Chapter Eight
Jitters
23 rd December
The next morning Archie was much better. After a horrible night going back and forth to the toilet and very little sleep, he was starting to get back to his usual self.
“Go back and sleep,” I said. “Tell your mum – and her new boyfriend – that you have a bad hangover. Rest up for tomorrow.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” he said.
I’d made him scrambled eggs, the only thing I could think that was gluten free. He picked at it with little appetite, but I could tell he was grateful for the thought.
“Get as much sleep as you can. I’ll check on you later.”
“It’s the hen do today,” he said. “Focus on keeping everyone sober instead of worrying about me.”
“They won’t get drunk,” I said.
“They will,” he smirked. “You’re being na?ve.”
“Well, we’ll see who is right tomorrow.”
“Yes, we will.”
He packed up his things and with an awkward wave, I opened the door to let him out.
To both of our horror, someone was at the doorstep.
Granny Jean.
“Imogen?” She asked. “Who is this dishevelled young man?”
I looked from my Granny, with her tightly buttoned shirt, luggage older than me and pursed lips back to Archie with his wonky reindeer onesie, messy hair and sleepy expression.
“This is Archie, Ross’ nephew,” I explained. “You’ve met before.”
“Yes, hello Mrs. Ashton,” he said. “It’s good to see you again. I’m the best man, so Imogen and I were planning some final details.”
“Hmm,” she said. “Dressed like that?”
He grimaced at me, just as unsure as I was what to say.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s supposed to be fun.”
“I don’t like fun,” she said sternly. “And I don’t like uncouth young men sniffing around my granddaughter unescorted.”
“Unescorted?” He said with a mix of fear and confusion. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so poorly he would have had a better retort.
Granny’s rather Victorian choice of words summed up her approach to men. No sleeping together until marriage. No casual dating. No ‘unsuitable’ boyfriends.
“Leave now,” she told him with no hesitation as to whether she was interrupting our wedding planning. “We need to get ready for my daughter’s hen do. Not that I think she needs one after two marriages already, but that’s our Louise…”
She pushed past us and into the lodge, setting up on my bed.
“I guess I’m sharing my bed again tonight,” I whispered to Archie.
“Good luck,” he told me, dipping out of the door before she could come back to scold him any further. “I’ll see you later.”
“Rest up and take care of yourself,” I said quietly.
He nodded.
I closed the door and walked back through the lodge to find Granny hanging her wedding outfit on the outside of the wardrobe in my room.
“It needs pressing really, though I suppose there’s no one in this silly little town to do it,” she grumbled. “But who cares. It’s her third marriage.”
I bit my tongue.
I loved my Granny, but it was hard to hear her talk about Lou that way sometimes.
“And what on earth do I wear to a ‘hen do’ anyway,” Granny continued. “It hardly has a dress code. And judging by that young man’s get-up, a dress code isn’t required for any of the pre-wedding events. I do hope he wears a suit on the day.”
“He will,” I assured her. “As for the hen do, a dress would be fine.”
“A dress?” She scoffed. “I’m not a brothel worker. I’ll wear a trouser suit.”
“Fine,” I said. “That will be fine too.”
Our first stop was afternoon tea at Porthglen Manor. The manager had arranged for us to have it in the sunroom at the back of the manor, with views of the sea, where the wedding would be the next day.
The room was already decorated for the wedding, with everything Archie and I had collected laid out.
The afternoon tea came on beautiful china plates painted with snowflakes – turkey and cranberry sandwiches, pigs in blanket quiches, stuffing balls, mini yule logs and mince pies.
“To Lou and Ross!” I said, raising my teacup with the others. Granny shot me a disapproving look.
“To Lou and Ross!” They repeated.