White Wedding (13 page)

‘I suppose. But that really is as far as we go. I mean it.’

‘Of course,’ said Max, careful not to add, ‘I promise’. There would be a church free because she’d find one. Max would have one built if she had to.

Violet drove the long way home, via Maltstone. Glyn wasn’t expecting her for hours and she felt as if she’d been let off a leash. There weren’t even any
missed calls from him. She decided to take herself off to the Maltstone Garden Centre coffee shop and delay going home until she really had to.

There were temporary roadworks on the main road and she had to pull up and wait at the side of the White Wedding bridal shop. Freya was in the window adjusting a dress on a mannequin. Violet did
a double-take and knew she’d have to go in and take a closer look.

When the lights turned green, she turned right and parked at the side of the shop.

She pushed open the door to White Wedding and the bell tinkled above her head. Freya had a large pin cushion on her arm as she arranged the dress.

‘Hello, again,’ she smiled. ‘I’m glad you came back. I have some new stock.’

‘That dress in the window,’ said Violet quite breathlessly. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ said Freya. ‘It’s no trouble to take it out, if you want to try it on.’

‘Could I?’ asked Violet.

Freya leaned into the window and undressed the mannequin. The dress was ivory silk with three-quarter sleeves and tiny peach rosebuds decorating the scooped neck.

‘It’s a vintage dress,’ she said. ‘It’s just been dry-cleaned.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ gasped Violet. ‘Is it terribly expensive?’

‘Fifteen hundred pounds,’ replied Freya.

Violet’s balloon of hope popped. There was no way she could afford half of that, so it wasn’t any good even trying to bargain.

‘Try it on,’ said Freya, holding it out.

‘There’s no point really,’ said Violet.

‘Indulge me,’ Freya urged.

‘I shouldn’t,’ said Violet, but her hands were reaching out for it.

‘Try it on.’

Violet took the gown. It felt much heavier than it looked. She pulled back the curtain to the changing room and slipped out of her blue suit, which she had bought especially for Bel’s
wedding. She stepped into the dress and Freya called her, asking if she needed any help fastening it up. She did.

As Freya zipped up the back, Violet stared in the mirror and saw how beautiful the dress looked on her.

‘Stunning,’ said Freya, clasping her hands together in delight.

‘I wish I hadn’t put it on now,’ sighed Violet. She knew this was
the
dress. It wasn’t like anything she had fantasized about, but it warmed up the tones of her
skin and made the best of her slender figure.

‘I can hire it to you for the day if you really want to wear it,’ offered Freya, watching as a smile took over Violet’s lips.

‘Would you? Would you really?’

‘One hundred and fifty pounds,’ said Freya.

‘I can afford that,’ said Violet excitedly. ‘Can I book it?’

‘Consider it yours,’ said Freya.

Glyn was on the laptop when she got back to the flat. He bounced to his feet and came over for a hug.

‘You’re back early,’ he said, delighted.

‘Well, the wedding was . . . cut short,’ she said, for want of a better expression. She recounted the story in a factual ungossipy way, while he listened intently.

‘Blimey,’ he said eventually. ‘What can one say to that?’ But he looked more pleased to have Violet home than concerned and ready to commiserate with her about her
friend’s misfortune.

‘Poor Bel,’ she said wearily. ‘She must have been going through hell. Having to arrange a wedding with so much hurt burning inside her.’

Glyn squeezed Violet’s arm. ‘It hasn’t put you off, has it?’

‘No, no,’ said Violet. ‘Of course not.’

‘Our wedding won’t be a disaster like that,’ he smiled. ‘Because I would never be unfaithful to you.’ His hand threaded into her hair and drew her face towards him.
She felt his tongue push between her lips and she pulled away, laughing.

‘Give up, you softie,’ she said. ‘I’m going to open a bottle of wine. I need a drink. Shall I get out a glass for you too?’

‘Why did you pull away, Letty?’ he asked. ‘You do that a lot.’

‘I do not,’ replied Violet vehemently. But she knew she did. She didn’t like kissing him any more. She didn’t like the taste of him. She could manage this relationship
when it was on a platonic footing and she tried her hardest to keep it there, but invariably it veered on to a more physical plane.

‘Prove it, then. Give me a snog. Now.’

Violet leaned towards him and kissed him. She closed her eyes, aware that his were open and searching her face for evidence that she didn’t enjoy kissing him. Had her eyes been open too,
he would have found it.

