A Christmas Written In The Stars

By Julia Sutton

Star Sullivan has dreamt of living in London since being a rebellious teenager, but the reality is not as glamorous as she’d anticipated. She is stressed in her position of magazine journalist and her love life is failing due to a commitment phobic boyfriend. When her father requests her presence back home, she jumps at the chance to spend some Christmas rest and relaxation in the tiny Staffordshire village where nothing ever happens.

But back in Warley-on-the-Wood, Star finds herself embroiled in other people’s dramas and community affairs. Add to the mix the reappearance of a teenage love interest, Star forgets all about her upcoming promotion to senior reporter and is swept away by a passionate love affair with country farmer Flynn Hadden. As Christmas ends and the new year looms, she is forced to question where her future lies and with whom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Dec 5, 2023

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

SPRING 1988

‘Y ou may kiss the bride!’ The deep, melodious voice of Father Andrew echoed around the stone and marble interior of the Roman Catholic church. A collective sigh emanated from the unmarried females in the congregation as Warley-on-the-Wood’s most sought-after bachelor, Bruce Foster, swept his bride’s veil off her face, tipped her backwards in a show of manly strength, and planted a lingering kiss on her petal-pink frosted lips. In the front pews, the mothers dabbed at their eyes and noses with lace handkerchiefs, their arm movements synchronised as they swiped away blue mascara-stained tears of emotion.

For both women, upholding the correct wedding etiquette was paramount. Their thoughts had been preoccupied by their children’s upcoming nuptials for the past year. Twelve months of meticulous planning; did the flowers complement the bridal party’s dresses? Were the invitations fancy enough? Were there enough tiers on the wedding cake? Would there be enough champagne to appease the two hundred guests? It was crucial to both families that the day should be a resounding, glorious success.

Rachel Sullivan, the mother of the bride, wore dusky pink satin, accessorised with lemon stilettos, a clutch purse, and a feathered hat. She had searched high and low to ensure her outfit matched perfectly, even her nail polish and belt had been chosen with the colour scheme in mind, and she’d been pleased with the looks of appreciation she had received from the other guests. It was common knowledge that the mother of the bride’s appearance was second in importance only to the bride, and Rachel was exceedingly happy with her chosen attire. ‘Classy’ was a word that sprang to mind. She was, however, annoyed that the groom’s mother had chosen the same colour shoes. Jemima Foster had obviously set out to emulate her style, but who in their right mind would pair a cherry, two-piece suit with lemon shoes? The handbag was even worse: patent black with ugly chain straps, and her hat’s feathers and netting resembled a lopsided bird’s nest on an extremely windy day. Rachel nudged her husband and discreetly pointed over in her direction.

‘Ridiculous,’ she mouthed.

Tony Sullivan gave her a baffled stare. His gentle, kind demeanour meant that he always looked for the good in people, and that included their appearance. Rachel sighed and turned her attention to her youngest daughter. Star Sullivan was at that awkward mid-teen age. A tall, slip of a girl who was quite frankly bloody naughty. She could almost hear her own mother urging her from the grave to give her a good clip around the ear, but as the headteacher of the village primary, Rachel was only too aware that physically punishing children was frowned upon in 1980s Britain. She doubted that it would work with her rebellious youngest daughter anyway. Star was entirely different from her eldest daughter; compliant Martha. You only had to brush against Star, or raise your voice, to bring on a bout of histrionics, and whenever this happened, Tony always jumped to her defence.

She was certainly a conundrum. More than once, Rachel had wished for the gift of telepathy so she could read what was going on in her younger daughter’s mind. Maybe then she would understand why she always seemed so angry. Star’s Grandad Maurice, who was sitting on the pew behind in his best navy suit, liked to proclaim that ‘Star had been spoilt rotten by her father,’ and Rachel was inclined to agree. The differences in her two daughters’ personalities often bewildered her. Martha was placid, pleasing, and sweet, a teacher like Rachel herself had been. She was a popular person whose esteem within the community had rocketed when she had also bagged one of the wealthiest men in the locality.

