A Winter's Wedding

by Sharon Owens

  ‘Yes, indeed. We had a massive fight last night and another one this morning. And I nearly trashed the house, I was so damn angry with him. He wouldn’t even look at me, Emily. I said some silly things to him, but I was beyond livid. So he walked out and told me he wasn’t coming back – not ever. And now I’ve cut my arm quite badly on a broken vase. Accidentally, I might add. That impossible man isn’t worth my committing suicide over. You’ll have to hold the meeting for me, Emily.’

  ‘Right, okay, I can see that. But do you need to go to A&E for stitches?’

  ‘Look, don’t worry about me. The bleeding is slowing down. I’ve put a nice clean towel on it. It’s not even sore; I think my adrenaline is still working overtime.’

  ‘Arabella, this is awful. You should get your doctor to have a look at you. How big is the cut?’

  ‘Emily, there isn’t time for this conversation. Just hold the meeting, choose next month’s cover, and send flowers to our main advertisers in lieu of a lunch with me later on today. And don’t take any nonsense from Jane, by the way. She’s a great stylist but a cheeky madam sometimes – and given half a chance she’d take over the entire magazine. I’ll call you later. Actually, could you come over here as soon as you can and help me tidy up? Could you, sweetheart? I wouldn’t ask, if I hadn’t cut my arm.’

  ‘Okay, yes, of course I’ll come over. Just you rest, yeah? And if the bleeding doesn’t stop, will you please go to the hospital?’

  But Arabella had already hung up.

  ‘Well, here goes,’ Emily said as she took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy glass door to the office. ‘It seems Arabella has been delayed,’ she said in her bravest voice. ‘She won’t be coming in today. And we can’t postpone this meeting until tomorrow, so I’ve been asked to conduct the meeting and select the next cover. So let’s begin with that, shall we?’

  Everyone glanced briefly round the table, as if waiting for an objection. When none came they began to place their cover submissions in front of Emily.

  ‘Wait a minute. Is nobody else going to say anything?’ Jane was glaring at Emily.

  ‘Arabella just asked me to do this,’ Emily said.

  ‘Are you kidding us?’ Jane said angrily, a seventh shortbread finger halfway to her open mouth. ‘You’re actually in charge here? You’re choosing the cover?’

  ‘Well, yes – I am. You see, the thing is, we have to let the printer have the cover layout by lunchtime today. So let’s see what we’ve got, yes?’ Emily smiled at them all, even though her heart was racing like a train going downhill without any brakes.

  ‘Now, look here. If Arabella isn’t coming in today then I’m the most senior person present,’ Jane began. ‘I should chair the meeting and make any major decisions that have to be made.’

  But Emily bravely ignored her and started flicking through the photographs. She knew only too well that Arabella wasn’t overly keen on Jane’s fondness for modern interiors and typefaces.

  ‘There are two front runners,’ she said briskly. ‘Personally I prefer the button-maker’s cottage. It’s like something from a fairytale, with all those hundreds of jars of buttons stacked up on every flat surface – though we should also give some consideration to the Daisy Churchill feature, of course.’

  Emily didn’t intend for one second to put Daisy on the cover, but she knew Jane would throw a hissy fit if her pet project was ignored completely. However, Jane was even more belligerent than usual that morning.

  ‘Consideration, did you say? Daisy is only the country’s leading celebrity model,’ Jane snapped. ‘There’s no question about who is going to be on the cover.’

  ‘Daisy is a celebrity glamour model,’ Emily corrected her carefully. ‘And she’s very lovely, and so on. But our typical reader is more concerned with buttons than bosoms, wouldn’t you say? That’s why they read our magazine, Jane – to get away from bosoms. From implants that resemble ostrich eggs. I don’t know about you, but every time I see a cover featuring that woman I can almost hear the little chicks cheeping away inside her bra.’

  There were some barely stifled giggles around the table. Jane wasn’t all that well liked, and there wasn’t anyone present who wouldn’t mind seeing her precious feature bumped to the back pages. They didn’t much care for Daisy either, after she’d dumped her normal boyfriend for a wealthy businessman the year before.

