by Beth Moran
And the droppings? Someone needed to teach those animals how to use a trowel.
After a stressful hour herding the sheep into the next field, before cobbling together a makeshift barricade out of a fallen tree trunk, Hester rallied our soggy spirits by declaring an emergency trip to the nearest pub for hot food and running water. Some of the group didn’t even bother getting changed, shoving on a jumper and wellies over their pyjamas before diving into the cars.
We sat in the pub like a bunch of wild women, plates loaded up from the breakfast bar as though we hadn’t eaten a decent meal for a month. Whew. And I knew what that felt like. Glancing around at my cohorts, with their messy hair, grass-stained onesies, stale swamp stink, and smudged faces, I suspected some of them might know that feeling, too.
“Now I know why celebrities are so thin,” Rowan declared, around a mouthful of limp bacon. “The more you slum it, the better food tastes. Rich people probably don’t even notice what their breakfast tastes like. I bet some of them don’t even have breakfast. Faith, does Perry eat breakfast?”
I nodded. “Yes. He eats granola with fruit and yoghurt.”
“See. It’s in our genes. If you’re warm and dry, you’re fine eating fruit. If you wake up in a sodden tracksuit ’cos a sheep’s eaten your bedroom door, your body needs grease. It’s like ‘Dude! I’m going to need more fat deposits to keep warm in these conditions’.”
“You’re not rich, Rowan, and you’re tiny.”
“Yeah. Well. I can’t usually afford breakfast.” She glanced up, suddenly embarrassed. “At least, I don’t usually have time to eat it. What with getting Callie ready for nursery and starting college and everything.”
“How’s that going?” I asked.
“Not bad, actually. It’s not like school. I call the teacher by his first name, and he talks to me like I’m a normal person, not a deadbeat. He says if I keep it up I can get a C first time.”
“And then your beauty course?”
She nodded proudly. “Sherwood College say I can start in September if I pass maths and English. I just need to figure out how to pay for the fees.”
“Would you like me to see if I can get you some waitressing shifts?”
She shrugged. “Maybe once Callie’s at school full time. For now, it’ll be enough to leave her with my mum while I’m training. Thanks anyway. Hester says if it’s meant to be, something’ll come up.”
“I’ll add you to my prayers,” I blurted.
She beamed in surprise. I felt a little surprised myself. What prayers? Help, God, please don’t let Kane get me or my brother? And please stop me feeling attracted to a man other than my nice fiancé?
I took a swig of tea in an attempt to quench the prickle of anxiety pointing out that here, sat in a grubby pub in yesterday’s underwear with a group of women resembling a Neanderthal tribe, I felt more part of the family than I did nibbling on smoked salmon at HCC with those I would soon be legally related to.
When we returned to the field, the first thing I noticed was a bubblegum pink Mini parked up with the rest of the cars. Once Marilyn pulled over, I saw the bunting stretching between several trees towards the far side of the clearing. And balloons. A lot of pink balloons.
As I climbed out and started walking over to the wreckage of the tents, two pink people jumped out from behind a large oak tree.
“Surprise!” Natasha and Catherine were wearing pink wigs, pink cowgirl hats, pink wellies, and pink T-shirts that said “Faith’s Final Fling!” in swirly, glittery letters.
“What?” I stood there, gaping like the fish out of water I knew I was about to become.
“Surprise!” they squealed again, flapping their hands about. “It’s your hen do!”
“But I’m not having a hen do.”
“Wrong, Faith. You totally are!”
I swivelled my head to face Marilyn, my matron of honour and therefore the one in charge of making sure I didn’t have a hen do. She grinned at me. “Outnumbered, outmanoeuvred, and outvoted.”
“What about this being my wedding? Where I get to decide what does and doesn’t happen?” I hissed.
“That only counts where you’re right. When you’re being an idiot we get to overrule.”
“Yes!” Natasha tipped out a bag of matching T-shirts onto the grass. “Outnumbered, outvoted, outmanoeuvred, and overruled. We are going to give you the best. Hen do. Ever.”
