chuckle and pat his shoulder. Tim gets out of his seat near the front then, rendering my next assurances unnecessary. He’s tapping away on his phone as he stops next to Jared.
“Heather’s just texted me. Amy’s not budging on her decision about her entrance. She wants to walk herself up the aisle.” His eyebrows pull together, and I notice the disappointed slump to his shoulders.
Amy’s dad has never been around; instead, she was raised by her mum and nanna. With no father figure to speak of, I know Tim has offered several times to give her away, but she’s rebuffed all advances, claiming she is a strong, independent woman who can walk of her own volition.
Jared nods. “I told you. She said if it’s good enough for Meghan Markle, it’s good enough for her.” His smile is proud as he tweaks his already-perfect tie and brushes non-existent dirt from his lapel. He’s such a perfectionist. At least his colour is coming back now though.
More people arrive, and each time they do, my eyes swing in the direction of the door. I don’t want to admit to myself that I’m looking for Lucie, but I totally am. When she finally does step out of the door, her arm linked through Peggy’s, the smile on her face is so radiant that it brings one to my own.
I can’t take my eyes off her. She looks incredible. Her hair is up, elegantly twisted at the back of her head. She’s not wearing her sexy glasses, so I assume she’s donned contacts again. Her lips are painted a bright ruby red, which makes them look so kissable that my mouth starts to water, just thinking about it. Her dress is pale blue with small flowers on it. It has spaghetti straps, is fitted across her bust and waist, and flows out from her hips down to the floor. As she walks, a slit on one side from the floor to mid-thigh shows a flash of skin that makes my pulse race. The material is all floaty and flowy; it’s perfect. Tall, strappy silver sandals complete the outfit. She looks like a knockout.
Amy’s nanna leads her over to the front row on the bride’s side, and I watch her every move. When she perches on a seat, she finally looks up at me, and we make eye contact. Her smile almost knocks me sideways. I’m having trouble staying at the altar and not going to her side.
Hi, she mouths to me.
Hi, I mouth back. I point to her. Beautiful.
Our conversation is silent, but I can practically hear her thoughts as her cheeks flush a gorgeous shade of pink, and she grins down at her lap.
When she looks up at me again, I send her a wink and force myself to turn my attention back to Jared, so I don’t neglect my best-man duties. The last few people file in. I see Amy’s mum slip into her seat next to Peggy, and then the music starts.
There are collective gasps and murmurs of excitement as everyone stands and turns, wanting to watch Amy’s entrance. I watch Jared, setting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing supportively as, first, Carys and then Heather make the walk up the aisle, both grinning broadly in their pretty pink bridesmaid gowns. The tension leaves Jared’s body as soon as Amy steps out of the door. He lets out an appreciative groan, and his whole face lights up. He’s beaming with happiness and pride, and I’ve never seen him look so elated. It makes my stomach clench.
I turn my head, wanting to see her too. Amy holds her head high as she walks slowly down the carpet towards us, carrying a pretty bouquet of pink and white roses. I smile as I catch sight of her.
Of course, she didn’t choose a conventional white dress. I should have known.
Her dress is sleeveless and has a lacy white V-neck top. Then, there’s a pink ribbon tied around her waist that matches the shade of her hair pretty perfectly. The bottom of the dress is made of layers and layers of blush-pink-coloured tulle; it flows and cascades like a waterfall down to the floor and swishes as she walks. It’s gorgeous. She looks stunning, just like a princess.
As she Meghan Markles herself down the aisle to marry my twin, grinning and saying hello to people as she walks past them, I realise that I’m not as devastated as I thought I’d be. In fact, I’m