The Vintage Summer Wedding

by Jenny Oliver

  Tommy giggled. ‘Can I go to the toilet?’

  ‘Yes, Tommy.’

  ‘Miss Smithson?’ said Jemima in the back row. ‘My wings keep falling off.’

  Everyone had stopped singing now.

  ‘OK, I’ll have a look.’ Rachel tiptoed round in crouch trying to be as unobtrusive as she could manage while Jackie tried to cajole them all back into singing.

  ‘Will you sing with us, Miss Smithson?’

  Rachel swallowed, listening as the little voices had started up again on the fourth verse. ‘I erm…’ She found herself caught off guard with no ready answer.

  ‘Sing with us, please?’ Tommy was running back on stage, tucking his T-shirt into his cords.

  ‘No. I’m just going to watch.’ She shook her head, blocking out memories of being on that stage herself with her parents clapping wildly from the front row. ‘I like listening to you,’ she answered, before jumping back off the stage.

  Mr Swanson, Tommy’s father, was standing by the steps screwing together the roof of the manger. ‘Difficult time of year for you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, it’s OK.’ Rachel waved a hand. ‘Great set this year.’

  ‘No need for a brave face, you know. We’re all here. All of us.’

  ‘I know—thanks.’

  He nodded and went back to changing the bit on his drill. ‘You did a good job at the bake sale. Excellent scones. I’ve missed them, you know?’

  She smiled. ‘Well, not quite as good as Mum made.’

  He thought about it and shrugged. ‘Nearly.’ Then, locking the drill, he put his hand on the wonky roof and said, ‘You’re a good girl.’

  ‘Not so much of the girl any more, Mr Swanson.’

  ‘Don’t say it.’ He shook his head. ‘You stay young, I stay young.’

  ‘OK, you’re on.’ Rachel laughed as she walked back over to where Jackie was stabbing at the keys of the decrepit laptop.

  ‘All right?’ Jackie glanced up.

  ‘Fine.’ Rachel nodded, looking back at the stage and taking a sip of her latte. She could feel her heart beating just a bit too fast.

  ‘OK, look—’ Jackie pointed to the screen ‘—check this out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Airbnb. Tonya has let her flat out with them to a Swedish couple while she’s away over Christmas. Two thousand pounds she got for a week and a half. It’s amazing. Your flat becomes someone else’s hotel.’

  ‘Yeah, I think one of my dad’s friends used it when he went to New York. Said the pictures weren’t anything like the place.’

  Jackie shook her head. ‘Oh, he probably just likes a moan. I think it’s amazing. And, especially good for someone like you who doesn’t care for Christmas. Wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Not really.’ Rachel sipped her latte.

  ‘Good way to make money,’ Jackie went on. ‘Take the opportunity to do what that person might always have wanted to do in life but was too scared to try.’

  The kids on stage had changed song, coaxed into The Holly and the Ivy by Miss Ven at the piano.

  ‘Jackie, I’m not interested.’

  ‘But let’s say, for example, someone else thought you were interested. Thought maybe you were hiding away and wasting your life with a good-for-nothing waster, working at a tiny—but let’s not forget, Ofsted highly commended—primary school, which they knew you liked but felt wasn’t quite right for you. I mean, what then? What if they, for example, secretly took photos of your flat and maybe rented it over Christmas to a lovely retired couple from Australia who were arriving on Sunday. What then?’

  ‘Well, then…’ She put the cup down on the table. ‘Then I’d kill you. But I don’t think you’d dare.’

  ‘Surprise!’ Suddenly all the parents popped up from their various positions in the hall where they’d been painting scenery, making tea and bitching about the nativity casting.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Rachel looked around as Marcia Pritchard’s mother, Stacey, handed her an envelope with Eurostar stamped on the front and everyone clapped.

  ‘I kinda dared.’ Jackie looked a little sheepish. ‘You’re going to Paris.’

  ‘I’m not going to Paris.’

  ‘Yeah, you are. To bake with Henri Salernes.’

  Rachel laughed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘It’s true.’ Stacey Pritchard nodded. ‘It’s an apprentice competition. He wants an apprentice—well, actually we’re not convinced he wants, it’s possible that it’s more just to make money, but the opportunity is still there. For amateurs to compete to work for him for a month. It sounds fabulous. And we all just thought it would be a wonderful opportunity for you. Maybe get you back in the swing of it.’

  The rest of the parents were nodding, enthusiasm plastered on their faces.

  ‘Don’t know what we’ll do without you, though.’ Henry Evans, who’d taught her History at school, was the only one looking less impressed. ‘Who’ll make the cakes for the Christmas Lights evening?’

