White Wedding (25 page)

She heard him snore gently beside her and she tentatively slunk out of bed and padded out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. There she made herself a hot chocolate and sat at the table
wondering how she could stop the conveyor belt that she felt strapped to as it hurtled towards her wedding day, because Freya’s cautionary tale had been circling in her head ever since she
heard it.

It took until Tuesday for Bel to ring Richard’s number. She put it back down again the first time it started ringing; her hands were shaking.

‘Come on, you silly cow,’ she gee-ed herself up. Again she pressed in the number and waited. He picked up on the fifth ring.

‘Bel,’ he said in a voice flooded with warmth and relief. ‘Are you all right?’

All the words Bel had prepared crumbled into bits like flaky pastry in her mouth. How did one answer that after all that had happened?

‘Well,’ was all she managed before her throat clogged with tears.

‘I haven’t known whether to ring you or leave you to think things through. I am so glad you rang, honey. I can’t tell you how much.’

His voice was so soft and tender and full of concern. She tried to speak but nothing came out.

‘Bel, I don’t want to rush you. You take all the time in the world. You call me all the names under the sun if it helps. But I want to make this up to you. I don’t know how,
but I’m going to try and I promise you I
will
succeed.’

The part of Bel’s heart labelled ‘Richard’ began to thaw. He was saying everything she wanted to hear.

‘I know you’re upset and you probably can’t talk . . .’

He was so on her wavelength. He was being strong for her.

‘Bel, I’m not going to harass you. I want to see you but only when you’re ready to see me. I must have been mad to risk losing you. I wish I could tell you why I did
it.’

Bel sniffed.

‘There I go upsetting you again. Bel, we’re going to be fine. In your own time. Take as much of it as you need.’

Bel pulled in a huge breath to ask the big question, which came out of a very croaky throat.

‘What about Shaden?’

‘What about Shaden?’ Richard growled with passion and just the right amount of venom. ‘I never want to hear that name again. I could vomit when I think about her. And, trust
me, I don’t think about her one bit.’

‘So, after the wedding, you didn’t go off together?’

‘NO, I DID NOT,’ he yelled, as if that was the most ridiculous thing in the world. ‘I don’t know where she is, nor do I want to.’

‘Okay,’ said Bel, hating herself for being so floppy and full of tears. She had wanted to conduct their first conversation with the stance and attitude of a world-famous boxer.

‘Honey, I love you so much. I’m going to prove that to you. Call me any time, day or night. I want to see you so much. When you’re ready. But soon, I hope.’

Bel put down the phone, unable to reply. She was a wreck. He had smashed her with his nice warm voice. She just wished time would rewind to the day when she picked up his phone in the kitchen
and checked it. She should have confronted him and worked this out then, when there was merely water under the bridge, and not left it until now, when there was a tsunami’s-worth of ocean
thundering under it and threatening its total collapse.

Stuart came home from work an hour early with a headache. He was prone to migraines, always had been. Luckily, though, the Nurofen he took before setting off had done the trick
and by the time he reached home the headache had almost dissipated. For once he wouldn’t need to go to bed with the lights off, avoiding even the slightest of sounds.

As he unlocked the door, he heard the sound of vacuuming coming from down the hallway and he felt his heart give an excited little jump in his chest. Of course, the cleaner came on Tuesday. He
knew he would be disappointed if he found Sheila there and not Jenny and – God forgive him – he hoped Sheila wasn’t well enough to come back and resume her twice-weekly
duties.

Jenny jumped when he pushed open the lounge door.

‘Blimey O’Riley, I thought you were a burglar,’ she said.

‘Sorry, Jen,’ he laughed. ‘I was actually trying not to scare you.’

‘You did a rotten job of it,’ she smiled, palm flat on her panting chest. ‘You okay? You look as if you’ve been whitewashed.’

‘I’m just at the tail-end of a migraine,’ said Stuart.

‘I’ve got some paracetamol in my handbag in the kitchen. Shall I fetch them for you?’

‘It’s fine, I’ve taken something,’ said Stuart, touched at her concern.

‘Mum gets those. Do you get the flashing lights ones or the sicky ones?’

‘The sicky ones,’ replied Stuart.

‘Sit down and I’ll make you a cuppa,’ said Jenny, clicking the Dyson to an upright position.

