A Summer Fling (3 page)

Dawn reckoned the gold stars for customer service might be thin on the ground in this place.

Muriel pulled a face at her, making Dawn chuckle. They slid out of the shop and Dawn took a big gulp of air.

‘If that were me on the other end of that phone, I’d have slammed it down, got a taxi over here and smashed her cocky bleeding face in,’ said Muriel.

Dawn was laughing so hard it took her four attempts to open her car door. She knew Muriel would tell the others how the day went, adding her funny embellishments. She hoped she would save it until Dawn was present to hear it.

They drove through Penistone and to stop number two, ‘Love and Marriage’, a far superior site on the Holmfirth Road. The window display was gorgeous: an ivory dress around a wire frame that represented an exaggerated hourglass figure. It was surrounded by handbags and shoes with expensive designer names. This was a pendulum swing to the other end of the market. A frighteningly big one if those names were anything to go by: Choo, Prada, Chloe, Louboutin . . .

They had barely stepped foot in the shop when an assistant bore down on them offering help.

‘Just looking, thanks,’ said Dawn.

‘Are you searching for anything in particular?’ pressed the assistant, giving Muriel a sneaky look up and down, which Muriel saw and her lip instinctively curled back over her teeth.

‘I don’t know,’ said Dawn, wishing she could just wander around for a bit, unharassed.

‘This is nice, Dawn,’ said Muriel, picking out a long, cream dress. ‘Can’t find the price tag though.’

‘Nine thousand,’ said snotty assistant woman.

‘Pounds?’ gasped Muriel. ‘You’re having a laugh?’

‘No, it’s a Vladimir Darq. The reason it’s so cheap is that it’s second-hand.’

Muriel’s jaw dropped. Cheap was the last word that came to her mind. She was speechless with amazement that someone would pay that amount of money for a
frock.

‘He’s a famous designer,’ said the assistant. ‘You
have
heard of him, presumably?’

‘Can’t be that famous if I’ve never heard of him!’ sniffed Muriel, enjoying that she was rankling the snotty cow.

‘I have,’ nodded Dawn. ‘I didn’t realize he was a wedding dress designer though.’

‘He doesn’t make bridal gowns any more,’ said the assistant. ‘This dress was from his very last collection of them – very much sought after.’

‘Aye, by people with more money than sense.’ Muriel clicked her tongue loudly.

‘I’m not looking for anything that . . . fancy,’ said Dawn. Of course the assistant knew she meant ‘expensive’ by ‘fancy’. She’d taken one look at the pair of them and knew they’d be leaving empty-handed. The mother, she presumed, would have thought a Vera Wang was something that came with fried rice and prawn crackers.

‘Our range starts at five thousand for this one,’ said the assistant, presenting a plain white satin dress in a thick polythene cover.

‘Oh,’ said Dawn. She cooed over the dress to be polite, but all parties knew this was a no-go sale opportunity. Dawn made noises of ‘maybe having to go home and look at some magazines first,’ in order to leave the shop with some dignity intact. Two minutes later, she let loose a long breath of relief as she stepped outside.

‘She thinks she’s in Paris not bloody Barnsley!’ Muriel laughed loudly on the doorstep. ‘Twenty-two quid for a pair of tights? A pair of tights, did you see?’

It was as they were coming back to Barnsley, via the small, pretty village of Maltstone, that Dawn braked hard opposite the church, nearly sending Muriel through the windscreen.

‘Didn’t know there was a bridal shop here, did you, Mu?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Muriel with a sniff. ‘I’ve no reason to come to Maltstone. There’s nothing around here for me.’ She wasn’t a woman for garden centres and rural tea-shops.

Dawn reversed into a parking spot in front of a shop with a bay-window full of the prettiest display of bridalwear. Above the door hung a sign in romantic, swirly text, saying simply ‘White Wedding’.

The doorbell tinkled daintily as Dawn and Muriel entered.

‘ ’King hell, it’s a Tardis!’ said Muriel over-loudly as the narrow shop seemed to go on forever in length. Racks of dresses lined the walls, and showcases of tiaras and shoes ran floor to the cottage-low ceiling. Dawn’s mouth opened in a round O of delight.
This is more like it!

A very slim and smart assistant greeted them with a big smile. On her plain, black fitted dress she wore the name badge ‘Freya’. She was probably the same age as Muriel, thought Dawn, although with her coiffeured hair and unchewed nails, she looked fifteen years younger.

‘Can I help you?’ Freya asked Dawn politely.

