by Sue Nicholls
‘What is it? Want to get something off your chest?’
‘I’m OK. I’m fed up with this bloody wedding, that’s all. Cerys and Anwen can’t talk about anything else.’
Kitty chortled. ‘Just think of the food and drink afterwards, Pop. I suppose you need to get through the fuss and bother, to get to the bit that matters.’
‘The beer.’ Paul sounded brighter already.
‘Well eventually, but primarily, marrying the woman you love.’
‘Yeah, I suppose so.’
Kitty flipped on the kettle and opened the cupboard with one hand, struggling to extract a teabag. ‘What’s happened to get you so down in the dumps, anyway?’
‘They’ve bought the dress. Have you any idea how much a wedding dress costs?’ He tutted. ‘Then there’s Anwen’s outfit, shoes, jewellery, head thingies.’
‘Tiaras.’ Kitty poured water on her tea bag. ‘So, is it the money you’re worried about?’
‘Well no. I knew it would cost a packet, but the bloody dress is hanging in our room. Apparently, it’s bad luck for me to see it so I’ve been thrown out to sleep on the sofa.’
Kitty chuckled. ‘Poor Pop. Never mind, it’ll be over soon.’
‘Can’t be too soon for me.’ Paul changed the subject. ‘Where have you been, anyway? You keep disappearing.’
‘Just work. Yorkshire - in the sticks. There was no signal.’ She kicked off her shoes and wandered into the sitting room. ‘Did you need me?’
‘Cerys was asking for you. No idea why. She won’t tell me a thing. Long as I cough up the money, everything goes fine. Can you come over?’
The last thing Kitty wanted was to huddle up with Cerys making wedding plans. ‘Sorry Dad. I’m busy with work. Ask her to text me.’
‘OK.’
‘I’ll be seeing you soon, anyway. The big day is almost upon us. I promise to be there.’
‘I’m banking on it.’
Kitty hung up and finished making her tea and fell into a chair in the living room with her feet on the coffee table. Anwen would not approve, but her socked feet should not do too much harm. The best thing about coming home from a hot country was socks. So soft, worn in proper shoes that didn’t let in sand or stones. She snuggled back in the cushions, rested her mug on the arm and closed her eyes. The past couple of days had been intense.
Her phone rang, and she jerked awake; a surprise as she had not known she was asleep. She heard a thud, and the half full mug of tea dropped from the arm of the chair onto the carpet. Cursing to herself, she answered the call, while running for a towel from the bathroom. ‘Oh, hi Cerys, how are you?’ She dropped the towel on the brown puddle and pressed it with her feet. A warm, wet, coffee-coloured stain seeped up her socks.
‘Kitty, love, how are you? We were worried about you. I wish you’d keep in touch with your dad when you go away.’
Kitty frowned. Her dad never used to worry about her in this way. ‘Is there something I can help you with, Cerys?’
Cerys’s voice grew purposeful. ‘Two things: One, would you like to be one of my bridesmaids? Your dad would love it if you would, and I could get you a dress online almost instantly. I should have thought of it earlier, but then you haven’t been around much, have you?’
Irritated by the veiled criticism, Kitty opened her mouth to decline Cerys’s offer, but Cerys swept on, ‘And two, I hope you’ll be at my hen do tomorrow evening. Just a few of us for a quiet evening. Well, I can’t drink in my condition, like. There won’t be many of us: me, one or two neighbours, and Anwen.’
Bloody hell, a hen night. Kitty’s spirits plummeted. After pausing to phrase her refusal in acceptable terms, she said, ‘Thanks so much for the offer of being a bridesmaid, but I’d prefer not to, if you don’t mind. I’m sure Dad will understand.’ But, feeling unable to refuse both things, she said as cheerfully as she could, ‘Where will you be for your hen night, I expect I can drop in and have a drink with you?’ In all honesty, she would rather be at her dad’s stag night, so she asked, ‘Is Dad having a stag do, Cerys?’
‘Yes - same night different place.’
Kitty decided she would go to both.
When she checked under the towel, the damp carpet was still stained. To her surprise and delight, she discovered carpet cleaner in the cupboard. She must give Anwen extra money for the materials she bought.
