Cilla had always wanted an outdoor wedding, so she made it happen even in December in England—partly through sheer force of will, but also aided by Lady Bollocks, who lent them her family’s sprawling seven-million-pound Richmond estate and helped procure a surfeit of heat lamps and outdoor fireplaces. I think I smiled my first genuine grin in weeks when I saw them blazing merrily in the back garden.
“I watched you get out of that car,” Lady Bollocks said, coming from behind me and handing me a ginger-infused cocktail. “Full marks.”
My Lady Training was also paying off in other ways. Donna had been coaching me on styling myself occasionally, and it finally clicked for me when I started to think about it like costuming a character. Here, I wasn’t Bex; I was Rebecca, Artfully Uncontroversial Royal Fiancée Attending the Wedding of Old Friends. Donna had signed off proudly when I’d selected a delicately patterned silver day dress, with a neatly belted dove-gray wool coat, and—in an effort to be a real grown-up—four-inch heels.
“Thank you, but we have got to talk about the British and their sloped gravel driveways,” I said. “It’s like a trap. It was all I could do not to wipe out in these suckers.”
“We like a challenge,” Bea said airily. “Besides, it’s marvelous for your calves.”
I half snorted—I’m working on it—and then spotted Gemma, already seated on the bride’s side of the aisle.
“I assume we’re sitting over there?” I asked.
“Yes, and I have no further comment on that subject,” Bea said.
“Bea, we’re in modern times now,” I said. “People will be happy for you two.”
She just harrumphed, which is not something I’d ever heard before, and which sounds exactly like it is spelled.
“Bex! At last, you’ve come out of hiding,” Clive said, strolling up with Paddington on his arm. “How is the wedding planning, or is it all terribly top secret?”
“What wedding?” I joked, rather than come up with a smoothly varnished lie.
“Isn’t this the most glorious occasion?” Paddington said, spreading her arms wide and flashing an inordinate amount of side-boob in her slouchy tank dress. “The sacred union of two perfectly matched souls is just so fucking moving.”
“Pudge,” Bea hissed. “Language. This is a wedding. There is a minister here.”
“Words only have the power we give them, Beatrix,” Pudge said. “Open your spirit.”
I could tell Bea wanted to inform Pudge exactly where she could stick her spirit, but the ushers began nudging us to our seats. Paddington glided with Clive over toward Joss, who clearly had not taken my advice to give herself a mental break. She was clad in a blue chiffon monstrosity with I do scribbled over and over, like a pattern, and her long, black, sleek hair evoked Pudge’s.
“We’re well shot of Joss, I think,” Bea murmured, narrowing her eyes. “They make such a peculiar threesome.”
The din settled into an excited thrum as Gaz took his place at the altar under a thatched canopy bedecked in holly and ivy and poinsettias. Freddie stood in for Nick as best man, both of them dapper in suits and ties (Gaz nixed morning dress because he believes top hats don’t flatter his neck). Penelope Eight-Names, clutching Maxwell Something-Something’s hand, caught my eye and pointed to her massively pregnant belly as if to say, ta-da. I smiled politely back at her, then turned back in time to see Freddie pretending to look stern and mouthing, Pay attention, Killer.
Cilla wore her grandmother’s gown and a family-heirloom veil pinned to her glorious auburn hair, and looked so transcendent she might as well have been six feet tall. Gaz started weeping the moment she came out, and did not stop—not when the officiant asked if anyone objected and Freddie raised his hand, not even when they got to the bit Gaz himself put in the vows as a joke (“in sickness and in health, in serif and in sans”). They could not stop looking at each other, love and joy written on their faces like words on the pages of a book. When Cilla’s I will and Gaz’s Too bloody right I will rang out clear and pure, Gaz pulled her into an elated if rather salty kiss, and we all teared up, even Lady Bollocks. I knew I’d been lucky to witness their contentiously adoring courtship, not to mention their proposal, and now the beginning of their future. As much as I thought I could not live without Nick, Cilla and Gaz were irreplaceable family to me, too. I poured as much of this nostalgia as possible into the hug I gave Cilla after the ceremony.
“I’d have had you up there, if it wouldn’t have been such a to-do for you,” she whispered.
I shook my head and hugged harder. “Better to keep the focus on you,” I said. “I am just thrilled to be here. I love you, and it was flawless.”
She pulled back, her eyes shining. “And so will yours be.”
“On that note,” I said, turning to Gaz. “I have a favor to ask.”
“Want to sue the knickers off The Royal Flush?” he asked. “I can look into it.”
I grinned. “Tempting, but no.” I drew a breath. “My mother isn’t sure she can walk me down the aisle without totally losing it,” I said. “My aunt Kitty’s been divorced three times, so I’m not close with my uncles, and my grandfathers are both dead. You are the best extended family I could want anyway, so I wondered if you would mind giving me away.”
Gaz blinked once, hard, then burst into the most spectacular wail.
“Don’t play it so coy, darling,” Cilla teased.
Gaz wiped his eyes on the kerchief that had been in his jacket pocket—it had gotten a lot of play already—and then looked at me, red and puffy and wonderful.
“That is the most magnificent favor that a person has ever been asked,” he said. “I’m so honored I could cry.”
“Bloody hell, if that wasn’t crying, what is?” Freddie asked, thumping Gaz on the back. “Jolly good work here, Garamond. Bex, we’re in the way of their fans. Let’s go drink.”
As he dragged me away, an elderly woman who’d made a beeline for Cilla stopped and grasped my arm. “You look lovely. We’re so excited for you, dear. And aren’t you a dish,” she said to Freddie, whacking him lightly on the shoulder with her program. “You two make such a charming couple.”
“He’s the other one, Estelle,” her equally elderly spouse hissed as they trundled past us. “She’s marrying the main one.”
“Fred, that isn’t—” I began.