‘I’m getting married and I er . . . need a dress,’ replied Dawn shyly.

‘Well, do feel free to wander,’ said Freya. ‘I will say though, don’t judge the dress until you have tried it on. You’d be surprised how many brides go out looking for one particular style only to find it doesn’t suit them at all.’

‘Thank you,’ said Dawn, feeling very much at ease in this shop. She and Muriel had a look around but Dawn realized she might need some expert help after all.

‘I don’t know where to start, there’s just so many,’ she said. She wanted to get it right because what if she found a dress, bought it, then spotted another one that was nicer? That thought had tortured her a few times.

‘Well, let’s start with colour,’ said the assistant. She studied Dawn’s pale, heavily freckled skin and her shoulder-length copper hair. ‘May I recommend ivory rather than white? White isn’t always flattering, especially to people with pale skin like yourself. Size 10, at a guess?’

‘Spot on,’ returned Dawn. Freya went to the rack of 10s as Muriel was pulling size 24s off the hangers and holding them up against herself.

‘And are we going to be a summer bride or a winter one?’ asked Freya.

‘June,’ said Dawn.

‘I might try on one myself,’ said Muriel. ‘Get Ronnie to renew his vows, seeing as I’m a lot thinner than the first time we went down the aisle.’

Freya’s face never twitched, even though Muriel was twenty-five stone plus now.

‘We’ll have a joint do,’ laughed Dawn.

Freya pulled out a long, tapering gown, shaking out the creases.

‘This is silk, ivory as you see, a bow on the back, beaded detail on the front bodice. Very flattering for the smaller-busted woman.’

‘Not do me any good then,’ snorted Muriel and laughed so hard that her enormous and flimsily restrained breasts jiggled like two giant blancmanges. The bra hadn’t been built that could hold them in place without industrial strength scaffolding.

‘It’s lovely,’ said Dawn, but she was shaking her head. ‘It’s not leaping out at me, though.’

‘OK,’ said Freya, and flicked the plastic protective case swiftly back over it. ‘What about this?’ She presented something swimming with ruffles.

‘Oooh,’ squealed Muriel.

‘Too fancy,’ said Dawn quietly. ‘Sorry, it’s not me at all!’

‘Oh, don’t apologize,’ said Freya. ‘Finding out what you don’t want is the most effective way to lead us to what you do want. So, less frills . . . let me see.’

She pulled out a very unfussy number in satin.

‘Ah, it’s too plain. Heck, I’m not easy to please, am I?’ Dawn half-expected Freya to sigh in that annoyed way that Calum’s sister Demi was always doing.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Freya, though. ‘I’ve seen would-be brides come in here and reject forty dresses!’

‘How much is this?’ called Muriel, holding up a white satin gown. There was enough material in it to make a sail for a billionaire’s yacht.

‘That particular one is three thousand pounds,’ said Freya.

‘Chuffing hell, they aren’t cheap, are they?’ said Muriel and slid it back on the rail, none too straight either, although Freya didn’t give a hint of disapproval.

‘This one, perhaps?’

‘Neck’s too high.’ Dawn shook her head. ‘That’s gorgeous though.’ She pointed to a rather full-skirted confection in white. Freya didn’t look convinced that Dawn and the frock were a good match, but hung it up in the changing room for her all the same. A couple of minutes later, Dawn emerged to show herself off.

‘Bleeding hell, where’s your sheep, Bo Peep?’ asked Muriel with a snort.

The dress drowned Dawn and, true enough, the white material made her skin look like the colour of uncooked pastry. Freya nodded in an ‘I told you so’, but kindly, way. She was holding up a gown that made Dawn’s eyes shine.

‘It’s from our vintage collection,’ explained Freya. ‘It’s a very special dress.’

Long and flowing, it had a beautiful scooped neck with peach rosebud detail, a full skirt, three-quarter sleeves and was made of smooth, smooth ivory silk. Dawn’s hands reached greedily for the hanger. She closed the dressing room curtain and when she opened it again and emerged in that dress, both Muriel and Freya gasped with delight.

‘Gorgeous,’ said Freya. The dress suited the tall, slim woman to a T. The ivory lent her pale skin some colour, her neck looked extended by inches and the fitted bodice gave the illusion of curves where there were few.

‘Oh. My. God. This is the one, I just know it,’ said Dawn. She was almost in tears imagining the skirt trailing behind her, brushing the aisle floor. ‘Do you know anything about the original owner? Was she happy?’ She didn’t want a dress with negative vibes stored in the threads.

