'Well, I did have Liam Hemsworth and Theo James on standby,' I mused, tapping my finger on my lips before breaking into a smile. 'Of course you can come. I was dreading being the only single one there.'
'You're not worried they'll think you're a lesbian, turning up with me in tow?'
'Ermmm, I wasn't until you just suggested it! But surely it's better to be a lesbian with a seriously hot date than a pathetic loser on her own wearing a puke-inducing rainbow.'
'You speak such wise words,' she mocked.
'Thanks for making me feel better. I'd better go and put on a brave face. See you later, sweetie.'
'Seven o'clock, don't be late.'
'I'm never late,' I protested.
'Huh, right! Honestly, you live two cottages down and you've never made it to me on time. Go, I'll have the wine chilling and will be dialling the Chinese the minute you step through the door.'
'Thanks, Georgie.' I blew her a kiss, which she returned, then tapped the red "end call" button and stood up. I grimaced as I faced myself in the mirror, then blew out a deep breath and pushed my shoulders back, lifting my head high. It was just a dress. I could do this, piece of cake.
Don't laugh, Abbie. Do. Not. Laugh. Or let your wildly inappropriate subconscious thoughts spew out as normal, I warned myself as I headed up the corridor towards the sound of excited chatter in the main bride's lounge. It was a lovely private area, with a raised podium for the bride to twirl on and be admired, surrounded by a comfortable horseshoe-shaped seating arrangement for her close circle of family and friends who got to see the dress and offer their opinions. One day you'll be on that podium, Abbie Carter, don't give up hope. It was a silly pep talk to give myself, as hope was fading with each bridesmaid dress I put on. I was convinced that if I made it to dress thirteen, that would be it.
Game over.
Spinster for life.
I turned the corner into the private lounge, and my eyes widened in horror at the sight of all the other bridesmaids in one place.
'Jesus Christ, it looks like a unicorn farted a neon rainbow in here!' I exclaimed. Crap. Subconscious restraint fail, Abbie. I felt my cheeks blaze, quite possibly matching the colour of my dress, as a deathly silence descended upon the room. All eyes turned to give me a warning glare, and Rachel dropped to the floor, a dramatic hand to her brow as she started bawling.
'Sumo, Mummy's home,' I called as I stepped through my front door and shoved it shut behind me, putting my hip and shoulder into it to help me force it into place. This was why I needed a man. Not just for the romance and hot sex, which would be a serious bonus, or a welcome greeting as I walked in the door, but for his ability to fix things. I needed a man who loved to do odd jobs, as my house had lots of little ones that required tending. Like this front door that could use some excess wood shaved from it so I wouldn't have to slam it shut.
I'd lived in a smart, modern, one-bedroomed terraced house with a small garden in the historic town of Shrewsbury until four years ago. I'd worked for an accountancy firm in the more commercial town of Telford, about half an hour commute by car, where I'd been ever since I'd graduated as a Chartered Accountant. Life had been routine and normal, or in other words, dull and predictable.
I'd come to terms with being a motherless child at a young age, my mum having died in childbirth. That only made me respect and love my dad even more. Instead of quitting or trying to find a replacement mother figure for me, he'd brought me up single-handedly. All of his focus had been on our relationship, and my development and future, until I left home to go to university. We'd had such a close bond. My world had been turned upside down when a sudden heart attack had taken him from me nearly five years ago. It was almost as if he'd seen it coming, as only the week before, he'd told me that he was worried about me, that he wanted to see me happy again. He'd warned me that I was in a rut and needed to make some changes in my life, starting with my job. He'd suggested I quit and set up my own practice working from home.
Of course, the practicalities of that when you lived in a tiny, already cramped house, with a portly trumping pooch who hated company, made it a non-viable option. But when Dad left his country cottage to me, along with a considerable inheritance, I'd decided to do as he'd suggested by quitting my job and putting my house on the market. I had enough money that I didn't have to worry about taking my time setting up my business, and slowly made the move into my childhood home first.