It was clear that her eldest daughter was well-liked by everyone. Star, in comparison, seemed unconcerned by others’ opinions and was a girl who enjoyed rebelling against authority. There was no denying she was unique, but she was also a troubled individual. With her face presently contorted into a frown, Rachel wondered what on earth was going through Star’s mind on such a wonderfully uplifting day. She reached for her spare handkerchief and dabbed gently at her nose, careful not to dislodge the powder.

‘Thank God they’ve finished snogging,’ Star Sullivan made a retching noise as her sister and new husband wiped at their mouths and turned to face the vicar. But Father Andrew’s attention was focused on Star.

‘What?’ Star mouthed as her mother clutched the pearls around her throat.

‘You used the Lord’s name in vain,’ Rachel Sullivan mumbled, out of the corner of her mouth.

‘Oops,’ Star let out a snicker and shrugged her shoulders in a helpless manner. ‘God forgive me.’

The priest’s face turned beetroot red, he cleared his throat, and glared at Star with sanctimonious disapproval. Star ignored him, reaching inside the silly bridesmaid bag Martha had insisted she carry, she extracted a lipstick and snapped off the lid. Her mum stared in horror at the black matte point. Before Star had a chance to apply it over the sickening pink lip gloss she had been forced to wear, her mother whipped it out of her hands.

‘Don’t think you’re putting that awful mess on your mouth during your sister’s wedding.’

Star blew out an agitated breath of air.

‘I am never getting married,’ she hissed. Rachel’s mouth tightened into a taut line.

‘Be quiet. Have some respect for your sister.’

Star crossed her arms over her chest and shivered as a blast of icy wind hit her bare shoulders and arms. The cold spring temperature made goosebumps pucker her skin. This church is freezing, she thought with outrage. It was alright for Father Andrew in his long robe; he was obviously warm enough, but the rest of the congregation were visibly shivering. What a stupid idea to hold a wedding in April, thought Star. Last night an inch of snow had fallen and the weather presenter on the television had warned that a storm was impending. Star could hear the wind now, rattling and whirling around the church roof. When she’d followed her sister up the pathway, she had noticed the church spire wobbling precariously. A gory vision of it toppling down and impaling one of the guests had occupied her mind, like that scene from The Omen. Now that would be exciting.

To add to the spooky atmosphere, the trees in the adjacent graveyard had been swaying back and forth like macabre monsters, their branches reaching out like garish fingers. The setting was more like a funeral than a wedding. If it hadn’t been for the annoyingly cheerful photographer telling her to ‘smile for the camera,’ she could almost have envisioned she was stuck in one of the Victorian Gothic novels that she loved.

Star glanced around at the guests, contempt curling her upper lip. It was so obvious they were only here for the free alcohol and food. A congregation of over-dressed toads, which consisted of distant relatives and local people that her sister hardly knew. Parasites who’d been invited to make up the numbers in this whole ridiculous charade. It was all so false, so middle class and shallow. What was the point of marriage anyway? Thought Star with a sneer. It was an outdated institution that repressed women, and Star was determined that she’d never wed anyone. Oh, she liked the male species, but she wanted to live in sin with a bohemian, mature man who wouldn’t be threatened by a successful career woman and who’d encourage her to be independent. Together they’d go on demonstrations, travel the world, make impassioned speeches against capitalism and animal cruelty, and generally stick two fingers up to the dominant conformism of conservative Britain.

In a fit of teenage self-importance, Star popped her chewing gum. It sounded like an explosion in the suddenly deathly quiet church. Father Andrew’s surprised gaze swivelled in her direction, and the entire congregation’s attention moved from the bride and groom to focus upon her.

‘Star!’ Her mum hissed like an unravelling snake, her tongue flicking between cracked lips; she looked ready to attack, and Star regretted her defiance.

‘Here.’ She shoved a crumpled piece of tissue into Star’s hands, while casting demure, apologetic eyes at Father Andrew.

The priest made a growling sound, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and the congregation held their breath, anticipating another biblical quote, but to everyone’s relief, he smiled and proclaimed, ‘Please join me in singing the last hymn.’