‘I’m fine, Jen. I don’t want to disturb you.’

‘It’s no trouble, honest. I’ve just this one corner to vacuum then I’m done, anyway.’

‘Tell you what, I’ll go and put the kettle on,’ said Stuart. ‘I’ll make you a cuppa instead while you finish off.’

Jenny smiled her Jenny Thompson smile and conceded defeat.

Stuart walked into the kitchen to find it gleaming, even more than it did when Sheila tackled it, if that was possible. The kettle had just boiled when Jenny joined him. She flicked her hand
towards his nice suit.

‘It’s all that executive stress bringing on these headaches,’ she said.

‘I’m hardly an executive, Jen,’ Stuart laughed a little at the thought. He’d worn a suit to work for the third time ever because he had been recently promoted and would
be called on to go to meetings round a table periodically. Max had seen the position advertised in his company newsletter and nagged him to apply for it. Why shouldn’t he have a better
pension and more work benefits when he deserved them after seventeen years of loyal service, was her argument. His boss was pushing him too from the other side, telling him that the new job was in
the bag and there would be a significant pay increase that came with it. It wasn’t a fraction of what Max brought home, of course, but he felt increasingly under self-pressure to contribute
more to the household pot. He hated meetings, though. He was out of his comfort zone in a suit and making small talk. Thank goodness it wouldn’t happen all that often, but still he wished
he’d stayed in his old position where he was happy and unstressed and relatively migraine-free.

Stuart poured boiling water over the instant coffee in the mugs. Max had bought a huge fancy Krups machine but he had never mastered how to use it. Not that it mattered, because he didn’t
want a throat-punching espresso or a fluffy cappuccino, anyway – a bog-standard cup of instant Douwe Egberts had always been good enough for him.

‘I thought you weren’t supposed to drink coffee when you had migraines,’ said Jenny.

‘Mine aren’t triggered off by food,’ Stuart replied, tipping milk into the mugs. ‘I get stress-heads.’

‘The smell of oranges can set Mum off,’ said Jenny. ‘And cheese. Shame, really, as she loves cheese but she just can’t have it.’

‘How’s your mum’s back?’ Stuart handed the coffee over to Jenny.

‘She’s doing okay. She’ll be up on her feet again soon. It’s killing her lying down and having to rest.’

‘I would have thought it would be killing you, doing her jobs for her as well as your own.’

‘We’re a team,’ Jen said. ‘She’d do the same for me. Look.’ She reached into her coat pocket. ‘We’ve just had these printed.’ She handed
over a pretty pink business card with the company name: Two Women and Their Mops.

‘We’ve even got an accountant now,’ beamed Jenny. ‘We’re doing really well. We’ve got lots of customers.’ The pride was bursting out of her.

‘That’s brilliant, Jen,’ said Stuart, impressed. ‘Don’t overwork yourself, though.’

‘No, I won’t do that. A two-woman cleaning business is about as ambitious as I’m ever likely to get. I like being at home with Alan in the evenings too much. I don’t want
to be one of those people that never has any free time.’ Jenny looked up at him with her pretty hazel eyes. ‘I bet that sounds really sad to someone like you.’

‘No, no, it doesn’t at all,’ said Stuart, and he meant it. ‘Lucky Alan.’

‘Why don’t you have any pets? You’ve got enough room for a herd of Great Danes in this place. Or is it a flock?’

Stuart smiled at the thought of a flock of Great Danes. Jenny really was sweet and funny.

‘Max doesn’t want any pets,’ he replied. Something else Max had got her own way on. But change was afoot, thank goodness – better late than never.

‘Mind you, your lovely white rugs wouldn’t stand a dog or a cat trailing in muck from the garden. Even Alan’s hairs stick on the cushions,’ chuckled Jen. ‘Listen to
me talking like a nutter about a rabbit. Anyone would think we sat down at the end of the day and had a discussion about politics.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ grinned Stuart. ‘I know what you mean. It’s just nice to have another living breathing presence in the house.’

‘If you haven’t got the alternative of a living breathing partner,’ added Jen.

‘Yeah,’ said Stuart, thinking that he might as well classify himself as living alone for all he saw of Max these days. Right on cue the phone went off in his pocket. A text from
her.

‘I’d best get off,’ said Jen, draining her mug.