It was out in the small country village of Dilbury, about a fifteen-minute drive from Shrewsbury. We were surrounded by rolling green fields, not to mention the prestige of a wooded deer park that formed part of a stately home, where Lord Kirkland, an actual real-life Baron, lived. We had a magnificent church, a village pub called The Cock & Bull, a village hall, and a small post office, which doubled as the village shop and sold local produce as well as staple cupboard and household supplies. It was the kind of village that murder mysteries like Miss Marple were written about, where a neighbour might stab someone to death with a set of pruning shears for winning the coveted first place rosette for their floral display at the village show.
So now I lived here, in a quaint, typically British detached country cottage, set in its own large grounds. White-painted pebble rendering, a thatched roof, sage green painted windows, and stable front door, which sat under a small thatched canopy, gave it that chocolate-box effect that had the Americans going wild. It had been a typical "two up, two down" kind of cottage, with old beams on the ceilings, which I'd painted white. I'd done some renovation work on it, or I should say a team of builders had, as my DIY skills were non-existent. I'd had a modern, white shaker kitchen with oak block worktops put in, and a small island unit that I'd had my heart set on, even if it was only for Georgie to sit at as she drank wine while I cooked and we gossiped. Luckily the room was big enough to be a kitchen diner, so I had a nice chunky oak table and soft padded leather chairs to seat up to six people, and there was a set of French doors out onto the back patio. I had lovely views out over my huge rear garden and down towards the River Severn that meandered across the plain below me.
I'd had a green oak extension put on that side of the house, which gave me a large open bay garage, and at the back of it a decent utility room, with a door that had been knocked through the thick cottage wall to link it to the kitchen. Above the garage and utility room, accessed by an external oak staircase, was the office for my new business. Admittedly, I did most of my work on my MacBook from my favourite position on the sofa in the lounge, but the office was there for when I had client paperwork to sort or meetings to hold.
The front door of the house opened into a large hallway, from which an oak staircase rose to the first floor. I'd managed to have some much needed internal storage space built under the stairs, but I was scared to open the door in case everything fell out and I couldn't shove it back in. I actually no longer had any idea what was even in there. To the right of the hall was my cosy lounge, complete with a log burner set into the inglenook fireplace. A summery colour palette of pink and green, along with more French doors out to the back garden, kept it light and airy, and feeling more spacious than it actually was.
Upstairs I only had two bedrooms and a bathroom set into the eaves. But the equally sized bedrooms were pretty spacious, with enough room for two decent-sized wardrobes, a dressing table, and a king-sized bed each. Then there was the petite, but perfectly formed, bathroom. With some clever planning on the bathroom fitter's side, I'd managed to squeeze in a gorgeous mini clawfoot roll top bath under the window that overlooked the porch at the front of the house. There was obviously a toilet too, as well as a modern, made-to-look-old Victorian sink, a built-in chrome towel rail, and finally a walk-in shower. It was all set off with crisp white metro tiles, with a thin strip of luminescent glittering silver and gold tiles around the middle of the room. I loved the house. Being in my childhood bedroom and still having memories of Dad everywhere I looked was the icing on the cake. I'd adjusted to country life quite quickly, loving the tranquillity. This was home.
I'd met Georgie, who lived in Ivy Cottage, two cottages down the lane, when I'd booked Mr. Sumo in for his first bi-monthly grooming session with her. She had a custom-built log cabin built in the bottom of her garden for her business. It wasn't like my boy had a long coat that needed shaving or trimming, but I'd discovered when he was a puppy that he adored bath time, especially having a massage and rub down, then his claws being manicured. For some reason, he'd only ever allowed my dad to do it, never me. He'd sulked terribly when Dad had died, rebuffing my attempts to pamper him, so when I'd discovered Georgie's handily located business, I'd given it a shot. The traitorous pooch had no problem with her laying her hands on him. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you!
'Where are you, Chubbers?' I called as I shrugged off my coat and hung it up on the hook by the front door. He went by many nicknames, many of them fatist. His official name was Mr. Sumo, but I often used just Sumo, Mr. Su, Chubs, Chubberson, Chubberooney, and if I was feeling in an extra loving mood, Chubbalicious.