One Christmas Eve, page 24
‘Do you, Brenda Doris Fulton,’ he sang, in a slightly less impressive voice than the man who had actually been Elvis Aaron Presley, ‘…take this man, Colin Jones…’ That set off a flurry of tambourines from the three pink-clad backing singers that the advertising billboard called the Chapelettes, standing to the left of Elvis. ‘To be your hunka hunka burning love and husband until your last day on earth?”
‘I do,’ Brenda whispered, tears falling, and not just because the fluorescent strip lights above them were bringing on a migraine.
Her response set the tambourines off again, and exclamations of ‘Praise be,’ rang out from the Chapelettes.
‘And do you, Colin Jones, take this woman, Brenda Doris Fulton, to be your wife and promise to love her tender until the day you die?’
Colin stared into her eyes and Brenda could see so many things there. Love. Fear. Uncertainty. Discomfort, because the air conditioning in the chapel was non-existent and either the heat or the occasion was making him sweat like a marathon runner. In the midday sun. Wearing a woolly jumper.
‘I do.’
‘Then, by the powers invested in me by Viva Las Vegas, Nevada and the Lord, How Great Thou Art, I now pronounce you man and wife. May you never be lonesome at night or have suspicious minds. Amen.’
The opening bars of ‘The Wonder of You’ soared from a flashing boombox in the corner and Elvis and his Chapelettes sang two verses and the chorus while Colin and Brenda walked back down the aisle.
They’d already signed all the forms and paid for the ceremony before it began – presumably in case they changed their minds and Elvis didn’t get his dosh – so they just pushed open the heavy wooden door and stumbled out into the humid, sticky Las Vegas night.
And that’s when it hit them both.
Brenda, in a white summer dress, was the first to speak. ‘Colin…’ she whispered, making eye contact and feeling an unaccustomed shyness. She’d known this man for three years and yet now they felt like strangers. ‘What have we done?’
If she was looking for a confidence boost, or an inspirational suggestion, she was searching in the wrong place.
‘I’ve no bloody idea, Brenda. And I’ve no idea what we do next.’
Chapter One
ZARA
March 2023
‘How’s it going there, Inspector Gadget? Tracked him down yet?’ Millie asked, as she floated in from the front shop, bringing three buckets of white hydrangeas for the Miller nuptials centrepieces that night. It was a 6 p.m. wedding at one of the swankiest hotels in the city, so they had to be perfect.
Glancing up from her laptop in the corner of their workroom, Zara took in the oh-so-together vision of her younger sister. Even at 9 a.m. in her standard workout wear (ironic, because she would have to be bribed with cash and wine to go anywhere near a gym), Millie oozed elegance and gorgeousness, all dark corkscrew curls, toned arse and Cheryl Tweedy dimples. Zara, on the other hand, with her blonde hair pulled back in a messy bun held in place by a pencil, her three-month roots, her denim dungarees and Doc Martens boots, was more on the low-key side of the fashion scale. Or, as Millie frequently categorised it, Joiner-Chic.
‘Still searching, but I think I’ve found a possibility.’ Zara pulled the pencil out of her hair, and her waves creaked slowly down to her shoulders, reluctantly fighting against the half a can of dry shampoo she’d fired into it that morning. Usually, it was only Monday mornings that were 5 a.m. starts at the flower market in Glasgow, stocking up for the week at Blooming Sisters, their flower shop in the West End of the city. But a pre-dawn Friday run had been necessary this morning to pick up some extra blooms for this weekend’s events, so bouncy locks were bottom of the priority list. Especially when she’d had to do the run solo because Millie hadn’t come home from wherever she had spent last night.
One of the very best things about their shop was that they also owned the two-bedroom flat above it. The flat had been a huge plus when they’d been looking for premises. For a start, it meant they were handy for late nights and early mornings at work, but also it meant they weren’t paying a separate mortgage or rent for somewhere to live.
Working together and living together might be a problem for some siblings, but the reality was that out of work hours their paths rarely crossed. Zara’s boyfriend, Kev, would come over, and the two of them would chill in front of the TV. Millie, at the other end of the genetic pool party, was a serial socialiser. If there was a shindig anywhere in this city, then her sister would find herself there, yet, infuriatingly, she still rolled home at the crack of dawn, had a quick shower, some coffee, then trotted downstairs looking like she was just home from a rejuvenating week on a beach. If Zara didn’t love her sibling so much, her self-esteem would have forced her to disown her years ago.
