Page 71 of How to Kill Your Rival

‘As long as he aims above the belt, he can have one.’

‘Fraser!’

The guest list is compact, but pretty perfect. Me, of course. Fraser, in all black rather than a kilt. Dad, in tartan trews with a matching tartan blanket draped over his knees, sitting on one of the two chairs we’d carried down to the loch side. He argued against it, saying it makes him look old, but Priscilla convinced him. James. Priscilla. Gaston. Coffin, uninvited but very welcome. And Roman’s grandmother, Eleanor, who arrived at the estate this morning with a small suitcase, a crocheted cardigan, and a very large hip flask. Maggie’s perfect wedding with no one but immediate family.

She offers the whisky to Dad, who sits on the chair beside her. He gladly accepts it, which makes Priscilla pull an annoyed face.

She offers it to Fraser second, who gladly accepts, and I’m mildly mortified by the shared germs. I get that we do it in Scotland with the quaich, sometimes with a whole wedding’s worth of people, but no thank you.

Eleanor eyes Fraser with his tattoos and piercings, and his brooding young face, and grins. ‘You remind me of an old flame.’

Fraser chokes on the whisky.

‘He was my favourite,’ she says, and takes the flask back. ‘Rode like a bloody demon.’

Fraser’s face reddens, but the old bird actually makes him crack a smile.

A rarity indeed.

The humanist, Janet, stands at the edge of the loch holding her laminated notes. Clearly, outdoor weddings in Scotland are something she’s done before. You never know whether to expect rain, sunshine or hail. Hell, sometimes all three within the hour. She takes our rabble in good standing while waiting for Roman and Maggie. Between the Frankensteindog, the one-eyed crow perched on the back of Dad’s chair, and the whisky-toting elderly woman, we must look like a right group.

Roman trundles down in full Scottish regalia, and I have to admit, he looks good in a kilt. I’ve grown rather fond of him over the past few months. Maggie has never been happier. I sneak a look at James, who ambles down from the house with Roman, chatting up a storm. He’s in a tweed suit that looks absolutely delicious on him.

And it will look even more delightful on my floor later.

Roman takes up his position in front of Janet, while James sidles up beside me, his heady aftershave spicy and intoxicating on the breeze.

‘Looking good,’ I whisper.

‘I nearly had a heart attack when I saw you. Your hair is mesmerising like this,’ James whispers.

I tend to wear my hair up most of the time. When you’re a killer, it’s good not to be dropping DNA strands everywhere, nor to give anyone a means to hold you down easier. For Maggie’s wedding, I’ve gently curled it and let it flow free, whispering around my shoulders in the wind.

When Maggie appears, we all turn, and even I can’t fight the well of emotion that hits me. My big sister. My best friend. Walking towards us alone in her exquisitely quirky dress, looking every bit some forest queen. Her veil seems to have a mind of its own, but Maggie’s joyful smile when she sees Roman makes everything else pale into insignificance.

Dad shifts in his chair and taps Fraser on the arm. ‘Help me up, son.’

Priscilla moves to stop him, but when she sees the look of determination on his face, she steps back.

Fraser slides his arm into Dad’s, and they slowly make their way to meet Maggie.

‘Dad,’ Maggie says, her voice breaking. ‘You don’t have to.’

She’s reassured him that she doesn’t mind walking down on her own, and Dad had let her and Priscilla fuss him into agreeing to sitting instead of walking her down the aisle. But I should have known Dad better. Since when has he ever behaved?

‘As if I’m going to let my little girl walk down the aisle on her own,’ he grunts.

His walk is unsteady until he reaches Maggie, threading an arm through hers and shooing Fraser off. Maggie shifts her wildflower bouquet to one hand and beams at Dad.

Tears well, blurring my vision, and I try to blink them away. Unsuccessfully.

‘Oh, Dad,’ Maggie chokes up too. In fact, looking around, no one looks unaffected, but in the moment. Even James looks swiftly away from Maggie’s face, swallowing hard.

They walk slowly towards Roman, who wipes his eyes on the back of his hand, his face a picture of absolute reverence for his bride.

It’s almost too much to bear. My heart feels too big for my chest, and I fight down a little sob.

The back of James’ fingers grazes mine, his touch steadying me.