The organist jolted out of his nap, splayed his fingers, and brought them down heavily on the keys. Deafening out-of-tune music filled the church. Star could have sworn that the pulpit was shaking in time with the haphazard tempo. She sniggered, removed the gum from her inner cheek, and opened her mouth to join in with All Things Bright And Beautiful.

Finally, the service was over. While her sister and her joke of a husband went to sign the marriage certificate, Star questioned yet again why she’d had the misfortune of being born into a Catholic family. If her sister had been atheist, then they could have gone to the local registry office, and it would have all been over in fifteen minutes. Instead, she’d had to sit through almost an hour of God-fearing fire and brimstone. Father Andrew possessed a predilection for the word ‘sin.’ He’d interjected it into his service more than twenty times. Star had counted, and to her, it seemed odd at a joyous celebration. But then there was a rumour circulating that the priest was a tormented man who relied on alcohol to ease the burden of life. Indeed, any aftershave he wore was blatantly overpowered by the stench of single malt whisky.

According to village gossip, he’d once been so inebriated he’d almost toppled into an open grave and, during a christening, he’d been so lackadaisical from liquor he’d almost dropped a wailing infant into the font. This was a major source of amusement to Star, but she also acknowledged that it all seemed rather hypocritical of Father Andrew, but then who amongst the guests wasn’t a fornicator? Even outwardly pious Martha indulged in risqué behaviour: sly cigarettes and beer, sexual relations before wedlock, the frequent use of expletives, and blasphemous outbursts. Martha, however, was an expert at portraying a specious façade. It annoyed the hell out of Star that in her family’s, and it seemed the entire community’s eyes, ‘angelic’ Martha could do no wrong.

‘Move up, wench,’ the sudden deep grumble of Uncle Albert jolted her out of her unchristian sisterly thoughts. Star jostled along the hard wooden bench, moving as far away as possible from her mother’s brother. The man reeked of Old Spice aftershave, his suit was creased, and his black hair was thick with grease. Star balked at the sight and smell of him. How could he come to a wedding in such a state? She recalled one of the many arguments that had transpired between her and her mother about Uncle Albert. Star had been incensed when her mum had railed against her view of him being ‘embarrassing and lazy.’ Rachel had chastised her daughter and accused her of lacking compassion. According to Rachel, Uncle Albert was just suffering from grief. The passing of Aunty Maureen had hit him hard, and it was obvious that he wasn’t coping. To Star, it was just obvious that he was another highly embarrassing adult.

‘You’re late,’ Rachel whispered, as he shifted his bulky weight closer to Star.

‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’ His cherry red, bulbous nose quivered as he spoke.

‘Couldn’t you have shaved that ridiculous moustache off?’ Rachel continued, to Star’s delight. It wasn’t often her mother criticised Uncle Albert; she seemed to save her barbs for Star.

Uncle Albert pulled at the turned-up corners of his facial hair before adjusting the black elastic patch covering his right eye. No one knew why he wore an eye patch; he refused to disclose if he suffered from an optical ailment. His bizarre appearance had resulted in his nickname within the locality of ‘Pirate Pete.’ The thought of him at the helm of a boat, holding aloft a curved knife and with a skull and crossbones flag fluttering high in the sky, always brought a lump of laughter to Star’s throat. Today was no exception.

‘What are you laughing at?’ He said, having ignored Rachel’s sarcastic comment.

‘Nothing. Just happy,’ a sigh escaped from Star’s twitching mouth, which Uncle Albert mistook for some kind of eighteenth-century type swooning.

‘Don’t you worry, young’un, your time for marriage will come.’

‘Star’s not going to get married,’ Rachel Sullivan smirked. ‘She’s devoting herself to a life of work and chastity.’

‘Is that right?’ Uncle Albert scratched his head. ‘You’re not one of them fem… female.., innits?’

Oh Lord, bless me with patience, Star thought with a surreptitious eye roll. He can’t even say the word.

‘Yes. I am a feminist,’ she declared with a withering smile. ‘I’m going to be a journalist.’ She looked at her mother with a glint in her eye. ‘And I’m going to be as promiscuous as I like.’

Uncle Albert let out a bout of chesty coughing, which made the pew shudder.

