‘Just honest,’ replied Kizzie, as she took another sip of champagne. ‘And anyway, you said yes, so I’m imagining that – other than his dire choice of proposal destination – you were pleased?’
‘Oh, of course! I’d been expecting it, really – it was just a question of when and where. Thankfully he didn’t propose in St Aubin. We’d gone to this beautiful five-mile beach in a place called St Ouen and we were walking along the seafront when he suddenly stopped, dropped to his knees and produced a ring. It was very sweet and romantic.’
‘Bless him. And when did you get back?’
‘Yesterday. Actually, we bumped into Benedict and Clara on the flight home, which was a bit of a coincidence!’
‘Oh, of course, I forgot. Her aunt lives there. I think they’d gone over for her cousin’s twenty-first birthday party. Were they getting on?’ Kizzie asked with a gleam in her eye.
‘Well, they seemed to be, but when I told them my news Clara looked very eager. She gave Benedict a lot of meaningful looks. It was quite funny, really! Does he regret getting back together with her, do you think?’
‘Who knows with Benedict? I just don’t know why he stays with her if he doesn’t want to marry her. Goodness only knows, the family would rather he ditched her and found someone new. Oh dear, I’ve had too much to drink. I’m being a bitch.’ Rosamunde laughed and shook her head.
‘This is Clara Johnson we’re talking about. It would take a saint to be nice about her,’ Rosamunde remarked. ‘But the champagne’s gone straight to my head too. Shall we go through to the restaurant and get something to eat?’
‘Good idea. And you can tell me all about the wedding plans.’ Inwardly, Rosamunde’s heart sank. She was so happy to be engaged to Giles but the prospect of planning a wedding filled her with gloom. Yet somehow she couldn’t admit this to anyone. It seemed like some sort of unspoken rule that every woman’s dream is to organise a wedding and Rosamunde felt like a freak for not feeling that way.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Rosamunde as she and Kizzie took their seats at a table by the window. ‘Let’s not talk about babies or weddings. Let’s pretend we’re fourteen again and talk about any old nonsense.’
‘You’re on,’ replied Kizzie, snapping open her menu before whispering to Rosamunde that she should check out the waiter.
‘Wow! A definite nine,’ whispered back Rosamunde and in a second the girls had reverted to their game of choice at the age of fourteen – scoring boys out of ten. In fact, they’d scored everything out of ten: boys, chips, public lavatories.
‘I’m going to the loo,’ Rosamunde said a moment later.
‘Don’t forget to come back with a score,’ reminded Kizzie and as Rosamunde wove her way to the ladies she felt lighter than she’d felt in a long time.
23.
FRIDAY 12TH DECEMBER 2014
On a particularly foggy Friday morning Bernie and Rosamunde dispatched Rachel back to London, and they’d just finished waving her off when Mrs Garfield arrived at the Vicarage.
‘Ready for our shopping trip?’ she asked Rosamunde as she bustled into the cottage.
‘All set,’ Rosamunde agreed, pulling on her faux-fur coat and grabbing her bag.
‘What’s this?’ asked Bernie, raising his shock of white hair from the newspaper. ‘Off to buy some nice frocks?’
‘Get away with you!’ replied Mrs Garfield. ‘Nothing so glamorous. No, we’re off to do the big Christmas shop at that huge new supermarket in Totnes. Rosamunde’s going to drive,’ she said, her eyes wide with awe. Mrs Garfield had passed her driving test but had never driven farther than Thatchley in her life.
‘Sounds ghastly,’ grimaced Bernie. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I don’t join you? Only I’ve, erm, got to see a man about a christening,’ he declared.
‘Liar!’ laughed Rosamunde. ‘But no, don’t worry; we’re not going to drag you along with us. You’d be more of a hindrance than a help. Mrs G and I will be done in no time. Just make sure you’re here when we get back to help us unload.’
The drive was unpleasant at first, as Rosamunde struggled to see through the fog, but as they left the coast behind them the weather cleared and soon the pair were chattering away about this and that. Within an hour Rosamunde had parked in the enormous car park and the two of them emerged from the Citroën with relief to stretch their cramped limbs.
‘Shall we get a coffee first?’ asked Rosamunde as she spotted a café at the entrance to the supermarket.