  ‘Daisy Churchill is a multimillionaire model and fashion icon. She’s the biggest star in the UK right now. She lives in a stunning mansion, and I styled that shoot personally,’ Jane said frostily. ‘It took over eight hours and was very tastefully done.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure it was, Jane. But this shot of Daisy lying on a white rug on the sitting-room floor, in a white fur bikini?’ Emily said quietly. ‘It’s got the wow factor and everything, of course. But I’m not sure it fits our demographic. Is this really the sort of vibe we’re aiming for?’

  Emily didn’t dare look up from the photographs spread across the table. She knew that Jane would be staring back at her, as if she were nothing but an annoying little upstart from the back of beyond, which she supposed she was. But Arabella needed her to be strong now and, really, Emily didn’t think a white fur bikini was the right image for the cover of Stylish Living. Usually they had a shabby-chic patchwork quilt and some embroidered cushions, or an antique lemonade bottle with wild flowers in it, or a nice friendly-looking couple sitting on a willow bench in their garden.

  ‘It was a winter wonderland theme,’ Jane said slowly, as if Emily were a complete idiot. ‘I used a white fur bikini because it was a winter theme.’

  Petra Dunwoody, one of the more senior freelancers, could stand the tension no longer. She burst out laughing. Everybody else bit their lip nervously and looked out of the window. Really, that suggestive pose of Daisy’s was as far away from a winter wonderland theme as anyone sane could possibly imagine. More like a cheesy roller disco in the 1960s, if anything, Petra thought suddenly.

  ‘Jane, I admire you for getting the gig,’ Petra spluttered. ‘And Daisy probably is the most recognized face in the UK right now. But you’ve got to be sensible, darling. This is Stylish Living, yeah? Not Nuts magazine. Daisy hasn’t got the right sort of image for us at all. So I think Emily is quite right. Let’s go for the button-maker on the front cover. Look at those gorgeous little lavender bags hanging on the Shaker drawers behind her. It’s so appropriate for this new era of make-do-and-mend. We could do a little cut-out-and-keep pattern for making lavender bags, to run alongside? I’ve got something like that on file. We could drop it into the feature.’

  ‘Lavender bags, did you say? Screw the lavender bags. Arabella will be absolutely furious if you turn down a world-famous celebrity in favour of a two-room shack with exposed pipes and a six-socket plugboard in the background,’ Jane almost shouted. ‘I spent weeks negotiating that shoot so that we could get it without paying Daisy a massive fee. This is grossly unfair to me. Not to mention a right slap in the face for Daisy Churchill.’

  There were more giggles then as everyone suddenly remembered Daisy had been bitch-slapped the week before by some super-possessive WAG outside a bar in Liverpool, after she’d posed for pictures with a group of Premier League footballers.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Jane, but you do know that our last six covers have been very successful? And they’ve all had an old-fashioned feel to them. It is an antiques-based magazine, you know. Our readers won’t be expecting a glamour model with a pout on her like two slugs mating in a bowl of jelly.’

  Jane looked as if she might be about to thump Emily.

  ‘Arabella did say the Daisy feature would have to suit the magazine’s profile, didn’t she? If you went ahead with it, that is. You know that Arabella wanted pictures of Daisy without her heavy make-up on – just sitting in her kitchen, drinking tea.’

  Emily did her best to sound sympathetic, but sometimes she wondered why Jane didn’t just decamp to the gossip titles and be done with it. She clearly had no in
terest in antiques – or even in ordinary people.

  ‘Slugs for lips! Well, that takes the biscuit. I’m going to phone Arabella right this minute for a second opinion,’ Jane said defiantly.

  ‘You can’t do that. Arabella’s busy today, she’s got things to do,’ Emily said quickly.

  ‘What are you – her mother?’ Jane said.

  ‘Please, Jane, I just want to get the cover sorted,’ Emily said firmly.

  ‘Let’s do it the old-fashioned way,’ Petra interjected. ‘Show of hands, please? All those in favour of the button-maker for the front cover, please put your hands up.’

  Slowly everyone raised their hands – except Jane, who was so angry her lips had disappeared into a tight knot of suppressed rage.

  ‘Actually, the Daisy feature is very lengthy. So it won’t fit into this issue, anyway,’ Petra added.

