White Wedding (26 page)

‘Of course I’ll bake you a cake,’ said Sandra, clapping her hands together with delight. ‘You know I’ve wanted to do that from the off.’

‘Good,’ said Stu. ‘Don’t say anything to Max.’

‘Well, we hardly see anything of her, really,’ said Sandra, unable to keep the disappointment entirely out of her voice.

If Jenny were going to be her daughter-in-law, she’d always be round here, Stuart said to himself, before he reprimanded himself for thinking that. He did wish his fiancée and his
mum were closer, though. Considering how many years he and Max had been in a relationship, she and Sandra hadn’t met as often as they should have. It wasn’t as if they didn’t get
on, but he knew his mum felt awkward in the posh surroundings of Max’s big house, so she visited them less than ever these days. And Max never had any time to go visiting because she was
always working. A wedding reception would be a nice place to do a bit of bonding, Stuart thought.

‘I’m glad you’re having a bit of a do,’ said David, folding up the newspaper.

‘It’s not that much of a do, really,’ Stuart clarified the point.

‘Is it the cost that put you off having a big wedding, because we’ve got savings—’

Stuart raised a big arresting hand. ‘No, Dad, it’s nothing to do with money.’

God knows they had enough of it coming into the house to easily pay for one of those big fat gypsy weddings that were all the rage and that every girl at work seemed to be talking about, but
Stuart saw all that as Max’s money. He wanted a wedding
he
could pay for, not her, and he was determined to get his own way on this. He could afford a meal for a few friends and
family, and a cake was a nice touch that would just set the day off right. He wasn’t a man for fuss, anyway, but he certainly wasn’t going to start off his married life poncing off his
wife. And that was a non-negotiable point in Stuart’s head.

In his lunch hour the next day, Stuart nipped up to the Lamp to book the very small wedding reception. The menu looked lovely: ham salad, roast beef and then sweets from the
trolley. Simple but perfect in his book, especially as the new chef at the Lamp had a very good reputation. It wouldn’t be good enough for Max, of course, but it was better than the nothing
she was expecting, so he thought.

As Stuart was handing over the deposit, Max, in her extended lunch hour, was just being shown round the hospitality suite in Higher Hoppleton Hall by the events coordinator, Nina.

‘We have two dining rooms,’ explained Nina. ‘This is the smaller of them.’

Max looked at the ornate ceiling and the many mirrors on the walls. Nine guests would rattle around in here. An extra twenty guests would make all the difference. Thirty – even better.

The second dining room was as big as a ballroom. Max would need a minimum of two hundred guests for that one, and she knew she wouldn’t get away with that.

‘I think the first room would be more suitable for us,’ Max decided, despite secretly wishing for the second.

‘Excellent,’ said Nina. ‘Then let’s peruse some menus.’

Coffee and petits fours were waiting in her office.

The first menu was a no-no. It wasn’t the exorbitant cost that was the guiding factor on that decision, but the food itself. Stuart was a man of plain tastes and the menu choices were
heavy in all the things he didn’t like – foie gras, chicken-liver pâté, Stilton – and fish, which he hated unless it was battered cod. Max moved on to the second, but
she didn’t like lamb and the puddings were too stodgy and ordinary for her tastes: spotted dick or apple pie and custard. School-dinner puddings had moved back into vogue apparently, but not
on her planet, so she rejected it.

‘Now this one, I like,’ Max declared, seeing the third. For starter: a choice of scallops in pea froth, an Italian antipasti platter or soup. For main: Beef Wellington, Chicken
Forestière or Mediterranean tarte for the veggies. For dessert: a trio of cheesecakes, a quartet of chocolate desserts or summer-fruit pudding with clotted cream. Port and a cheeseboard to
follow, then home-made truffles and coffee. That menu had plenty of choice for the unfussy Taylors as well as her scallop-loving self.

Did she want flowers on the table, asked Nina. Did bears shit in the woods, she almost answered.

‘Oh yes, shocking-pink flowers,’ smiled Max, thinking of gypsy Margaret’s wedding. ‘And lots of them.’

The rein inside her that would have pulled on her and urged her to be careful had long since snapped. From now on she was booking everything she had dreamed of, everything that little
princess-loving girl that still remained inside her wanted on her wedding day. By the time Max left the building, she had ordered pink champagne, pink balloons, and pink-boxed favours of pink
chocolates. She had a sudden moment of panic when she started her car and thought of everything she had just committed to. Stuart was going to be really cross, she knew. But she also knew that
nothing – including the whole British army, navy and air force combined – would stop the speeding snowball of her wedding arrangements.

