.

‘Is it…? It is, isn’t it?’ Alice has stopped clapping and is now bouncing up and down on the sofa. Francelia gives a curt nod before thrusting the envelope at me again.

‘Go on,’ Alice says, grasping me – quite tightly, again – by the arm. ‘Open it.’