Max was ringing her ninth vicar, the Reverend James Joseph Folly. Now Stuart had agreed to a church wedding there was no time to waste. She was going to secure a booking before
he changed his mind. She had left messages on the answerphones of six. Two had been very sorry but they were booked solid until November. Nine was her lucky number, she told herself. She was born
on the ninth of September, weighed 9 lbs 9 oz when she was born and her first address was number nine, Fraser Street. She willed the vicar on the other end of the line to somehow respond to that
coincidence at a crucial point in the cosmos.

‘Good afternoon,’ she said, in her best no-brooking sales voice when he answered. ‘Please can you help me? We were due to get married on the second of July in the town hall but
they’ve moved the venue to the old hospital, which has bad memories for us. Everything was arranged for that day and I don’t know what to do. Could you marry us? Please? I don’t
care if it’s midnight. Could you do it?’

There was no answer at the end of the line. Max wondered if he’d hung up, until she heard him pottering about in the background.

‘Sorry about that,’ came a slightly shushing voice eventually. He sounded like the bloke from the Mr Kipling advert. ‘I was just reaching for my diary. Now when did you
say?’

‘Saturday the second of July.’

‘Next year?’

‘This year.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Please don’t say no. I’m desperate.’

There was a pause at the end of the phone.

‘What time where you thinking of,’ said the vicar.

‘Anytime at all.’

‘Eleven o’clock in the morning?’

Max gasped. Even with all her uber confidence that was a bit of a shocker.

‘Really?’

‘I have had so many of these emergencies over the years that I leave a slot each week in June and July for such eventualities. You’re my first taker.’

‘Oh Reverend, that’s amazing,’ said Max. She was in such rapture that she felt light-headed and had to sit down on a nearby chair before she fell.

‘I’ll need to see you and your fiancé at your earliest convenience,’ he said.

‘Name the time and the date and we’ll be there.’

Max could not keep the excitement out of her voice. She’d done it. That was surely a sign that her big fat gypsy wedding plans were fated to be the right ones.

Bel was freezing. The portable electric fire gave out as much heat as a tub of Haagen Daaz. She had even put on the two-ringed electric hob to add some heat to the place. The
only option was to warm herself from the inside; soup was as good a method as any. The trouble was that the tin opener was in Emily.

Luckily the wine had a screw-top. After a very long glug from the neck, she found enough inner bravado to knock loudly on Emily’s door and alert the ‘tenant’ there to answer
it.

‘Who is it?’ said the voice within.

‘Angelina Jolie,’ said Bel.

The door swung open. ‘You’ve shrunk, Angie,’ said the occupant, now wearing a black marl sweatshirt and dark-grey Nike bottoms.

Bel felt extremely short gazing up at him. Not that it fazed her.

‘Could I trouble you for a quilt and a pan and a tin opener?’ said Bel, trying to do a pleasant smile, although it wasn’t happening very well. The rain was drenching her as she
stood on the doorstep and rather ungallantly he wasn’t inviting her even as far as the inside doormat. ‘Charlotte isn’t really equipped for anyone staying there for any length of
time. Well, any longer than five minutes, if I’m honest.’

She looked beyond him and saw the log-burning stove crackling and the TV on. And there was a smell of beef stew snaking around him.

He stood there for too long deciding whether to assist this suspicious and half-tiddly rain-soaked woman in a torn wedding dress, so her arm came out to shove him out of the way.

‘Whoa, there,’ said the man. ‘How do I know
you’re
not some squatter? Or a mad woman from the village. I’ve paid a bond on this place. I do not want to be
fined for missing implements.’

‘I’ve told you, this is my father’s house.’

‘So you said. I think I ought to ring him first, to check,’ said the man, taking his phone out of his pocket.

‘No,’ yelled Bel. ‘Don’t do that. I don’t want anyone to know I’m here. Plus, you can’t, anyway. The nearest place you’ll get any mobile reception
is at the bottom of the hill. And the house phone only takes incoming calls.’

‘Well, until I get confirmation of who you are, you aren’t having anything out of here,’ said the man, crossing his arms and assuming such a stance that he filled the
doorway.

‘I am who I say I am,’ puffed up Bel. ‘I just don’t want anyone to know I’m here, so if anyone happens to ring you, I’d be obliged if you say you
haven’t seen me.’