Once again Violet had lied to Glyn and said that she had a meeting with a supplier, but instead she had gone to Postbox Cottage, picking up a bilberry tart from Potts Bakery on
the way.

She sat on the sofa with her legs up on the pouffe, a pot of tea and the fruit-filled pastry on the table at her side, while she dreamed up some new flavours that she intended to trial in
Carousel
.

In summer there would be Nan’s Sherry Trifle, and Cream Tea. In autumn: Pumpkin Pie, and Cinnamon Apple. For winter she would make Mince Pie with Brandy Butter, and Snowcream – a
smooth white vanilla with tiny dots of white chocolate and edible glitter. And then for next spring, Crystallized Rose Petal, and Carrot Cake. That would do for starters, but there were so many
flavours she was desperate to make. And sitting in Postbox planning it all was a little piece of heaven.

She called in at Carousel on the way home. When she opened the door Pav came out from the kitchen and startled her.

‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘I didn’t expect you to be here today,’ she said, half laughing, half panting.

‘I am not needed on the building site. So I come here. That’s okay, isn’t it? I rang your mobile an hour ago to tell you.’

‘I forgot to bring it,’ said Violet. It wasn’t that big a deal, though. At least she was spared taking it out of her pocket and seeing that Glyn had rung her loads of times.
‘And yes, of course,’ said Violet. ‘That’s why I gave you a key, so you could come and go as you pleased. No need to ring.’

The second horse was painted and Pav had started on the third. The attention to detail was incredible. She hadn’t expected that standard when she took him on.

‘You like?’ he asked, noticing her studying his artwork.

‘Oh I like very much, Pav,’ said Violet. ‘You’re just so . . . so talented.’

Pav smiled and rubbed his knuckles against his shirt. ‘Yes, I know this,’ he said haughtily, then he chuckled and Violet’s laughter joined with his. She couldn’t remember
the last time she had laughed with Glyn.

‘Coffee?’ she asked. ‘I just came to –’
avoid going home for a little longer –
‘check on some stocks.’

‘Thank you,’ said Pav. ‘I will take a break.’

As she passed him, she noticed the smell of him – something foresty and masculine – and her lungs breathed him in with a sigh. She wondered how old he really was. He was younger than
her for sure, but by how many years? He wasn’t perfect-looking – his nose wasn’t perfectly straight and there was a rough scar, faded to silver, under his left eye – but he
wouldn’t have looked as striking without them; the imperfections only added to his manly attractiveness. But it wasn’t just the physical appearance of him that Violet found so
powerfully alluring; when he painted, his calm manner seemed to radiate out vibes that soothed her frazzled nerves like lavender oil.

‘Did you go to art college, Pav?’ Violet asked, as she stood waiting for the kettle to boil.

‘No, I have no formal training,’ he replied.

‘You left school at sixteen?’

‘I was eighteen.’

‘Ah.’ Violet got ready for the big question and tried to deliver it as casually as possible. ‘How long ago was that, then?’

‘Five years.’

So there were nine years between them. That wouldn’t have been so much had they both been in their eighties, but when she was twenty, he had been only eleven. Not that it mattered, she
reprimanded herself. It wasn’t as if there would –
could –
be any romance between them, anyway. He was far too young for that. And she was engaged. Plus, he was bound to
have a girlfriend, being so beautiful and talented and gentle.

‘I can’t believe you do what you do without formal training,’ marvelled Violet, bringing two coffees out of the kitchen.

‘Did you go to ice-cream school?’ asked Pav, grinning at her.

‘Yes, I did,’ said Violet with a totally straight face. ‘I am actually a doctor of ice cream.’

‘I will have to try some of your ice cream one day to see if you are telling me the truth,’ smiled Pav, his ocean-blue eyes fully trained on hers. Violet looked away, as if burned by
their attention.

‘I see you are engaged,’ said Pav, patting his own bare ring finger.

‘Yes,’ said Violet, sipping her coffee. She was aware that her hand had curled in on itself as if trying to hide the evidence. Glyn had chosen the heart-shaped diamond ring himself.
The first time he presented it to her, it had galvanized her into telling him that they should split up. The second time, she had accepted it and put it on.

