‘Perfect timing, then, once again, from Miss Harding,’ I said grimly in disbelief.
‘Exactly,’ said Jennie as we reached the gate. ‘Well, good luck to them,’ she went on acidly. ‘You know what they say: if you marry money you pay for it. And she clearly has married him for that. If she loved him she’d have married him years ago.’ She shuddered. ‘Poor Simon. It’s making my own marriage look increasingly less flawed, I must say. Comparatively speaking, of course. Dear old Dan,’ she said almost fondly. ‘At least I didn’t marry him for his money. I’d have been sorely disappointed if I had. Oh, hello. Talk of the devil.’
We were in the lane now, which led in one direction to the gallops where the race horses trained, and in the other, up the hill to Wessington, where no doubt the reception was being held – presumably not at the bride’s house but in the zonking great grounds of the groom’s, next door. Dan was standing in the middle of the road beside an old Morgan, one of his many disastrous cars. The bonnet was up, steam was billowing, and Dan was scratching his head.
‘Oh, what a surprise. He’s broken down,’ observed Jennie, but she didn’t say it with quite the vehemence she was capable of. ‘And there I was, thinking he’d come to whisk me away. My knight in shining armour.’
‘Bit of a problem with the radiator valve!’ Dan called to us cheerily over the raised bonnet, as clouds of steam threatened to envelop him. One or two cars had already stopped behind him in the lane.
‘Is there, darling? Never mind,’ Jennie cooed back. ‘I’m sure you’ll fix it.’ She gave me a grin. ‘It’s my new approach. It’s called Not My Problem. Can’t think why I hadn’t thought of it before.’ And off she swept, tossing her husband a dazzling smile, in the manner of a woman who was off to open a bottle of rosé.
It was, however, a problem for the wedding party. Church Lane was narrow, and with Dan blocking it there was no way the bottle-green vintage car, wide and Chitty-chitty-bang-bang in style, could get past. The happy couple had already climbed into the back, behind the elderly chauffeur, ready for the off. They looked increasingly unhappy as Dan failed to budge.
‘Can’t you move that thing?’ Simon stood up commandingly in the back. He and his bride were being showered by just a little too much confetti. One or two of the village boys were picking it up off the road, thinking it a huge lark.
‘Stop that!’ Emma snapped at them as a fair amount of gravel came with it.
‘Sorry, old boy. Seems to be caput.’ Dan grinned back pleasantly.
‘Well, push it, can’t you?’
Dan shrugged and looked away up the hill to Wessington. Very much uphill, so no, he couldn’t, not on his own.
With a sigh, Simon vaulted smartly out of the back of the car. Following suit, one or two of the male wedding guests surged to help: young men in morning coats, testosterone-fuelled, keen to show off to their girlfriends, then get to the champagne. Together they made a big show of taking off their jackets and handing them to the girls, rolling up their sleeves while Dan got in the driving seat of the Morgan amid much laughter. I, however, found my legs taking me, not across the road to my own house and my own bottle of rosé, but towards the lychgate at the bottom of the church path, where the vintage car was parked.
Emma’s eyes on the debacle ahead were full of irritation. She sat on the red-leather seat gripping her bouquet, tight-lipped. This was a girl who got what she wanted all right, I thought as I approached. A girl with a huge sense of entitlement. She wouldn’t see the funny side of this, her wedding car held up by a clapped-out old banger. Wouldn’t throw her head back and roar with laughter at her new husband pushing it up the road, saying it would be one to tell the children. And neither would Phil, it occurred to me abruptly. He’d have been very cross. As she was. How alike they were, I realized; how similar. They’d have got on like a house on fire. My heart suddenly lurched for Simon, laughing with his mates as he pushed Dan up the road in his Morgan. Love surely was blind, and particularly when it became fuelled by the lack