‘Smell it, go on . . .’ ‘Smell it?’ Warily, she held it to her nose. ‘It’s scented! Your wedding invitations are scented?’ ‘It’s meant to be lavender.’ ‘No, Dex – it’s money. It smells of money.’ Carefully, she opened the card, and he watched her as she read, remembering the way she used her fingertips to brush her fringe across her forehead. ‘“Mr and Mrs Lionel Cope invite you to the marriage of their daughter Sylvie to Mr Dexter Mayhew—” I can’t believe I’m actually seeing this in print. Saturday, September 14th. Hang on, that’s only . . .’ ‘Seven weeks away . . .’ and he kept watching her face, that fantastic face to see how it might change when he told her. ‘Seven weeks? I thought these things were years in the making?’ ‘Well they are usually, but I think this is what they call a shotgun wedding . . .’ Emma frowned, not quite there yet. ‘For three hundred and fifty guests. With Ceilidh.’ ‘You mean? . . .’ ‘Sylvie’s sort of pregnant. Well not sort of. She is. Pregnant. Actually pregnant. With a baby.’
