CHAPTER 10
Daisy
I barely knock on the Cavendishes’ front door before Mum swings it open, pulling me into a hug so tight you’d think we hadn’t just shared burnt toast and lukewarm tea a few hours ago.
“They’re in the drawing room,” she says.
“Thanks, Mum. Don’t work too hard,” I reply, as if she has any say in the matter.
She waves me off with a laugh, and I marvel—again—at how she stays so upbeat after decades of cleaning bidets and herding exotic birds off the lawn.
Then again, when you’re a single mum and the job comes with a cottage straight out of Cotswolds Living , I suppose you find ways to stick around. Plus, ever since she started seeing Richard, she’s been genuinely happy.
My stomach knots as I trail down the hallway. Through the heavy oak door, I can already hear giggles. Bloody hell, I shouldn’t have walked out of the engagement party last night like a dramatic twit. Fantastic way to kick off Important Bridesmaid Duties. A+ performance, really.
I knock softly before pushing open the door.
Sophia, Imogen, and Bernice lounge across the chaises and armchairs, buried in bridal magazines and planners. They look annoyingly fresh for people who were tossing back champagne just hours ago.
I glance down at my own crumpled jumper and scuffed trainers. Would it have killed me to iron something before showing up?
“Daisy!” Sophia jumps up, pulling me into a warm hug.
“I’m so sorry about last night,” I mumble into her shoulder. “I shouldn’t have bailed. It was rude.”
“It’s fine,” she says, but the slight tightness in her smile suggests it’s not entirely fine.
“You feeling better?” Imogen asks, her tone hovering somewhere between concern and a subtle jab. “We were all so worried when you . . . disappeared.” The way she lingers on disappeared makes it sound like I’ve committed a heinous crime against bridesmaids everywhere.
“Yeah,” I say. “Probably just the train ride from London. I get a bit travel sick sometimes.”
Their polite smiles hit harder than if they’d just called me out on the flimsy lie.
“Isn’t this nice?” Sophia says brightly, clearly eager to move past it. “All the bridesmaids together.”
Imogen sets down her glossy bridal magazine. “We were just discussing plans for the hen party.”
“That sounds great.” I smile. “Like, uh, a nice meal and a nightclub after, or something?”
Imogen lets out a tinkling laugh. “Sophia’s only tying the knot once. I was imagining something a bit grander—like that gorgeous chateau in Provence where Daddy threw his sixtieth.” Her eyes go dreamy, like she’s already draped in silk, sipping the good stuff while a chiseled Frenchman hand-feeds her grapes. “Or there’s that spa in Iceland, carved into a glacier. Sunrise yoga on the ice, then mimosas in the hot springs. It’s utterly transcendent.”
I nod stiffly through the mental maths of how much a glacier retreat is going to cost me—and trying not to choke on the irony of hearing “transcendent” and “hen party” in the same sentence.
Is this what rich people do instead of chugging bad wine through penis straws in a sticky club?
Sophia laughs, but I see the telltale Help me look creeping into her eyes. “That sounds lovely,” she says diplomatically, “but honestly, I think I’d rather keep things a bit more low-key. Maybe stay closer to home? I’m already so nervous about everything, planning an overseas trip might push me over the edge.”
Relief floods through me, and I nod a little too eagerly. “How about a cozy country house for the weekend? Or a spa day nearby? Low-key, no fuss, no passports.”
Imogen’s face twitches—her Icelandic fantasy melting away—but she rallies fast. “Of course, darling. Whatever you want. I’ll come up with some ideas and take care of everything. You won’t have to worry about a thing. You’ve been such a sweetheart to me all these years—it’s the least I can do.”
Hang on.
Isn’t that my job?
I’m the maid of honor here.
Sophia’s done so much for me over the years, more than I could ever repay on my measly BritShop salary.
When I first landed in London, she let me bunk at her Hampstead flat, no questions asked. She’s spoiled me with sweet, thoughtful gifts and dragged me to concerts I’d never have splurged on myself. And what’s my grand gesture in return? Scrapbooks stuffed with goofy pics and sloppy poems I drunkenly composed after one too many G&Ts. They’re heartfelt, sure, but they’re not exactly diamond-studded tokens of gratitude.
This was supposed to be my chance to prove how much she means to me, especially after I made a total ass of myself storming out of her engagement party last night.
“I can handle it,” I blurt out. “I mean, it’s my responsibility, right? Maid of honor and all that.” I dart a glance at Sophia, silently willing her to throw me a lifeline. Please believe in me, even if I don’t right now.
Imogen’s smile tightens. “Only if you’re sure.”
Oh, she wants my job. She’s not even hiding it.
“Absolutely,” I chirp, matching her energy, because if I back down now, I might as well hand over my maid-of-honor sash and let her start planning the ice-glacier-champagne-spiritual-awakening.
Sophia’s gaze bounces between us, her brow creasing slightly.
“I only want something low-key anyway,” she says. “And honestly, girls, Daisy always comes up with the most fun things to do. When we were growing up, she had us doing the most amazing things, and they were all so simple.”
That’s what happens when you’re broke: you get crafty with twigs, tape, and a questionable sense of adventure.
“Don’t worry, Soph. I’ve got this. Actually,” I add, an idea sparking out of sheer panic, “my flatmate Jamie is an events manager, and he’s always raving about these incredible weekend getaways. Something unique, off the beaten track.”
Imogen’s lips twitch—just for a split second, but I catch it. “Well, I’m sure it’ll be . . . fabulous,” she says.
I lock eyes with her, refusing to blink. “You bet it will.”
