Prologue
It was exactly four weeks, sixteen hours and thirty two minutes until my wedding day.
Everything was in order. The venue was booked, the honeymoon arranged and my mother’s wedding dress altered to fit me perfectly. There was nothing to do but wait. I should have known then it was too good to be true. As it turned out, I hadn’t even met my future husband.
Chapter 1
Day 1
I lumbered into the kitchen clutching my head.
“Last night went well,” Pete said, far too loudly for my liking. He bit into a slice of toast, and I winced as the sound reverberated around my skull. “Your parents should celebrate their thirtieth wedding anniversary more often.”
I grunted in response, still gripping my temple with one hand while I fumbled my dressing gown fastened with the other.
“Sasha’s hungover,” he observed, to the empty kitchen. He did that sometimes - referred to me in the third person. I tried not to mind.
“I can’t be hungover, I wasn’t drinking,” I said grumpily. He was far too perky for someone who’d slept under a fleecy blanket on Mum and Dad’s two-seater sofa, contouring his frame to fit the chintzy cushions.
I’d refused to let him in the bedroom, worried he’d keep me awake with his night-time utterings, and that neither of us would be fit for work.
As it was he looked in rude health - pink-cheeked and perfectly groomed, his light blue shirt neatly ironed and perfectly matching his eyes.
It was me who was pasty and out of sorts.
“What’s wrong?” Pete peered at me, his forehead creased with concern.
“I don’t know.”
I had leapt out of bed at 5am to text Rosie a reminder to buy balsamic vinegar for a starter we were preparing later. I recalled bashing my head on the open wardrobe door. Maybe that was why I felt so … weird. “Anyway, I think everyone enjoyed themselves.”
I stifled a jaw-splitting yawn. It wasn’t like me to be dopey in the mornings. I was used to being up bright and early, sourcing ingredients for my catering business.
My eyes felt gritty, as if someone had chucked sand in them.
“What about you?” Pete smoothed his neat dark hair with his hand, and put on a sad face. “I didn’t see much of you, last night.”
How could he not remember I loathed karaoke with a passion bordering on dangerous?
“Oh, you know me,” I said, sluggishly flicking the kettle on, not really wanting to remind him. “I think I prefer the organising more than the actual party.”
The floorboards upstairs started creaking as my parents moved about, and I suppressed a groan. I couldn’t face an inquest into who’d said what the night before, and why Carol Pilling from next door had turned up to the party without her husband in tow.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Pete sounded alarmed as he watched me shuffle to the sink, still cradling my head.
“I’m fine,” I lied, as slow and stiff as an old lady. I couldn’t summon the energy to move any faster. “God I look rough,” I added, glancing up and catching my breath as I saw my reflection in the window.
“Don’t be silly,” Pete said loyally, eyes twitching to my hair and away again.
“I’m not! Look!” I said, pointing. My honey highlights had faded. I’d only had them done a week ago. Worse than that, my hair was standing around my head in a frenzied halo, as though I’d been writhing all night.