As she scrubbed the carpet with a brush, she wondered who her dad’s Best Man would be. If there was any role she would enjoy, it was that. Dressed in trousers - so much more her style - standing beside her dad. She threw the towel into the washing-up bowl to soak and dialled Paul again.
‘So, you don’t want to dress up in frills for my wedding?’ he greeted her with a smile in his voice.
‘Har,’ she drawled. ‘What do you think?’
‘I tried to tell her it was a daft idea, but there’s no talking to the woman.’
‘I suppose you already have a best man?’
There was a pause. ‘Yeah… Would you have preferred to do that?’
‘Not if it’s already sorted. I have left it late to offer.’
‘You have, but can’t a man can have two best men, er people?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Leave it with me. I expect Maurice has already written a speech and what-have-you and I don’t want to rob him of his moment of glory. But if he doesn’t mind, maybe you could hold on to the rings, and add to the end of his bit.’ Paul sounded perky now.
‘Does the best woman get to go to the stag night, too?’
‘Obviously. What do you call a female stag, anyway?’
Kitty grinned. ‘Is there a punch line to that? No eyed deer. You’ll have to look it up.’
Still smiling, she set up her lap-top on the dining room table and began to catch up. A string of unread emails awaited her attention, including one she had been waiting for. She put her eyes closer to the screen, clicked it open and ran her gaze down the short message.
Hi Kitty,
Thanks for your email. I should have mentioned before about the plastic you passed me. Unfortunately, I found no fingerprints or DNA.
Sorry I couldn’t be more help.
Lisa
Another dead end.
45 KITTY
For a hen night, this was a constrained affair. Cerys had refused Anwen’s request to sport a gaudy outfit, although she had consented to a pink tee-shirt that said Bride to Be on the front. Anwen had the sense to order her extra-large to accommodate her bump, but the outfit did not work. Around Cerys’s middle, the band on her navy maternity trousers bulged through the cerise fabric in an unattractive ridge, while the shoulders and sleeves were far too big, exposing occasional glimpses through the armholes of a sturdy and embedded white bra.
The rest of the group: Kitty, Anwen, and two neighbours, Alice and Freya, wore matching pink tops that announced Cerys’s Hens, across their chests, and on their backs: She’s about to be plucked. Kitty wondered if Anwen understood the innuendo contained in this message. It seemed unlikely, in view of her shocked response to Kitty’s planned trip with Sam. It was possible that Anwen’s mate, Charlie, had helped her with the on-line purchase. Kitty giggled inside at the awkward teen and three sedate women, making polite conversation while displaying these slogans.
The plan was to eat at this American restaurant then return home. Cerys would have no truck with Alice’s suggestion that after their meal, they visit a nightclub or crawl a few local pubs, and this, in Kitty’s opinion was not only a relief, but understandable considering Cerys’s condition and Anwen’s age. Cerys’s idea of a ‘Nice quiet evening while Paul’s out with his friends,’ was perfect.
‘What’s got the lowest calories?’ Alice chirped from behind an enormous, laminated menu covered in pictures of dishes that looked anything but healthy. ‘I’ve been sensible all week; I don’t want to spoil my hard work.’
They scanned the menu for unexciting salads and fish. Not the choice of a celebrant at a hen party.
/> Cerys ran her gaze down the long list of options and sighed. ‘I don’t fancy anything. It all tastes funny, still.’
Anwen and Kitty sat side by side, studying their menus with more enthusiasm. Kitty picked a burger and fries and Anwen plumped for steak, then took a sip of her lemonade and said, ‘I wonder if Paul’s having such a good time.’
From experience, Kitty was confident that Paul would be having a fine time. By now, he would have his third pint in his fist, and his wandering hands may well have received a slap from some tight-trousered waitress. Kitty planned to join him once this gang of clucking hens had gone home for their cocoa. Her desire to get to him was partly to monitor his behaviour but also for the fun. Hidden behind her own menu, she sneaked a peek at her phone. It was just after seven twenty-five.
A gangling boy-waiter made graceless progress towards their table on legs that might fold under the pressure of his bony body and large head. He planted his enormous feet on the carpet behind Freya and stooped to take their order.
Alice ran her eyes from the boy’s black apron, up his skinny body to his face. ‘Wow. What’s the weather like up there?’
