The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights

by Sarah Lefebve

  Maybe I was wrong. Maybe finding Mr Right isn’t about ‘just knowing,’ maybe it’s about knowing everything about him and loving him for all of those things – because it’s endearing that he’s afraid of mould and would rather throw away the entire cheese box than remove a mouldy piece and because you can’t stand liver and onions but will make it for him because it’s his favourite food.

  We toast the couple’s knowledge of each other with a glass of champagne before finishing off the meal with chocolate tart with mascarpone. Yummy.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO

  “Was I crying last night?” I ask Fiona the next morning. I don’t remember crying, but there are black streaks down my face.

  I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, squinting.

  “Don’t you remember?”

  No.

  “No. What?”

  “It was when we came up to bed. You found a text on your phone from James.”

  Of course.

  I reach for my phone from the floor beside the bed.

  B, I know you have moved on now, but I remembered it was Katie’s hen do this weekend and I just wanted to say I hope you all have a great time. I still love you. Jx

  I look at Fiona.

  “He’s wrong isn’t he? You haven’t moved on, have you?”

  I shake my head.

  “You have to tell him, Becky.”

  “No. I can’t. It’ll get better.”

  “But you’re so unhappy.”

  “I’m not,” I lie. “I’m fine. Honestly. I was just drunk. I don’t even remember getting upset last night. Things will get easier. I’ll meet someone else. Eventually.”

  I wish I didn’t believe in Mr Right. I wish I thought there wasn’t just one right person for each of us. I wish I believed there were hundreds of people that could all be right for us, in different ways. That if you meet one of them and it doesn’t work out – because they die, or because they leave you, or because they turn out to be your best friend’s ex, say – then you could just go on and meet one of the others instead.

  If they leave you, then I think that means they weren’t right in the first place. Does the same apply if they turn out to be your best friend’s ex?

  Maybe I got it wrong. Maybe James isn’t Mr Right. If he were then we’d be together, wouldn’t we? Because that’s what I believe – that fate will lead you to your Mr Right. And what’s the point in fate leading you to him if it’s not going to finish off the job and make sure you stay together?

  CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE

  “Are you sure you’ve got everything?” Emma says, looking around my bedroom – which currently looks like the scene of a nuclear disaster. I couldn’t decide what to pack.

  It’s the third time she’s asked me.

  The first time I realised I’d forgotten to pack my toothbrush.

  The second time I realised I’d forgotten my dress. My bridesmaid dress.

  A missing toothbrush is not a problem. I’m sure they have toothbrushes in the New Forest. A bridesmaid dress, however, is a different matter entirely.

  I scan my mental list of things-to-remember-for-the-wedding (a mental list of things to remember is not a good idea – how the hell are you supposed to remember what’s on the bloody list?)

  Anyway. In no particular order:

  Knickers.

  Deodorant.

  Bras – including the super-dooper-extra-padding-for-girls-with-no-boobs one that’s no doubt going to make me look like I’ve grown a decent pair of boobs over night (these people know me, remember – they won’t be fooled).

  Tights.

  Perfume.

  Shoes – to go with dress. Bought in New York. When I was with James.

  Cut off jeans.

  Travel jewellery case containing two pairs of earrings, three necklaces and a bracelet.

  White gypsy skirt.

  Flip-flops – because I’m clearly going to have oodles of time for leisurely strolls around the New Forest.

  Makeup.

  Two t-shirts and three strappy tops.

  “You’re going for two nights, not two weeks,” Emma tells me, when I’ve run out of fingers – on her hands and mine – to count off all the things on my mental checklist.

  “I know, I know, but better to have too much stuff than not enough,” I say, zipping up my case. “Let’s go.”

  Emma is driving us to the New Forest.

  Driving with Emma scares me. She drove us to Bournemouth once for a camping weekend after our A levels. We were stuck in traffic on a dual carriageway and she persuaded me to get out of the car and give my telephone number to a cute boy in the car behind us. Then the traffic started moving again and Emma thought it would be hilarious to make me run in my flip-flops to catch up with her. I don’t think I’ve ever quite got over the humiliation – especially since an old codger in the lane next to us started hooting his horn and shouting at us through the window. We thought he was telling us off for being so irresponsible so we just flipped the bird at him and drove off. It was only when we got a bit peckish later on that we realised he was probably just trying to tell us our packet of chocolate chip Tracker bars had fallen out of the car as I’d hurriedly hopped back in. The cute guy never did call either.

  I throw the case in the boot and drape my dress across the back seat before jumping in next to Emma. This is going to be a fab weekend.

  “Now, you’re absolutely sure you’ve got everything?”

  “Yep,” I say, patting my handbag in my lap and glancing back at my dress.

  Emma reaches across me and gets her CD holder out of the glove compartment.

  “Pick something good,” she says, handing it to me, before starting the engine.

