“Just think what it’s going to be like when I’m gone and you’re left with Neil and the Saturdays.”
The Saturdays were the teenagers who worked weekends and were so wet behind the ears with Katy Perry perfume that they should have been operating a lemonade stand in their front garden, rather than clogging up the works of the fast moving retail sector (Neil’s words, not mine, though I did have to agree with him on occasion. Usually when I found stashes of Bliss magazine and sparkly nail polish in the break room).
“I might quit if you’re fucking off to America,” Yvonne said, standing up and brushing crumbs off of her black nylon trousers with her two inch long chipped-vermillion talons (she’d clearly have to have a look at the Saturdays’ stash in her lunch break). “I wonder if they’d have me back at Topshop...”
“You should be so lucky,” I said, smiling as she flipped me off on her way back into the shop.
Topshop were probably still trying to paint out the interesting imprints Yvonne and her on-the-job conquest had made in the wet paint of one of the changing rooms. It wouldn’t have been so bad (OK, it would still have been a downright sackable offence) if the guy’s girlfriend (recently having been promoted to fiancée) hadn’t been next door trying on knickers.
I walked away from BHS with no idea what to do with the sudden influx of time into my sad little life. Ordinarily I’d be cleaning and stocking up the café, drinking tea and eating leftovers with Will, before going up to his flat to watch TV or play Saints Row 2 on the Xbox 360 (nothing took the edge off customer service like following a hard day up with a pimp uprising). But now that was out of the question.
I found myself wandering in unfamiliar territory, past the spa, that famous Roman landmark, frequented by tourists exclusively) and towards the boutiques and cafés also aimed almost exclusively at rich tourists. I passed a candle shop, a glassware shop (it only sold crappy blue glass vases and bowls, and most of those were made in China, I could see the stickers through the window) finally I crossed the road and wandered onto Pulteney Bridge. For me, it would always be the beating heart of posho Bath, with its sandstone carvings, tourists, pigeons and five-pound-a-cone-ice-cream. On my left stood a boutique that had pictures in the window, showing how it had sold sack-like kaftans and shawls to Judy Dench and Jo Brand. To my right were three small buildings, a café, a souvenir shop and a fancy florist. I kept walking until I reached yet another café, named Café Au Lait. I couldn’t go in, even though I was dying to sit down and think, my brain was already muttering scornfully at the name alone. I couldn’t abandon Raspberry Bs, it was my baby, and it had been ever since I’d helped Will pick out the property.
Enough. I decided to stop thinking about Will. What I needed was something to take my mind off of the whole tangled mess. I went up the street to the Dorothy House Hospice Shop and Oxfam, which were to me, in the grand scheme of Bath charity shops, the equivalent of M&S or Monsoon. Those two charity shops were where the clothes horses of Bath deposited their last season clothes, and there was always something nice in a size eighteen, just for me.
(By the way, how annoying is it when you see a magazine article, or a book, which tells you ‘Size 14/16 ‘isn’t fat’ or ‘is beautiful too’? Very, in my case. I fucking know size fourteen isn’t fat. Just like I know no sane person chooses celery over chocolate. It’s basic, human sense.)
Dorothy House organised its clothes by colour, which made it look a lot nicer than some other charry shops, all Easter egg bright shirts and rails of brilliant blue denim. I walked into the Glade scented shop, catching the last few bars of some Brahms on the radio, and zeroed in on a rack of cream coloured blouses, hanging over a load of skirts in pink, mauve and plum. Maybe I’d find something to wear to Dorian’s family gathering. I almost instantly vetoed the idea, even if his parents didn’t instantly catch the lingering scent of thrift on me, I’d still know, and it might put me off my performance as ‘best surprise daughter-in-law ever’.
Still, I could look around and see if there was anything good.
Twenty minutes later I left the shop with a House of Fraser shirt, teal, with made my boobs look great in the changing room (a miracle, and a steal at a mere six pounds). I’d also got three white tops, one with beading around the neckline, and a fabulous pair of dark blue jeans with little white dots on them.