‘What’s wrong with being a housewife?’ His naive indignance was rather endearing in the face of female transgression. ‘Your aunt Maureen, God rest her soul, never did a day’s work in her life, but she sure was nifty with a hoover and a duster. And there was a proper home-cooked dinner every night at 6pm sharp, except for Fridays, when we had sausage sarnies.’

‘Oh, Albert, being a housewife is a demanding job in itself,’ Rachel chastised, ‘and if Star wants more out of life than looking after a home and a husband, then so be it. Stop being so sexist.’

A splutter of surprise erupted from Star’s mouth. Her arch nemesis was actually defending her. Usually, that job was reserved for her dear dad. Her mind was busy formulating a witty reply when Albert fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a used tissue, which landed on her lap.

‘Eww,’ she recoiled, disgust at her pitiful uncle distracting her.

‘My Maureen was happy with her lot,’ Albert proclaimed. ‘A real trooper she was. Not like the women of today – all flighty and ambitious,’ he spat out the last word. ‘I blame you, Rachel. If you’d stayed at home instead of gallivanting off to university chasing a career, then this one might be more stable.’ He flicked his head at Star. ‘You’ve filled her head with nonsense and now she’s all up herself, just like you.’

‘How dare you,’ spluttered Rachel.

Star folded her arms across her chest.

‘I’m going to make something of myself. I’ll show you. I’ll show you all.’

Rachel took a deep breath.

‘Don’t argue with him, darling, you’ll only encourage his caveman opinions.’ She jabbed Albert on the upper arm. ‘This is my daughter’s wedding and you are not going to spoil it. Please. Be quiet.’

‘Fair enough.’ Albert slid down on his seat, closing his eyes. ‘Wake me up when it’s time for the food.’

With a huff, Star diverted her attention away from her ridiculous family. She squinted up at the stained glass windows, and her thoughts drifted away to a different place, full of excitement and endless possibilities. She called it the city of dreams, where she was determined to relocate. An escape from all the drudgery of village life, a chance to meet other like-minded liberal people. Star closed her eyes, a smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she ruminated on where she needed to focus her great escape: London.

Half an hour later, Martha and Bruce finally reappeared from the vestry, having signed their lives away. Hand in hand, they skipped down the aisle with the congregation in close pursuit. Star noticed Father Andrew glaring her way with disapproval. The man certainly had a bee in his bonnet about something, Star thought, with a snort. He really needed to chill out. She shot to her feet, eager to escape and clambered over Uncle Albert’s sprawled legs. The hem of the hideous pea-green bridesmaid dress she had been forced to wear caught on a protruding nail in the pew, and she watched horrified as a tear spread upwards to the revolting waist ribbon.

‘Oh Christ,’ she mumbled.

‘Star, hurry up,’ her mother chivvied her along. ‘We need to be outside for the photographs.’ Star gave the dress an almighty tug and heard another rip. Finally, she was free, out of the church door, inhaling the chilly April air.

A prod on her shoulder had her turning round. Mallory Evans, a friend of her mother’s, renowned for being a busybody, grinned up at her. She was the tiniest woman Star had ever encountered. Mallory worked as a teacher at her mother’s school and was normally draped in drab, shapeless clothing. Today, she wore shocking fuchsia pink, with a huge box hat that added almost a foot to her height, and a pair of seamed stockings which were almost pornographic. She opened her mouth to speak, showing off a set of dentures stained by lipstick.

‘You have lipstick…’ Star pointed to her mouth.

‘Yes, I know I’m wearing make-up, dear, but it is a very special occasion. You look ravishing, Star, what a charming dress, and such a gorgeous colour green.’

‘Thanks,’ Star mumbled, while inwardly deciding that Mallory’s eyesight must have drastically deteriorated overnight.

‘And your hair! It’s very curly.’

‘That was my sister,’ Star explained, keen to shift the onus off herself. ‘She insisted I have a perm for the wedding.’

‘Marvellous idea,’ Mallory reached up to pull out a springy curl. ‘You remind me of someone famous… a singer.’

‘Carol Decker?’ suggested Star.

‘Oh no, dear. I was thinking more of Michael Jackson.’