  “That would imply you have CDs in here that are not good,” I laugh, flicking through them and settling on Kelly Clarkson’s new album. I insert it in the CD player and turn up the volume, ready to sing my heart out.

  “Ready?” she says.

  Erm…

  When do you think would be a good time to tell her I’ve forgotten the wedding present?

  “We’re lost,” I say, biting into a Twix.

  “We’re not lost,” Emma says, holding her half in her mouth like a cigar while she does a 17-point turn in the middle of a country lane.

  “We are. We’re lost.”

  “We’re not.”

  When the car is finally facing the right direction – or at least in a direction, as opposed to one of the hedges on either side of the road – Emma prods the map.

  “We’re right here,” she says. And there was me thinking she was prodding at random.

  “How can you tell?”

  “I just can.”

  I think we’ve reached the New Forest. We’re surrounded by trees. That ought to be a good sign. But quite where we are in relation to the hotel is anybody’s guess.

  I squint at the map. Map reading has never been my strong point. I tend to phone my dad instead. He’s my walking talking map – a bit like Sat Nav but far less expensive and generally doesn’t lead you down dead ends. I frequently phone him from the middle of nowhere and say: “Dad I’m lost, I need your help, I’ve just passed a sign for pick your own strawberries if that’s any help.” And he always rises to the challenge – fetching his map, phoning me back, and navigating me to exactly where I need to be. Except for the time I found myself going the wrong way around the M25 and he told me: “You need to get off.”

  “I can’t,” I had yelled hysterically down the phone at him. “The Dartford tunnel is in front of me. Right in front of me,” I had added, for clarification.” I ended up going through the damn thing, turning round and coming back over the bridge. It wasn’t my dad’s fault. I had taken my eyes off the road for a second – which I know is naughty, but I’d dropped a Malteser between my legs and on a hot day with no air conditioning, the consequences could have been disastrous – so I ended up getting in the wrong lane.

  “Shall I phone my dad?” I ask E
mma.

  She nods.

  It turns out we were just around the corner from the Montagu Arms Hotel.

  It’s a lovely place. It’s an old property with all the original oak beams and antique furniture.

  I have a double room. I booked it when I was still with Alex. And then I met James, so I kept it. It’s gorgeous. It has a four-poster bed, and fluffy dressing gowns and Molton Brown toiletries. And there’s everything you need in case you’re too busy to make it down to breakfast the next morning – a kettle and mugs, tea, coffee, cereals, a little fridge with a jug of milk. It was too late to cancel and book a single room. And Emma had already booked her own room.

  The ceremony is being held in the village church up the road. Then everyone will come back here for the reception.

  Katie takes us to the room where the reception is being held. The hotel staff are busy setting up the tables with cream linen tablecloths, silver cutlery and glasses. The place cards are piled up in the centre of each table, ready to be laid out according to the table plan.

  “It’s looking good,” I tell her.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder. A booming voice in my ear.

  “Becky, how lovely to see you.” It’s Katie’s dad.

  “Hi Roger,” I say, kissing him on the cheek.

  “Katie told us your news. Barbara and I are delighted for you,” he says. Katie pokes him in the side.

  “What news?”

  “Dad, what do you think so far?” she asks.

  “I think it looks smashing love. Absolutely smashing.”

  We spend the rest of the afternoon at the hotel. Guests who are travelling a long way for the wedding start arriving. Family members, old school friends, uni friends.

  Everyone goes up to their rooms to unpack and then a few of us get some dinner in the hotel restaurant, followed by a night cap in the bar.

  And then bed.

  It’s a big day tomorrow.

  Katie’s getting married.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY FOUR

  It’s raining. And when I say it’s raining. I mean absolutely pouring. So much so that it woke Emma, who woke me, who woke Katie – telephoning her room at 7am. I don’t feel guilty. She has to get up anyway. She’s got a wedding to get ready for.

  “I have umbrellas,” she informs me sleepily. “White ones.”

  Is there anything this super calm, super efficient bride has not thought of?

  “Besides, it’s going to be lovely and sunny later on,” she adds, confidently. “The weather girl said so.”

  “How are you feeling?” I ask.

  “Great. I can’t wait to get married.”

  We don’t need to be at the hairdresser’s for another two hours yet.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask. “Do you want to get some breakfast?”

  “Yeah. Why don’t you and Emma get dressed and come and get me when you’re ready.”

  “Okay.”

  I phone Emma’s room and tell her I’ll fetch her on my way to Katie’s room and then run myself a bath.

  It’s strange to think my friend is getting married today. In less than five hours she’ll be a ‘Mrs.’

  I turn on the hot tap and leave it running while I rifle through my suitcase for something to wear.

