by Karen Clarke
‘Is Sadie here?’ I forced the words over my tongue, which felt Sahara dry.
‘Sadie?’ Beverley stopped pawing my hair and pulled in her double chins. ‘She’s out with her college mates, I ’spect. Don’t see as much of her now she’s in her second year of that course. She’s loving it, you know.’ Her lips pulled back in a smile that made her teeth look yellow. ‘She wants to work on Casualty, doing the wounds. I didn’t know that was part of being a make-up artist, but I s’pose someone’s got to do it.’
Finally, she bounced back from the door. ‘C’mon in, I’ll pour us a little drinkie.’
‘Not for me, Bev, I’m driving.’
Sadie hadn’t said anything. Why? She’d looked like she hated me before driving off. Like the first thing she planned to do was tell someone.
‘Have you heard from Sam?’
‘Sam?’ Beverley paused her bouncy stride up the garden path and looked at me over her shoulder. She was wearing a floaty, strapless dress that needed hoisting up, and chunky, wooden bangles on both arms. ‘I told you, sweetie, he won’t get in touch when he’s away, unless there’s an emergency. If he breaks his leg or something.’ She sounded jaunty, as if she couldn’t care less whether Sam broke his leg, or even his neck. ‘He’s a big boy, not tied to the apron strings. He can do whatever he likes, and I’m sure he does.’ She tapped the side of her nose, nostrils flaring. ‘What happens in Vegas and all that.’ Her laughter lacked a ring of humour, and I wondered what she was talking about.
Was she not-so-subtly saying she did know about the kiss, but wasn’t letting on? Maybe she didn’t want to rock the boat with the wedding looming, but I couldn’t imagine Beverley letting something as potentially explosive slide by without comment – especially after her outburst over my TV appearance.
She shoved open the front door with so much force it hit the wall and bounced back. ‘Oops,’ she said, lifting her hands and aiming a karate chop at the wood, as though it was fighting her. As she disappeared inside the house, my phone vibrated, and I paused on the threshold to quickly read a message.
Just so you know, I’m not going to tell anyone. Whether you do or not is up to you. Sadie X
Tears pricked my eyes. It felt so sordid having a secret. Especially with Sadie, who’d always looked up to me.
‘Now where’ve you gone?’ Beverley’s voice was plaintive, verging on argumentative.
‘Coming!’ I called, quickly thumbing a text back.
Thank you, but we should talk soon X
I thrust my phone in my bag as Beverley’s curly head poked round the living-room door. ‘Come and look at this.’ She was dangling a swatch of fabric, presumably meant for my wedding dress. ‘See what you think.’
‘Where’s Neil?’ I said, entering the room, which was full of plumped upholstery, framed family photos, and vases of vibrant flowers from the garden.
‘In his shed, where else, my love?’ Beverley thudded on a chair at the table by the window, in front of her sewing machine. The curtains were half-drawn, and a dust-laden beam of sunlight squeezed through the gap. ‘He’s making a cradle for when you… you know.’ She leaned back, shaping a dome over her stomach with her hands. ‘I’ve told him he’s tempting fate, but he won’t have it.’ She shook her head, earrings wobbling. ‘He’s a soppy bugger.’
‘That’s so kind of him.’ Now I felt even worse. How could I even begin the complicated process of unravelling myself from Sam’s family? ‘I’m not planning to be pregnant for quite some time,’ I said, feeling sick. At least that much was true.
‘Ah, don’t worry, sweetheart.’ Beverley plucked an almost empty wine bottle off the floor and I thought for a moment she was going to drink straight from it. Instead, she peered at the label then kissed the rim to an empty glass on the table, refilling it to the top. ‘It’s more a means of escape, being in that shed.’ She turned her gaze to the window, as if she had X-ray vision and could see Neil, sawing away. ‘He’s sick to death of us, you know.’
‘Beverley!’ I dropped on the arm of the sofa. ‘Neil thinks the world of you all.’