  ‘Shut up, Henry.’ Stacey Pritchard elbowed him in the ribs.

  Rachel wasn’t really listening; she was glaring at Jackie, who was finding the remains of her latte fascinating. ‘How could I have got into that competition?’

  ‘Mr Swanson pulled some strings.’ Stacey turned to point at Mr Swanson, who was hanging back by the manger, round and red faced in his bright Christmas jumper. He waved a hand as if she shouldn’t have mentioned it.

  ‘Absolutely no trouble at all,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t have done it for anyone else, mind.’

  ‘Look, thanks, everyone, it’s really sweet of you, but I can’t go to Paris. And, Jackie, no one’s going to be living in my flat.’ Rachel thought of all her things just the way she liked them being picked up and broken by a couple of Australian strangers. She thought of her usual Christmas Day hiding out in her bedroom with the six-hour BBC Pride and Prejudice DVD. ‘I just—there’s no way I’m going. I have loads to do here. I can’t. Absolutely no way…’

  She trailed off when she looked up and saw all the happy little faces on stage. They’d stopped singing and run off to the wings without her noticing. Now they were holding up a banner saying, ‘Good Luck in Paris, Miss Smithson!’, smiling expectantly. All watching.

  But now their faces were starting to droop, like flowers wilting. Little Tommy had pulled off his angel halo, his bottom lip quivering. It was as if she’d stood in front of them and picked all the decorations off the big tree at the back and smashed them one by one underfoot.

  Jackie raised her eyebrows; Rachel narrowed her eyes back at her. Then she swallowed, took a shaky breath and forced her best teacher smile.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, waving the envelope of tickets so the kids could see. ‘Thanks so much. It’s really kind of you all. I can’t wait.’ Then she pointed at the stage. ‘What a fantastic banner.’

  Stacey Pritchard started clapping and the other parents joined in, unsure at first but gathering steam. Even Mr Swanson put down his drill and punched the air, triumphant. When the kids heard the cheers they tugged the banner as tight as they could so it pulled up high and just their smiling eyes poked out over the top. Then, when Jackie clicked her fingers, they all ran off the stage and swamped Rachel in a hug, so she was trapped in an island of five-year-olds unable to do anything but fake smile so hard her cheeks started to ache.

  Chapter Two

  No way was she going. Rachel was stirring coq au vin on the stove with one hand while trying to pull baked potatoes out of the oven with the other. No way.

  ‘Do you want wine?’ her grandmother shouted from the table.

  ‘I’m only just here, Gran, no need to shout.’

  ‘Sorry, was I shouting? I must be such an embarrassment to you.’ She cocked her head and pulled a tight smile. ‘Do you know, Gran is such a terrible term. I’d really rather you called me Julie.’

  ‘We’ve been through this. I can’t do it. It just won’t happen. When I try to it feels too weird. You’re my gra
ndmother—that’s just the way it is.’ Rachel slid the steaming potatoes from the baking tray into a terracotta bowl and carried them to the table.

  ‘Well, I don’t think things should always be the way they are. Who says that’s the way it should be?’

  Rachel sighed; they had this conversation at least once every six weeks. ‘You know I don’t know the answer. Can we please talk about something else?’

  ‘So I hear you’re off to Paris.’

  ‘Not that. Something other than that.’ Oven gloves on, she picked up the Le Creuset bubbling with stew and set it down in the centre of the table.

  ‘Just so you know, I’ve volunteered to keep an eye on the lovely Australian couple.’

  ‘I’m not going.’

  ‘Oh, you must.’ Julie reached forward and grabbed a potato. ‘Gosh, these are hot,’ she said, slicing it open, forking up the fluffy insides and slathering it with butter. ‘You must go,’ she said again, her mouth full of boiling potato. ‘Divine. Divine as always. Mine are always so hard—bloody microwave. Yes, you have to go. Your mum would have been so proud.’

  Rachel flinched as she stirred the coq au vin.

  There was a pause as she felt her grandmother watching her. ‘She would, you know.’

  ‘I don’t want people in my flat, and—’

  ‘Nonsense. Anyway it’d do you good to get away from that idiot guitar player. Brad?’

  ‘Ben.’ Rachel tried to cut her potato but pulled back as she burnt her fingers on the crispy skin. ‘And he plays the drums, not the guitar.’

  Julie made a face as if it made no difference.

  ‘And he’s fine. It’s fine between us.’ Rachel could feel the frustration boiling up inside her. ‘I’m not going.’

  There was another pause as Julie shook out her napkin, then held up her hands as if she’d say no more about it. ‘Well, come on, then.’ She nodded at the casserole dish. ‘Are you going to serve this thing or not?’

