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‘You’re kidding me,’ gasped Tara. ‘Bridezilla!’

  ‘Yep. Apparently it’ll make her look pasty if her bridesmaid is a bronzed goddess.’

  ‘Tell her to fake it. She’ll be faking it for the rest of her married life.’

  Diana tried to be shocked, but her daughters mocked her. This is 2010, Mum, not 1810! They were a formidable team when they banded together.

  ‘D’you want to see the bridesmaids’ dresses?’ asked Cassy. ‘Monstrous! Hang on a sec.’ She picked up her phone and flicked through the photos until she found one: a puff-sleeved nightmare in bright purple.

  ‘Not good,’ groaned Tara, shielding her eyes from the glare. ‘Oh, lordy, lordy. Not good at all.’

  Cassy stared at the photo in dismay. ‘Becca can pull off that colour, being a skinny chick. I’ll look like Barney the Dinosaur.’

  ‘You could get your own back,’ suggested Diana. ‘Marry Hamish and make Imogen wear an orange jumpsuit?’

  ‘Brilliant idea! But I wouldn’t go shopping for wedding hats just yet, Mum. We’re far too young.’

  ‘True,’ said Tara. ‘Then again, a bird in the hand. Hamish isn’t bad-looking, he’s rich as Croesus and—big plus—Dad likes him.’

  Diana listened with flapping ears. She rarely dared to pry into Cassy’s private life, but Tara seemed to get away with it.

  Cassy crouched by her pack, shoving in a sponge bag with both hands.

  ‘I think I annoy him sometimes,’ she said. ‘We don’t care about the same things.’

  ‘You mean he isn’t a raving tree-hugger like you and Granny Joyce,’ scoffed Tara. ‘I mean—Lord save us—he’ll drink coffee that wasn’t grown by a one-legged women’s cooperative in Colombia. What a total bastard!’ She was yawning as she spoke, stretching angular arms. ‘We can’t all be bleeding hearts, Cass. Oh my God, that’s spooky. Your door’s opening all by itself.’

  The three of them looked towards the bedroom door, which creaked as it inched just wide enough to admit the family’s cat.

  ‘Pesky!’ cried Cassy, picking him up and kissing him. ‘Don’t creep about like that.’

  ‘He’s getting tubby,’ said Diana.

  Cassy pretended to block her pet’s ears. ‘Enough with the body shaming! You want him to develop an eating disorder?’

  She’d found Pesky on her way back from a party one stormy night: a mewing scrap of black-and-white, dumped in a charity bin. She got her friend Becca to lower her into the bin by her legs, bundled the half-starved kitten under her jumper and brought him home. Three years on, you’d never know the sleek king of the household had once been so close to death.

  ‘Dad doesn’t approve of this trip,’ she said, once Pesky had wriggled out of her grasp. ‘He was on about it again this morning. Thinks I should be doing an internship instead of gallivanting around the world.’

  Tara snorted. ‘What a stuffed shirt.’

  Diana was inclined to agree with Tara, though she’d never say so. Mike’s father had died the previous year, leaving cash to all his grandchildren. Cassy was saving most of hers but had splashed out on this adventure—her last, she said sadly, before the dreaded treadmill of work. She and Hamish planned a fortnight’s volunteering at a wildlife sanctuary in Thailand, followed by a few days on a beach, before exploring New Zealand.

  ‘I’m ready to roll.’ Cassy got to her feet, bouncing up and down to test the weight of her pack.

  ‘Passport?’ asked Diana.

  ‘Check.’ Cassy nudged an inflight bag with her toe.

  ‘Credit card? Mosquito repellent? Phone?’

  ‘Check, check and check.’

  ‘Condoms?’ asked Tara.

  Diana smothered a smile. Cassy flushed pillar-box red and said her sister was a total embarrassment.

  It was around then that Diana felt a flutter of unease—shapeless, nameless and immediately suppressed. There was nothing to worry about. Nothing. Thousands of students did this kind of thing every year, with their Lonely Planet guides stuffed into their backpacks.