‘He used to.’ She swivelled her head, and gave me a smile so wide it looked almost painful, before bursting into tears. ‘I’m losing everyone,’ she sobbed, face crumpled in misery. ‘Sam’s marrying you; Sadie’s doing a house share with her friends from next month; Maura’s never here; and Neil’s always fiddling with his wood in the shed.’ She pressed the fabric she’d been holding to her face. ‘I liked it better when the kids were little and I knew where they were and what they were doing. Or when Neil had his accident, and we all pulled together. Now everyone’s doing their own thing, and I can’t bear it.’
‘But that’s how it should be, Beverley.’ I went to kneel by her chair and rested a hand on her knee. It felt hot through the fabric of her dress, which had slipped even lower down her breasts, but I knew better than to try and hitch it up. I’d had no idea she felt like this, but then I’d never spent much time alone with her. She’d always just been Sam’s mum; capable and jolly, who loved her family and her garden, and liked keeping busy and having sly digs at people.
‘I think I’ve got empty nest syndrome,’ she said, blowing her nose then swiping the fabric over her eyes, trailing snot and mascara across her cheeks. ‘Listen to me, going on.’ She gave a gargly laugh. ‘You’ll soon be married to Sam, and there’ll be grandchildren to look forward to.’ She drained her wine in noisy gulps, still clutching the slimy fabric. ‘You know, I can’t wait to be a grandma, my darling.’
Alarm fluttered in my chest. It sounded as if she was relying on Sam and me to keep her fulfilled for the rest of her life.
Just like Mum.
I returned to the sofa, running my hands down my skirt, wishing I’d stayed at the pub. ‘I found out today that the bakery’s sold and I’m going to be the new manager.’ My upbeat tone sounded forced. ‘I can reopen once the paperwork’s been signed. Isn’t that amazing?’
Beverley was staring at the ruined fabric in her hand with a glazed expression. ‘Look what I’ve done,’ she said, as if I hadn’t spoken. Throwing it down, she bounded out of her chair and weaved to the magazine rack by the fireplace. ‘I’ll show you a pattern I found in this month’s Beautiful Bride.’ She leaned down to find it, revealing a glimpse of pink thong through a small tear in the stitching of her dress. Swaying slightly, she flipped through the pages, straining to see in the half-light. ‘Ah, yes, here we are.’
Bringing the magazine over, she thrust it under my nose, and I stared at a picture of a model in a rose-pink wedding dress that gripped her enormous bosoms and flared to the ground from a heart-shaped V at the waist. She looked like Porno Barbie.
‘I don’t think it’s really me,’ I said, smarting that she hadn’t mentioned the bakery, and wondering whether she’d picked the wrong page in her inebriated state. ‘A bit too…’ slutty? I settled for, ‘… fussy.’
‘Are you mad?’ Beverley yanked the magazine back, then trained her eyes on my chest, as though picturing me in the dress. With her ruined mascara, shiny nose, and wine-stained lips, she looked like a psychotic clown. ‘It’s exactly you.’ She flapped the magazine at me. ‘Maybe not that exact shade, my darling, but the style is perfect for your shape.’
Absurdly, I felt like crying. After biting my lip to stop it trembling, I picked up my bag and tucked it under my arm. ‘If I get married, I want to choose a wedding dress with my mum.’
Beverley staggered back, and I realised I’d said ‘if’, but it clearly hadn’t registered. ‘But your mum hardly ever goes out,’ she said.
‘She’d make the effort, for me.’ I hated having to explain Mum to her yet again. ‘Or, we could order something online for me to try on at home.’
Her mouth opened and closed. ‘But… Sam said you were happy for me to make it.’
‘I hadn’t thought it through properly. I suppose I was trying to please you both, but I’d really like my mum to be more involved.’ I got up to leave
. ‘I’m sorry, Beverley.’
Her face hardened. ‘You’re not good enough for him, you know.’ She rolled up the magazine, as if planning to hit me with it. ‘He should have stayed with that girl he met at university. She was a model, you know.’
‘Aspiring model, you said.’ It was childish, but her words felt like darts, pricking my skin.
‘Don’t get me wrong, Meg.’ She stretched out a wavering arm. ‘You’re a lovely girl, and we adore you being part of our family, but Sam could have had anyone he wanted.’
‘And yet he chose me.’ I wasn’t even sure I believed that any more, or why I was bothering to argue, but it suddenly felt as if Andrea was standing in the room with us.
