And The Bride Wore Prada. Katie Oliver

‘Don’t you think so, Gemma?’

      Gemma, her face set in concentration as her fingers flew over her mobile phone, was far too busy with social media status updates to do more than give them a cursory shake of her head. ‘I’m planning my wedding,’ she said grimly, ‘and you wouldn’t believe what a nightmare of frustration and dashed hopes it is!’

      ‘“A nightmare of frustration and dashed hopes”?’ Dominic echoed as he entered the drawing room. ‘Sounds like my first marriage.’

      ‘This is serious, Dom!’ Gemma snapped. ‘I can’t get our wedding favour bags made up in tartan, only in primary colours! Have you ever heard of anything so bloody ridiculous? I can’t bear it if the favour bags clash with the bridesmaids’ gowns. Yellow netting and red plaid just do not go together! It’s doing my head in.’

      ‘Not as much as it’s doing mine in,’ Dominic muttered.

      ‘And the cake,’ she went on, outraged. ‘That’s the third baker who’s told me a wedding cake shaped like a giant Louboutin shoe can’t be done.’

      ‘I should think it entirely possible,’ Wren observed, and clucked in sympathy. ‘Why can’t they do it?’

      ‘Because they’re unreasonable bastards! And because it needs to feed 250 people,’ Gemma added with a scowl, ‘and it needs to be gluten free. And vegan.’

      ‘Oh, my,’ Wren murmured. ‘There’s your problem, dear. Perhaps your expectations are just a wee bit unreasonable—’

      ‘Unreasonable?’ Gemma shrilled. ‘Not giving a bride-to-be what she asks for, that’s unreasonable!’

      ‘Where’re you lot headed off to?’ Dominic asked Natalie in a low voice, a look of panic blooming on his face. ‘Mind if I come along?’

      ‘We’re going sledding, Dominic,’ Natalie answered as she moved past him to follow Rhys, Caitlin, and Jeremy out the door. ‘Since you’re not the outdoorsy type, you probably wouldn’t like it.’

      He grabbed her arm and hissed, ‘I’ll like anything that gets me away from that wedding-obsessed harpy! Please, Nat ‒ I can’t listen to another word about Prada gowns or monogrammed silver bottle-openers or custom-dyed shoes!’

      She nodded in sympathy, having been through the very same thing with her sister, Caro, not so long ago. ‘All right, Dom. You’re welcome to come along.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘But you’re going sledding, mind, you’re not standing round texting Max on your mobile the entire time.’

      ‘All right, all right,’ he grumbled, having planned to do just that. ‘But you’d better hope I don’t break my bloody arm. I need it to play guitar, you know.’

      ‘In that case,’ Rhys said dourly, ‘I hope you break both your arms.’