A Night In With Marilyn Monroe. Lucy Holliday

down at me. His eyes look exceptionally soft, and he doesn’t speak for a moment.

      ‘What on earth,’ he says, when he finally speaks, ‘are you wearing this for?’

      ‘It’s Grandmother’s. She came round with it last night.’ I pull the veil back down, keen to retreat behind the Vaseline blur again, just for one blissful moment. ‘Does it suit me?’

      ‘Wonderfully. But – and don’t bite my head off here, Libby – don’t you think maybe you ought to stick to just a simple hat, or something? It isn’t your wedding, after all.’

      ‘I know that,’ I sigh. I steal one final glance at myself, a vision of Grace Kelly-esque (well, Grace Kelly-ish) bridal loveliness, in the full-length mirror in the corner of my hotel room. ‘And obviously I’m not going to wear this to Dad and Phoebe’s wedding. Though, to be fair, I don’t know if Phoebe could actually object – I mean, Grandmother did offer it to her for the day, and she turned it down …’

      This doesn’t at all take the shine off Grandmother offering me the veil afterwards, by the way. I mean, all right, she was in a bit of a grump about her soon-to-be new daughter-in-law refusing to wear the veil because it would swamp her rather fabulous figure, but that wasn’t why she came to my room late last night and handed it over to me instead. She’d only have let Phoebe borrow it – her Something Borrowed for the day – whereas I’ve actually been bequeathed it … if that’s the right word to use when Grandmother is still very much alive.

      ‘Still,’ says Olly, with a grin, ‘I’m not sure if Phoebe would be all that thrilled at a guest turning up in a ten-foot lace veil on her wedding day. Especially not her new stepdaughter.’

      I wince.

      ‘Sorry, sorry.’ He holds up both hands. ‘I know we’re not calling her your stepmum. My bad.’

      Because it’s not as if I don’t have enough problems with the one actual mum I’ve already got. Not to mention the fact that Dad has never really been enough of a dad for me to call the woman he’s marrying my ‘stepmother’. Don’t get me wrong: I’ve got no objection to Phoebe whatsoever, who seemed a pleasant enough woman during the ten-minute chat we had when Olly and I arrived at the hotel last night. But I think we’ll all be much more comfortable, once today is over, if we just go back to being polite strangers, exchanging Christmas cards and the occasional text. Which, where Dad is concerned anyway, would be a massive improvement on the last twenty-odd years.

      ‘Anyway, we should probably be heading down to the orangery now, don’t you think?’ Olly asks as – a little bit reluctantly – I start detaching the veil from my hair and folding it back into its slim cardboard box. ‘I know your dad said it’s all very informal, but I doubt if that extends to us arriving after the bride and groom.’

      ‘Well, it’d be a bit ironic of Dad to suddenly start deploring lateness right now,’ I say, ‘given that he only remembered my eighteenth birthday two weeks after the event … but, you’re right. We should get going.’

      I head back over to the mirror and look at our joint reflection. Now that I’ve taken the veil off, all I’m wearing is a cap-sleeved silk dress and matching suede heels that, both in charcoal grey, feel more wedding-appropriate than my usual head-to-toe black. Olly is looking dapper, and astonishingly different from his normal self, in a dark blue suit, crisp white shirt and striped tie. It’s been ages since I’ve seen him in an outfit that wasn’t either chef’s whites or, ever since he started doing up his own restaurant a couple of months ago, a paint-spattered T-shirt and baggy jeans, so it’s a bit of a surprise to look at him now and remember how well he scrubs up.

      ‘Do we look all right?’ I ask, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

      Olly studies us both for a moment.

      ‘I think we look pretty bloody good,’ he says, meeting my eyes in the mirror, too. ‘You in particular. I really like that dress.’

      ‘Thanks, Ol. Oh, and I apologize in advance,’ I say, linking my arm through his and starting to head for the door, grabbing my hat and bag and pashmina as we go, ‘if any of my relatives mistakenly think we’re a couple. I haven’t told them we are – I mean, I never see any of them from one decade to the next, obviously – but you know how people jump to conclusions …’

      ‘There’s no need to apologize.’

      ‘… and some of them might even remember you from when you came with me to my granddad’s funeral eleven years ago, so they’ll probably ask all kinds of questions about why we’re not married yet …’

      ‘Well, it would be a perfectly legitimate question. If we really had been together all those years, I mean.’

      ‘… but you should be able to fob them off easily enough without even having to tell them we’re just best friends. Shove a drink in most of their faces and they’ll forget they were even talking to you, anyway.’

      ‘Don’t worry, Lib. Fobbing off intrusive lines of questioning from well-meaning relatives is pretty much a speciality of mine.’

      And Olly holds open the door, impeccably mannered as always, for me to walk out ahead of him.

      *

      I’m so, so grateful to Olly for agreeing to be my date for Dad’s wedding.

      I mean, I know it’s just about the last thing he wants to do with his weekend: schlep all the way up here to Ayrshire, where Phoebe originally hails from, just to keep me company at my father’s wedding. It’s not as if, what with his restaurant opening at the end of this coming week, he doesn’t have plenty to be getting on with in his own life.

      And I suppose I could always have asked Adam to accompany me. Given that he and I really are a couple.

      But Adam and I have only been an item for about eight weeks. Yes, things are going terrifically well between us – I mean, seriously well – but it still feels a bit soon to be subjecting him to the cauldron of awkward encounters and complicated emotions that are guaranteed to mark Dad’s wedding for me. Anyway, Olly agreed to come with me today as soon as I mentioned the surprise (OK, shock) arrival of the invitation, three months ago, and there’s not a person in the world I’d rather have as my wingman.

      (Not to mention the fact that I’ve been keeping quiet about the fact that Adam and I are, to put it in nice, clear Facebook terminology that never quite translates to real life – not my real life, at any rate – ‘in a relationship’. I haven’t even mentioned it, yet, to Nora, my other best friend and Olly’s sister. As I say, it’s still really early days and … well, the last relationship I had ended in such unmitigated disaster – quite literally – that I’m a bit wary of announcing that I’ve headed down that route again, even if it is with a man who’s the polar opposite of my ex, Dillon.)

      My gratitude to Olly, though, however much I thought I’d already realized it, was made even more obvious to me when Dad walked back down the aisle with his brand-new wife, Phoebe, roughly fifteen minutes ago.

      I don’t know what came over me, but I suddenly felt this massive lump in my throat, and not in a wedding-y, happy-tears sort of way. So it was lovely to be able to reach to my right-hand side and fumble for Olly’s hand to grab on to, and even lovelier to realize that I didn’t need to do much fumbling, because he was already reaching for mine.

      It’s a good thing that Grandmother, who was on my other side, didn’t notice our brief-but-meaningful hand-squeeze, because I’m pretty sure she’s already getting all kinds of ideas into her head about me and Olly.

      And now I’m absolutely sure she’s getting all kinds of ideas, because we’ve all just milled from the orangery, where the ceremony took place, into the sunny-but-chilly grounds of the hotel for an alfresco drinks reception, and she’s just this very minute seized my arm and said, ‘Libby, darling, your Olly is absolutely wonderful.’

      ‘I know.’ Thank God