The Wedding Date: The laugh out loud romantic comedy of the year!. Zara Stoneley

      She stops. A miracle.

      ‘I can’t go with Desmond because I already have a date.’

      There is silence. Total silence. I am just beginning to think we must have been cut off, because my mum is never stuck for words, when…

      ‘Oh.’

      Shit, what have I done? Why did I say that?

      ‘You never told me.’ There is a slight hint of hurt in her tone. ‘How lovely. Although you might find a Scottish lord or laird or whatever they call them as well. No need to rush into things with this new one, it would be so nice to live in a castle, that would put Mrs Bracken next door in her place. If she’s told me once, she’s told me a million times about her new son-in-law going to Oxford. And you could have some of those Scottish wolfhound dogs.’

      ‘I think they’re Irish, Mum.’ See, one invite and this is where it’s taken her, into a complete fantasy land.

      ‘Don’t be silly dear, I’m sure some of them are born in Scotland. I’ve seen pictures of them in the Sunday supplements, outside castles. With kilts and … David … David, what are those purple prickly things? Oh don’t be ridiculous, pansies aren’t prickly! Prickly I said, not pretty. See, what did I say? He never listens properly. Thistles, that’s what they are, thistles. So it has to be Scotland, not Ireland.’

      ‘It doesn’t matter, I’m not meeting some castle-owning laird, and I don’t want a big dog. I’ve already got a boyfriend.’ Why have I repeated the lie? Once could be a mistake, twice means it is a truth.

      ‘Well, if you say so Samantha. That’s wonderful, well done.’ She’s obviously hankering over a highland estate to boast about to the neighbours and I’ve thrown a spanner in the works. ‘What’s his name? Do I know his mother?’

      Bugger. I should have thought this through. Brad, George? ‘No, you don’t know his mother. Hang on a sec, there’s somebody at the door, might be him!’ I might have shouted that a bit too enthusiastically. I do some door opening and shutting, and mutter a bit.

      I need to make a name up and write it down, what kind of girlfriend doesn’t know her boyfriend’s name?

      There’s silence when I finish my door banging. I know she’s waiting for a name, probably a surname as well. She wants to Google him. Or get Dad to check if he’s on Tinder. She is the Hercule Poirot of her neighbourhood.

      ‘Oh no, not him! Just a lost cat. Well it wasn’t a cat, somebody has lost a cat, all go here!’

      ‘You’ll have to bring him round for supper.’ She’s brightened up. I don’t know where ‘supper’ has come from though. When I was growing up we had breakfast, dinner and tea. At some point dinner became lunch, and tea became dinner. Now we have supper. ‘Then we can meet him before the wedding.’ Interrogate him more like.

      ‘Yes, er, I’ll ask him.’ After I’ve managed to meet him. ‘I’ll have to call you back, Mum. Got to dash, I’ve er—’ in for a penny, in for a pound ‘—I’ve got to get changed before I meet him.’ I will have to get changed, I’ll probably have to get changed several times before I meet my mystery man. See, I’m not exactly lying, just slightly misleading which is perfectly acceptable, and natural, in a mother-daughter relationship.

      So what do I do?

      I book an emergency appointment at the hairdresser’s. The cheapest form of therapy known to man (and, of course, woman).

      I am on the way for a cut and blow, hoping a pamper session will leave me feeling less like devouring the contents of the fridge and more like joining in the celebrations. It will also give me time to decide whether Sarah has a valid point, and I am now actually desperate enough to put an advert on Gumtree: ‘Desperately Seeking Stud’.

       Chapter 4

      ‘How are you gorgeous?’ Tim, the loveliest hairdresser in the world, gives me a very unprofessional hug, then holds me at arm’s length. ‘A little snip here and there and you’ll be all bouncy again.’

      It will take more than a little snip to give me back my bounce, although a snip in Liam’s direction might help cheer me up. In fact a snip several months ago might have meant we were still together. It’s dawned on me in the last few minutes that for anybody to be hugely pregnant, they would have had to be shagging my boyfriend long before he became my ex.

      This is not a good thought.

      My plastered-on smile must have slipped a bit because Tim is frowning at me.

      ‘I think you need a bit of colour in your life. How about a hint of pink?’

      I nod. Pink, purple, bright blooming blue. I’d say yes to anything right now.

      ‘Chantelle will run you some colour through, won’t you, darling?’ Chantelle is nodding. ‘And I’ll get you a nice little glass of prosecco.’ He pats my hand. ‘Then you can tell Uncle Tim all about it.’ Uncle Tim is probably a good few years younger than me, but right now I’m happy to play along.

      Prosecco in hand, with Chantelle gaily adding streaks of colour to my boring hair and life, and Tim sitting looking intently at me, I am already starting to feel a bit better. Tim might be gay, but he’s the only man who’s run his fingers through my hair this year. And that’s fine.

      ‘It’s that lousy Liam, isn’t it?’ I nod rather too vigorously, then freeze, hoping Chantelle hasn’t added a highlight the size of a zebra stripe. Tim knows all about ‘the break up’; he’s my hero – he supplied me with fags, wine and a good haircut as I wept in front of his mirror, and never once suggested I wasn’t good for business before wheeling me into a dark corner of the salon. If Tim didn’t have a boyfriend I’d have suggested he move in with me by now.

      ‘You know, don’t you?’ Shit. He knows. Everybody knows. How come I’m the absolutely last person on the planet to find out about the huge girlfriend?

      ‘His mum was in here last week, she’s putting a brave face on it babe, but… She. Is. So. Fuming.’ He spaces the last four words out, then shakes his head before patting my hand. ‘Such a dick, you are so well rid.’

      Logically I know I am well rid, and I know that his mother disapproves of all his girlfriends (including me), but in my heart there is still a tiny illogical Liam-shaped hole. I’ve been hanging on to that hole, I haven’t been ready to stitch it up and shut him out forever. ‘He’s going to be at the wedding, with her.’ And it. The unborn. The prosecco seemed to have lost some of its bubbles. ‘I can’t go.’

      ‘Oh, girlfriend, you have got to go. Hasn’t she, girls?’

      There is a nodding of heads and chorus of consent. I suddenly realise that the dryers have gone quiet and all ears are tweaked our way.

      ‘But I can’t.’ I know I’m being a bit feeble, and it’s a bit of a wail, but Tim is not to be deterred. ‘My parents have been invited as well, and I can’t face them all unless I look amazingly fabulous, I will totally be the centre of attention and I’m fat and…’ Tim holds a hand up to stop the flow, but he knows what I’m getting at. The next time I see Liam I have to be slim, glamorous, drop-em-dead gorgeous. The one that got away. For my sake, not his. My voice drops to a whisper. ‘And I have to have a man.’ It isn’t that I think my life isn’t complete without a man. I’m not that hopeless. ‘I’ve told Jess I’ve got a new boyfriend, and Mum.’ Christ why did I do that? ‘And everybody…’

      ‘Will be looking at you?’ Tim sums it up in one. He stands up, triumphant. ‘We’re going to make you look fab-u-lous, and—’ he waves his hand flamboyantly ‘—we’re going to find you a man, aren’t we girls?’

      Sitting with