‘And I’m very happy for you both.’ Beverley was over-enunciating now. ‘I just wish you were a little bit more…’ She waggled her hand, as if trying to conjure the right word.
‘A little bit more what, Beverley?’ My voice shook. I felt as if I’d entered a stranger’s house. A horrible stranger, with bad make-up.
‘Devoted,’ she said, and smacked her lips with apparent satisfaction.
‘Devoted?’
‘Do you love him, Meg?’
I stared at her. ‘This is getting silly.’ I began to back away. ‘You’ve been drinking. I shouldn’t have come.’
‘Just answer the question.’
‘We’re supposed to be getting married, aren’t we?’
‘And yet you haven’t got round to organising anything.’
I stopped moving. ‘I haven’t had time, that’s all,’ I said. ‘And you wanted to help.’
‘You don’t like any of my suggestions.’
‘That’s… not true,’ I said weakly. ‘I like Studley Grange.’
‘You pooh-poohed that display I liked at the Chelsea Flower Show, when I suggested something similar for the tables at the reception.’ She pronounced it reshepshun.
‘Only because I don’t like lilies.’ There’d been lilies on my granny’s coffin, and ever since, I’d associated them with funerals. ‘They remind me of death.’
‘Charming,’ huffed Beverley, as though she’d invented lilies. ‘I had them at my wedding.’
‘I’ve nothing against anyone having lilies at their wedding. I just don’t want them at mine.’ I wondered how long she’d been waiting to get all this off her chest – whether she’d said any of it to Sam. ‘And I don’t want to learn a wedding dance to Ed Sheeran, and I really don’t want a harpist. I know I said I did, when I was sixteen, but I really don’t any more.’
Beverley was squinting at me, as if I’d sprouted a beard. ‘What’s wrong with that harpist I tracked down? She won Italy’s Got Talent, for heaven’s sake. Or was it Germany?’ She tapped her forehead with the rolled-up magazine. ‘She’s definitely got talent, love. You could do a lot worse.’
You’ve just told me I’m not good enough for Sam.
‘What’s going on in here then?’ Neil strode in, carrying the scent of sawdust and linseed oil. ‘Hello, Meg, love,’ he said. ‘You girls talking weddings?’ His gaze slid from me to Beverley and back. ‘It’s a bit dark in here.’ He crossed to the window and rasped the curtains open. ‘Shall I get us something to eat?’ He seemed totally oblivious to the tension swilling about. ‘Bev’s stopped cooking, except on Sundays, but I could rustle up some ham sandwiches.’
He smiled amiably, as Beverley studied the hastily unrolled magazine, seeming unbothered by the empty wine bottle and glass, and screwed up fabric on the floor. Maybe he was used to his wife’s drinking. Maybe she often had outbursts. I realised I had no idea about the true state of their marriage, and suddenly didn’t want to.
‘Actually, I was just going,’ I said.
‘But you’ve only just got here.’ Neil’s smile faltered, and I wondered how he knew I’d only just got there if he’d been busy in his shed. Maybe Beverley had a point, and he’d been in there watching the house, waiting for her to go to bed before he came out.
‘I’ve… got plans,’ I said, and before either of them could respond, I hurried out, slamming the front door behind me, feeling as if I’d had a lucky escape – though from what, I couldn’t have said.
Chapter Sixteen
As soon as I got home, I sent Sam a message, asking him to call me, still reeling from my encounter with Beverley. He didn’t reply, even though I could see he’d read it.
I sent another. We need to talk. NOW.
While I waited for him to reply, I turned the television on and off again, sat on the sofa, then got up and paced round the living room. Should I tell Sam about the kiss first? I’d never been good at keeping secrets, even blurting to Mum once what I’d got her for Christmas, when she’d teasingly asked.
I remembered Cassie saying ‘She’d be starting married life on a lie’ when Tilly had jokingly suggested I have a fling with Nathan, and pressed my knuckles into my eyes until stars danced behind my lids.
Calling the wedding off over the phone seemed too drastic, but telling him I’d kissed another man was no better. Either way, his cycle challenge would be ruined, and he’d be less likely to forgive me for that than anything else.
Maybe I should wait until he got home.
