Made in Heaven (26 page)

Zannah turned away from the sink to face them. ‘I couldn't wear anything they showed me, Cal. Every single dress had something wrong with it.'

‘Quite right,' said Cal, reaching up to the high cupboard to put away the glasses. ‘Don't you let anyone bully you. Coffee?'

‘Yes, please,' said Zannah and Cal took the kettle
and leaned across her to fill it. His body was very close to hers, almost touching it, and he smelt exactly the same as she remembered. Suddenly, a rush of memories crowded into her head. She moved away from the sink to dispel them and distracted herself with finding the cafetière and the coffee. This is not, she told herself, a good time to get nostalgic about being married to Cal. Not a time to remember how he used to kiss me. Think of Adrian. Think of your wedding dress. Think of walking up that lovely aisle in the church wearing it. Yes, she was okay now. An image of the dress had dislodged this totally unexpected parade of memories. Now she was back to worrying about it again.

‘You just being difficult, Zan, or d'you actually know what you want?' Cal took over with the coffee. It was one of the things he was good at and always did when he came to the flat.

‘I'm not being difficult. In fact, I've got it. My dress. I mean I've drawn it. I've just not shown anyone, that's all.'

‘Doh!' said Emily. ‘You're mad, you are. You should have brought it this afternoon, Zannah. Why haven't you shown it to anyone? Are you going to let us see it now?'

‘Might as well. You pour the coffee, Em, and I'll get my sketch. And the reason I didn't bring it today is because I didn't want to show it to Maureen. Certainly not before I'd seen what Dreamdress had to offer. Now I'm not sure I'd be able to afford it anyway. A good deal over a thousand pounds, didn't she say, to get a dress made … '

Zannah went upstairs to get her drawing. She'd still not told anyone about her secret fund. Now that she'd seen what was on offer, she was even more determined to have exactly what she wanted. Her parents, she knew, thought that the dress came into the part of the budget for which they were responsible, but Zannah
wanted to be able to contribute a substantial sum. She'd saved nearly a thousand pounds. As she took out her sketch from its hiding-place, she said it to herself again: a
thousand pounds
, maybe more, for one dress. There was something grotesquely extravagant about that. Cal would be scandalized and mutter about justice and the world's poor and quite right too. Zannah decided she would avoid any hassle by never telling him how much her wedding dress cost, whatever the sum turned out to be. It was, after all, nothing to do with him.

Back in the living room Cal was stretched out on the sofa with his shoes off. Emily was telling him about Fortnum
&
Mason, and the cake extravaganza. She was sitting on a floor cushion, waving her hands about.

‘Here you go,' said Zannah, putting a sheet of paper down on the coffee table. Cal swung his legs around and sat up and Emily crawled off the cushion to have a look.

‘That,' she said, ‘is … I don't have a word. Gorgeous. Beautiful. Perfect. You were right, Zannah. This is the only dress in the world for you. I feel like crying. I never cry about things like wedding dresses. I must be sickening for something.'

Zannah smiled. ‘You're just being Emm-ish, Em. You'd have enthused over whatever I'd drawn. It's how you are.'

‘Bollocks! It is not! I do not enthuse about everything. Not at all. And certainly not when it comes to wedding dresses, which I can't bear usually. They're so … so weddingy. I'm the anti-wedding one, remember? But this … this is really amazing.'

‘Well, thanks … Cal? You're not saying a word. What's up?' Zannah looked at her ex-husband, who was being uncharacteristically silent and pensive.

‘It's smashing, Zan,' he said at last. ‘And I've got an idea. D'you know who Verity Mason is?'

‘Of course I do. I love her. She's one of the fashion people on your paper. You know her, I suppose?'

‘Slightly. I never read her column, but people write to her with their problems when it comes to clothes. That's right, isn't it?'

‘Yes, she's fantastic,' said Zannah. ‘Seems to know the answer to everything.'

‘And you think,' Emily butted in ‘that Zannah should write and say:
I used to be married to Cal Ford, so will you help me with my wedding dress?
'

‘No,' said Cal. ‘I'll just get her to give you a ring. She might know someone who'd be good at that … ' He pointed at the sketch.

‘What d'you mean, good at it? How good?' Zannah looked mystified.

‘You'll want someone to make it, won't you?' Cal asked.

‘It's very expensive, getting things made … '

‘I'll get Verity to call you tomorrow. Gotta go.'

‘Right,' said Zannah. ‘Thanks, Cal. That's terrific. D'you think Verity'll mind?'

‘No, she's a good egg. Okay, you lot, I'm off.'

‘Night, Cal,' said Zannah, and blew him a kiss.

It took him some time to locate his shoes but he found them in the end. Em showed him to the door. Zannah could hear them talking and laughing but she wasn't really listening. She couldn't stop staring at the thin black lines of her pen-and-ink sketch. Perhaps, perhaps, there was a possibility that it might become more than just an idea on paper. She might be able to make it real. Good old Cal. How unexpected he was.

Joss looked out of one of the upstairs windows at Fairford Hall and felt, for the first time in many weeks, a wave of pure happiness, untainted by any concern about the world out there, at the end of the long drive, where things were complicated and distressing. This was what she loved best about coming here: you were given five days away from your own life. Five days when you could be a person unattached to anyone else. Five days during which you didn't have to consider anything except your duties as a tutor. I might even, Joss thought, get down to some writing myself. It had been difficult, what with the wedding arrangements, getting Bob off to Egypt, sorting things out with the library so she could have this time off work, to say nothing of her own elation about the Madrigal shortlisting, to do any writing. Perhaps here she would be able to concentrate. She'd arrived early, wanting to be alone in the place before anyone else turned up. The first two times she'd been here, she and Gray had been hours ahead of anyone else and she remembered them sitting at the enormous oak table, smiling at one another.