  As Rachel ladled out the rich, thick stew Julie took a mouthful and sighed. ‘I’m going to miss my dinners here while you’re away.’

  At four a.m. the doorbell went, followed by the usual tap on the door. Rachel pulled on her dressing gown and tried to do something vaguely decent with her hair as the tapping got louder and louder. She checked her reflection in the mirror by the door, refusing to think about the fact she’d purposely slept in her make-up on the off chance this visit would happen.

  ‘Rach, honey, darling, beautiful…’ Ben bounded in off the step like a Labrador high on the adoration of his fans. Shaggy black hair, crack-addict cheekbones and eyes that crinkled as if they always knew a secret—he was gorgeous and he knew it.

  ‘Hi,’ she said coyly as he twisted her hair round his hand and pulled her head back for a kiss that tasted of cigarettes and beer and the toothpaste she’d just swallowed while running down the stairs.

  ‘Let’s get rid of this horrible thing, shall we?’ He smirked, pushing her old towelling dressing gown off and sliding his hands round her waist to her arse, then, leaning forward, whispered, ‘Go on, make me something nice. I’m starving.’

  Five minutes later Rachel was whipping up the perfect, smooth, yellow hollandaise and checking the timer for the poached eggs while she watched Ben as he sat back, feet up on the table, flicking through her Grazia magazine.

  ‘Do you want to sleep here tonight?’ She didn’t know why she said it; she hadn’t said it for months. He peered over the pages he was holding and watched her for a second before his mouth quirked into its infamous grin.

  ‘Honey, you know I can’t sleep here. I need my—’

  ‘Own bed.’ She finished before he could and turned her back to him, scooping out the poached eggs. After a moment or two of silence he came over and wrapped his hands around her, pressing himself close against her back.

  ‘You smell awesome.’

  She turned around in his arms and handed him the plate of Eggs Benedict.

  ‘And this—’ he took it from her ‘—looks awesome.’

  As he cut into it, the golden yolk oozing out into the toasted muffin she’d found at the bottom of the freezer and the silky hollandaise dripping from his fork, he paused before putting the first bite into his mouth, as if preparing himself for the bliss.

  When he did eat it, gobbling greedilywith his eyes shut, he hit the table twice with his fist. ‘Fucking amazing. A-mazing. God, it’s better than being on stage. Well—maybe not but it’s fucking good.’

  Rachel couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘You—’ He pointed at her, mouth full. ‘You are going to make someone a great wife one day.’

  She paused for a moment, sipped the tea she’d made herself, and found herself asking, ‘Not you?’

  Ben laughed into his cup of coffee.

  ‘I’m serious,’ she said.

  ‘Hun, come on, it’s too early for this.’

  ‘We’ve kind of seen each other for two years.’

  He made a face. ‘I meant in the morning. It’s fucking four a.m.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ She nodded, glancing down at her haphazard appearance as if to show him just how aware she was of the time.

  ‘Babe.’ He didn’t get up, but took another slurp of coffee. ‘No one gets married any more. What we’ve got… It’s good. Don’t—’ He shook his head as if he was on the cusp of getting annoyed. ‘Don’t spoil it. Just let a man eat. Yeah?’

  Rachel opened her mouth to say something but then closed it again.

  Oh, my God, she thought. Oh, my God, what have I been doing?

  Who was he? What had she seriously expected from him?

  As she watched him eat, chewing furiously, she suddenly saw what everyone else saw. A black hole at her table where her life disappeared.

  ‘OK, babe?’ He glanced up, checking that she was still there, still waiting for him to finish.

  She nodded, her mouth frozen into place.

  He pushed his plate away and stretched his arms high to the ceiling. ‘Awesome. Totally awesome, as always. Bed?’

  ‘I erm…’ But it felt as if her mind had slipped all the way through her body into a pool on the floor. And instead of saying anything else she let him lead her up to her bedroom, where she was suddenly ashamed that she’d changed the sheets because she’d had an inkling he was coming and had put the winter roses her gran had brought for her in a vase by the bed and sprayed Dark Amber Zara Home room spray to make it smell all moody and sexy.

  When the front door clicked shut forty minutes later, she lay staring up at the ceiling and wondered what had become of Rachel Smithson, because right now she felt completely hollow from the neck down.

  CARINA™

  ISBN: 978 1 472 09631 9

  The Vintage Summer Wedding

  Copyright © 2014 Jenny Oliver

  Published in Great Britain (2014)

  by Carina, an imprint of Harlequin (UK) Limited, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

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