Free White Wedding by Milly Johnson Page B

summer stay in their crumbling residence in the Dordogne deliberately. They came from old-money and
didn’t like to think that their precious elder son was marrying into the common nouveau riche. They were the coldest people Bel had ever met. ‘Oh no, I don’t do demonstrations of
affection,’ Madeleine had said, twisting away from Bel when she had first met her and bent to kiss the shrewish little woman with the bright beady eyes of a seriously pissed-off hawk.
Madeleine was so brittle that Bel hadn’t a clue how she could have survived the impregnation shag without shattering into a million pieces. Monty was a snob of the highest order too. They
made a wonderfully suited couple.
    ‘How long are they home for?’
    ‘Two days,’ said Richard. ‘Then they’re flying back again until September.’
    Just enough time to witness their son make the biggest mistake of his life, thought Bel wryly.
    ‘What are they giving you for a wedding present?’ asked Martin, reaching over for his fourth bread roll.
    ‘They’ve given us a cheque,’ replied Richard.
    ‘Don’t you think it was rather off to ask for no presents and just cheques,’ said Vanoushka, glad that she’d been given the opportunity to voice her opinion on that.
She’d been intending to give them a rose bowl, which she’d had in a cupboard for years, until the invitation addendum came out a couple of months ago and with it the gentle guide on
present-buying.
    ‘I think it’s a great idea,’ said Faye, bouncing in with a firm defence. ‘Who wants duplicate presents? This way Bel and Richard can buy what they need.’
    ‘There is such a thing as a wedding list,’ said Martin, in support of his wife.
    ‘Actually, I thought a cheque would be easier for everyone,’ said Bel, as the waiter removed her starter plate. She was as calm as a cucumber on the surface, but underneath she was a
boiling torrent. Vanoushka was probably kicking up because she had some old vase stored away that she wanted to palm off on to a ‘not real relative’. Still, she needn’t worry
about her wedding present, Bel nearly said to her. Her money was quite safe.
    ‘You’re quiet, Shaden,’ called Bel. ‘Everything all right with you?’
    ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ nodded Shaden. She looked anything but fine. She looked as stiff as a board and as if she wanted to be anywhere in the world but here.
    ‘Dress hanging up and ready?’ asked Bel.
    ‘Of course it is, yes.’
    ‘Lovely shade of tomato,’ said Vanoushka. ‘It’ll look beautiful against Shaden’s hair.’ She leaned over and stroked her darling daughter’s head.
    ‘It’s not tomato, it’s strawberry,’ stated Shaden. ‘The shade is strawberry.’
    ‘Who’s doing your hair and make-up?’ asked Faye. ‘I wish you’d let me book Anita for—’
    ‘Don’t worry, Faye, it’s all under control,’ said Bel.
    ‘I’ll come to your apartment as soon as my stylist has been,’ said Shaden, tossing her long golden hair over her shoulder.
    ‘The Rolls will be taking you at one forty-five,’ said Bel. ‘Make sure you’re early so we can have a glass of champagne before.’
    ‘Sounds lovely,’ said Faye. ‘Are you sure you don’t need any help getting ready? That dress has a lot of buttons.’
    ‘I won’t . . .’ Oops, nearly. ‘I . . . er . . . will be fine. I’m perfectly capable of putting on a wedding dress.’
    ‘You’re a very controlling person, aren’t you?’ said Vanoushka, dressing her annoyance with a laugh that was both tinkly and as hard as crystal.
    ‘Vanoushka, Belinda is not controlling, she just knows what she wants,’ said Faye in a firm voice, much to Bel’s annoyance. She didn’t need her dad’s former
secretary fighting her corner. She was quite able to do it for herself. More than able.
    ‘No, Vanoushka is right, Faye,’ said Bel, trying not to say it through gritted teeth. ‘In the plans for my wedding, I’ve been psychotically controlling. I’ll be