Amanda’s Wedding

Amanda’s Wedding
Jenny Colgan

Amanda’s old schoolfriends can’t believe it when the social-climbing queen of preen, Satan’s very own PR girl, pulls off the ultimate publicity stunt in getting herself engaged to a Scottish laird. Who cares that Fraser McConnald has worn the same pair of Converse trainers for the last three years and that his castle is a pile of rubble – she’ll be a Lady!Gentle, decent Fraser is clearly ignorant of her wiles, and Mel and Fran, still smarting from the memory of all the mean things Amanda put them through in their days at Portmount Comprehensive, set out to sabotage this mismatch of the century. Between keeping Fran’s deadly manoeuvres with the opposite sex under control and trying to win her own war of love with the elusive but gorgeous Alex, Mel finds herself preparing for a wedding that’s everything you’d wish on your worst enemy.

JENNY COLGAN

Amanda’s Wedding

Dedication (#u800ab1ac-68a4-563a-92e0-18ba2b009e89)

For Andrew McConnell Stott

Contents

Cover (#u7f755b68-093b-55d3-8355-357b467bf474)

Title Page (#u7b2ef1a1-b004-5a56-99a2-d8dfe37b575c)

Dedication (#u237e012a-1a38-561b-8c0c-5b1259ff0388)

Chapter One (#u077dfb2d-5002-58ce-b79e-610571c43a11)

Chapter Two (#u552eb29c-699b-5f98-be99-cd137dd29b1e)

Chapter Three (#u6c3d3218-e710-51af-8b03-c9cc6bc392d2)

Chapter Four (#ue72860f3-1773-54e1-988b-f621bad539b2)

Chapter Five (#u87de932a-281b-5742-a3a0-b096828f3df7)

Chapter Six (#u911b3d5c-1e39-589d-891b-ccac75ed34d4)

Chapter Seven (#u7089b297-b91f-559a-8913-657a46836e9c)

Chapter Eight (#uc9f5b18e-3e4c-5638-a290-df00698cdfb0)

Chapter Nine (#u060c3be4-12af-5c4c-be23-e2880bf059dd)

Chapter Ten (#ufafaee16-a1fe-5448-a8d2-b47b6b7568a8)

Chapter Eleven (#u56c70a2f-6c56-55a2-9ce2-4e67311d7454)

Chapter Twelve (#u9f8f1589-e8be-5deb-a10f-69fe7e9cbd27)

Chapter Thirteen (#uc76c5629-563f-5a0e-832c-a93f1339d301)

Chapter Fourteen (#u14dd1068-212e-5a97-8737-e4c3b29230c9)

Chapter Fifteen (#u49bbfbc7-dd0c-573e-a94b-93dccb12ae30)

Chapter Sixteen (#u0b36d76e-57d2-5def-8d35-886bb71e9591)

Chapter Seventeen (#u26d60adf-67cd-5ed7-91c6-b7770e40a5c0)

Epilogue (#u9baf9ac5-248e-5ca9-a090-755a5e1a9cbb)

Acknowledgements (#u323007e9-e25d-5891-a808-3ca98113544d)

About the Author (#u5177cd75-ce32-5ff8-bd1b-849d6eaf93ec)

Copyright (#u27730779-4902-5272-87b0-7d6efc09dcae)

About the Publisher (#u39d4fed2-0f95-5a70-a901-4de2656fc8aa)

One (#ulink_7c5e0588-e34c-527e-b2af-1a8178627b8c)

Most of the really messy things in life don’t actually have a beginning – they kind of bear down on you over years, like the consequences of not cleaning your bathroom floor (stickiness, cholera, etcetera).

This one did, though. It definitely did, and I remember it extremely clearly. Well, in a fuzzy kind of way.

Thank God – it was my bed. So: (1) I was actually in a bed, and (2) it was mine. I was beating the odds already.

I prised open one very sticky eye and attempted to focus it, to try and work out where the smell was coming from. I appeared to be jammed between the wall and an extremely large and unidentifiable chunk of flesh.

The chunk of flesh was connected to lots of other chunks, all in the right order, but I didn’t notice this until after I’d sat bolt upright in terror at a potential Godfather-type situation in my bed.

Everything seemed weirdly out of proportion. Maybe I was still drunk. I pawed at the sticky stuff at the corner of my eyes. No, something was very wrong.

An inappropriate hand was slung across me. It appeared to be about the size of my stomach, and my stomach is not renowned for its tiny-ness … A thought began to worm its way into my head.

I knew that thought and tried to avoid it for as long as possible, but alongside my hangover voice that was howling ‘Fluid! Fluid!’ the thought whispered, ‘Oh my God … it’s Nicholas … Again!’

I grimaced like I’d just swallowed something nasty – which, let’s face it, I probably had.

Slowly creeping my way off the end of the futon, and feeling worse and worse, I crawled into the kitchen in search of aspirin and Diet Coke. Fran, of course, was lying in wait. She didn’t live here, but she made herself more at home than I did. Her own place was a three-foot-square studio which induced immediate Colditz fever, so I’d got used to her wandering in and out.

‘Good morning!’ trilled Fran, bright and breezy. She must have been putting it on. Through a strange fog – which I supposed was the alcohol in my system filling me right up to the eyes – she actually looked quite good. I couldn’t focus on her mass of fuzzy hair, but I did notice that she was wearing one of my T-shirts, not quite covering thighs that didn’t even meet in the middle. I hated that.

I summoned all my energy to pipe, ‘Hello!’

‘Hungover?’

‘No, no, absolutely fine. I’ve just suddenly developed a taste for a half-bottle of warm, flat Coke, OK?’

‘Oh, right.’ There was a pause. Then she said, ‘I take it you’ll be wanting two glasses?’

‘Aaaaaaargh!’ I put my head down on the kitchen unit.

‘Mel. Mel Mel Mel Mel Mel!’

‘Urgugh?’

‘Nicholas …!’

‘Uh-huh …’

‘Twice …!’

‘Aaaargh!’

Fran backed away.

‘I know, I know, I know,’ I admitted. ‘Oh my God. Shit. SHIT! I think maybe I’ll just move house, starting now.’

‘In a towel?’

‘You’re right – all my clothes are in my bedroom, and I’m never going in there again! Why don’t I start a fire?’

‘Well, it’s a bit risky, and I don’t think Nicholas would fit in a fire engine.’