I still felt glum, but I couldn’t afford to shop my Will conundrum away. I didn’t have the cash for one, and I might not have a job anymore either, if I couldn’t go back to the café.
On my way back across Pulteney Bridge, towards the train station, I stopped in front of Phase Eight. They’d just got their summer stuff in, pink heels and floral dresses. I was a sucker for poufy skirts sweetheart collars, if I could afford to I’d probably live my life in fancy frocks. Behind the window display there was a dress hanging on the wall, elegant, summery and pretty. A dress designed for pre-war English tea parties. It was pale green, knee length, with ditsy little sleeves in broderie anglaise. There was a white silk sash wrapped around its waist, with a yellow fabric rose sewn onto it.
As much as I adored my BHS dress, it was very much a promy-evening number. This dress said, ‘Good day, I am here to drink tea and eat finger sandwiches, afterwards I‘d love to hear of your fox hunting escapades, before I go and pick up Tarquin and Viola from school in my Mercedes’.
I went into the shop and made a beeline for the dress. Phase Eight is the kind of shop where they only ever have three of any one item hanging up (sizes – Dead to, Recently diagnosed with consumption). That’s how you know it’s going to be really expensive. I fished the price tag out of the neck of the dress (it was on a frilly silk ribbon, a very bad sign) up close the dress was even prettier, and I almost cried when I saw that it was £125 flaming pounds, and 99 flipping pence. That was, I calculated dismally, a week and a half’s worth of café wages. Even without the crippling wedding dept that was still soldered with hellfire to my bank account, I still would never be able to afford it.
I turned towards the door, not catching the eye of the sleek sales girl. Too embarrassing. I was a visitor in the world of fashion, like a horrible, gauche tourist in a bum bag and cheap souvenir t-shirt. I caught a glimpse of something through the window, a flash of familiar neon green. Will? But then it was gone, and I thought I must have imagined it, or else someone had just walked past with a bright knitted hat or a funky handbag.
I left the shop, my heart having dropped into my shoes. I hated being poor and yet unable to resist the lure of all things expensive. The number of times Will had slapped my hands away from something pretty and painfully posh in M&S probably numbered in the thousands. Still, I hadn’t learnt my lesson.
I walked all the way to the train station and wearily made my way to the platform. For once I didn’t have to wait long for the train to turn up. I got on, collapsed into a seat and rested my head against the glass so I could ignore my brain and focus on the dull scenery that whooshed past.
Chapter Ten
I would love to say, as a modern woman, and a feminist, that I didn’t spend the next week eating ice-cream and scotch eggs and watching episodes of The Clangers, Bagpuss and American Horror Story on the internet. But I’m afraid that would be a lie.
Without work, without Will, I had nothing to do, and endless time to think. There were only so many things to clean in my tiny flat, and once I’d shined up every chipped and stained surface, I had nothing to do but watch TV and try to hunt down a dress for the weekend.
I gave some thought to Yvonne’s suggestion, which shows just how desperate I was. Could I leave everything behind? Move out to America and lose contact with my mum, my friends and everything I knew? I still hadn’t even told my mum about Dorian. I opened up a new tab on my laptop (which took about an hour, my laptop being five years old and having a running speed of a Labrador with a hammer in its skull and no legs) and started an email to her.
Hellloooo Mum!
Big news! I’m married! Went to Ve
gas with a man I met last Saturday. BTW I might also be moving to America.
See you at Christmas.
I didn’t think so. I’d have to give it some serious thought before I actually wrote to her. I clicked inbox to get away from the page, but my stupid internet browser decided that now would be a great time to stutter, so I ended up clicking send instead. Terrific. That was all I needed, my mum flipping out and phoning me fifty times in the next hour.
Which was exactly what happened.
I just about had time to open the DiscountDressesXX website and look at the first page of thigh length rayon nightmares before the phone rang. I picked it up and held it to my ear.