He blushed, scooting his eyes round the table from person to person. Kitty took pity on him. ‘I’d like the spicy chicken wings and the house burger with skinny fries, please,’ she said with a smile, and he rewarded her with a grateful look.
The others gave their orders, Alice opting for fish and chips: not at all a healthy option. When the boy had departed, conversation moved from diets to the wedding.
‘Have you got your dress?’ Alice leaned on her arms, anxious for a description of the precious item.
‘Course I have. Would I be sitting here all relaxed if I hadn’t, like?’ Cerys snapped. Alice recoiled, her face burning, and took a long gulp of her wine before topping it up from a nearby bottle.
Kitty hoped Cerys’s ill temper came from mis-aligned hormones and not anxiety about marrying Dad, or even worse, a shrewish tendency.
Quick to react to her sister’s grumpiness, Anwen reached across the table to Cerys. ‘Are you all right, Sis? Can I get you a glass of water?’
Cerys smiled and pushed herself upright in the chair and stretch her neck to one side then the other. ‘Oh, ignore me, Lovely. I’m fine. A bit stiff, like, but nothing to worry about.’ To Alice, she said, ‘Sorry. I’m nervous, to be honest. No idea why.’
‘I remember my wedding,’ Freya said with a sympathetic smile. ‘I had last-minute doubts, too. It’s that sudden realisation that your life is about to change radically and once you’ve done it, there’s no going back - well I suppose you can go back, but it’s complicated.’ At a glare from Kitty, Freya pulled herself up and blurted, ‘Those feelings are natural, Cerys. You’ll be fine.’
Cerys nodded and stared at her empty glass. ‘Thanks,’ she murmured. ‘I’m sure you’re right. I got this feeling...’
Kitty was alarmed. ‘What kind of feeling?’
Cerys raised her eyes to Kitty’s. ‘Just a feeling. It’s gone now. Don’t worry, Kitty, I won’t stand him up at the altar.’ She gave a small smile.
‘Well, you wouldn’t, in your condition, would you?’ chortled Alice and poured herself another glass of wine.
Seeing the worried expression on Anwen’s face, Kitty touched her arm and said in a low voice, ‘It’s OK. Your sister’s a grown up. She’s well able to take care of herself - and you.’
‘You think so?’
‘I do. She’s got a mind of her own, hasn’t she?’
Anwen nodded, her eyes still on Cerys. Then her face became animated and she turned to Kitty and blurted, ‘How are the investigations going?’
‘Keep your voice down.’ Kitty frowned at her.
Anwen put a hand to shield her mouth from the others and hissed, ‘Sorry. Well?’
‘Well, this is neither the time nor place to talk about it.’
Cerys’s sharp eyes homed in on their sotto voce conversation. ‘I hope you two aren’t plotting to tie me to a lamppost or anything,’ She called with a smile.
‘Ooh,’ Kitty said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that, but now you mention it…’
Anwen clutched Kitty’s arm. ‘No, you mustn’t. She’s expecting a baby.’
Kitty bellowed with laughter. ‘Don’t be daft. I was joking.’
The arrival of their starters interrupted conversation for a while. Alice slopped the last of the wine into her glass and called for another bottle. Cerys was watching her with concern, but Alice kept it together while they finished the first course and ate their main meals.
Dessert was heavy with cream and sugar, and Kitty was wondering whether to lick the bowl, when across the table, Alice lurched from her chair and turned to face the other diners. Punching one arm the air, she yelled, ‘Everyone! We’ve got a bride to be here. Let’s hear it for Cerys,’ and she launched into song. ‘Congratulations, and celebrations, when I tell…’
The expression on Cerys’s face fired Kitty and Anwen to their feet. Each grasped one of Alice’s arms, and together, they yanked the claret-faced woman across the restaurant and out of the door.
‘Come on love,’ Kitty grunted as they struggled through the opening, ‘Time for some fresh air.’
On the street, they searched without success for a taxi. ‘What shall we do with her?’ Anwen eyed Alice, who now leant on the outside of the restaurant, humming Cliff Richards’ not quite Eurovision-winning song. As they watched, Alice’s legs gave up their battle with gravity and buckled at the knee, causing her backside to slide with questionable grace towards the pavement, and the coarse bricks to scour the back of her clinging satin dress.
‘Can you grab her while I go back and sort out the bill?’ Kitty asked.
