Río had made tea and was sipping it without tasting it, wishing it was laced with alcohol. She thought of all that surplus champagne, languishing in Coral Mansion. All those revellers in O’Toole’s, toasting an absent bride and groom with forced cheer. The cake she had cobbled together from Mr Kipling Battenbergs waiting to make its entrance, the giftwrapped presents waiting to be opened, the bridal posy jettisoned on the village main street . . . She hoped that somebody had rescued it, and that it was now gracing some local mantelpiece, not lying trampled ignominiously underfoot by cavorting wedding guests. Stupid Shane! What had he been playing at, ruining her wedding day? The eejit! The stupid, stupid eejit. On EastEnders, Phil and Shirley were screaming at each other. They did a lot of screaming in EastEnders. Was that a reflection of how the scriptwriters perceived marriage in real life? Trouble and strife and endless screaming matches? Did nobody in soap opera live happily ever after?