‘Right,’ Star said through gritted teeth.

‘Now where is your mother? I’ve heard she’s wearing a stunning designer outfit that all of the women have been coveting.’

‘Over there.’ Star pointed to a huge sycamore tree where a large group of women were sheltering from the wind and fine drizzle.

‘Doesn’t everyone look marvellous,’ Mallory said with excitement.

‘Hmm,’ said Star noncommittally. Personally, she thought they looked ridiculous. Like they had wandered off the set of Dynasty: big, backcombed hair, shoulder pads, and painful-looking stilettos. Even her strong-willed mother had succumbed to popular high-street eighties fashion and looked like a Jackie Collins clone.

Star was proud of her own refusal to follow the mass market trends. She preferred her clothing black. Martha had said on more than one occasion that Star’s choice of clothing was weird, but Star personally believed her sister to be jealous. Her clothing stood out; she was alternative with a unique, relevant edge. And did she really care what a royalist thought? Did she heck!

Suddenly, Father Andrew appeared, heading straight for her, his cassock swinging. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, leaving Star standing alone and in the spotlight.

‘I’ve been looking for you, my child.’

Star bit back a caustic reply that at fifteen, she was hardly a child.

‘Er… hello Father, the service was lovely.’

‘Years of practice,’ he said brusquely. ‘You’re probably aware that the church runs a Bible class for the under-tens each week?’

Star inclined her head.

‘Of course.’ Truthfully, she didn’t have any interest in church or community affairs, but she thought it wise to humour him.

‘We need a volunteer,’ he stared intently at her. ‘Someone clever, confident who will be able to organise and lead. A role model, if you like.’

Star coughed.

‘I could ask around at school for you…’

‘I was thinking that you could volunteer, Star.’ His abruptness shocked her.

‘Erm… well…’ Star frantically looked around for a means of escape. ‘I really don’t have the time at the moment, Father. My exams will be starting soon, and I need to revise. The next six months are going to be incredibly stressful.’

‘You mean you can’t spare a few hours per week for God’s business?’ His words rang out. To Star’s embarrassment, people were starting to stare.

‘I’ve noticed your absence in church, Star. Your parents and your sister come regularly, but you’re never there. Why is that?’

Star opened her mouth and then shut it again. Was she really brave enough to admit she was an atheist? That she thought organised religion was archaic, hypocritical, and judgmental?

‘Never mind,’ he waved his hand in front of her face. ‘I know that you young ones have no real interest in religion, but I worry about you, Star. You seem all alone, like a ship lost at sea. If you volunteered at the church, you could make friends, form a connection with others.’

‘I have friends!’ She searched frantically for a familiar face and could have whooped with joy when her eyes rested on Tracey. ‘There.’

Father Andrew turned to look where she was pointing.

‘Tracey Crump?’

‘Yes! Tracey is a close friend of mine, Father. In fact, I need to speak to her now about something really important.’

Oblivious to the priest’s attention, Tracey was leaning on a gravestone, smoking a cigarette. Father Andrew frowned.

‘Well, okay, but remember, Star, Tracey is a year older than you and therefore more experienced and worldly-wise. Take care that she doesn’t influence you.’

Star backed away, a rigid smile on her face.

‘Thanks for the chat, Father. I really must…’

‘Remember my proposal, Star…’ the words carried on the strong breeze. Star turned away, relief coursing through her body. And relax, she told herself as she hurried over to Tracey.

‘What’s up?’ Tracey blew a stream of blue smoke out of her nostrils.

Star took hold of Tracey’s arm and pulled her behind a mausoleum tomb, which hid them from prying eyes.

‘Give me a drag?’ She pleaded. ‘I am having such a shit day.’

Tracey shook her head with amusement.

‘This is supposed to be a joyous occasion, plus you’re a member of the wedding party, stop being so miserable,’ she passed the cigarette over and looked furtively around. ‘Your mum would kill me if she caught us smoking.’

‘Don’t worry about her,’ Star said with a snort. ‘She’s far too interested in being in the limelight, whereas I am a social pariah.’

Tracey chuckled.

‘You and your big fancy words, who are you trying to impress?’