  ‘Right then,’ she said, standing up. ‘Quick cup of tea before we go?’

  •

  The whole family made the trip to Heathrow, including Diana’s mother Joyce, who lived in a care home nearby and liked a day out. They reached the motorway in good spirits. Mike was driving, the girls were singing along to Magic FM. Joyce had fallen asleep.

  Cassy tried to plait her hair in the back of the car, but twists and twines of chestnut-brown escaped. She was wearing jeans and a grey t-shirt, a jersey tied around her waist.

  It was Tara who started the trouble. She didn’t mean to. She was never vindictive, just careless.

  ‘Hey, Cass,’ she said, as she sat between her sister and her napping grandmother. ‘What’s this about you dumping your law degree?’

  ‘I’m not.’ Cassy’s denial was fast and sharp, but Tara didn’t take the hint.

  ‘Well, that’s funny, because Tilly’s brother reckons you are. Said you’ve been to see the tutors and everything.’

  Mike turned off the radio. No more music. No more singing along. Diana braced herself.

  ‘What’s this about?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Cassy. ‘Honestly. Forget it. Tilly’s brother is an idiot.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like nothing.’

  ‘Shh,’ murmured Diana, squeezing his upper arm. ‘C’mon, Mike. Not now. Not today.’

  ‘Cassy?’ insisted Mike. His voice was too loud.

  Diana glanced around at the back seat. Cassy was biting her thumbnail, looking about six years old. Tara was pulling an agonised face and mouthing sorry.

  ‘I was just wondering about my options,’ said Cassy.

  ‘Why the hell would you do that?’ Mike raised both hands to head height and brought them down—slap!—onto the steering wheel. ‘Christ almighty! You’ve only got a year to go. Don’t tell me you’re going to throw it all away.’

  ‘I might have made a mistake, choosing law. That’s all. I maybe should have looked at something else. I’m not sure I want to be a lawyer.’

  ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You’re doing so well!’

  ‘Drop it,’ warned Diana. She squeezed his arm again, harder this time, but he wasn’t going to be deflected.

  ‘What modules did you say you’d chosen for September?’ he asked. ‘Company, intellectual property . . .’

  Cassy sighed. ‘Employment. Competition law.’

  ‘Right.’ Mike was eyeing his daughter in the rear-view mirror. ‘By this time next year you could have a training contract in a city firm. You could be set up for life.’

  ‘That’s what worries me,’ said Cassy. ‘A lifetime of that.’

  ‘What does Hamish think?’

  ‘He thinks I’m mad.’

  ‘He’s got more sense than you. We’re not millionaires, Mum and I.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘We can’t support you forever. We’d love to, but we can’t.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to support me.’

  Mike carried on ranting all the way to Heathrow, despite Diana’s attempts to shut him up. The world’s more and more unstable . . . can’t live on air . . . I joined the army for a secure career with a decent pension, it wasn’t for love.

  ‘D’you want to end up serving Big Macs and fries?’ he demanded.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well then! It’s dog-eat-dog out there. Millions of graduates end up unemployed.’

  ‘Leave her alone, for God’s sake.’ This was Tara. ‘It’s her life. Who cares whether she ends up working in McDonald’s?’

  ‘Stay out of this please, Tara.’

  ‘I only asked about course changes,’ said Cassy, sounding tearful. ‘I only asked. But I can’t do it. They said no way. I’d have to drop out and apply all over again, student loan, everything. And I’m not going to do that, so you don’t need to worry.’

  The exit for their terminal was coming up. Mike swung off the motorway, running his h
and through his hair.

  ‘So the upshot is you’re sticking with law?’

  Cassy said yes, that was the upshot, and Mike said good, because he never had her down as a quitter. Tara said some people get their knickers in a twist over nothing, and Diana—who felt it her duty—told Tara not to be rude to her father. Mercifully, Joyce chose that moment to wake up.

  ‘Did I miss something?’ she asked.

