Shortish chapter – sorry, it just ended up like that – but on the plus side I'm working on more already ;')
"Here you go," Janet handed Haydn, Sean's little boy, a cup of orange juice and a Penguin biscuit. He scowled.
"What do you say?"
"Thanks."
Sean smiled affectionately, "Just cheesed off you can't join in with the beer drinking yet, aren't you, son?"
Janet forced herself to laugh along with Sean as Haydn continued to look as though he'd rather sit in a pig pen and drink from a trough. That was the trouble with some parents, she thought; they loved their kids so much, they couldn't see their flaws.
She liked to think that, although they could be cheeky sometimes, her daughters were growing up to be well-rounded individuals. With taste and discernment, as Rachel had said.
"Cheers," Kevin held up his can of alcohol, "To Sean and Rachel. Here's to hoping Rach doesn't turn into Bridezilla."
"Like that's going to happen, mate," Sean grinned.
Maybe that was why Haydn looked almost scared. Janet remembered Rachel telling her about the first time Sean's son had met his fiancée; something about spiders, which had most likely scarred the poor boy for life.
"Aw, you and Godzilla would make a right pair," Mitch said softly, giving an unusually cheeky smile.
Rachel's face clouded over immediately, "Seriously, don't even go there. God, what is it with that woman? It wouldn't feel right? How can it not feel right?"
"Rach, you're just being paranoid now."
"I'm not. I swear, she bloody hates me."
"Oi," Sean threw a cushion across the room at his soon-to-be wife, pointing to Haydn, whose ears had pricked up at the malice in Rachel's voice, and of course the naughty word. "We're really going to have to get a swear jar or something."
"I'll get you some soap and water as a wedding present, and you can wash her mouth out," Kevin suggested.
"What, like some kind of bizarre se..." Rachel trailed off as Sean moved to pick up the cushion on the other side of him, "Some kind of bizarre S. E. X. act?"
"I'm not stupid," Haydn mumbled, "I'm eight. I can spell sex."
Janet coughed, wondering how she could change the subject. The last thing they needed was Rachel falling out with the little boy any more than she already had, particularly when she was marrying his dad – that would make things very awkward.
When Rachel was like this, already worked up because of Gill, it wouldn't take much to make her snap, and then they'd all be in trouble.
Mitch broke the somewhat stiff silence, "I'm not sure you'd need to buy them water, Kev."
"No," Kevin agreed, his forehead wrinkled with the effort of considering the topic, "I know traffic cops don't get paid as much as us, being the bees' bol... the bees' private parts, but I guess they've got enough for the basic necessities."
Janet grinned. Typical Kevin.
"So," Rachel opened the diary on the table in front of her, "We have two hundred and ninety seven days until the wedding."
"What was I saying about Bridezilla?"
"Shut up, Kev. Right, tonight Sean and Kevin need to..."
Sean held up his hands, "And Haydn."
"Yep. Sean, Kevin and Haydn need to choose the reading for the service. Janet and I are having a look at the dresses and the suits. Then we'll all have a break and order some pizzas, and then we'll move on to deciding on some hymns."
"Sounds like a plan, babe," Sean grinned.
"Ew, Dad," Haydn discarded his Penguin wrapper and looked up at his father with unmistakable disdain, "Babe is a much badder word than bloody."
Kevin had picked up the takeaway menu from the table as Rachel began to distribute notebooks to her wedding planners. He ran a finger down the list, his tongue visible through his lips, his eyes wide with delight. "Rachel? You know how you love me?"
"Mm."
"Can we have Margherita? Pretty please?"
She rolled her eyes. Margherita was a wimpy pizza. The four seasons ones annoyed her more, though; how did vegetables represent seasons exactly, and why did everything in Britain have to be associated with the weather? "If you want."
"Rach, can we have some more beer?" Sean shook his empty can, smirking at Kevin, "Pretty please?"
She put down the bridal magazine she'd begun to flick through, suddenly overcome, suddenly sick of it all. "Help yourself; it's in the fridge. I'm going to the loo."
XxXxX
Which story is the favourite, this one or Scars? I'm writing more of this one at the moment, but it seems that Scars is preferred by the readers, so would you prefer me to focus on writing Scars rather than Fairytales? Opinions please? ;')