My heart slipped down my trouser leg and plopped onto the grass in a sorry heap. Oh boy.
The itinerary for the best hen do ever?
To start with, a high-rise climbing, swinging, treetops, monkey-type “adventure”. A stroll in the woods compared to our adventures the night before. Only Marilyn tried to back out, and that was because she couldn’t believe she came under the weight restriction. Having worked herself up into a nervous frenzy when we arrived, the instructor didn’t even blink at her size. I thought back to the rock climbing trip, where she had sat on the sidelines with Polly. It was fantastic that Marilyn had energy now, was fitter and stronger and healthier. But more than that, those months of sweat and tears and aching muscles and utter exhaustion with Anton had enabled her to become a fully participating member of life again. Take that, sidelines! It’s the sidelines’ turn to sit on the sidelines now!
I slung an arm around her shoulder. “I should charge you for all the extra dress material Rosa’s going to have to throw away.”
“This hen do T-shirt is a medium. I’ve lost so much weight I’m medium. In the middle. Non-large.” She tugged at the top in disbelief.
“It’s what you’ve gained that makes the difference.”
“I’m going to smash everybody on this course. Even those gym-honed posh girls.” She grinned.
“Everybody except me. You have to let the bride win, of course.”
“I have to do no such thing. What, one hour into your hen do and you’ve gone bridezilla on me? Save the attitude for your mother-in-law.”
“Speaking of Larissa, why isn’t she here?” I looked around, as if expecting her to appear out of the trees. “I’d have liked to see her dangling off that bungee thing. Given her a helping shove down the zip wire.”
“Unfortunately, the date clashed with her annual Lady Rosalind Institute reunion.” Marilyn shook her head in mock woe.
“Coincidence.”
“No-incidence. Today has been planned with military precision. No attention spared to detail.”
We reached the first obstacle, where the rest of the choir waited for me to lead the way.
I gave Marilyn a kiss on the cheek and whispered, “Thank you for ignoring my instructions. You go ahead and leave me happily eating your dust.”
By the time we had finished the course, eaten a picnic lunch sprawled on blankets in the sunshine, and limped back to base, we felt optimistic enough to construct a bonfire. The afternoon was spent wandering around scouting out dry wood, clearing up the sheep damage, and munching on the cakes Natasha and Catherine had brought along. Kim and Rowan got out their cosmetic bags and had a go at untangling our rat’s-nests and scrubbing up our outdoor faces. Not a lot they could do about the smell, but we were getting used to it.
“Are we going out later, then?” Yasmin asked, as Kim painted her nails for her in different colours.
“This is about as out as you can get,” I smiled, waving at the countryside.
“No. I mean out, like in out where other people are.”
“We’re not,” Catherine answered. “Why would we want to go anywhere else when we’ve got a rockin’ group of women right here? Sitting under the stars with a bonfire, marshmallows, and Natasha’s party playlist on her iPod…”
“Yeah. No shelter, no toilet, and no chairs… What more could a girl ask for?” Rowan looked up from brushing Leona’s hair.
“I think the plan is to be back in your own beds tonight. Hester asked the church minister guy to come and pick the gear up at about eleven.”
“Dylan?” Yasmin smi
rked. “So there’s at least someone to get dolled up for then.”
Kim pointed the nail polish brush at her. “You know better than that. Aren’t we supposed to have learned we don’t need a man to get dolled up for? Besides” – she pulled a sly smile, looking down and pretending to concentrate on Yasmin’s fingernails – “I think for all of the women here, our appearance will go right over Dylan’s head. Except for one. And she could wear a second-hand bin bag and he’d not be able to take his dreamy eyes off her.” Half the women within hearing distance froze. The others jerked their heads towards Kim.
Apart from me, that is. I reacted by turning crimson and busying myself with choosing a shade of lipstick while pretending to ignore the awkward giggles. Had she really just said that? At my hen do?
“Get on with it, then,” Yasmin urged Kim on, trying to change the subject. “Haven’t you seen the state of my cuticles?”
