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wedding. But the stress , I can't tell you — chefs could get food poisoning, florists could develop sudden pollen allergy, hairdressers could break their wrists, the marquee could be vandalized and, at the end of the day, the problem was mine.
    But I couldn't tell Mam any of the details because they were strictly confidential and she was even worse than me at keeping secrets — half the locality already knew about the tiramisu bar.
    'But if you go to work, what about me?'
    'Maybe we could get one of the neighbours in to sit with you.'
    Silence.
    'Is that OK? Because, you see, it's my job, they pay me to be there, and I've been away for two days already.'
    'What neighbours?'
    'Ehhmm…'
    A recent shake-down had seen a change in the fabric of the local community. One minute it seemed that all the neighbours were women of Mam's age and older, and were called Mary, Maura, May, Maria, Moira, Mary, Maree, Mary, Mary and Mary. Except for Mrs Prior who was called Lotte but that was only because she was Dutch. They always seemed to be dropping in, distributing envelopes for a church collection or looking to borrow a jumper de-baller or… or… you know, that sort of thing.
    But recently three or four of the Mary's had moved; Maty and Mr Webb had sold up and moved to a retirement apartment by the sea 'now that the children have grown'; Mr Sparrow had died and Maty Sparrow, a great friend of Mam's, had gone to live with her sister in Wales. And the other two Marys? I can't remember because I must admit I didn't always pay as much attention as I should have to Mam's recounting of local events. Oh yeah, Mary and Mr Griffin had gone to Spain because of Mary Griffin's arthritis. And the other Mary? It'll come to me.
    'Mrs Parsons,' I suggested, 'she's nice. Or Mrs Kelly.'
    Not a great idea, I realized. Relations had been strained — polite, of course, but strained — since Mrs Parsons had asked Mrs Kelly to make the cake for Celia Parsons's twenty-first, instead of asking Mam, who the whole cul-de-sac knew made the cakes for everyone's twenty-firsts; she did them in the shape of a key. (This took place a good eight years ago. Grudge-holding is one of the hobbies around here.)
    'Mrs Kelly,' I repeated. 'It wasn't her fault Mrs Parsons asked her to make the cake.'
    'But she didn't have to make it, she could have said no.'
    I sighed. We'd been through this a thousand times. 'Celia Parsons didn't want a key, she wanted a champagne bottle.'
    'Dodie Parsons could at least have asked me if I could do it.'
    'Yes, but she knew that Mrs Kelly had the decoration book.'
    'I don't need a book. I can just make up designs out of my head.'
    'Exactly! You're the better one.'
    'And everyone said that the sponge was as dry as sand.'
    'They did.'
    'She should just stick to what she's good at — apple tarts for funerals.'
    'Exactly and really, Mam, it wasn't Mrs Kelly's fault.'
    It was important to broker closer links with Mrs Kelly because I couldn't take any more time off. Francis and Frances - yes, the F&F of F&F Dignan - had been pleased when I'd won the Davinia account and said if I got it right I might get to do all of her weddings. But if I messed it up, well… The thing was, I was terrified of Frances and Francis — we all were. Frances had an iron-grey bob, all the better to highlight her boxer's jaw. Although she didn't actually smoke cigars, wear men's trousers and sit with her legs apart, that's what I saw whenever I closed my eyes and thought of her — something that didn't happen often, at least not voluntarily. Francis, her partner in evil, was like an egg on legs: all his weight was piled on his stomach, but his pins were Kate Moss-skinny. He had a roundy face and was bald except for two tufts of hair which stuck out over his ears, so he looked like Yoda. People who didn't know him well thought he was a hoot. They said of Frances, 'She wears the trousers.' But they were wrong, they both wore the trousers. They each had a pair.
    If I got