  ‘No, Mum.’

  ‘Hmm. Could cut the atmosphere with a butter knife.’

  It was true. The cheerful day had been ruined, and Diana could have throttled Mike. Desperate to salvage things, she tried to make conversation: empty twaddle about the weather—the flight—the traffic. Nobody helped her. Mike was parking the car when a text arrived on Cassy’s phone.

  ‘Hamish,’ she said. ‘He’s running late. Broken-down train.’

  ‘Is it going to be a problem?’ asked Diana.

  ‘No. They’re moving again already. He’s checked in online. Says he’ll meet us at security.’

  The next half-hour or so was taken up with the maelstrom of the check-in queue, so there wasn’t time for family rows. Once Cassy had dropped off her bag, Mike offered to stay back to look out for Hamish while the others headed for security. This involved steering Joyce and her walking frame through the crowds and up in a lift.

  ‘Don’t worry about Dad,’ whispered Diana, once they were safely out of earshot. ‘He overthinks things sometimes.’

  Cassy shrugged.

  ‘It’s because he loves you,’ Diana assured her. ‘He wants to know you’ll have a secure future.’

  ‘I just wish he . . .’ Another shrug. ‘Never mind.’

  They’d reached the screening point when a girl skidded to a halt beside them. She was wearing ripped jeans and a panama hat, and she grabbed Cassy around the waist.

  ‘Becca!’ cried Cassy. ‘You never said you were coming.’

  ‘Got out of work early. Bloody nearly missed you! It was hell on the Piccadilly Line.’ The girl’s face lit up when she spotted Diana’s mother perched on the seat of her walking frame. ‘Hi, Joyce! Great to see you.’

  ‘You too, dear,’ said Joyce, disappearing into her embrace.

  Becca was a heartening sight after the tension in the car, and Diana was grateful to her. She was the other bridesmaid—the skinny chick who looked good in everything. Her life and Cassy’s were running on more-or-less parallel tracks, except that Becca was studying psychology.

  ‘You’d better be home in time for the Wedding of the Century,’ she warned, stretching out her arm to take a selfie of herself, Cassy and Tara. ‘I’m not going to be the only mug prancing about in a purple meringue.’

  ‘I’ll be there. Trust me.’

  ‘What’s Imogen even thinking? Imagine signing up to a life sentence at twenty-one.’

  Joyce chuckled. ‘I did! Fifty-one when I made my escape. You wouldn’t serve thirty years for murdering somebody.’

  The three girls seemed to find this hilarious. Diana didn’t.

  It wasn’t long before Mike appeared with Hamish: a tidy young man, looking purposeful in a cycling fleece and designer stubble. Cassy scolded him for being late and pretended to cuff him around the ear. He was anxious to go airside straight away; he’d heard that security checks were taking twice as long as usual.

  ‘Terrorist alert,’ said Mike, tutting. ‘Again.’

  Becca appointed herself team photographer.

  ‘Team mug shot before you go,’ she ordered, holding her phone in one hand, conducting the group with the other. ‘C’mon, c’mon! Huddle up. Yes, you too, Mike.’

  ‘This photo had better not end up on social media,’ said Hamish.

  Becca ignored him. ‘Let’s see some smiles on your dials—yes, you too, Mike!’

  The six of them huddled, grinned—yes, even Mike—and were immortalised.

  Hamish was desperate to go through. He shook Mike’s hand and muttered distracted goodbyes before hurrying behind the screen. But Cassy lingered. She’d already kissed everyone. She’d given her grandmother a gentle bear hug and a less gentle one to Mike—Sorry, Dad—who’d ruffled her hair and said, Stay safe. She had a plane to catch. And yet she turned back to her family.

  At that moment Becca took one more picture. Have fun! the well-wishers yelled. Watch out for man-eating kiwis!

  Cassy smiled, blew them a kiss.

  ‘See you in September,’ she said.

  It was a throwaway line. Just words uttered casually by a young woman in a hurry.

  And then she’d gone.