I
never thought I’d be one of those brides. You know, one that reads all those magazines
with pictures of puffy white dresses and articles on how to achieve the wedding
of your dreams on a shoestring budget. I mean I don’t want to sound like a
stuck-up cow, but I had an architectural engineering degree, I spoke fluent
French and if I’m honest I’d always imagined myself wearing a pair of jeans
when I got married, with just my groom and a couple of strangers we’d dragged
in off the street to witness the momentous occasion. I just wanted it to be
about me and him, that was all that mattered. Yet something strange had
happened since I got engaged six months ago to the love of my life, Brad
Masters. I had started to linger longingly outside bridal shops, admiring white
meringues, and deep down I had a feeling I wanted to wear something other than
denim on the biggest day of our lives.
‘Don’t tell me,’ my best friend Cara giggled now down the other end of
the phone. ‘You’re at work, sitting at your desk pretending to do some work
when actually you’re admiring your engagement ring for the umpteenth time this
morning and flicking through Brides magazine when you think the boss isn’t
looking.’
Immediately I stopped twirling my one-carat diamond engagement ring
around my finger and shoved the magazine hurriedly to the edge of my desk.
That’s the trouble with best friends: they know you too well.
‘Luckily for me,’ I chuckled, ‘I’m on very good terms with my manager.’
‘Nothing like getting engaged to the boss to ensure you’re happy at home
and work,’ Cara replied, a hint
of steel to her voice.
I felt a pang of guilt. Cara had been dumped a year ago by her own
fiancé, Ian. He decided that he was too young at twenty-seven to get married.
Why he hadn’t worked that out before he asked her was a mystery to me and
everyone else. However, I’d held my tongue and offered her a shoulder to cry on
instead.
I changed the subject. ‘So are you ready for tonight?’
‘Erm, about that, I really don’t think speed dating’s my thing,’ Cara
whined.
I sighed and ran a hand through my long red hair. ‘Cara, it’s been a
year. You’ve got to move on. Ian’s in Australia living on a surfboard, dating
some bikini-clad surf-type girl, creating a new life for himself; you’ve got to
do the same.’
‘I just don’t fancy sitting in a room full of strangers making polite
chit chat, looking at the door ready to make my escape.’
‘It won’t be like that. It’ll be fun. We’ll go for an Indian after and
you can give me all the goss. What do you say?’ I put on my best begging tone
that never failed to win Cara round. ‘My treat.’
Cara paused for a moment as if thinking about my offer. ‘Will you throw
in the lagers as well?’
‘Lagers and poppadoms,’ I chuckled. ‘Though don’t go getting any ideas
about pudding! Brad might be my boss but he still pays me a pittance.’
I heard laughter down the other end of the phone. ‘I think it’s time you
got creative and asked for a raise!’
I giggled. ‘I’m going now. I’ll meet you outside the King’s Arms at nine
and don’t even think about getting out of it!’
About the Author
Abby Williams is the pseudonym for Fiona Ford, writer of romantic up-lit and historical fiction. Fiona started out as a freelance journalist for titles such as Grazia, Sunday Mirror and Stylist before realising her passion lay in novels. Now she spends her days immersed in made-up worlds and reckons she has the very best job in the world. When she's not writing, Fiona is a gym nut, but only so it means she can eat lots of cake and drink lots of wine - not necessarily in that order. She lives in Berkshire with her husband and two cats who she sometimes thinks she might love just a little bit more than all the humans she knows. The Time of Our Lives is her first romantic novel and she is now busy scribbling away her second.
Follow Fiona:
Facebook: @Fionafordauthor
Twitter: @Fionajourno
Follow Aria:
Twitter: @aria_fiction
Facebook: @ariafiction
Instagram: @ariafiction
Thanks so much to Abby/Fiona for stoppping by today and sharing that extract with us.
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