Page 111 of Someone Like You

Raff starts calling vendors, starting with the florist and the caterer, then he’ll contact the photographer, and I call the celebrant. If they can’t perform the ceremony, everything else is moot. A few minutes later, I grin at Raff. ‘We have a celebrant! Her husband has a truckandsnow chains and she said to keep her updated on the location.’

Now that I know the wedding can legally proceed, I go check on the others, who are making slow but steady progress. The only person without an assignment is Aunt Christine. Mom, who seems as fed up with her attitude and endless sighing as I am, tasks her with making coffee, and she perks up immediately at having a purpose.

I’m back in Dad’s study getting an update from Raff when we hear a delighted squeal from Monica.

‘Brian must be here,’ I say, and we all congregate (again) in the entry as Monica gives him the equivalent of a hero’s welcome.

And the guyseriouslydeserves it. He’s arrived with a giant backpack strapped to his back and a suit carrier slung over one arm.

‘I’ve packed enough clothes for a few days, and I brought my tux,’ he tells us, a little out of breath. And no wonder; he just hiked through a snowstorm.

He’s also brought his dog, a huge German Shepherd, who seems unfazed by a four-mile walk through inclement weather.

‘And if you haven’t met him yet, this is Bear.’

Bear grins at us, his tongue lolling, and Mom calls him into the kitchen, probably to get some water and a dog treat.

Dad relieves Brian of his backpack, making an oof sound as hebears the full weight of it, and Issy takes the tux from him and hangs it in the hall closet. Both Dad and Issy go back to their posts as I give Brian a quick hug and introduce him to Raff.

I tell him that we’re on logistics and when he’s defrosted, he should help Dad with transport.

‘Thanks, Gaby,’ he says, gripping my arm. Even though he arrived wearing gloves, his hand is freezing, the poor guy. ‘Monica and I appreciate everything you’re doing for us,’ he says, his hazel eyes boring into mine.

My heart floods with warmth. This man loves my cousin, who I love. He’sfamilynow.

‘It’s a team effort,’ I say lightly, and he sniggers as if he knows it’s a lot more than that.

‘Go on. Go help my dad,’ I say.

Dad’s been on the phone to everyone he knows in the vicinity who has an SUV or a truck, asking if they have snow chains and would be willing to collect Seattle-based guests and take them to the venue.

This isifthe venue is still able (and willing) to host this wedding. They don’t open until late morning, so we won’t know for sure until then.

By 11a.m., we have yeses from thirty-eight guests –ifthey can get to the venue – an affirmative response from the florist, who’s based nearby in Uptown, a yes from the caterer but only with an adapted menu, and a maybe from the band. At worst, one of them DJs on the side and has a buddy who can probably get him to the venue, along with his records – actual LPs – and his turntable and mixing desk.

‘Well, here goes nothing,’ I say to Raff as I dial the venue.

The events manager answers, and I explain who I am and why I’m calling. With a sigh, she tells me she was just about to call to cancel.

‘Oh. Are you sure? It looks like we’ll only have about forty guests. Is thereanyway you can make that work? A smaller space for instance?’ Raff’s eyes lock on mine, a deep furrow between his brows, and I hold my breath for the few seconds of silence before she replies.

‘I’m really sorry. We just haven’t got the staff – not even for a smaller wedding. We’re insured for this type of thing, so the couple should be reimbursed for the cost, but it can take time. I’ll put everything in an email today and revert in the New Year.’

I wish her happy holidays and end the call.

‘Welp… Back to the drawing board.’

27

POPPY

‘Hi, darling –sosorry I’m late,’ says Tristan.

It’s not often I get annoyed at Tristan, but this is one of those rare moments, as I’ve been saving this table and an empty bar stool for twenty minutes, and two days before Christmas, I should be wearing a suit of armour and wielding a sword. If I had a pound for every tut and eye roll in response to ‘Sorry, that’s taken’, I could shout the entire bar a round of drinks.

He leans close and I accept a kiss on the lips, which instantly washes my peevishness away. Tristan’s kisses have that kind of power.

‘No worries,’ I say. ‘But if you were any later, I would have got a call from the casting agent forGladiators.’

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