“So we batten down the hatches and ride it out,” I say.
“I do think we probably have to tell Marj,” Nick says. “I don’t know if I can countenance giving her a heart attack tomorrow.”
“Giving her one tonight isn’t much nicer,” Freddie points out.
“Maybe not, but I don’t want it to look like she napped on the job,” Nick says. “She might be of help. You never know. She’s got a crafty streak, that one.” He stands up. “But I do have one thing I’d like to do first.”
He takes my hand and scoots down on one knee. “Gran is perfectly welcome to cancel the wedding tomorrow if she’d like,” he says. “But she can’t cancel our marriage. Not if we do it now.” He kisses my palm. “Marry me tonight.”
The words give me a thrill—and, apparently, have the same effect on Gaz, who gasps and clasps his hands together. His mushroom tart falls to the floor.
“Eleanor can have it annulled,” Cilla points out.
“Not if neither one of us signs the papers,” Nick says.
“She can make you abdicate your position,” Bea says.
“I’ll call her bluff. She’d never,” Nick says. “It would turn a house fire into an inferno.”
“Plus she’d have to bump me up a notch, which she wouldn’t, because it’s all my bloody fault to begin with,” Freddie said. “And she can’t dock us both and put Edwin two heartbeats closer to the throne. She’d rather marry Bex herself.”
Nick turns to me. “Can I get up now, love?” he asks.
“Oh, shit! Yes,” I say. “I’m sorry. And I just swore during this romantic moment.”
Nick pulls me up to standing position with him. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says lovingly. “I seem to recall you using that word when I gave you the ring in the first place.”
“Can we really do this?” I ask.
“Why not?” he says. “We’ve got the marriage license, right?”
He looks at Freddie, who nods.
“And the rings,” Nick says.
“Safe as houses back at ours,” Freddie confirms.
“And we’ve got a whole room full of witnesses,” Nick says. “We can sneak into the chapel at St. James’s from Clarence House. We just need a minister.”
“You can get ordained in five minutes on the Internet, though, right?” I ask. “Gaz would kill it.”
Gaz heaves a disappointed sigh. “As correct as that is, it is my great displeasure to inform you that, in the UK, we need a proper vicar for it to be legal.”
“This reminds me of my cousin,” Cilla begins.
“Now is not the time,” Bea snaps.
“My cousin, the vicar,” Cilla finishes, giving Lady Bollocks a piercing look. “He’s actually my mum’s cousin. He would’ve done our wedding, except he isn’t speaking to her.”
“Can he keep his mouth shut?” Bea asks.
“He has with Cilla’s mum,” Gaz pointed out.
“Might be a tough secret to keep anyway.” Nick says. He looks at me. “Bex. My love. Once and for all, are you in?”
I smile up at him. “I always wanted a small wedding.”
Chapter Five
I can’t breathe under here,” I cough. “I don’t know how I did this so often.”
“Well,” Cilla says from above me, “you were pretty stonking drunk most times.”
We’d gotten the green light from Nick an hour after our summit. PPO Twiggy was off on his motorbike fetching the vicar, the rest of the gang was gathering the license and rings, and Lacey responded to my all-caps text with a message saying not to do anything else drastic until she got to me. Cilla and I passed the time reverting me from Rebecca into Bex, and dissecting every conversation we’d ever had with Clive for hints at the cunning we’d clearly missed. We came up empty. Other than veiled remarks about Paris, which seemed self-pitying then and now look designed to inspire a servile pity in us, there was nothing. Clive’s poker face was expert, and we’d quite simply been had.
“I feel almost sorry for Joss,” I’d said, pulling back on my jeans. “And sorry about her. I feel responsible. She really was so angry at me, Cil. Maybe I could’ve done more.”
“That one was born under an irrational star,” Cilla had said as she zipped my Jenny Packham back into its hanging bag. “You can’t worry about her if she’s not worried about you. Let’s get you and Nick sorted instead.”
And thus, I am sneaking into Clarence House in the back of PPO Popeye’s car—or, more accurately, on the floor in the back, under a very familiar, itchy afghan.
“Like old times,” Cilla had laughed when Popeye threw open the Mercedes door to reveal my old nemesis. He’d grinned mischievously, his telltale piece of spinach clinging to his left upper bicuspid. Like old times indeed.
“I can’t believe I agreed to this. Clarence House is basically down the street. I should’ve just walked,” I say, lifting up the blanket. A wisp of cool air comes in and I inhale it hungrily.
Cilla, sitting in an actual seat as Nick used to do, giggles. “Can you imagine? All of these people lined up to see you and you just stroll past, merry as you please?”
“They wouldn’t even look twice,” I say. “Freddie used to pull that in Piccadilly Circus. I don’t know if I’d have the guts.”
“That boy always was reckless,” Cilla says.
A question, still unanswered, bubbles to the fore. “Cil, is this crazy? Can Nick really forgive and forget?” I ask. “Can anyone?”
The sound of Cilla breathing out through her nose tells me she’s considering this very seriously.
“I think he has already forgiven,” she says. “As for the other, I don’t know, Bex, but maybe it’s better if people don’t forget. Because history only repeats itself when they do.” She nudges me with her foot. “We’re here.”
I feel the car turn into the drive, and think how apt it is that we’re taking our next steps at a place built and christened for another important Duke of Clarence: the eventual William IV. As Popeye comes to a smooth halt, my phone buzzes. I give a Pavlovian shudder, but it’s just Lacey: Good news. Almost there.
Nick is bouncing with anticipation as he opens the door. Then a look that’s of unutterable comfort to me washes over his face; a mixture of love and awe and nostalgia.
“That’s the same thing you were wearing the day we met,” he says, his voice thick.
I glance down. I am in better jeans, and a cleaner navy-and-white-striped tee, and the Botox in my armpits prevents me from ever getting that sweaty anymore. But thematically he is correct.