‘Ooooh, let me see.’ Millie gently placed the blooms down on the massive steel table that sat in the middle of their back shop, next to the boxes of lilies that Zara had already deposited there two hours before when she’d returned from the market.
The workroom slash office had concrete floors, plain white walls and floor to ceiling shelves packed with tools, trellis, chicken wire, vases and blooms. The long, steel centre table had been bought second-hand from an auction of equipment from a food-prep warehouse. The whole room was a chaotic contrast to the vintage beauty of the smaller front shop, which had been furnished with shabby-chic furniture and velvet sofas. Tilly, one of their part-time staffers, was manning the shop, which was just as well because it was going to take the next five hours to prepare the arrangements for a three o’clock delivery to the hotel, so they were in for a long day.
As always, Millie couldn’t join Zara at the desk in the corner of the room without commenting on her appearance. ‘Interesting fashion choice. House of Dungarees?’
Zara ignored her, leaning back so her sister could get full view of the screen. A Facebook page stared back at her. ‘Gary Gregg. Do you know how many Gary Greggs there are? Actually, not that many, but none of the ones in the UK were the right age. I tried Canada, Australia and New Zealand, because that’s always where Nicky Campbell finds folk on Long Lost Family. But zilch. Not even a possible match. This one though is a potential, although he lives in South Carolina.’
‘Have you been drinking?’ Millie asked. ‘Dad’s mate came from Paisley. What would he be doing in South Carolina?’
Zara scrolled down further. ‘I’ve no idea, but this guy is roughly the same age as Dad, and look…’ She pointed at the screen with all the conviction and triumph of someone who’d just tracked down a serial killer. There were only two posts on his profile. One showing a fifty something, square jawed, suit-wearing handsome bloke smiling at the camera and the other one featuring the same chap in a T-shirt, sitting in a garden.
Millie frowned. ‘What? He’s got a lawnmower? They’re not the sole preserve of Scottish people. He’s a bit of a silver fox, though, I’ll give you that. Clearly no stranger to a bench press.’
‘My talents are wasted on you. Look at his arm.’ Zara used the pencil to point at the screen and saw Millie having the same reaction she’d had. Stare. Realisation. Grin.
It was barely discernible to the naked eye, but it was there: the tiny rectangle, with the diagonal lines inked inside it.
‘A Saltire,’ Millie said, with rising excitement as she examined the Scottish flag tattooed on the gentleman’s bicep. It wasn’t huge and it looked faded, like it had been done when he was a younger man. ‘Oh, you’re good. Well done, sis. If the flower shop goes tits up there might be a future for you in private investigation.’
Zara gave a triumphant bow, then held a thirty-odd-year-old photo up next to the screen, a slightly grainy Polaroid pic that showed four people in their early twenties, two women and two men, standing under the iconic Welcome to Las Vegas sign. On the white band at the bottom of the photo, it had four names: Colin Jones, Brenda Fulton, Gary Gregg, Eileen Smith. And the comment underneath – Best friends on tour, Las Vegas, 1993!
‘I still can’t get over how young they look in this picture. So bizarre that they got married when they were younger than we are now. What were they? Twenty-four? Twenty-five?’
Millie nodded. ‘Yep. And we struggle to commit to a Netflix subscription.’
Zara chuckled, because, as always, her sister wasn’t wrong. ‘I gave up on Eileen Smith because there are a gazillion of them on social media and I figured it was a waste of time because she’s probably married and going under a different name now. But this guy… That is him, isn’t it?’ They both peered at the man on the far right of the photo, shoulder to shoulder with their dad, then took their gaze to the image on the screen. ‘It’s him,’ Zara announced, answering her own question. ‘I’m sure of it. Positive. One hundred per cent. Okay, seventy-five per cent, but I’ll go with it if you will.’
Millie puckered her perfect pout, the one that was enhanced by a tiny bit of filler but still looked natural. ‘I think maybe fifty per cent, but it’s worth a shot.’