“Hi Mum.”
“Hey Annie,” Will said. He sounded terrible, like he had the day the fridge freezer broke down and leaked ten pints of ice-cream all over the floor. (Ice-cream wrestling should be an Olympic sport by the way, as should Ice-cream skating, Ice-cream hockey, and Ice-cream polo.)
“Will!” I said, surprised, “I thought...”
“Yeah, I know, I promised to give you space, and I will. It’s just, well...I wanted to see if you were OK.”
It had been four days, I couldn’t blame him for checking up on me. I’d had to stop myself from calling him. At least twenty times a day I’d still found myself standing by the phone.
“I’m OK, are you...?”
“I’m good. People are asking where you are.”
“No they’re not,” I laughed.
“Well, one of the regulars asked where ‘Enid’ was, I assume she meant you.”
I laughed, but it didn’t last for long.
“Annie...are you coming back, next week I mean?”
There it was, the perfect moment to tell him what I was planning to do...and I let it pass without saying a word.
“Like I’d leave the café in your hands. It’d be burnt down and irradiated before the week was out.”
“Only if I left Water in charge.”
“Which you couldn’t do, because Water would quit the nanosecond it became clear that I was never coming back.”
“Water likes me.”
“Water fears you.”
“Which is the natural order of the employee/employer relationship. It works brilliantly for Neil after all.”
“Yes, but, Neil will be the first to die when the minimum wage revolution comes.”
Will snorted. “Like you and Yvonne could get it together enough to plan a revolution. You can barely organise a piss-up between the two of you.”
It felt just like every other conversation we’d ever had. For a few minutes there was no Dorian, there had been no wedding, no shocking, nerve-scorching kiss. It was just us again, Will and Annie – forever chatting, always getting into trouble, and never apart for more than the length of one seminar.
Then life shifted back into gear.
My phone pipped at me, telling me I had another person on the line, trying to get through. Will must have heard it through the receiver.
“Who’s that?”
“Probably Mum.”
He was quiet for a second, and I could feel the warmth drain out of me.
“You told her then.”
“Yeah...it was sort of an accident.”
“Better go talk to her, before she spontaneously combusts.”
“I will...but, we’re OK, right?”
“Sure we are. I’m making you a friendship bracelet out of my leg hair as we speak.”
“I thought you’d stopped reading Go Girl?”
“It lures me in with Justin Beiber posters.”
Another awkward silence buzzed on the line.
“I’ll see you at work then,” Will said.
“Yeah...bye.”
He hung up and I took a long, deep breath. It was never going to be right again between us. I could sense that. We couldn’t be friends anymore, not properly. Not when I could still remember how he felt under my hands, how his mouth moved against mine.
I put the receiver down and the phone instantly rang again. I answered, willing myself to forget the last ten minutes, to forget today, and Will.
“Annie?” Mum said, she always started her phone calls like that, surprised and suspicious, as if she hadn’t just dialled my number, or she thought I’d moved house and some Estonian drug dealer was answering my phone. (Which, in all fairness, had happened, but only once).
“It’s me Mum.”
“I’ve just read your email,” she said, as anyone else would say ‘I’ve just seen you on Crimewatch’, “tell me it isn’t true.”
“It is, I got married at the weekend...I would have told you but, it happened really quickly, I can still hardly believe it.”
She made a noise like a Catherine Cookson heroine who’d just lost her last farthing and discovered she’d got consumption. A sort of restrained wail.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you right away.”
“I can’t believe it. Oh Annie, Oh love, I knew something like this was going to happen. All that pain You-know-who caused you, it was bound to affect you sooner or later. And now you’ve fallen into the arms of a stranger.”
Mum always talked like this. The BBC 9-10 melodrama hour had a lot to answer for in my opinion. I couldn’t have a lazy night in with a bottle of Rosé without her staging an intervention. I’d had stomach flu the previous winter and she’d thought it was stomach cancer, then that I had a secret eating disorder (not terribly secret – I’d chucked up in the queue at Halfords. Long story). Most recently she’d been checking me for signs of PTSD and emotional debilitated-ness. She wasn’t going to be happy ‘till I’d rent my wedding gown in twain and run shrieking through Bath with a groom mannequin under one arm.