  ‘Good point, Petra. Do you know, I think the Daisy feature might suit next month’s bathroom supplement better?’ Emily said, trying to be fair. ‘We still have twelve pages to fill there – and all the bikini shots might be more appropriate in a bathroom setting. Hasn’t she got a massive loofah, by the way?’

  There was another round of sniggers.

  ‘Forget about it. Don’t bother doing me any special favours,’ Jane said bitterly.

  She left her other submissions in a neat pile in front of Emily, made her excuses and left the office. For a few seconds after she’d gone there was an uncomfortable silence. Then the meeting exploded into peals of laughter, and lots of derision was expressed for Daisy’s white fur bikini.

  ‘Good for you, Emily,’ said Petra, clapping her hands loudly. ‘Daisy Churchill is a shameless self-publicist who has no more interest in interiors and antiques than I have in nuclear physics. Dozy trollop! The truth is, every other magazine in the country is sick of the sight of her. There’s not a single thing left to say about the personal life of that silly woman. So she’s now targeting the niche magazines such as ours. It’ll be the fishing quarterlies next: Daisy Churchill Likes A Big Rod! And if anybody takes the biscuit, Jane does. Greedy cow scoffed half that tin of shortbread.’

  More laughter filled the office.

  ‘Thanks, Petra,’ Emily said gratefully.

  ‘It’s true. I mean, just look at these pictures. There’s hardly any background in them at all – just Daisy in a succession of her ludicrous lingerie. And look at the kitchen pictures. There’s just a toaster and a kettle on the counter, nothing personal whatsoever. If I were you, I wouldn’t put this feature in at all.’

  ‘Well, let’s see what Arabella says when she comes back tomorrow. And if there’s enough room, maybe we could put Daisy in next month? But definitely not that shot of her in the rubber corset. I feel a bit ill just looking at it.’

  They all burst out laughing again. Emily wasn’t considered prudish, but the way she was cringing at the pictures of Daisy was truly hilarious.

  And so the button-maker’s cottage was selected for the cover, all other business was duly conducted, and the staff and various contributors were very happy. Everyone had something of theirs included in the next issue. And Emily had selected two of Jane’s other shoots for upcoming editions. Unfortunately for Daisy Churchill, though, her feature didn’t even make the grade for the bathroom supplement. Petra was right: they simply couldn’t hand Daisy twelve pages of free publicity when she hadn’t even gone to the trouble of buying a second-hand teaspoon to fit in with the image of the magazine. They would be a laughing stock in the magazine industry if they used her.

  ‘Thanks, everyone. Thanks so much for bearing with me today. I think Arabella will love what we’ve done,’ Emily said gratefully when the meeting ended. Then she rushed straight to her phone. The printing company was given the necessary instructions just minutes before the cover deadline.

  Meanwhile, the other pages were digitally composed and finalized by the layout team on the floor below. Emily phoned around to cancel the advertisers’ lunch, sent flowers to their offices, and finally dashed over to Arabella’s house to check that she hadn’t bled to death.

  ‘Come in, dear Emily; it’s so good to see a friendly face,’ Arabella chirped gratefully. She was still clutching the bloody towel to her arm.

  ‘You didn’t kill him, did you? He’s not buried under the patio?’ Emily asked when she saw the state of the place.

  Every vase and ornament in the house had been thrown, broken or smashed to pieces. At least one window pane was cracked. Arabella was all cried out, with big dark circles beneath her twinkling brown eyes. And her perfect bob was tousled and greasy.

  The two women stood facing each other beside the fireplace.

  ‘You poor love. It’ll be okay,’ Emily said uselessly.

  ‘No, it’s all over,’ Arabella wept.

  She did look terrible. Emily guessed Arabella had been up all night, drinking wine and venting her anger on the furniture.

  ‘He’ll come back again,’ Emily soothed, giving her friend a hug.

  ‘No, he won’t come back. I know it. We said some awful things to one another, Emily – unforgivable things. Well, mostly it was me saying the unforgivable things. But he didn’t look all that bothered. I think he doesn’t care about me any more, one way or the other. That’s worse than hating me, isn’t it?’

  Emily shrugged. She supposed that it was. But what could she say? ‘You’re a strong lady, you’ll get over him,’ she said.