‘Right, I’m doing it.’ Zara’s burst of decisive action was so abrupt, she almost knocked over the half-finished coffee that sat to the left of her laptop and yelped as she caught it. ‘Bollocks! That was close. Losing one laptop to a cappuccino was careless, two would just be…’
‘Totally in keeping with your general clumsiness,’ Millie finished the sentence for her.
Zara ignored her. Mostly because she was right. Sometimes working with someone who had known you your whole life had its drawbacks. The fact that her younger sister had been there to witness almost every unfortunate incident in at least twenty-seven of Zara’s twenty-eight years, and could not only recall them, but could wrap them up in a story that was hilarious to everyone except Zara, was the bane of her life. No, Mrs Bassett, who popped in for a dozen carnations every second Friday, didn’t need to know that ten-year-old Zara had fallen flat on her face at a ballet recital, fractured her wrist and had been thereafter known as Swan Break. Or that, as an underage, seventeen-year-old clubber, out for the first time in the bars of the city centre clutching a fake ID, she’d ended the night by falling off her platform shoes and face-planting in a kebab shop. Or – oh, the watery eyes – that her first attempt at losing her virginity a few weeks later had been abandoned after she had somehow managed to snag her boyfriend’s penis in the zip of his jeans. He was her ex-boyfriend about three seconds later. It went without saying that Millie hadn’t actually witnessed that incident first hand but Zara had blurted it out in a fit of mortification the next day and Millie had responded with her very own brand of sisterly compassion – she’d howled with amusement, laughed until tears streamed down her face, then suggested Zara stick to blokes with button fly jeans in the future.
Moving the coffee cup well out of the way, Zara flexed her fingers and then activated step one of Operation Vegas Reunion. She clicked the friend request button of Gary Gregg’s Facebook page, and then the ‘message’ button.
Dear Gary,
Apologies for contacting you, but I’m hoping you can help with some research I’m doing on behalf of my family. I’m Zara Jones, and I’m hoping you’ll recognise my parents’ names – Colin and Brenda Jones.
I’m currently trying to track down the guy who was my dad’s best mate back in the eighties and early nineties, and who was with them at their wedding in Las Vegas in 1993. We are hoping that person is you?
We’re also trying to find my mum’s friend, Eileen who was in Las Vegas with them too.
The reason for my search is that my parents will be celebrating their thirtieth wedding anniversary on May 19th, and my sister Millie and I…
Over Zara’s shoulder, Millie punched the air. ‘Yassss! I got a mention in War and Peace.’
Zara ignored the dig and kept on tapping her short, unpolished, nails on the keyboard.
…are planning to surprise them by whisking them back to Las Vegas, so that they can renew their vows on the day of their anniversary, in the same place they got married.
We’d love to surprise Mum and Dad even more by reuniting them with their old friends when we arrive in Vegas. Could you contact me please so that we can have a chat about whether you’re the person I’m looking for? My telephone number is UK 141 093 2020.
Hope to hear from you soon.
She pressed send, crossed her fingers and glanced up to the heavens. She was desperate for this to work out. ‘Right, romance fairies, do your bit.’
Zara spotted Millie doing that face, the one that flagged up she was about to come out with a smart-arse comment. She wasn’t wrong.
‘I have it on good authority,’ Millie began, ‘that romance fairies only listen to people who believe in things of a romantic nature, so I think you might need a backup plan.’
‘I do believe in romance,’ Zara countered, feigning outrage. ‘Kev and I have had a solid eight years of romantic stuff.’ Even as she said it, she had to struggle not to laugh. Unless bingeing the latest Netflix series about serial killers was considered the pastime of love’s young dream, then she and Kev had probably last been romantic around Christmas… 2016. And even then, it was only because he panic-purchased heart-shaped chocolates in Tesco.
Millie’s laser glare went to Zara’s denim-clad nethers. ‘When was the last time you had a bikini wax? Give me it in years.’
Zara rolled her eyes. Okay, so she had a point. But she’d bet her last ladyshave that Kev wouldn’t notice or care if she had enough foliage down there to require a Flymo. No, they weren’t swinging from the fluorescent lights, but they were best mates. That’s what mattered. He was her favourite person to flake out with at the end of every day and she wasn’t taking relationship criticism from a woman whose idea of long-term commitment was a second date. ‘Around the same time that you were last in a monogamous relationship.’