‘It’ll be getting busy soon,’ replied Mrs Garfield. ‘Let’s get the shop done first and then have a coffee,’ she declared and Rosamunde didn’t dare argue. They started off by stocking up on the alcohol they would need for Christmas itself (the party drink having already been dealt with) and soon they were stuffing crisps, nuts and chocolate into the trolley along with any other goods they could possibly need that would still be in date by Christmas. They would buy the vegetables and other fresh produce from the village nearer the time and the turkey had been ordered from a butcher in Thatchley.
At the bakery, Mrs Garfield tutted at the price of cakes and other baked goods.
‘Why don’t people do their own baking?’ she asked. ‘Far cheaper and twice the taste,’ she muttered.
‘Not everyone’s as good at it as you,’ Rosamunde chuckled. ‘I’ve been living off shop-bought cakes for the last fifteen years. I’d forgotten how delicious your homemade ones are,’ she said, squeezing Mrs Garfield around the shoulders. Mrs G continued to tut but looked pleased with the compliment nonetheless.
By eleven thirty they had stashed the bulging carrier bags and boxes into every conceivable corner of the car and decided that rather than have their coffee at the shopping complex – which was by now heaving – they would head into Totnes to find a slightly less mobbed place to sit down.
It proved harder than they’d hoped, though, as the whole of Totnes seemed to be out and about, stocking up for Christmas and taking well-earned breaks in the various coffee houses. But finally Rosamunde spotted a cosy-looking venue with a spare table at the steamy window. They were about to dash in to claim it when suddenly Rosamunde spotted Gerard across the street.
‘Hey, Gerard!’ she called loudly, but he hurried along without looking back. ‘That was Gerard, wasn’t it?’ Rosamunde asked, turning to Mrs Garfield.
‘Looked a bit like him, but it can’t have been or he’d have stopped,’ she replied. ‘Now come on, before someone else takes that table.’ Mrs Garfield hurried into the warmth of the café with a bemused Rosamunde following behind. She was sure it was Gerard she’d just seen, but perhaps he hadn’t heard her. And soon enough her mind was on other matters.
‘Oooh, hot chocolate,’ said Mrs Garfield as she looked at the laminated menu. Rosamunde’s mouth watered at the prospect.
‘Two mugs of cocoa, please,’ she asked the waitress a moment later and soon the two women were engrossed in a conversation about Mrs Croft from the village, who was treating her daughter’s wedding as though it were her own.
‘Control freak,’ said Mrs Garfield, knowledgeably. ‘There was a woman like that on Jeremy Kyle the other day – controlled her daughter’s every move even though she was nearly forty!’ Rosamunde sank back in her chair, took a sip and relished another gossipy instalment from dear old Mrs G.
24.
SUMMER 1999
It was just over two weeks until the wedding and Rosamunde was starting to panic that she hadn’t yet found a dress. Rachel was calling her daily, trying to persuade her to make a visit to London. To Rachel, Rosamunde was a complete enigma: if she’d been getting married the dress would have been first on her list of priorities.
On a Thursday morning she was in the dentist’s waiting room when she came upon a copy of OK! magazine, which was featuring the wedding of Posh Spice and David Beckham. She leafed through the article, agog at the organisation that must have gone into their wedding – though presumably they could afford a planner, lucky devils – a
nd by the time she’d finished, she knew she must take action. After a busy afternoon at work, Rosamunde called her sister.
‘Rach, are you free tomorrow? Can you help me find a wedding dress?’
‘Is the Pope a Catholic?’ Rachel replied. ‘I’ve got to work in the morning but I’ll be done by lunchtime – bloody actors won’t work on a Friday afternoon anyway. I’ll meet you at Harrods at two thirty.’ Rachel was currently working as a make-up artist on the set of a BBC production of Mansfield Park (much to Kizzie’s excitement) and was always full of interesting gossip, most of it gleaned in pillow-talk from one or other of the actors. She was currently enjoying a dalliance with the actor playing Edmund and Rosamunde had to admit she was more than a little envious.