‘Big fancy words are going to be my ticket out of this dump,’ Star threw the cigarette nub on the floor. ‘And actually, I’m not bothered about impressing anyone.’

Tracey looked at her with admiring eyes.

‘You are such a rebel.’

‘I try.’ Star grinned, ‘why are you bothered about my mother anyway? Not scared of her, are you?’

‘Of course I am,’ Tracey said. ‘I still remember her from primary school. One look from her had me bloody terrified. She was the strictest teacher in the school.’

Star let her eyes gravitate into a roll. How often had she heard her peers saying that? It really did suck being the daughter of Rachel Sullivan: headteacher extraordinaire.

‘How d’you think I feel being her daughter?’

‘It must be hard,’ agreed Tracey. ‘My mum is so soft and chilled she’s more like a mate, but then I do admire how successful your mum is, plus she’s hard as nails.’

‘She works hard,’ Star said grudgingly, ‘but she’s so straight-laced, such an embarrassment.’

‘Isn’t every adult?’ sniggered Tracey.

‘You know it.’ Star laughed along.

‘So, how does it feel being a bridesmaid?’ Tracey’s eyes travelled the length of Star. ‘You look so different. Very girly. But what have you done to the skirt?’

‘Just a little accident,’ Star coughed. ‘Being a bridesmaid sucks and this dress is awful.’

‘It’s certainly colourful,’ said Tracey with a smirk. ‘It makes a change to see you out of your morbid black.’

‘I’m hoping that I can sneak off and change into my morbid clothes. I suppose we should join the others.’ They ambled towards the mass gathering of guests, who were watching Martha and her new husband having their pictures taken.

‘Your sister’s dress is pretty.’

Star snorted.

‘It’s horrible. Martha is such a victim of fashion. It’s obvious she’s trying to copy Princess Diana.’

They watched Martha posing for the camera, her taffeta skirt whipping upwards, revealing stockinged-clad thighs and a blue garter. The wind was doing her no favours, thought Star with a weird satisfaction. The delicate veil was blowing over her face, and her glittering tiara was slanted and balancing precariously. Standing next to her, Bruce was also being buffeted about. His hair looked like it was slipping off his head, making Star wonder if he wore a wig. A bunch of leaves suddenly fell from an overhanging tree, covering the newly-weds. Tracey and Star burst into laughter.

‘Why didn’t they have a summer wedding?’ chuckled Tracey.

‘Never mind them,’ replied Star. ‘How’s work?’

‘Great. They’re letting me practise on real people now, instead of those stupid dummies.’ Tracey’s words were full of enthusiasm. ‘I’m in charge of the blue rinse brigade.’

‘Blue rinse?’ Star cocked an eyebrow.

‘OAPs,’ Tracey clarified. ‘Next month I’m going to start doing highlights.’

Star shuddered at the thought of the plastic headcap you had to wear for the sake of beauty. Her mum and sister had previously highlighted their hair and had tried to talk Star into having them too, but she had refused. Having curls was one thing, but dyeing her copper tresses was a definite no. She was proud of being a redhead and there was no way bleach was ever going near her head.

‘It’s so cool that you’ve got a job,’ Star looked at her with admiration. She was genuinely pleased for her friend, albeit a little bit envious. Tracey was twelve months older; she’d escaped from the hellhole of school and secured a job as a trainee hairdresser. Star was going to relish the day that she finished school. She’d have a big bonfire, burn her school uniform, drink cheap cider, and chain smoke while watching her textbooks spitting and crackling amidst the flames. She would happily eradicate all things associated with secondary education. To Star, adulthood represented fun, independence, and most importantly: freedom.

‘It will be even cooler when I’m paid the full wage. The older staff are on three quid more,’ Tracey said with outrage. ‘Sometimes I feel like I’m being put upon and used for cheap labour.’

Star hummed with sympathy.

‘But it does feel great to be able to buy my own stuff instead of relying on Mum and Dad,’ Tracey clicked her heels together. ‘I got new shoes. Like them?’

Star stared at the four-inch white stilettos.

‘They’re… awesome?’ She could feel her cheeks burning and hoped that Tracey hadn’t realised she was being insincere.