‘Ouch. Stung,’ Millie went full amateur dramatics, clutching her heart for all of two seconds, before her priorities kicked in. ‘Right, come on, let’s get these arrangements done or we’ll never get out of here tonight and I’m on the VIP list for that new club that’s opening on George Street. You know, a nightclub. It’s where people go to dance and drink and make irresponsible decisions.’
‘You can do that without leaving our kitchen,’ Zara teased, as she pushed herself up from her chair, squeezing her buttocks in an attempt to restore some feeling to her numb cheeks. It really was time to get a proper office chair instead of the old wooden seat that their gran had donated when they first opened the shop.
Blooming Sisters was their company, their pride and joy, and their reason for getting up at ungodly hours. Zara adored every brick and scent of the place. In the trendy Hyndland area of Glasgow, it had a decent passing trade, but the sisters’ speciality and biggest financial earner was event flowers: weddings, funerals, gender reveals, corporate balls, Christmas parties, TV shows… anywhere, in fact that required barrows full of flowers, beautifully arranged.
When they’d first opened the shop, Zara had a very real fear that they’d lose their business loan, their savings and the cash their parents had loaned them in the first six months. Thankfully, she’d been wrong. Now, five years later, the hours were still long, the shop could do with a new boiler, and Zara hadn’t yet lost that tiny nugget of fear that it could all go blooms up at any minute, but they were making a healthy profit and – most importantly – in year three, they’d paid back the loan that their mum and dad had given them.
Their parents, however, had refused to accept any interest so that had been the starting point for the Vegas idea. How could they thank the mum and dad that had been so constant in their lives, so loving, so solid, so utterly decent and supportive? Zara wasn’t sure if she or Millie had suggested Vegas first, but as soon as it was out there, they’d both jumped right on board, especially when a small inheritance from their lovely granny last year had made it more financially viable. They were about to blow every penny they possessed on this trip, but they both felt it was the right thing to do. Most of the time. After a few gin and tonics, Millie had occasionally announced that the right thing to do was to spend it on a deposit for a Mercedes, and then whack the rest of the payments she couldn’t afford on a credit card, but she always changed her mind when she woke up the next morning.
This was, Zara knew, going to be the most special few days of their lives and this was what it was all about. Making lifelong memories. Showing family how much you love them. Going out of your way to create wonderful moments for the people who deserve it most. And earning a lifetime of free Christmas dinners from a mum who would definitely let them off the cooking after this.
For the next half hour or so, they both sang along to Millie’s Beyonce playlist while they worked, until Zara finished the first centrepiece, a magnificent glass cube that burst into a cloud of white flowers. It was stunning. Exactly what the bride had settled on, after approximately forty-seven conversations, a dozen changes of mind and at least one hysterical meltdown. ‘It’s so gorgeous,’ she said wistfully, stepping back and walking around the table to view it from all angles.
A sniff came from Millie and Zara’s head swivelled round in surprise. Her sister didn’t usually do tears or outpourings of sentimentality.
‘Are you overcome with emotion?’
‘Nope, just bit into this spicy satay stick and it’s making my eyes water,’ Millie retorted, laughing as she held up the skewer. ‘But it is gorgeous. If you’re going to enslave yourself to one man for the rest of your life, then I suppose you want to mark the big day with a nice centrepiece.’
‘Remind me not to let you write our next promo campaign.’ Zara sighed. ‘What’s wrong with us? Two women, not a romantic bone in your body and not a romantic inclination in my brain. Do you think it’s some kind of genetic flaw?’
Millie had already grown bored of the work and had taken a break to check her Insta notifications but she multi-tasked and continued the conversation. ‘I think maybe Mum and Dad kept all the romance for themselves. Thirty years. How is that even possible? Especially after a spontaneous Vegas wedding. They’re going to be so blown away by this trip. I know it. And if we can get their old pals there, that’ll be even more perfect. Although… have you ever asked Mum and Dad why they didn’t stay in touch with their mates back then? I mean, they all look really chummy in that photo and yet we’ve never met them. What if they had a huge falling out or something?’
