Made in Heaven (24 page)

Maureen sometimes found herself wondering about Zannah. She was very attractive, if you liked the beanpole look, with not much in the way of a bosom, and hair that verged on ginger. Nice blue-green eyes. Tall, too, which would be useful when it came to wedding dresses. But there was a kind of reserve about her which she obviously got from her mother and that meant she
wasn't the kind of prospective daughter-in-law Maureen would have preferred in an ideal world. She allowed herself to conjure up a plump blonde who'd have gone round the shops and wedding fairs with her endlessly, comparing samples of this and that and discussing the merits of fruit versus chocolate for the cake. Zannah was too much like Joss: another one who came over all tight-lipped in emails.

She wished that Adrian was in touch more often. There was the matter of Charlotte and the women she lived with to discuss and no one else would understand her feelings. She wasn't happy about that household. Since she had found out that Charlotte had been suspected of fraud and served six months, she'd also discovered that Edie – the sweet-looking dumpy one – was involved with one of those refuges full of women running away from abusive husbands and had once actually had an article in the
Daily Telegraph
. Maureen wondered how she'd cope if the media brought Edie to national attention while they were all involved with the wedding. The other woman, Val, was even worse. Apart from looking like an elderly and not very well-dressed scarecrow, she'd served six years for killing her husband with a kitchen knife. She'd never denied it, apparently. Maureen imagined a man's body slumped over a Formica table, the scarecrow cowering with bloodstained hands in the corner, shivering.

Charlotte had told her all this over lunch a few weeks ago. Maureen had practically invited herself to the house, telling the old lady that they had a great many arrangements to go over together. Actually, there wasn't anything that couldn't have been done on the phone, but Charlotte was not very forthcoming about the marquee, so she'd gone there to find out the details for herself. One thing had led to another and Maureen prided herself on being good at extracting any information she wanted from whoever it was she wanted it from.

When the story of Val's crime emerged, Charlotte had been careful to emphasise how cruel her husband had been. A brute. A rapist. Well, yes, Maureen thought privately, but still. Kitchen knives were not the answer and whenever that household came into her mind she felt a kind of sharp irritation bordering on distress. Imagine her son's wedding actually being held in that place! Her grandmother used to say:
What can't be cured must be endured
, but where was the sense in that?
What can't be cured must be changed as quickly and efficiently as possible
. That was Maureen's philosophy. But in this case, Zannah had set her heart on a marquee at her great-aunt's house and there was nothing to be done.

Where was that number for Dreamdress? Maureen picked up the phone and keyed it in. She'd managed to get Zannah to commit to a date for looking at wedding dresses and was about to confirm this with the shop: the Saturday after next. If it weren't for me, she thought, and to some extent Charlotte, this wedding wouldn't get off the ground. True, Joss had organized the invitations, which would be beautiful, she had to admit, but she was busy, apparently, next Saturday week. A reading in the local library. How could that possibly be more important than helping your daughter with one of the most important decisions of her life? Maureen had actually said something along those lines in one of her emails and Joss had written back to say that she trusted Zannah's taste. Not a word about my taste, Maureen reflected. Never mind, I'll be there when the dress is chosen, which is what counts. She could hardly wait to see what Dreamdress had to offer. The article in the
Daily Telegraph
had been full of praise for the individual care lavished on customers.

‘Is that Dreamdress?' she purred into the phone. ‘It's Mrs Ashton … Thank you.'

As she waited to be put through to the lady in charge of appointments, she made a mental note to visit a few
designer websites and begin thinking about her own outfit. Something in periwinkle blue, perhaps, but not too bright and vulgar. Or possibly pale coral.