It was a steaming hot July day and Rosamunde arrived at Harrods feeling decidedly over-heated. There were few things she felt like doing less than trying on wedding dresses and her task was made even harder by the fact she needed a gown that was prêt-à-porter as there was no time for it to be altered to fit her or, less still, made from scratch. Still, with Rachel’s help, by six o’clock that evening Rosamunde had selected a beautiful, simple dress made of white silk. It had a princess neckline and sashayed beautifully as she walked. She’d shied away from all the meringues that filled the bridal suite and had opted for one of the few unfussy dresses that were available. When she’d seen herself in the mirror Rosamunde had gasped; it was so strange to see herself in a long, white dress. Rachel was uncharacteristically quiet.
‘Shit, Rosamunde,’ she said. ‘Mum would have been so proud.’
The mention of their mother seemed to raise her spirit immediately. It was as though she was suddenly in the room with them, sitting on the chaise longue with her serene smile and her impish haircut.
Rosamunde had always believed in ghosts but had never before seen or even felt the presence of one. But a moment later she felt absolutely certain her mother was standing beside her. She closed her eyes and felt her mum stroke her long hair; it was such a gentle sensation that she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up and a soporific feeling wash over her. Rosamunde willed her mother to say something. To tell her she was doing the right thing. That she was proud of her. She knew her mother must have been there for a reason.
‘Is everything okay?’ asked the timid sales assistant, entering the changing area to find two silent women and a ghost. Unwittingly she had broken the spell. Rosamunde felt her mother disappear immediately.
‘Fine,’ she had smiled. ‘We’ll get this one.’
Now, with the wedding dress bundled into a bag and sitting between them in the taxi, the girls decided to treat themselves to a cocktail or two and dinner out. Thanks to Rachel’s television contacts, she was a member of The Groucho Club in Soho and so, as soon as Rachel had signed in her sister and stashed the wedding dress in a locker, they entered the sultry glamour of the elite club for creatives.
They started with cocktails at the ground floor bar where Rosamunde found herself barely able to concentrate on her sister as she sipped on her White Russian and star-gazed – on Friday nights the club was always brimming with celebrities. In the end Rachel dragged Rosamunde through to the leather banquettes of the downstairs eating area where they ordered burgers and a decent bottle of red.
‘So please tell me the rest of the wedding is better organised than the dress buying. I’m sorry I’ve been so useless at helping get things sorted but work’s been crazy,’ Rachel said, taking a large slurp of wine. Rosamunde considered for a moment, thinking of the ‘to-do’ list she had slowly worked through, from arranging the church service (easy enough), to selecting a venue for the reception (harder) and deciding on a menu that was both affordable and interesting (impossible).
‘It’s fine, actually – all arranged. I must admit I haven’t enjoyed the preparations as much as I feel I should have done. I guess I’m just not a natural bride.’
Rachel scrutinised her sister carefully. ‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing here, Rosamunde? You do love Giles, right?’
‘Of course I do.’ Rosamunde was quick to answer this. She had no doubt. It was just the thought of the wedding that fazed her. She’d never been a great one for attention.
‘Good. Look, I know you think I’d be busting to be centre of attention if it were my big day but even I would feel nervous, so don’t give yourself a hard time. Now come on, spill the beans. I want to know all the details.’
By the time they’d finished their burgers and Rosamunde had woven her way up the narrow staircase to the bathroom she was feeling much more excited about her impending nuptials. As she washed her hands in the small washroom she studied herself in the mirror. Her hair was looking glossy and smooth, her amber eyes looked bright and her skin had just the right amount of wine-induced glow about it.
‘Rosamunde Pemberton, soon you’ll be a married woman,’ she told herself, testing the reaction. She felt happy. Contented.
As she headed back to the restaurant Rosamunde found herself stumbling slightly down the three steps that led to the landing below. A helpful gentleman reached out his arm to steady her. She looked up, slightly embarrassed but grateful. The man smiled for a moment and then frowned.
As Rosamunde fainted all she could see was the colour turquoise.
25.
SATURDAY 13TH DECEMBER 2014
It was now a week and a half until Christmas and Rosamunde knew she could no longer put off the task of buying the rest of her Christmas presents. She bundled herself into her coat and was about to climb into Bernie’s car when she suddenly decided she would save the shopping until the afternoon when the light would dim and she could fully enjoy the sight of Thatchley illuminated for Christmas. In the meantime she would wander down to the church hall to see how the nativity play rehearsals were getting on.
