Free Don't Tell the Groom by Anna Bell Page A

me. I guess my furrowed brow has turned into a look of desperation mixed with happiness. I’m just hoping this place is cheaper than The Manor.
    â€˜Possibly.’
    I look down at the museum’s ‘find us’ map. It is probably only about twenty minutes away by car, and they are open on Saturdays. I could go today. I could go right now. Whoknows, maybe I could even have this wedding venue booked by this afternoon.
    â€˜I’m off to see a venue.’
    The excitement in my voice must be evident as I’m rewarded by a lovely smile from Mark.
    â€˜Want me to come?’
    â€˜Nope, I’ll be fine. I’ve got a good feeling about this.’
    And I have; a
very
good feeling.

    Pulling up outside the museum, it is every bit as pretty as it was in the picture. You had to go over a little moat to get on to the site and through a narrow set of gate posts that I have to hold my breath to get through in the car. Not that I drive a tank, but my Beetle is wider than I think it should be.
    It reminds me a little bit of the family outings we had to go on as kids. Parking on a makeshift stony grass car park. Walking past the little museum shop filled with rubbers and pencils. I never could resist stocking up my pencil case with museum shop stationery. And my mum would always buy it for me as it was practically educational. It had come from a museum, after all.
    This place would be perfect for the wedding. Please, please let it be in my budget.
    There’s a staircase at the front of the building which I can imagine walking down in my dress, the train trailing behindme. Oh, wait. I probably won’t be able to afford a train. I can just imagine walking down here in my dress, swishing away. I’m sure I can still afford a dress that swishes.
    I’m not entirely sure what is going to lie beyond the entrance. I hold my breath and pray that it is equally stunning on the other side.
    â€˜Hello, there,’ says a beaming woman as I step over the threshold. She’s just a little bit keen to see me.
    â€˜Hi.’
    So far, so good. The reception desk is an old mahogany wooden desk and the rest of the inside looks … well, it looks like a National Trust Property.
    â€˜Something tells me that you’re here to talk to us about weddings.’
    The woman is pointing at me; I hope she’s not pointing to my belly. We did have a massive fry-up for brunch this morning. I hope she isn’t mistaking my pot belly for a baby bump. This isn’t a shotgun wedding.
    But then I realise she is probably looking at my engagement ring. Yes. That’s where her finger is pointing. Phew.
    â€˜Yes, I was just wondering if I could talk to someone, you know, about costs. And maybe availability.’
    â€˜OK. I can help you with that. I’ll just get Ted. Ted?’
    An old man appears who looks like someone’s granddad. He’s so cute and smiley that I have to resist the urge to goand give him a hug and sit on his knee. Although that makes it sound pervy, like I’ve got a granddad crush. I’m just trying to say that he looks cute.
    â€˜I’ll show you the room first then, shall I?’
    â€˜OK, that would be great. Thank you.’
    In all my giddiness at the outside of the venue, I’d forgotten that there would have to be a reception room too. What if this is the room that is full of the showcases and scary mannequins?
    But as the woman opens the door any doubts fall away from my mind. This is
the
room. It is perfect. It is woodpanelled in a nice, not cheesy seventies, way. There is a long mahogany table and chairs running along the centre and oil paintings adorning the walls.
    The windows look out to the Surrey downs and I can’t believe that anywhere this beautiful exists, and especially not in a museum. That will teach me for not going to anywhere vaguely cultural.
    â€˜We reserve this room for weddings and events. It’s how we keep the museum