  ‘No, I’ve ruined everything,’ Arabella sobbed quietly.

  ‘Right, you go and get tidied up,’ Emily told her friend gently.

  ‘What for? What’s the point of being glamorous, anyway?’ Arabella asked dramatically. ‘Nobody cares how I look.’

  ‘Nonsense; we all admire your style in the office. Anyway, it’s for yourself, for your own self-esteem,’ Emily said firmly.

  ‘Sensible Emily to the rescue once again,’ Arabella laughed sadly. ‘If I knew how to make a trumpet noise – like in those films where the cavalry appears on the horizon – I’d make one right now.’

  ‘I’m serious. You’ll feel so much better after you’ve had a hot shower and brushed your teeth and put on fresh clothes,’ Emily said kindly.

  ‘Will you make me some tea first? I’m parched,’ Arabella said, flopping on to the sofa. ‘All that wine has left me really dehydrated.’

  ‘Yes, of course I will.’

  ‘And a nice tomato sandwich with salad cream?’

  ‘Yes, surely, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘And will you take me out somewhere later and get me blitzed?’

  ‘No, I will not,’ Emily said. ‘You need to rest your arm.’

  ‘Never mind my arm. I want to get so drunk I fall over in the street,’ Arabella said darkly. ‘I want some young hunk to take advantage of me.’

  ‘And what good would that do? Better to phone a divorce lawyer, or whatever they’re called, and ask for some advice,’ Emily said gently.

  ‘What do you mean – a divorce lawyer?’ Arabella gasped.

  ‘I mean, only if you’re serious about it all being over. You said that David said that he wasn’t coming back,’ Emily reminded her patiently.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I did say that.’

  ‘Well, then. Better to be organized.’

  ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean it, though,’ Arabella said in a panicky voice.

  ‘You just told me he did mean it.’

  ‘I wanted you to disagree with me,’ Arabella sobbed.

  ‘Has he said this before? Has he ever said he’d leave you?’

  ‘No, he’s never said that before – no matter how bad the rows were.’

  ‘There you are, then.’

  ‘Do you think he’s really left me?’ Arabella whispered, looking fearfully at the walls, as if the room might be bugged by MI5.

  ‘Look, I don’t know if he meant it. I haven’t really met him, have I? Or really talked to him – he never comes to the magazine get-togethers. But there’s no h
arm in finding out where you stand, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘So you think I should divorce David before he divorces me?’

  ‘I said that I think you should get some advice. Why don’t you get tidied up first, yes? And eat something afterwards?’ Emily said slowly, shooing her boss up the stairs and then going towards the kitchen to fix her a snack.

  Emily usually tried not to become involved in the personal lives of other people, because she was always so tempted to take over the responsibility for everything. And she also didn’t like it when people wanted her to agree with their viewpoint, in case they blamed her later on if things went pear-shaped. So she was definitely letting the lawyers advise Arabella on this one.

  ‘Thanks for standing in for me at work today,’ Arabella called down the stairs. ‘And I know it’s a bit of a mess around here. I’d leave it for the cleaning lady, but if she saw this lot she’d march straight out of here and never come back. She’s very temperamental. And if my cleaning lady deserts me as well, I think I really will lose the will to live.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Emily called back. ‘I think I can handle it.’

  But the kitchen was even worse than the sitting room.

  ‘Oh, Arabella, what have you done?’ Emily said when she saw the scene of devastation in the airy basement kitchen. A large pan of spaghetti sauce had been emptied into David’s open briefcase. Some of the sauce had spilt on to the floor and across the stone tiles, where it was now hardening nicely. The spaghetti itself was stuck to the kitchen window in a great, glistening lump. There were broken wine bottles and spilt red wine all over the floor. Emily counted the remains of about ten bottles before she gave up. Most of the bottle labels appeared to be vintage and expensive.

  Maybe Arabella’s husband really had meant it when he said he was never coming back?

  ‘I think the poor man got out just in time,’ she said under her breath. ‘Arabella must have been in a murderous mood to have done this.’

  Emily’s stomach did a small somersault then. She suddenly had a premonition that something very bad was going to happen – something much worse than Arabella vandalizing her own lovely kitchen in this way. But then she told herself to stop being so silly, that she wasn’t a psychic.