‘I really don’t want to get involved in whatever your business is.’ The rude stubbly man then tried to close the door, but Bel’s hand came straight out to stop that
happening.

‘Who’s involving you? Just say you haven’t seen me, if anyone asks. End of. It’s not that complicated.’

‘Sounds very complicated to me,’ said the man, and his eyes, so dark they were almost black, swept over her. ‘Jilt someone, did you?’

‘None of your sodding business,’ said Bel through gritted teeth. ‘Now – please – a pan, a quilt and a tin opener and I’ll be out of your hair. In case you
haven’t noticed, it’s absolutely pissing down with rain and I’m soaked standing here.’

‘Ask nicely.’

‘What?’ Bel reared.

‘I said “ask nicely”. Without talking to me as if I’m some sort of pleb.’

‘Just give me the bloody . . .’

The door slammed in Bel’s face. She growled like an angry wolf and jumped up and down in frustration.

‘Doing a war dance outside my front door won’t get you what you want,’ she heard the man say from inside the cottage. ‘Or is it a rain dance? If so, that’s
working.’

Bel took a slow deep breath and counted to ten. Then another ten because the first ten didn’t do much good. She rapped lightly on the door and waited.

‘Who is it?’ came the voice from within.

‘It’s me. From next door,’ said Bel with faux sweetness.

The black-eyed man appeared again at the door.

‘What do you want?’ he asked, with a raise of two innocently arched eyebrows.

‘I wonder if you’d be so kind as to lend me a pan, a quilt and a tin opener. Thank you,’ said Bel, with a very wet smile. She could only imagine what she looked like by now.
Rivers of black mascara had left black dots on her dress and her hair would be as flat as a fart.

‘Certainly,’ he replied, with the same painful rictus smile. ‘Where are they kept? Do come in and tell me.’

Bel stepped across the threshold and wiped her feet on the coconut mat. Then she crossed to the far corner of the room, where there was a large chest dressed as an occasional table with a cover
on it and a lamp. She took them off, opened the chest and helped herself to a spare quilt, pillow and sheet. Meanwhile, he had located the tin opener in the drawer and taken a pan from the
cupboard.

‘Here you go,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ said Bel, not sounding the slightest bit grateful.

‘You’ve ripped your dress,’ he said.

‘I know and – guess what? – I couldn’t give a bugger,’ said Bel, striding out and shutting the door hard behind her.

Bel locked herself in Charlotte and took a tin of vegetable soup out of her box of supplies. She wasn’t hungry in the slightest, though, as she turned the tin opener
round the rim and poured the contents into the pan and heated it. In the small cupboard she found a huge bowl and a pint glass. She half-filled the latter with wine and necked it in one. It
didn’t make her feel any better. She turned the soup off when it started bubbling and transferred it to the bowl.

By the time she had finished it, the mascara blobs had been joined by splashes of orange soup and Australian red wine. Bel sat on the sofa and picked up the skirt to examine the tear. She
slipped her hands inside it then pulled them apart, and the material split with a satisfying rip. Five seconds later she was locked in a dress-destroying frenzy, shredding the material between her
bare hands, yanking wildly on the sleeves until they were dragged away from the rest of the gown and thrown across the room. She tugged at the neck and felt the zip at the back split. The tattered
dress fell to the floor and she picked it up and wildly tore where she could at the net underskirt, swearing as she kicked it around the room. Then she slumped to the sofa in her underwear, the
fight in her spent. All the strength that had carried her through the past two months was now depleted and the walls holding back all her hurt and pain crumbled in on themselves. Bel’s body
curled into a ball and she dragged the quilt over her. In the sanctuary of her fifteen-tog nest, she cried and cried and cried.

Glyn was humming in the kitchen as he cooked breakfast for them the next morning. His fry-ups were getting bigger, and if she didn’t finish off her plate his lip curled
like a disappointed child’s.

‘Didn’t you like it?’ he would say if she left more than a mush-room. He wouldn’t mention the fact that he’d put enough on her plate to feed a small emergent nation
for a week. She wouldn’t have been so cruel as to mention that he had outgrown all the trousers in his wardrobe and so slopped around in baggy lounge pants that made him look enormous.
Instead she just hinted that so much fried food really wasn’t good for anyone. Violet wasn’t a food fascist – how could she be when she made ice cream for a living? – but
Glyn grazed constantly on crisps and biscuits and sweets. They weren’t treats; they constituted most of his staple diet.