I gave my engagement ring a squeeze, reminded myself that Dylan’s behaviour had been entirely appropriate, up to and including the gate non-incident. Men didn’t fist bump people they fancied, did they? He’s a minister, for goodness’ sake! I was ridiculous, over-analysing every look and smile, reinterpreting the kind words Dylan used all the time, and transferring my own stupid emotions onto his entirely rational ones. Once Perry had returned from wherever he was this week, and we were able to spend a bit more time together, my feelings would return to normal in good time for the wedding.
Ah, yes. And what were your normal feelings towards Perry, exactly? Strong enough to prevent any future crushes when a handsome, kind, funny, wise, lovely man comes along?
I took a deep breath. They were going to have to be.
We lit the fire as dusk began to fall and gathered round it on a motley bunch of makeshift seats – the folded-up tents, upturned buckets, and cool box. The twins oohed and aahed at the crackling flames from the safety of their pushchair. As the stars emerged in the purple sky, the scent of pine trees mingled with the warmth of the wood smoke, and the wood pigeons cooed their bedtime story. All of us agreed this was better than being crammed round a table in some city-centre restaurant.
To make things just about perfect, Polly and baby Esme arrived with four carrier bags of fish and chips. We toasted love, friendship, a memorable weekend, no broken bones and not too many bruised bottoms, and – to a lesser degree – marriage.
“To Perry, wherever he may be,” Mags declared. “A man with excellent taste in women. May he fulfil all Faith’s bodily, mind, and heart’s desires, ’til death do them part.”
“Bodily desires? ’Til death do them part? She should be so lucky!” Janice said, causing a ripple of laughter.
I bent my head, pretending to hide my blushes rather than the stab of anxiety. It had been easier, in the planning and the preparation of my wedding, to dismiss the reality of the marriage that came after.
Once the sun set behind the oak trees we brought out the blankets and sleeping bags that had managed to escape the sheep. Wrapped ourselves up in pink bobble hats and fleecy jackets, easy conversation and good company. Hester challenged everyone to give me a piece of marriage advice.
Looking around at the group, I braced myself.
Natasha kicked us off. “Go on a date every fortnight. That’s what my parents do.”
“Tell him you love him every day,” Ebony said, her cheekbones pink. I nodded my thanks. How about I start by telling him I love him once?
“If you want to get the most out of a marriage, you can’t go into it with a fifty-fifty attitude,” Mags said. “If you both decide to give one hundred per cent and try to outgive the other, that’s when you get a marriage that sings.”
“Sex begins at the breakfast table,” Janice declared. “Or sometimes on the breakfast table. But that’s not what I mean. Don’t leave all thoughts of romance until the end of the day when you’re knackered and your brain is full of work, leaving you feeling about as sexy as a bowl of dirty dishes. Then, when his hand begins to creep across the bed what you want to do is sit up, clock him over the head with your hot water bottle, and ask ‘Are you kidding me?’”
Are you kidding me? That pretty much summed up how I felt about sex with Perry. Maybe we needed to start having breakfast together.
Millie nodded. “Then, before you know it he’s going on business trips to conduct sneaky business with his thirty-two-year-old personal assistant and her fake boobs. That’s my advice. Make sure his personal assistant has her own boobs.”
We carried on. Rowan, whose only boyfriend had been Callie’s father, told me, “Dance together. In the kitchen. Under the moon. Pull each other close and learn to move in time.” She shrugged. “When I find a decent man I’m going to dance with him every night.”
April solemnly advised me to stick with it; the bad times are worth fighting through to get to the good times on the other side.
“Grace,” Leona added. “Grace is the oil that keeps the wheels running smoothly. When he leaves his underwear on the bathroom floor, forgets your birthday, snores, and snaps at the kids. Those days when you can’t stop fantasizing about packing up a suitcase and running off to live a life of bliss on a deserted island, where nobody leaves an empty packet of tea in the cupboard, or burps when you are trying to enjoy your meal, or expects you to know where his rugby top is. On those days, you need to remind yourself – this is a good man, on the whole. He is faithful, and kind. He works hard, and means well even when he hasn’t got a clue. He is decent, and he loves me as best he can. Take a deep breath and pray for grace.”