‘When is your wedding?’

‘The thirtieth of July.’

‘Not long,’ he mused. Then, ‘You will work with your husband here?’

‘Oh God, no,’ said Violet, her dismissal of the idea firmer than intended. She saw Pav’s eyebrows rise. ‘We wouldn’t work well together,’ she added.

‘What does he do?’ asked Pav.

‘Nothing at the moment. He . . . erm . . . he’s been poorly.’

Pav shook his head, not understanding what she meant.

‘Poorly – ill,’ clarified Violet. ‘He’s been ill. He used to be a salesman for computer software. But then he . . . he had a . . . he became ill and couldn’t
work. What about you, Pav? Are you married?’ Violet quickly moved the subject away from Glyn. She didn’t want to talk about him here. Carousel was a Glyn-free zone.

‘I am single,’ Pav said, to her utter surprise.

In fact she was so shocked that she couldn’t speak.

‘Violet? Are you all right?’ Pav asked, seeing her mouth frozen in a perfect O.

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ she said, feeling a treacherous blush rush to her pale cheeks. ‘I’m just . . . just . . . wow.’ She coughed and laughed nervously and knew
she must look like an idiot. Especially because he seemed to be amused by her dumbfoundedness.

‘I am –’ Pav cast around for the word he was looking for – ‘fussy. What is your man like?’

Oh God. ‘He’s quiet, homely. I’ve got some biscuits in the cupboard, I think.’ She turned and went into the kitchen, knowing that she had no biscuits but making a
pretence of looking for them all the same by loudly opening and closing cupboard doors and muttering to herself, ‘Damn, I was sure I had some.’ She returned to him empty-handed.

‘It’s okay,’ said Pav. ‘I am watching my figure.’ He rubbed his flat stomach. Violet bet there would be a rippling six-pack of muscles under his shirt. She
didn’t want to even think about comparing it to Glyn’s belly, which was getting bigger and wobblier by the month. ‘I think perhaps that you need to buy some biscuits for yourself,
though,’ said Pav. ‘You are so small.’ He held his hands as if he were encircling a tiny waist. ‘And pale.’

‘I’ve always been like this,’ said Violet. ‘They used to call me “Ghost” when I was younger. But trust me, I eat well. I just don’t have much
colour.’

‘Your eyes have colour,’ said Pav, in such a warm gentle way that she gulped. ‘They are violet like your name.’

Violet laughed bashfully. ‘Thanks,’ she said, not knowing where to look. ‘Ooh well, I’d better get off home now.’
Before I turn deep purple and my head blows
up
.

Pav grinned. ‘Thank you for the coffee,’ he said. ‘And the company.’

‘Pleasure,’ said Violet breathlessly, grabbing her handbag and trying to look composed despite bumping into a stack of boxes on her way out. Once behind the steering wheel, she
looked at herself in the rear-view mirror and wondered how she was still whole and hadn’t melted into a liquid. And thought how much easier life would be if hearts took the simpler, sensible
paths.

Glyn had left eight increasingly frustrated voicemail messages on Violet’s mobile before finding it in her underwear drawer, switched to silent.

Violet never knew that he occasionally looked through her drawers and her handbag or looked at her emails and the list of callers on her mobile phone. To be fair, he had never found anything to
be suspicious about until recently, when a new name had appeared in the address book of her mobile: P. Nowak. And P. Nowak had rung her today and left a message.

Glyn rang her voicemail and deleted the first four of the messages he had left, then he heard the voice of P. Nowak.

‘Hello, Violet. Just to let you know that I will be painting at Carousel today as I have no other work to do. Thank you. It’s Pav, by the way.’

Glyn listened to the next message – one of his own. His voice sounded thin and reedy in comparison to the low, foreign voice of ‘Pav’. Glyn felt a paranoid anger surge through
him. He wanted to smash the phone against the wall but he forced himself to calm down and delete the other messages that he had left for Violet.

Then he went to the bathroom, brushing furious tears from his cheeks, and emptied the laundry basket to check for any evidence that Violet might have been unfaithful to him.

‘Hello, Shelleybrations. Shelley speaking. How may I be of assistance?’

‘Oh good afternoon,’ said Max, delighted to be speaking to Shelley rather than having to leave a message – it was nearly six o’clock, after all. ‘I’ve just
found your number on the internet. You make cakes for gypsy weddings, don’t you?’