‘Very,’ Freya said, adding, ‘Eventually.’

‘Well, you would say that,’ parried Muriel. But Dawn wanted to believe Freya anyway. She was hooked.

‘It is lovely, mind,’ said Muriel. ‘How much is it though?’

‘It’s fifteen hundred pounds. Any alterations are free and you will most likely need them despite it being a near-perfect fit now. Most brides lose some weight and have to have their dresses nipped in nearer the date.’

‘Fifteen hundred quid – for a second-hand frock!’ Muriel gave a mirthless little laugh.

‘It’s very special,’ said Freya again, smiling. ‘It looks meant for you.’

Dawn gulped. It was over her budget, but she knew anything else would be second-best. She could cut back on something else, but not the dress. She would pray for a miracle pay rise or a big win. She would start putting an extra line on the lottery, starting this week.

‘I don’t care – I’ll take it,’ she heard herself say.

An hour later, Dawn had spent another two hundred and fifty pounds on shoes, a medium-length ivory veil, a tiara and some matching earrings. She hid the purchases on her Visa card and tried not to let worries about the expense spoil the excitement.

‘Look at this one,’ said Gordon. ‘It’s an eight berth.’

Grace dutifully left the sink, peered over his shoulder at the catalogue and then returned to scrubbing the Sunday dinner pans, which were infinitely more interesting.

‘Plenty of room for our Sarah and Hugo and Sable and the baby when it arrives, and our Laura and Joe.’

And Paul too,
Grace added to herself, but there wouldn’t have been much point saying it aloud. Gordon was a master at ignoring what he didn’t want to hear. Paul was as good as dead to his father.

‘It’s got central heating and a built-in washing machine and dishwasher.’ He looked at Grace standing with the tea-towel. ‘It’s got more than we’ve got here, in fact. It would be just ideal for us when you retire. You’re over ready for a long rest.’

‘I’m only fifty-five, Gordon.’

‘Only?’ he snorted. ‘You’re getting older every day. You’ve got to be in the next batch of early retirements. I can’t understand why you haven’t been asked already. They’ve retired loads at your place!’

Grace shrugged, but didn’t say any more. If Gordon had a magic wand, she was sure he would use it to age her and see her in a bathchair wrapped in a nice shawl.

‘I don’t know, anyone else at your age would be looking forward to winding down. Can’t you imagine, long summers and walks by the sea? According to the brochure, there’s even a social club on site and Skegness, Mablethorpe and Ingoldmells are only a short drive away.’

‘Gordon, wouldn’t you prefer to go on lots of fortnights abroad in the sun? Italy, Spain, France?’

‘Oh, I can’t do with all that travelling.’

‘It’s only two hours to Spain. It would take us not much less than that to get to Blegthorpe in the car.’

Gordon changed tack then. ‘Oh, I can’t be doing with all that heat.’

‘We don’t have to go in August!’

‘Anyway, we couldn’t take the grandkiddies abroad. Our Sarah wouldn’t agree to that.’

Grace doubted that. Sarah was greedy as far as babysitting duties were concerned. It wasn’t that Grace minded helping her daughter out, Sable was her granddaughter after all and she loved her dearly, but Sarah presumed that if her mother wasn’t at work, she should be on hand 24/7 for her convenience. Grace also knew that Sarah was another one who was pressurizing her to retire early so she could take over as permanent child-minder and Sarah could escape back to work.

‘We should go for a weekend and take a look at some of these in the flesh,’ suggested Gordon, flicking through the pages of the ‘Clark’s Caravans’ brochure.

‘Gordon, we’ve talked about this before and I don’t really want to,’ said Grace, standing her corner for once. She couldn’t remember how many times they’d had this interchange and as usual Gordon did not acknowledge her point of view.

‘You don’t know what you’d like until you try it,’ he said, which was ironic seeing as he would have spontaneously combusted had he ever tried anything out of his very small comfort zone. ‘It’ll be lovely having our own caravan instead of renting someone else’s, just you wait and see,’ he said, because Gordon Beamish always knew best.

Christie Somers studied herself in the huge hall mirror, smoothed the red suit down over her hips and then whisked around with a flourish.

‘Niki, will I do? What do you think? Is this too bright?’

‘When do you not dress in primary colours?’ her brother said, shaking his head in mock exasperation. ‘Don’t tell me you’re nervous and want to hide yourself inside a black suit?’

‘I have no black clothes, so it’s just as well that’s a ridiculous observation,’ said Christie with a good-humoured sniff. ‘You know I don’t do nerves.’