The countryside round the house was like an advertisement for autumn. Leaves were turning and the mass of green was interwoven with scarlet, gold, bronze and brown. The sky curved pale blue above the trees. Just out of sight, the sea was waiting, in its sheltered bay,
edged by high cliffs. Fairford Hall looked exactly like an oversized dolls' house, which was one reason why Joss loved it. It was pretty and welcoming, with dark panelling in the drawing room, and an Aga and a full set of copper-bottomed pots and pans in the kitchen. There were fifteen bedrooms. Groups of course members and the two tutors took it in turns to cook the evening meal. You helped yourself for breakfast and lunch from a fridge that was kept filled with goodies by the course directors, Agnes and Bill, who did all the administrative work and looked after the house.

When she'd been there before, Joss had shared a bedroom, but as a tutor you got a room on your own at the front of the house. It was like being upgraded to first class. She now had her own wardrobe with a pattern of tulips carved into the door, a view over the garden and down to the trees, and a table to work on. Her fellow tutor wouldn't be here for ages and neither would the course members whom she thought of as students, even though some would probably be as old as she was or older. You never had any idea before you arrived of who would be coming on the course and that was part of the fun. She had plenty of time. She plugged in her laptop and turned on her modem to send an email.

Normally Joss wouldn't have thought about email while she was at Fairford, but she needed to send a message to Nora at the library about the copy for a leaflet that urgently needed to go to the printers tomorrow and which she'd forgotten to pass on to her. She clicked on
Inbox
. Not too many, she was glad to see, but she sighed when she saw Maureen's name at the top of the list. She wrote to Nora at the library first, because that was urgent, and then she read the messages from Isis and Bob. Isis had sent her a cartoon rabbit and a message that said,
I've found a picture of a rabbit. Hope your having a nice time in the country
. Isis loved rabbits, as well as owls and butterflies. Joss was always
on the lookout for suitable postcards. She smiled and pressed the
Reply
button.

Bob sent a message with his contact details in Egypt. Very curt and businesslike. He didn't believe in actual ‘writing' on email, but used it as a kind of shorthand way of conveying information, rather like texting but at slightly greater length and with all the letters included. She replied, in best war-movie mode:

She wondered whether he would notice the kiss she'd added. Okay, she thought. That's that. There was a time when Bob had written long letters to her if he was abroad. When the girls were little, he used to add sketches of things like camels to amuse them. His signing-off, which had always mildly irritated Joss, because she'd thought it a throwback to his schooldays, still said
Tons of love
. Perhaps he was short and cool in tone simply because the medium was electronic and not a handwritten letter. And perhaps not. She clicked on the next email, mentally bracing herself for one of Maureen's effusions.

She read the message through and when she'd finished, she found that she was grasping the edge of the table so hard that the tips of her fingers were white. It can't be, she thought. It's a mistake. He couldn't … She read the message again, more carefully.

Joss looked at her watch. Two-thirty. Course members generally started to arrive at about four o'clock. She went over to the bed and lay down on it, staring up at the ceiling. There were no other poetry courses but this one in Dorset. He'd done it deliberately: booked himself in because he'd known she was a tutor. Perhaps he found out about it from a Friends of Fairford publicity mailing. What was she supposed to do? How was she supposed to feel? She felt rage washing through her. He'd deceived her again, not told her something she should have known. But if he had told me, she thought, I'd have said I was ill. I'd have cancelled. He knows I would never walk out on a course that's already begun.

She sat up. He was on his way here now. He might be there when she went downstairs. How should she behave? Pretend she'd never met him? Or tell people he was her daughter's future stepfather-in-law? What had come over him? Why had he done such a thing? Because he wants to see me, she thought. And because he knows that I'm longing to see him and won't allow myself even to think about the possibility. Now they were going to be together. Together. She imagined what the next five days might be like and the force of her vision made her feel breathless, as though she'd been picked up and swept along in a kind of emotional hurricane.

But no. They'd decided. They'd agreed. They had no future together. What Gray had done by enrolling on this course was unforgivable and she'd never, ever
forgive him. She'd promised Bob that their relationship was in the past. Over. And it was. She'd been so strong-minded about keeping her word, even though there were times when the temptation to send Gray an email (just a written message, where was the harm in that?) was so overpowering that she had to close down her laptop. Promises … She'd already broken the promises she'd made when she married. Perhaps people oughtn't to be allowed to promise things recklessly in case they couldn't keep them? There should be a mechanism for cancelling promises you made to someone you weren't married to that you found you couldn't keep. But Gray hadn't taken any such vow, and here he was, making it so hard for her to behave as she knew she was supposed to. She'd punish him for it. An idea was beginning to form in her mind. He didn't know she'd been forewarned. Maureen wouldn't have said anything … Why should she? Okay, she'd behave as though she were made of ice where he was concerned. She'd treat him exactly like everyone else and not show by one single movement or word that she'd ever met him before or ever wanted to again.
Be it not seen in either of our brows/That we one jot of former love retain
. She took a deep breath and got off the bed.

In the en-suite bathroom (another perk for tutors), she stared at her face in the mirror. Was there time to do her make-up again? Someone was knocking at her door. Probably Agnes wanting to tell her something.

She went to open it, then stepped back.

‘Lydia … '

She stood in the doorway for a long time, saying nothing.

‘Are you going to let me in? I want to explain … Please?'

He looked anxious. Unsmiling. She had no control over her voice. Something like a squeak came out of her mouth. ‘Yes,' she managed at last. ‘Come in, Gray.'