‘Liar!’ Tracey nudged Star in the ribs, ‘where are your Doc Martens?’

‘At home. I’ve been forced to wear… these.’ She stretched one silver-sandalled foot out. ‘They look like something a four-year-old would wear.’

‘Morrissey would not approve,’ Tracey said waspishly.

‘Tell me about it. I am so uncool right now.’ Star heard her name being called and scowled at the sight of the photographer. ‘I s’pose I should go. See you later?’

‘See you at the hotel.’ Tracey winked.

‘Starrrrrr.’ Her sister’s screeching resounded in the air.

‘I’m coming!’ Star slid down the path towards her family, wishing that this whole debacle was over and hoping that none of her school friends were here to witness her shameful fashion faux pas.

To Star’s shame, the bossy photographer insisted that as the chief bridesmaid, she had to be in most of the photographs. The time dragged on and on, the guests were growing bored, and Star was thoroughly fed up of being told to ‘say cheese.’ Finally, after the confetti had been thrown, the crowd dispersed, heading for the extravagant lakeside reception. The venue had cost a lot of money. It was a sprawling hotel with grounds full of foliage and flowers, perfect for a romantic stroll if you were that way inclined. And as it was only a fifteen-minute walk from Star’s home, she harboured the hope that she could sneak off and change out of her awful ensemble into her usual black attire. She was sure that after drinking champagne all afternoon her sister would be feeling amiable and agree to her plan. She had no such hopes for her mother, though. Rachel had eyes like a hawk. Star would just have to persuade her dad to butter her up and relax about the whole clothing issue. Her mum would just have to accept that Star was an individual whose clothing choice should be respected.

‘Star!’ Rachel motioned for her to join the greeting line. She sighed theatrically, this was never ending; do this, do that, she looked at her wristwatch, willing the fingers to speed up and the infernal night to be over. She stood next to her dad, Tony, who was looking emotional.

‘Are you okay?’ Star asked, stifling a yawn.

‘Hasn’t it been a lovely day?’ he replied. ‘My eldest daughter married. You all look wonderful, I’m so proud.’

‘You look very handsome too, Dad,’ Star said in the soft tone she reserved for him. Tony Sullivan was a lovely, gentle man. A postal worker for over twenty years, he was the opposite in temperament to his wife: placid, staid, and easy-going. The family peacekeeper. It was clear to all that Star had inherited his looks. They were both tall and slim, shared the same hair colour, twinkling blue eyes, and dimples. Martha, in comparison, was a replica of their mother: petite and curvy with dark, lustrous hair. Star envied her sister’s defined bosom; she was irked that her breasts had yet to develop and were as flat as pancakes. She was also annoyed that Martha had very appealing womanly hips. Her own seemed all wrong: sinewy and lacking definition. The only good thing about her appearance was her ability to eat without gaining weight. All the surplus fat she had was deposited on her full lips and chubby cheeks. Her mum called them ‘apple cheeks’, much to her fury.

‘Here we go,’ whispered her mother, as the guests began filtering in. ‘Remember to smile, Star.’

Star flashed a rictus grin and held her hand out like the queen she was.

‘And who is this firecracker?’ A tinny voice caught her attention. Star tutted at the sight of Grandad Maurice looking her up and down.

‘Put your glasses on, Grandad!’

‘Oh dear, I seem to have misplaced them.’ He patted his pockets, giving Star a look loaded with confusion.

‘They’re on your head,’ said Star with exasperation. She pointed upwards, resisting the urge to chuckle. He was an octogenarian after all and had survived the war years – as he frequently told everyone. Star was very fond of him; for an old person, he was pretty cool, and he deserved her respect.

Once he’d put his spectacles in the correct place, he gave her an ‘ah’ of recognition.

‘You need to look at the seating plan,’ she said, as he dithered beside her. Star offered him her arm to cling onto. They crossed the room and peered at a fancy, elaborately designed A3 piece of paper. ‘You’re next to Aunty Eileen,’ she said, then shouted it again when he looked at her blankly. Star pointed at a nearby table. ‘Sit down and I’ll