‘Okay. Update, please,' said Claire, taking another poppadom and breaking it into smaller and more conveniently sized pieces on her side plate. She, Louise and Zannah were sitting at the back of the Monsoon Nights restaurant round a table they regarded as their own. They came here about once a month, usually on a Friday evening, to do what Louise called ‘putting the week behind us'. Zannah had thought about inviting Hazel, her best friend from art school, to one of these meals. Or perhaps Marie, who'd been at school with her, but Hazel had a toddler who didn't do babysitters, and Marie was a doctor whose leisure time had shrunk to two hours a month. Thank heaven for email, she thought, and picked up the menu.

They'd been back at school a week and the first few days of term had been spent discussing every possible aspect of Hurricane Katrina and the terrible aftermath of the storm. The children had asked a thousand questions and some were easier to answer than others.

‘First the bombs and now this,' said Louise. ‘I don't know if I'm cut out for so much reassurance.'

‘Isis wanted to know if her daddy was going to be sent there,' said Zannah, ‘but thank goodness his paper decided to send someone else. And can you believe Cal was disappointed?'

‘You must be so relieved. It's nightmarish even on TV.
Imagine if you had someone you knew actually in New Orleans. Awful.'

‘Let's talk about something else,' said Claire. Zannah took out her wedding notebook and laid it flat next to her plate. It fell open to a page in the middle headed ‘Master List'. Louise peered across the table. She was, like most teachers, very good at reading upside down.

‘I don't see anything there about transport. Flowers? Make-up? Hair? Photographs? Admit it, you haven't thought about those, have you?'

‘I have, actually,' Zannah said quickly. ‘No transport will be necessary. The church is near enough for us all to be able to walk from Charlotte's house. There and back. If Edie can do it, so can everyone else. It's literally round the corner.'

Claire and Louise were scandalized. ‘No posh white cars with ribbons all over them? Whatever are you thinking of? And what about your dress, dragging through the dirt?'

‘I've thought of that. I shan't be wearing a long dress and neither will Isis and Gemma. Calf-length, more likely. No long trains, either. And I like the idea of a procession, just like the olden days, in some village, with the bride leading the others to the wedding … '

‘And peasants no doubt lining the pavements and doffing their caps,' said Louise. ‘I think you're crazy. What happens if it rains?'

‘Not many peasants in Clapham,' Zannah replied. ‘I suppose we might warn a taxi firm beforehand that we might need them. Anyway, it won't rain. It wouldn't dare.'

‘Oh, that'll be really great.'

‘Don't be such a pessimist! It'll be fine. I've already asked Charlotte. We're staying at her house overnight so the preparations, like hair and so forth, will be done there. I'll walk to the church and so will everyone else. Guests will come to Charlotte's first and leave their
cars. Edie's son drives a big black Peugeot so, in an emergency, that'll have to do. He'll polish it beforehand, of course.'

‘Okay,' said Louise. ‘Let's leave the matter of transport. You've not even mentioned the most important thing of all. What about the dress?'

‘I've got a day in town with Maureen next Saturday,' said Zannah. ‘I'm dreading it. I wanted my mother to come down that weekend, but she's doing a reading in a local library and she also said that Maureen probably regards the occasion as a chance to bond with me … God I hate that word. It makes me feel as though I'm being glued with epoxy resin, or something. Never mind, Em's coming with me for moral support, but can you picture it? Me trying on one hideous creation after another. In front of my future mother-in-law? I'd get Ma's view if I happen to like something, of course.'

‘What about a make-up artist?' asked Louise. ‘You need one of those. And a hairdresser. Have you got one?'

‘Not really, but Em knows loads from her work. She'll find someone. And she's already volunteered to do the hen night. You two are invited, by the way. In fact, I think it's just you two, me and Em. I can't think of anyone else I'd want to ask.'

‘Great! Hope there are lots of naked men involved. Is there a date yet?' Louise wanted to know.

‘No naked men, no pub crawls and the date isn't fixed but it will be soon. Can we talk about something else now? I'm sick to death of weddings in general and mine in particular.'

