‘I have to have brown sauce,’ said Wilf as he pulled up a seat at the island unit in his sister Emily Hunter-Brown’s kitchen.
‘You can’t have brown sauce. It’ll ruin it. It’s perfect as it is. I promise.’
Wilf shook his head. ‘Nope.’
‘God you’re a philistine. I don’t know how you own so many restaurants.’
‘I am a connoisseur of taste, my dear chap. But I also appreciate the little luxuries in life, such as a bit of HP sauce.’
As Wilf was talking, Emily appeared and slid onto the stool next to him. When Wilf had said Emily’d put Harry up as well as himself, Wilf’s fiancée Holly and their baby, Harry had tried to refuse, saying he’d check into a hotel, but then Wilf had emailed him a photo of Montmorency Manor, Emily’s home, and said it practically was a hotel. He could have as much or as little privacy as he wanted. And Wilf had been right, but Harry felt as if he’d been here too long already. He was ready to go home, back to normality. But of course Wilf, having said ‘let’s discuss business over the holidays’, hadn’t wanted to talk business until Christmas was done, and then now till the wedding was done, and all Harry hoped was that he could get it all in the bag prior to New Year, be back in New York and back in the restaurant to make sure no one buggered up the eight course New Year’s Eve menu he’d spent months finalising.
‘What you have to understand about my brother, Harry…’ Emily drawled, her white-blonde hair all mussed-up on top of her head like a halo. ‘Is that he had a very dysfunctional childhood. His only comfort came from matron at boarding school – the big-bosomed provider of the HP sauce,’ she said with a smile, then picked up her sandwich and added, ‘This looks dreamy,’ before taking a giant bite.
Wilf scoffed. ‘Well, dear Sister, I’d take a bottle of HP over having my whole life catalogued in Hello! magazine. Or indeed hidden amongst redundant Blockbuster video stock. Which reminds me…’ He held up a hand. ‘Harry, have you had the pleasure of witnessing Emily’s fledgling film career? I can probably get my hands on a copy of When the Wind Blows, if not?’
‘Oh piss off, Wilf,’ she said. ‘Everyone knows it was crap. It was a crap script and I was crap in it. So it’s pointless bringing it up.’ She shook her head. ‘You’re so lame at arguing.’
Wilf did a huge, guffawing laugh and then pulled Emily into a sideways hug which she did her best to bat away.
Just then the big sliding doors of the kitchen opened and Emily’s partner Jack came in from the garden, all sweaty from a run. ‘Hey. Something smells amazing,’ he said, going over to Emily and kissing her on the forehead before necking her glass of water. ‘Is there one for me?’ he asked.
‘Jack, you’re all sweaty, it’s gross,’ Emily said, wiped his sweat from her face with a tea towel while Harry pushed a plate his way.
‘You love it!’ Jack laughed. ‘Love me, love my sweat,’ he added as Emily grimaced and threw the tea towel at him so he could dry his face. Jack just chucked it over his shoulder, more interested in the bacon sandwich. Taking a huge bite he sighed as he chewed. ‘What a treat! Thanks, Harry.’ Then, after he’d swallowed, added, ‘So, what have I missed?’
‘Wilf is just giving Harry the low-down on my epic film career,’ Emily answered with a faux smile in Wilf’s direction.
‘Well if you will put yourself out there, Sis, you’ve got take the criticism.’
Jack leant over and gave Emily a sympathetic little squeeze.
‘Still too much sweat, darling,’ she said, pushing him away, but he wouldn’t let her go and in the end she laughed and let him hug her tight. ‘You’re so manly,’ she mocked, then gave him a big, flamboyant kiss on the lips, after which she turned to Wilf and picked the argument up where it had left off. ‘It was like ten years ago, Wilf. No one needs to talk about it or see it.’
‘I did actually see When the Wind Blows,’ Harry said, leaning his elbows on the kitchen counter. ‘I didn’t think you were as bad as everyone said.’
‘Thank you, Harry.’ Emily held her hands wide as if vindicated. ‘For that, you may stay as long as you like.’
Wilf rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah and for that you can find yourself a suit because you’re coming to the wedding. And if you don’t come, you’re staying here and babysitting Willow. Up to you.’
‘Stop scowling at them,’ Wilf whispered out the corner of his mouth as he and Harry sat on the hard wooden seats of Swan Island Folly – a little temple that had been built to celebrate the great poems of someone Harry had never heard of in the eighteenth century.
‘I just don’t see the point,’ Harry muttered back, watching the groom, Matt, and the moody teenage son, Water, no River, pacing and looking increasingly nervous as the bride got later. ‘Why do you need to do this?’
‘What?’
‘Get married.’
Wilf considered it for a second, then said, ‘Tradition.’
‘Hang on, what did you just say?’ Wilf’s fiancée, Holly, sat forward, Willow asleep on her shoulder. ‘Were you kidding? You think people get married just because of tradition?’
Wilf made a face like he’d done something wrong without really thinking about it and wishing the right words were in his head so that he could reply with the right answer. ‘No,’ he said instead.
Harry’s lips twitched. He liked Holly a lot. She reminded him of his sister. He’d heard a lot about her before he met her, what with Wilf being his boss, but the gossip hadn’t really done her justice. No one could ever quite describe what she looked like, only to say she wasn’t Wilf’s usual type. Which was a roundabout way of saying she wasn’t model-stunning, but it also suggested that she had a brain and didn’t fawn annoyingly over him like all the others always did. Harry thought Holly was very pretty in a freckled-nosed, pale-skinned kind of way, but mainly he thought she was brilliant because of her obvious calming effect on Wilf. Since they’d been together things got done, plans got made, he wasn’t pissed when he turned up to meetings, nor did he flounce out bored if things didn’t go his way. She’d also probably been one of Harry’s favourites to talk to on this trip. She was calm and down-to-earth and as Harry didn’t sleep very well and she was up half the night feeding Willow, they’d had some pretty enjoyable night-time chats. She’d told him stories of life growing up on Cherry Pie Island and her time rowing at the Olympics. He’d talked about his life in New York. It had only got weird once when she’d talked about her mum leaving when she was a kid and had looked away embarrassed, tears clearly catching her by surprise. Harry had gone to get her a tissue but she’d used Willow’s muslin to dry her face by the time he got back. Then she’d stood up and said she was going to go and wake Wilf up because she needed a hug. And Harry had been kind of surprised, expecting her to soldier on on her own. But that probably said more about him than it did about her.
Back in the Folly, Holly wasn’t going to let the subject of marriage lie, and in a hushed whisper, because Willow was showing signs of stirring, said, ‘So what is it then, Wilf? Why did you propose?’
Wilf took a deep breath. ‘Because, er…’
Holly raised a brow. ‘It’s the done thing?’
The music started.