“Perfect,” she says, turning back to the bridal magazine she’s been flipping through, dismissing me like this conversation hasn’t even registered on her radar.
But I know better. My pulse is ticking faster, and that smile of hers? It never reached her eyes.
Oh, it’s game on. Game freaking on.
Daisy, darling! About the hen party
I freeze mid-aisle in Tesco, fish fingers hovering in my hand. I stare at the screen, watching those ominous three dots dance on Sophia’s end.
What now? I still have zero solid ideas, and the last thing I need is added pressure.
So Imogen and I were having a little chat
Nothing good ever starts with having a little chat.
I’m being fired, aren’t I?
I can already picture Imogen, rose gold iPhone in one hand, tapping out a color-coded spreadsheet titled Hen Party 2.0: Salvaging Daisy’s Disaster while sipping an Earl Grey.
The dots stop. Start. Stop again.
Come on, Sophia. Just put me out of my misery.
We thought it would be great if boys could join!
. . .What?
Strippers?
That’s unexpected, but I’m not opposed. If anything, I am here for this character development.
I totally understand if you can’t organize, but a little gathering for the bridal party, where everyone can really bond before the big day, would be so much fun. Like a joint bridesmaids and groomsmen weekend.
What the actual fuck?
“ Those boys?” I blurt, loud enough to make an elderly woman clutching a bag of frozen peas jump.
I set the fish fingers down, suddenly needing both hands free to process this deeply unhinged suggestion.
Imogen is happy to help if it’s too much. You know how useless the men will be. LOL
I glare at the screen. Of course Imogen is happy to help. I bet it’s her idea in the first place, probably just waiting for the perfect moment to sweep in with her “Don’t worry, darling—I’ll handle this” tone.
“For fuck’s sake,” I hiss.
I realize I’ve directed my rage at a ginger-haired baby sitting in the trolley next to me.
He stares back, smacking his tiny fist against the metal handle.
His mum glares at me, clutching a packet of Birds Eye potato waffles.
I wince. “Sorry.”
She huffs, wheeling her trolley away.
I exhale hard and look back at my phone. The message is still glowing at me.
It was hard enough when it was just a hen party. Now it’s . . . what even is this? A co-ed bridal party bonding retreat?
Panic takes over. My thumbs move on instinct.
What a fun idea! I’m happy to arrange, don’t worry! X
I hit send and stare at the message in horror. Who wrote that? That wasn’t me. That was the ghost of a competent bridesmaid temporarily possessing my body.
A joint weekend.
A sharp jolt runs through me, at the thought of spending an entire weekend in close quarters with Sophia’s oldest brother. Yeah, that won’t be awkward at all.
The ginger baby rolls past me in his trolley, still staring. Still judging, that tiny hand thumping in silent disapproval.
I give him a subtle nod. I know, mate.
“I’ve found it. The perfect spot. It’ll blow their posh little minds,” Jamie says.
I glance up from my phone, where I’m halfway through a YouTube tutorial titled How to Cry Beautifully . I’ve got three hours before my late shift at BritShop, and instead of doing anything useful, I’m here perfecting the art of dainty tears. You never know when it might come in handy again.
“What is it?” I ask, only half paying attention.
“Glamping,” he says, dropping the word like it’s a grand revelation. “This place is brand-new, exclusive—proper luxe. Those fancy birds’ll eat it up.”
“Since when do rich people camp?”
He looks personally offended. “It’s glamping . There’s a difference. And you know that, so don’t be a smart-arse.”
I’ve already wasted a week trying to plan this bridesmaids-and-groomsmen extravaganza, and all I’ve got to show for it is a browser history full of frantic searches like “how to entertain posh people without going bankrupt.”
The clock’s ticking.
“There isn’t a difference to the Cavendishes,” I mutter.
“These tents have actual furniture,” he argues, undeterred. “Four-poster beds. The works.”
“Four-poster beds? In a tent? Pull the other one, mate.”
“Just look at this.” He shoves the screen under my nose. “It’s on land owned by some minor royal’s third cousin or something. They needed to do something with their spare field that didn’t involve farming. Dead posh.”
Curiosity wins out over cynicism, and I lean in.
The photos are stunning. Bell tents glowing with fairy lights, draped in plush bedding and scattered with cushions. Gorgeous rugs stretched over polished wooden floors. It’s like someone decided to drop a five-star hotel in the middle of a meadow.
“Sophia would love this,” I say under my breath, memories flickering of us camping in her garden as kids—before those demonic peacocks showed up. This could be that, but grown-up and gorgeous.
I can already see myself sprawled on one of those giant beds, fairy lights twinkling, champagne in hand.
“Plus,” he says, his smirk turning cocky, “they’re booked solid for two years, but I’ve got the inside scoop on a last-minute cancellation.”
The magic words. Nothing makes something more appealing to rich people than being told they can’t have it .
“How much?” I ask, bracing myself. “And can you pull some strings for a discount?”
Jamie spins his phone around, showing me the price.
Ouch. Bye-bye, anything but beans on toast for the next six months.
But what’s the alternative? Let Imogen swoop in and cement my status as the world’s worst maid of honor? No chance.
“Okay,” I say, before I can overthink it. “Book it.”
Take that , Imogen.
As Jamie confirms the booking, a tiny flicker of pride blooms in my chest. For once, I’m actually on top of things. And I will pull this off. Something that’ll prove to Sophia—and maybe even to myself—that I’m more than just the flaky, scatterbrained friend who can’t get her life together.
And . . . who knows? Maybe Edward will notice too.
Not that it matters.
It doesn’t.
Obviously.