Flopping back on the sofa, I picked up my phone and clicked into Facebook. A couple of new photos had been posted – one of Sam cycling past a field of sunflowers that morning, with the caption Bligny-sur-Ouche here we come! Our most challenging ride so far, and another, a couple of hours ago, sitting at a restaurant table surrounded by smiling faces. He was probably in his hotel room now, having an early night, and on impulse I called his number, a tide of sickness rising inside me at the thought of what I might say. My gaze filmed with tears as I listened to the phone ring and ring, and I’d just convinced myself he must be asleep, and I was being selfish by calling to unburden myself, when he finally picked up.
‘Hello?’
His voice was filled with laughter, as though he’d been in the middle of a joke, and I heard the sounds of a restaurant or bar in the background. So much for being in bed.
‘Sorry for calling, Sam, but I needed to talk to you.’ I didn’t sound like myself, but he apparently didn’t notice.
‘You wouldn’t believe the climb we did today, Meggle!’ He sounded drunk. ‘It’s a good job I trained hard. Some of the guys can’t feel their thighs tonight.’
Ribald shouts and laughter greeted his comment, and I recognised Chris’s voice. ‘Someone wants to feel your thighs tonight, mate.’ Followed by female laughter: flirtatious laughter. George.
‘You didn’t tell me there was a woman in the group.’ Not what I’d meant to say. ‘I saw her in the photo.’
‘Georgie-Porgy, pudding and pie, kissed a boy and made him cry,’ Sam sang, in a high, girly voice. More laughter erupted.
‘The bakery’s sold and I’m going to be running it,’ I said baldly. I’d never liked drunk Sam. He became belligerent, and I was suddenly reminded of Beverley and her hateful comments. ‘And your mum doesn’t think I’m good enough for you.’
Silence swelled at the other end – at least, from Sam. The rest of the group were now singing, ‘One man went to mow, went to mow a meadow.’ I doubted they could find their hotel rooms right now, let alone ride a bike, and it was barely ten o’clock in France.
‘What has she said?’
‘That you should have stayed with your model girlfriend in Edinburgh.’
‘For fuck’s sake.’ Sam only swore when he’d had too much beer. ‘I can’t deal with this right now, Meg. I need to get to bed.’
More laughter, and Chris’s voice again. ‘Whose bed though?’
I suddenly hated Chris. He’d pushed for Sam to do the challenge in the first place, but Chris was single and could do whatever he liked.
‘The man’s giving you the wedding of your dreams, so you can’t begrudge him a few days pedalling through France,’ he’d said at the start of their training, even though I hadn’t said a word in protest.
; Was that why Sam had proposed?
‘Would you have stayed in Edinburgh if Andrea hadn’t broken up with you?’
‘Why are you raking that up now?’ he said. ‘I’ve no idea what would have happened if Andrea hadn’t broken up with me, but she did.’ My breath caught. It was the first time he’d admitted their break up wasn’t mutual. ‘Meg?’
I eased out a shaky breath. ‘Did you come back to me on the rebound?’
‘OK, I’m not doing this.’ His voice was low now, and sounded clenched. ‘We’ll talk when I get back.’
Except, he’d have forgotten our conversation by morning – he never remembered anything he’d said while drunk. ‘Sam, wait…’
He rang off before I could say anything else, and I wept frustrated tears as I went outside and watered the garden. He hadn’t even commented about the bakery – probably hadn’t heard me – and I had to resist an urge to call Cassie or Tilly and ask them what I should do.
This was something I had to work out for myself, and my mind swung back and forth over everything that had happened that day until finally, the noise from next door as the twins wielded lightsabres and yelled, ‘May the force be with poo!’ drove me back inside.
Emotionally exhausted, I put together a salad, which I ate with a toasted cheese sandwich in the kitchen and, slightly restored, I sat in the granddad chair and checked my emails, a flicker of excitement igniting when I saw that the solicitor had sent over the documents for me to read, and an invitation to drop by the office to sign off the following afternoon. I read through them twice, barely taking it all in the first time, beyond the sight of my name as the manager of the Old Bakery in Seashell Cove – but it all looked fine. It was just a shame there was no clue as to who the buyer was. I’d have loved to be able to thank him personally, but presumably, whoever he was, he knew how much it meant to me, and that was enough.