Joss leaned into the dressing-table mirror, making sure that her eyeliner was on smoothly, without the blotches and smudges she was inclined to make when she put on her make-up too quickly. No, that was okay. Em would be proud of me, she thought. She couldn't help feeling a thrill of excitement, and for a moment she imagined herself in one of those arty documentaries on BBC2.
Yes, I'm about to go and give a reading at the library
 …
only my friends and neighbours, I expect
. A modest glance down to the right. An enigmatic smile. A dress that made her look young and prettier than she was. Joss came back to reality. She was wearing French navy linen trousers with a pale jade-green linen blouse. She sighed. At this very moment Zannah would be going round that shop with Maureen. She hadn't been able to face it, which was the real reason why she'd decided not to go to London. Everyone, including Zannah, seemed to think a reading in a local library was something important and immovable. Of course, she could have changed the date in a second. It wasn't exactly the Festival Hall they were dealing with, but Joss had seized on the reading as an excuse. She simply didn't want to spend the afternoon with Maureen. Zannah was clear on the phone that she didn't intend to make any decisions about her dress and that Joss must enjoy herself being a famous poet, even if it was only in a suburban library.

The book was in her handbag. She'd dedicated it to her daughters and of course, a copy had gone to each of them, to Charlotte and several friends. She had no hesitation about not sending a copy to Gray and Maureen as a couple. She wanted more than anything to send Gray his own, signed copy, but couldn't.
Come, let us kiss and part
meant no contact, and she intended to stick to it even if he kept breaking their agreement.

Bob had taken her out to dinner the night before to celebrate publication. Charlotte, Zannah and Em had sent flowers, so had Mal, and Isis had made a special card, with a picture of pirates, a wrecked ship and lots of glitter sprinkled on the very blue sea curling round it.
Darling Grandma, lots of love from Isis
. It made Joss feel happy whenever she thought about it. She'd also printed out a lovely email Isis had written, all about her holiday with Cal. Joss kept it in her handbag, and took it out now to read again.

‘Joss!' Bob called her from downstairs. ‘Package for you, love.'

‘Coming!' She picked up her handbag and ran downstairs. The hall smelt wonderful. She was determined to take no notice of Bob's mutterings about turning the house into a funeral parlour with all these bouquets.

She opened the package, which had no return address on it. The name on the label was Lydia Quentin. Her heart began to beat more quickly. There were thousands
of little polystyrene worms in the small box. No card. Nothing to say who it was from.

‘What is it?' Bob asked. ‘You're going to be late, aren't you?'

‘No, I've got time still … It's a cup and saucer.'

‘Hmm,' said Bob. ‘Funny thing to send, isn't it?' He wandered off before she had time to explain. Could he have guessed? No, she was sure he hadn't, but he
had
been perplexed. The cup and saucer were a present from Gray and they weren't a funny thing to send. They were just right. No one else would know that this was the pattern on the crockery at the Shipwreck Café. How on earth had he managed to find it? She could ask him. She could send him an email … Surely just one email would be safe? To say thank you? No, she wouldn't. She'd stick to her resolve, not so much because she felt resolute but because she knew that if once she started, if once she allowed herself even one email message, all the feelings she'd been bottling up for weeks would come rushing out, and carry her to places she yearned for; places that terrified her, too.

Bob came out into the hall again. ‘Still mooning over that crockery?' he asked. ‘Put it down now, Joss, for heaven's sake. We'll be late for the library.'

‘Are you coming to the reading?'

‘D'you want me to?' He looked genuinely astonished. ‘I will if you like, only I thought I'd take the opportunity to have a dekko at the local history section. Is that okay?'

‘Absolutely,' said Joss and she meant it. She had no desire for Bob to hear her reading her work aloud. As it was, she was nervous, and having him there would make things even worse. She got into the car, closed her eyes and leaned back against the seat as Bob drove off in the direction of the library. She thought of the cup and saucer sitting on the table in the hall: pretty, rose-patterned, almost translucent. A present from Gray.