After the others had taken their turns, Polly went second to last. She crossed her arms and pulled a face. “What can I say, Faith? I’m the last person who should be doling out advice. Just don’t put up with any crap.” A tear rolled down her cheek, as Melody reached over to give her hand a squeeze. “Marilyn?”
My best friend looked at me, her expression neutral. “Honesty. And trust. A good partner brings out the best in you, but that’s impossible when you don’t even let him know you.”
I cleared my throat, more than a little overwhelmed by the prospect of what I was letting myself in for. Marriage sounded like hard work. So much more than two people sharing a house, and a bed, and some memories, maybe some kids.
That was okay, I decided. I could do hard work. I could learn to trust Perry. That took time, right? I could rustle up enough grace. We could dance in the kitchen. And his personal assistant was a man, so I felt pretty sure he didn’t have breast implants.
I could make it work.
My phone rang, as a tiny flicker of signal managed to penetrate the forest depths. Sam. As I answered my phone, the twelve missed messages and countless texts beeped through. I excused myself, finding a private spot a short distance away to answer.
“Hi Sam.”
“Faith! Why didn’t you answer my calls? I need to talk to you.”
I took a deep breath. I would make it work.
Having reassured Sam that I was fine, and reassured myself that he was as fine as could be expected underneath all the rambling waffle, I hung up and went back to the others. They had a gift for me. A set of china cups and saucers and matching teapot. I loved them, but I couldn’t help thinking how out of place they would look in Perry’s space-age kitchen. They’d look bloomin’ lovely sitting on the bashed-up oak dresser in my kitchen, bought for thirty pounds from a charity shop, sanded down, and painted duck-egg blue to match my cabinets.
After the obligatory sing-song around the campfire, leaving my bridesmaids fairly bedazzled, Natasha turned up her iPod and set the playlist to party. We all kicked off our shoes and danced on the cold grass – even Hester, even Polly. Especially Polly, who danced as if the leg irons holding her back for the past few years had finally been hacked off. We boogied until we were breathless, then we had a drink, and some more food, and got up and boogied again.
During the middle of a particularly energetic reconstruction of the last dance from Dirty Dancing, high on e
ndorphins, laughter, and two rare glasses of wine, I launched myself across the clearing into Marilyn’s waiting arms, leaving us both in a heap on the grass. At that moment, Dylan strolled up.
“Hello, ladies.” He grinned, hands in his pockets. “So this is what you get up to when no men are around.”
“Dance with us, Dylan!” Rowan grabbed his hands, and started attempting a pachanga, or whatever it is Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey do in the film. To my surprise, Dylan went with it, with relish, adding some spins and even a dip as the song came to an end. Huh. Well. There you go then. How nice for Rowan.
He pulled her back up again, ruffled her hair affectionately, then looked across at me and winked.
Good job it was too dark to see my schoolgirl blush. And if I was the one he winked at, well, we were friends. It wasn’t some secret signal, meant only for me, about how actually he was really pleased to see me…
Sheesh, Faith. This is why you don’t drink wine.
“How’s the hen? Fun weekend?” He wandered over while Hester began barking instructions for the evacuation.
“Today was great. Yesterday…? Probably best summed up as memorable.”
He frowned, scanning the clearing. “Is there a problem with the drains here?”
“Um, no. There are no drains. But we’ve been using the woods. And Hester brought a trowel.”
His nostrils flared. “I think you needed to dig a bit deeper. That is rank.”
With horror, I realized what the smell was. “Actually, that’s not what it is.”
I leaned in a bit closer, screwing up my face in apology. Dylan veered back, covering his face with his hand.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but what on earth?”
“I know. I ended up in a sort of swamp last night. A few of us did. Help me carry some of this stuff to the car and I’ll tell you about it.”
We loaded everything up, and searched the clearing for any last trace of litter or chunks of chewed-up tent. Most people had left by the time Marilyn started strapping her now sleeping toddlers into the car, and I had a moment to say bye to Dylan.