‘I can’t believe you’re doing this,’ he says, staring down at his tied wrists and ankles in amazement. ‘This is ridiculous!’
‘Good, isn’t it?’ Marcus says, tightening the knot on Rodney’s left ankle. ‘Never done this before.’
‘What if I scream and someone comes to save me?’ Rodney says, yanking at his wrists.
‘Hmm, good point,’ Deb says. ‘Shall we gag him?’
We all stare at her.
‘I won’t scream,’ Rodney says quickly. ‘I’ll just sit here.’
‘You could listen to an audiobook,’ Kevin suggests. ‘They really help to pass the time on long drives.’
‘He’s not a very fearsome villain, is he?’ Cherry says, inspecting Rodney. She’s stayed out of the fray to protect her dress. ‘If I was going to have a man try to stop me from getting married on my wedding day, I wouldn’t choose Rodney. No offence, Rodney.’
Rodney looks wounded. ‘I still love you,’ he says. ‘Though maybe a bit less now,’ he adds, looking down at his tied-up ankles.
Cherry pats him on the head. ‘You don’t love me, Rodney, but you do have some issues you should probably examine when this is all over. Marcus, download him an audiobook, will you? His phone’s in his pocket, make sure you leave it out of reach. All good, everyone? Addie? I’d better go meet the registrar.’
‘Hang on.’ I reach for a pen and paper on the dressing table and scribble a message.
Keep out! This room is reserved for the bride and groom, wink wink!
‘Don’t want anyone discovering the hostage in here.’ I stick it to the outside of the door. ‘Right. Go get married then.’ I kiss Cherry on the cheek.
She beams at us all, and then notices the hairdresser gawping at us from the corner.
Hmm. Forgot about the hairdresser.
‘Sorry,’ Cherry says, giving her a bright smile. ‘Exes, you know?’
Dylan
Krish and Cherry have their ceremony up on the roof of the castle; the battlements are adorned with waterfalls of intricately arranged flowers, and behind it all stretches an endless, azure sky. The wind touches the shining satin of Cherry’s dress as her father leads her down the aisle, his face twisted with emotion. He beams tearfully at Krish when he kisses Cherry’s cheek and lets her go, but Krish isn’t looking: his eyes are on Cherry, and they’re wide and bright with wonder. He loves her the way I love Addie, you can just see it in his face.
Krish and Cherry decided on a shortened, adapted version of the traditional Hindu ceremony. There’s a small fire carefully laid within a circle of flints at the end of the aisle, beneath a tall arch of greenery and roses, and the pandit patiently translates everything he can from Sanskrit to English as puffed rice and spices are thrown into its orange flames.
I weep like a baby when Krish reverently bows his head and Cherry lays a garland of bright flowers around his neck, then dips her head so he can do the same. By the time they finish their seven ceremonial rounds of the fire, their wrists tied with a ribbon of deep red silk, there are tears dripping off my chin.
‘You are a hopeless romantic,’ Addie whispers to me as I wipe my cheeks.
I open my mouth to answer.
‘I’m so glad that’s not changed,’ she says, and there’s that cannon-fire explosion in my chest again. The poem I began almost four hundred miles ago is still growing, and as Addie smiles at me I decide that the words unchanged and changed will come back as a riff, a motif, like the same wish you make every time you blow out candles or lose an eyelash.
The wedding dinner is a feast of countless curries, and the desserts are piled on enormous tables like jewels spilling from treasure chests, balanced in overflowing piles: mango barfi and fig halwa heaped beside strawberry truffles and miniature jars of feather-light white-chocolate mousse. The fact that Cherry didn’t think they’d have enough food for Kevin is absolutely laughable.
Our table is by far the most raucous, mainly thanks to Kevin. For the first few hours he followed Deb around with pining eyes; then he was introduced to my uncle Terry, and the two of them instantly formed what appears to be a very intense and sudden bromance. Deb’s been entirely forgotten; Terry and Kevin are currently doing shots and slapping one another on the back, laughing so loudly even Marcus is wincing. I’m pretty sure Terry isn’t meant to be on our table, but then, neither is Kevin, I suppose – the meticulously organised seating plan has clearly gone to pot.