Chapter 1

      Emma Darcy wakes to the brain-imploding sensation of another hangover and wishes she had more self-control. She opens one eye and, finding the prospect of daylight nauseating, closes it again and rolls over with a groan. She wants the duvet to comfort her, to wrap its arms around her and cure her but all it is doing is making her feel sweaty and restless. She glances at the empty space next to her and moves into it, breathing in the musty aroma of man. She can already hear said man, also known as her fiancé Martin, in the shower, cheerfully murdering a Stevie Wonder song. She pulls the pillow over her head and prays for sleep or death or both.

      The volume of the singing gets louder as Martin makes his way back into the bedroom and flings open the curtains. Ignoring her protests, he pries the pillow from her face and kisses her forehead. She opens one eye and attempts a weak smile. It doesn’t feel good.

      ‘Wake up, Bungle Bonce. It’s gone eleven and we’ve got to be at your parents’ in an hour.’

      ‘Nnnnnnnng’ is the only sound Emma can make.

      ‘Someone should have stopped after that first bottle of champagne, shouldn’t they?’ grins Martin, running a hand through his dark brown hair, still wet from the shower.

      Emma can find no reason to disagree.

      ‘Magical Martin’s Hangover Cure coming right up!’ he whispers, stroking her cheek and gently kissing the corner of her mouth. ‘I hate to say it Em, but I wonder if you might want a shower before we head over to your parent’s. You smell like a barmaid’s apron!’ Emma aims a feeble punch in Martin’s direction, which he sidesteps with ease. He laughs and jogs down the stairs, whistling happily.

      Emma marvels at this man: he drinks far more than she does and yet never seems to have any side effects. She seems to have a permanent hangover of late. It’s hardly surprising as ever since she and Martin announced their engagement a month ago it’s been a steady round of celebratory drinks and dinners with friends and family. Last night, it was just the two of them with a Chinese take-away and yet they still managed to polish off the champagne from Emma’s godmother, Rosie, plus another bottle and possibly something more potent in a smaller glass.

      They had been in celebratory mood as Emma had picked up some honeymoon brochures and they had worked their way through them narrowing it down to a beach holiday in Bali or a safari in Kenya. They had then celebrated this decision by casting the brochures to one side and indulging in passionate sex on the living-room rug. As she fell asleep that night, Emma couldn’t imagine being happier. As Sunday morning dawned, she couldn’t imagine feeling worse.

      While waiting for the shower to warm up, she shudders at the thought of lunch at her parents with a hangover, her sister, her brother-in-law and their three not particularly quiet children. She stands underneath the jet of water, its warmth slightly masking the feeling that her brain is trying to exit her body through her ears.

      Martin is kind and presents her with a poached egg, which she nibbles, a cup of coffee, which she sips, and a glass of water with two paracetamol, which she almost inhales. She is feeling nearly human again as she staggers to the car for the short drive to her parents’ house.

      Her recovery is short-lived as Emma’s mother opens the door and Buzz Lightyear leaps out in best Space Ranger form, fixing her with a determined eye, his stubby finger poised over his wrist-laser.

      ‘Prepared to be eliminated, evil Emperor Zurg!’ he squeaks.

      ‘Fuck!’ cries Emma in genuine surprise.

      ‘Gra-neeeeeee. Auntie Em said fuck. Again.’

      ‘Emma honestly,’ chides her mother.

      ‘Sorry. He just sort of scared me.’

      ‘Em’s a bit shaky today, Diana,’ says Martin, putting an arm around his fiancée. ‘She’s tired. She’s been working far too hard and then of course there’s the wedding to think about.

      Emma rests heavily against Martin’s shoulder, grateful for his attempt at damage limitation.

      ‘Auntie Em, Uncle Martin!’ squeals Lily with unmitigated glee, darting down the hall towards them.

      ‘Ah my darling Pica-Lily.’ Emma scoops up her niece and tickles her delightfully chubby little ribs.

      ‘Doppit, doppit, doppit!’ shrieks Lily and then, ‘again, again, again!’

      ‘Let them come in, you horrible lot,’ interrupts Emma’s dad. ‘Gin and tonic, Mart? And maybe just a tonic for you eh, lovely girl?’ he says, wrapping Emma in a restorative embrace. She kisses him on the cheek and puts an arm around his middle as they walk into the living room, where Rachel is flicking through the Sunday newspapers.

      ‘I warn you, your mother’s current favourite topic is weddings,’ he whispers as he disappears into the kitchen to fetch the drinks.

      Emma grimaces.

      ‘Who’s talking about WEDDINGS?’ says Rachel in a too-loud voice, giving her sister a playful nudge as she flops down next to her on the sofa.

      Emma pulls a face. ‘Keep it down, Rach. I’ve got a hangover the size of Wales and could really do without Mum on my back today.’

      ‘What? I only said the word “WEDDING”’ smirks Rachel.

      Alfie appears at Emma’s side and seeing his mother’s smiling face, decides to join in the game. ‘WEDDING! WEDDING! WEDDING!’ he cries with glee.

      Emma gives her sister a look. ‘Could you ask him not to do that?’

      Lily appears alongside him and starts to join in. Rachel grins at her sister and shrugs her shoulders. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve lost control of my children,’ she says innocently.

      ‘Yes, well, not for the first time, Rachel,’ declares Diana, appearing behind them. ‘Emma, we need to talk menus, dresses and flowers.’

      Emma and Rachel roll their eyes at one another as Edward returns with the drinks. ‘At least let them have a drink first, eh darling?’ he says, handing out the glasses and winking at the girls.

      Diana adopts a look that suggests she is not to be trifled with. ‘Well Emma is the one who’s decided to get married. If she wants our help I think she needs to co-operate a bit more. Yes?’

      ‘Yes, Mum,’ says Emma with tired resignation.

      ‘And you can stop this conspiratorial “Mummy is a villain” thing, Edward. I only want what’s best for my family.’

      ‘Yes, dear,’ says Edward, suppressing a smile.

      ‘Right, I’ve made quiche and salad. I don’t expect the children will eat it as it’s not fish fingers but I’ve done my best.’

      Rachel opens her mouth to protest but sees Emma looking smug and decides to change tack. ‘Sounds delicious. Let’s eat so that we can talk weddings,’ she says, looking victoriously at her sister.

      Emma manages to pick her way through lunch feeling more and more miserable as her mother attacks each item on her list with the gusto of a military commander.

      ‘So Lily will be your flower girl and Rachel your matron of honour.’

      ‘Of course and I want Ella to be a bridesmaid too.’

      ‘Who is this Ella? Do I know her?’