“I haven’t fallen,” I assured her calmly, “Dorian’s a very nice man, and we just decided, why not? It was actually a bit of a laugh.”
There was a pause as she digested this.
“Is he holding you against your will?” Mum said at last in a hushed voice.
I rolled my eyes to Heaven.
“No.”
“Is he making you say that?”
“No.”
“If you want me to send the police round, say ‘Battenberg’”
“Oh for- do not send the police round. Mum, I’m fine.”
“...I’m going to call 999.”
“Mum!”
But it was too late, she’d hung up. I put the phone down and waited. I wasn’t worried, she did things like this all the time. I think the police had her blacklisted. Within a couple of minutes she was back on the phone.
“They said they’ll send a unit round.”
I bet they had. They’d probably promised snipers and sniffer dogs, anything to get Mum off the phone. Poor buggers, I’d have to send them a box of donuts or some handcuff polish to apologise.
“Mum, I’m not in any danger, and Dorian really is lovely. I want you to meet him as soon as he has a weekend free, OK?”
“Hmmm,” Mum said, which I knew was about as close to enthusiasm as she was going to get.
“I’m meeting his parents at the weekend. Mr and Mrs Foffaney, they live in Bath, they have a house on the Royal Crescent.”
That got my mum’s attention, “Does he have a title then? They must be quite well off,” she heaved an excited breath, “do you think they’ll contest the marriage? Seeing as you’re a commoner?”
Cheers Mum, let me know my place, right next to Worzel Gummidge in the dole queue.
“They’re not lords or anything, but yeah, I think his Dad is pretty rich. He does something with stocks and shares.” Keen to nip the Upstairs Downstairs fantasies in the bud I continued, “he says they’re very nice people. I don’t think anyone’s going to be contesting anything.”
If I said it out loud, I might start to believe it.
Someone rapped on my door with their knuckles, and I heard a muffled voice. I ignored it. I got about three cold calls a day, usually someone trying to sell me double glazing or an insurance pla
n, or wanting a donation to such-and-such a charity. When I’d first moved in, I’d tried to be polite to the endless stream of professional, smiling people, now I found the kindest thing to do was ignore them until they went away. At this time in the afternoon it was probably a crazy homeless person looking for change (my particular block of flats was a hotbed for the homeless, they slept in the entryway, ate out of our bins, and occasionally brought me my post).
Mum was quiet for a moment, then she said, “I got a letter from your father today.”
I prepared myself for what was coming. Mum never responded well to reminders that my dad wasn’t suitably dead in a nice plot at the local church, ready to be mourned respectfully as Prince Albert had been. Dad wasn’t dead, but he had left her for another woman (Sandra from Costcutter, all poodle hair and orange perma-tan) and he occasionally wrote to Mum to ask how she was doing, and to see if the gutters needed cleaning (he was like that, always willing to come round and mow the lawn, or put up an IKEA bookhäuse, as if he hadn’t had the concept of divorce properly explained to him).
“He just wanted to know if there was any news about you, and if anymore roof shingles had fallen off.”
“Have they?”
The knocking at the door came again, and I had to cover one ear to hear Mum’s reply.
“One or two, I think next door’s cat is jigging them loose.”
“How is he?”
“He’s fine, I think the he wants worming.”
I closed my eyes. “I mean Dad.”
“Oh, he’s alright,” she said, almost wistfully, probably longing for something a little more dramatic to report. I honestly think she’d have loved to have been jilted at the altar, or else abandoned to life on the fells in her eighth month of pregnancy by a rakish count in a velvet doublet. Dad, with his crooked smile, rugby shirts and perpetual cheeriness must have been quite a disappointment to her.
Prior Engagements Page 9