The heating had now been fixed but on this particularly cold winter’s day Rosamunde kept her coat on as she sat at the back of the hall and watched her father’s attempts at directing his chaotic cast. Florence and Anna sat serenely enough in the stable with Baby Henry in Anna’s arms (she was playing Mary as her hair was longer), but the shepherds appeared to be engrossed in a conversation with the innkeeper, appropriately enough about the new ale the landlord of The Dragon’s Head had recently started to serve, and were oblivious to Bernie’s appeals to listen to him. Meanwhile, the angels were squabbling about the fact the Angel Gabriel kept bossing them around (that was Harriet for you) and the three kings were slouched on the side of the stage looking glum. Rosamunde supposed they had better things to do with their Saturday morning. She was about to intervene when suddenly a ferocious bellowing made her jump.
‘Will everyone please shut up!’
All heads turned to see the source of this almost godly voice.
‘Thank you,’ the voice continued as its owner emerged from the corridor into the main hall. It was Benedict.
‘Listen, everyone, we had this conversation the other day. The more noise you all make when Bernie’s trying to direct, the longer the rehearsals will take. So please, let’s just get on with it.’
After delivering his speech Benedict headed to the back of the hall and it was only then he spotted Rosamunde.
‘Oh,’ he cringed. ‘I didn’t realise you were here!’
‘Oh, don’t be embarrassed,’ Rosamunde told him. ‘I’m impressed. I’ve never seen you so authoritative.’
‘I popped in the other day and saw them all running rings round poor Bernie,’ Benedict explained. ‘Goodness knows what it’ll be like when he has to direct the animals as well. Anyway, I decided to step in and help him out. I’m loud when I need to be.’
‘You are indeed,’ replied Rosamunde, in awe of this side of Benedict she’d never seen before. Then she heard another loud noise – a grumbling stomach.
‘Hungry?’ she asked, smiling.
‘Ravenous.’
‘Let’s get some lunch at The Kiln. My shout,’ said Rosamunde as she ga
thered up her bag.
Outside the hall, Rosamunde was met with a bouncing greeting from Humphrey, who was tied to the railings and seemed very relieved he hadn’t been abandoned there forever. At The Kiln, however, the poor mutt had to be tied up outside again. He looked suitably hangdog.
‘It’s not for long, old chap,’ Benedict told him before grabbing Rosamunde’s hand and dragging her into the steamy café. After ordering some soup, Rosamunde found herself observing Benedict with curiosity.
‘It is odd,’ she told him.
‘What’s odd?’ asked Benedict. ‘Other than you, of course.’
‘Just how little I knew you until now, even though I’ve known you all my life.’
‘Well, in fairness you only really knew me as a kid and by my own admission I was seriously annoying. I grew out of that by the time I went to college, but by then you’d totally written me off.’ He grinned ruefully.
‘You’re probably right. Why were you so annoying?’
‘Some kids are, I guess,’ Benedict shrugged. ‘And I’ve always been naturally clumsy, which is inevitably irritating. If I was interrogated by a psychiatrist I might at a push say I was lacking in confidence thanks to my high-achieving and perfectly conforming elder sister, but I don’t think it’s fair to blame her for my imperfections.’
‘Oh, you’re not so imperfect,’ chuckled Rosamunde. ‘And in any event, who am I to judge? I certainly don’t fall into Kizzie’s camp.’
‘That you don’t,’ confirmed Benedict. ‘But I love you for it. It makes me feel so much better,’ he ribbed her. ‘Now, enough of this idle chit-chat. What are we doing this afternoon?’
Rosamunde’s peaceful trip to Thatchley was thus quickly transformed into a less quiet but much more fun-filled visit with Benedict and Humphrey at her side. Just trying to make their way along the high street proved difficult, with every other person enchanted by Humphrey and stopping to fuss over him, though Rosamunde noted most of them were female and she suspected Benedict might be just as much of a draw. She chuckled inwardly at their futile attempts at attracting his attention. One particular woman was incredibly pretty but she was left as disappointed as the rest.
Christmas at the Vicarage Page 11