‘Got another job?’

‘No, I want to get to a shop before it shuts,’ said Jen.

‘Come on, I’ll give you a lift,’ said Stuart.

‘No, you’ve got a headache. I’ll get the bus . . .’

But Stu wasn’t going to take no for an answer. It was going to be another long lonely night. Taking Jenny home would at least drag it out a little less for him.

‘Four six five.’

Sitting at her desk, Max dictated the security number of her Visa card down the phone. She had just bought a honeymoon – a weekend in a gorgeous country spa hotel in Stow-on-the-Wold.
Personally she would have liked to have gone somewhere hot and sunny, but Stuart hated going abroad. He burned so easily and got bored, whereas Max could have vegged out all day by a pool doing
nothing but reading and sipping cocktails. He was probably going to be a bit cross that she had booked a honeymoon behind his back, seeing as they had planned to spend the weekend quietly at home
– but after seeing her swaggering down the aisle in her lovely gypsy wedding dress he would figure she had more surprises in store. She knew him inside out after many years of courting, and
was confident he’d ride with it and grudgingly enjoy it all. Nothing surer.

Once the booking had been confirmed, Max started googling the finest country house in the area for their reception.

‘Just drop me off here, will you, please?’ asked Jen, pointing to the chip shop on the edge of the Money Box estate.

‘Wonder what you’re having for your tea, then?’ smiled Stuart.

‘I’m going to get fish and chips and peas on a tray and eat them as I walk home.’

‘And how are you going to manage that and your mop and bucket?’

‘Ah,’ Jen clicked her fingers. ‘That’s why I was never in the top class at school.’

‘Tell you what,’ Stuart suggested. ‘How about we get two trays and sit and eat them in the car? I haven’t had fish and chips for ages.’ He was salivating at the
thought.

There was a fancy baguette waiting for him in the fridge at home. French cheese and salad and bollocks. He could eat that alone in the cavernous kitchen or have fish and chips and a chat with
Jenny.

‘Your lovely car will stink of vinegar,’ warned Jen.

‘Sod the car,’ said Stuart, clipping off his seat belt. ‘Scraps as well?’

After he had dropped Jenny off, he drove over to call in on his mum and dad, who still lived in the small house in Rose Lane they had bought when they were first married. He
didn’t want to go straight home and rattle around in Max’s big house by himself. He was a people person and always had been. He liked living on an estate and seeing things happen
outside the window. And he was an animal person too. After the wedding he was definitely going to get a cat or a dog or something. Or a rabbit – like Alan.

He sat in the fish-and-chip-scented car for a few minutes after pulling up outside his parents’ house. He caught sight of his face in the rear-view mirror and saw that he was smiling. And
he knew that smile was a direct result of thinking about Jenny Thompson and Alan. He had no right storing them both in the part of his brain where his best thoughts were kept, not when he was
getting married in just over a month’s time. And so he was here at his mum’s house to try to herd himself back on course.

‘Hello, love,’ said Sandra Taylor, as her son came in through the door. A homely smell of beef hash cooking on the hob greeted him. ‘Cuppa?’

‘Go on, then,’ said Stuart. The kettle was always on at his mam’s house. He threw himself on the sofa next to his dad, who was reading the racing results.

‘I wish I’d bet on that bugger Big Fat White Wedding,’ said David Taylor. ‘It came in at twenty to one.’

‘Tea, David?’ called Sandra.

‘Aye, go on, then,’ replied David, still shaking his head slowly from side to side.

‘Why didn’t you bet on it?’

‘Because it’s his first race and the stupid bloody racing pundit said it had no chance.’

Funny that his dad should be talking about weddings, thought Stuart. Was it a sign that what he was about to ask was the right way forward, after all?

‘Mum, can I ask you a favour?’ he said, when Sandra delivered two cups of milky tea to him and his dad.

‘Course you can, love.’

‘Any chance of you making me a small wedding cake?’

‘For you and Maxine? I thought you weren’t having any trimmings. When I asked you before if you wanted me to make you one you said no—’

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he cut in. ‘Nothing too fancy. And I think I might book a meal after the ceremony at the Lamp for us all. As a surprise. I was in there the other
day with Luke and they’ve redecorated it. Looks nice.’
Not to Max’s standards, but okay to mine
.