Anwen wrapped her arms around Alice and lifted her back to her feet, pressing the woman’s slender, wine-scented body against the wall.
‘I’m all right,’ Alice slurred, pushing herself from the bricks in an attempt to get free. But Anwen clung on with admirable determination, and the pair staggered from side to side in a drunken dance.
By the time Kitty had returned with the other three, Anwen had once more pinned Alice to the wall, and the stupefied woman was dozing on the girl’s shoulder. Cerys padded off to fetch her car from a nearby side road, and when she pulled up at the curb, five minutes later, Freya and Kitty frog marched Alice towards her. After stuffing her into the back seat, Freya climbed in beside her inebriated neighbour and leaned across her body to fasten her seatbelt. As she did so, Alice emitted a loud belch in her ear.
Kitty tapped on Cerys’s window. ‘I’m going on somewhere else,’ Kitty said, and Cerys nodded and grinned at her.
‘Have a good time and look after your dad.’
Surprised, but impressed at this intuition, Kitty laughed. ‘I will. You take care.’ She stood at the edge of the pavement and waved them off, hoping, for Cerys and Freya’s sake, that Alice would not puke.
In a bar at the other end of town, the men were surprisingly decorous considering that they had been drinking for about two hours. Kitty gave her father a wary look, weighing up the level of intoxication he had reached. A new, slimmed down father met her gaze. Over the past few months, with his wedding photos in mind, Cerys had nagged him to cut down his beer intake, and to Kitty’s amazement, Paul had capitulated. This new, svelte father greeted her with loud enthusiasm. ‘Pops! You’re here.’
In parity with his bride to be, Paul sported a tee-shirt. Not pink but black, with Day-Glo orange lettering that spelled out the caption Brushing Gloom.
Kitty frowned in puzzlement, until the wordsmith in her saw a Spoonerism of sorts and she laughed out loud. ‘Where did you get the top, Pop?’
‘Anwen. Like it?’ He stuck out his chest to model the caption.
‘Very good.’
‘I still don’t get it,’ Maurice complained.
‘Keep thinking, you old duffer.’ Paul responded.
Kitty liberated a chair from a nearby table, and the
men squeezed up to fit her in. She was reminded of the bar in Mauritius with Jean and Jerome, although here there was less smoke and a smaller number of drinkers. With effort, she ignored the persistent memories of her trip and focused on the lopsided faces around her. Opposite her, Mick and Maurice sandwiched her father on a curved, bay-window seat. Lucas and Sam were on her right in the space between herself and the edge of the window seat, and two men she had not met before, sat on her left. They turned out to be Jack and Lewis, husbands to Alice and Freya, respectively. Kitty did not mention Alice’s performance in the restaurant.
The surface of the circular table around which they sat, was overwhelmed by their six newly filled glasses and a mountain of empty crisp packets.
Jack pushed back his chair and leered over Kitty. ‘What can I get you, Kitty.’
‘I’m good, thanks, I’ll get my own and put into the kitty for the next round - you do have a kitty (apart from me)?’ She batted off the old and boring joke before anyone else could make it.
When she got back with her drink, Paul’s beer was already half finished. ‘Careful Pop,’ she warned, ‘You want to make it through this evening, don’t you?’
Paul looked at her through hooded eyes and said indistinctly, ‘I’ll be fine, Pops. You’ll take care of me, won’t you, after all you are my Best Woman?’
‘It wasn’t in my plan. No.’ She gave him a slight frown, and he pulled a face at her.
‘Leave me be, woman, it’s my last night of freedom.’
It was not, but she did not bother to correct him. Hard experience had taught her that there was no point. He would get joyfully inconvenient and then, allegedly, forget everything the following morning. Kitty had her suspicions that pretending to forget his behaviour the night before was his way of avoiding hassle. She picked up her pint. ‘Well, here’s to you Pop. Congratulations, and wishing you a happy and healthy future with Cerys.’
Everyone raised their glasses and clonked them together.
‘Cheers,’ Paul responded before saying, ‘I looked it up and you can be called Best Woman.’ Then he chuckled and said, ‘When I do the same for you at your wedding, I’ll be called the Man of Honour, which of course will be totally appropriate.’ He drained his beer. ‘Same again?’