  There’s something poking out of one of the side pockets. I pull on it. It’s the Sex & The City tour leaflet. I’m not going to get upset. Not today. It’s Katie’s day. She doesn’t need me blubbing all day. There’ll be enough of that with her mum and dad and her auntie Rose mopping up her tears with her frilly handkerchief.

  But just for the record, I do still miss him. I miss him terribly.

  I toss the leaflet on the bedside table and continue rifling for clothes.

  Cut-off jeans. T-shirt. Bra. Knickers. Shoes.

  Bollocks. I have one flip-flop. One. I manage to pack four bras for a two day visit to the New Forest, but I can’t even manage to bring footwear for both my feet.

  Clutching my phone and keys in one hand and my flip-flop in the other I tap on Emma’s door with the edge of the shoe. The door is ajar so I let myself in.

  I can hear Emma in the bathroom on the phone.

  “It’s fine, honestly, I spoke to him last night,” she’s saying. “No, she hasn’t got a clue.”

  “Em,” I call out.

  There’s a loud clunk – the sound of a mobile phone crashing on to the tiled bathroom floor.

  “Hey,” she says, coming out, smearing her lips with lip gloss.

  “Who was that?” I ask.

  “No-one,” she says.

  “What are you up to?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” she says, picking an imaginary hair off her sleeve.

  She’s forgetting how well I know her. That’s what she does when she’s fibbing. She picks imaginary hairs off her clothes. She did it all the time at school.

  “Where’s your assignment,” Mrs Darnley would ask.

  “I’m sorry Miss, I left it at home,” she’d say, picking an imaginary hair off her school jumper.

  “Who were you talking to?” I ask her.

  “Erm … ” She’s usually quicker than this.

  “And who hasn’t got a clue about what?”

  “Katie. About my reading. It’s a surprise. I told her which one I was doing, but I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Right. So who were you talking to? And who did you speak to this morning?”

  “I was talking to Matt’s best man. And I was talking to Matt last night.”

  “What for?”

  “To check I could change the reading.”

  She’s fibbing. She’s up to something. I know she is. But right now I have more pressing concerns.

  “I need to borrow some shoes,” I say, waving my flip-flop at her.

  “Take your pick,” she says, gesturing to six pairs of shoes arranged neatly underneath the dressing table. And she said I brought too much stuff?

  Katie opens the door beaming.

  “I’m getting married in the morning,” she sings.

  We go in and sit on her bed while she finishes getting ready.

  “Ding dong the bells are gonna chime.

  “La la la la, la la la la… so get me to the church on time.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “It’s not too late to swap, Em,” I say. “I’m sure my dress would fit you.”

  “No way. I’m going to have far too much fun with my reading.”

  I may be imagining it, but I could have sworn she just gave Katie a ‘look.’

  “Anyway, come on you two, I’ve got a wedding to get ready for,” Katie says.

  “Mine!” she adds, for clarification.

  I don’t know where she puts it. Katie is hours away from putting on the most expensive dress she’ll ever wear and walking up the aisle in front of all her friends and family and she’s scoffing down a full English breakfast. Sausage, bacon, eggs, tomato, hash browns, baked beans and black pudding. You can’t even see the plate.

  “I probably won’t get to eat again all day,” she says, seeing the stunned expression on both mine and Emma’s faces as we trough our way through a bowl of muesli and a slice of toast (wholemeal.)

  “I’ll probably spend the entire afternoon posing for photographs and listening to all my old rellies witter on about how much I’ve grown, while you lot trough on salmon en croute and raspberry pavlova.”

  “That’ll serve you right for not taking us with you on the food tasting!” I point out.

  She’s shovelling another forkful into her mouth when the girlfriend of Matt’s friend Marcus walks into the dining room. Anita.

  We don’t like Anita. She’s loud. She talks far too much. She’s full of self-importance. She’s one of those girlfriends of your boyfriend’s mates that you just have to put up with. She tried to wangle an invite to the hen do. We told her we weren’t doing anything special. Just close friends and family for dinner.

  “Katie!” she shouts, skipping over to our table.

&n
bsp; An awkward half-hug follows, where they both try desperately not to dip their elbow in the baked beans.

  “I’m so excited for you. How are you feeling? What’s your dress like? Where are you going on your honeymoon? Where’s Matt? I hope you didn’t spend the night together, you naughty girl.”

  She doesn’t even take a breath, let alone give Katie time to answer.

  “And you Becky,” she says, looking at me. “Congratulations.”

  “So, Anita, what are you wearing?” Emma asks, rudely interrupting her. Thank God. But what is it with all these congratulations? I may be walking down the aisle, but I’m only the bloody bridesmaid for heaven’s sake.

  “Well, I was going to wear a white trouser suit, but my sister told me I shouldn’t, that it’s not the done thing to wear white to someone else’s wedding, so anyway…” She trails off mid-sentence when she spots Marcus at the breakfast buffet and slopes off to join him.

  “She’s the second person to congratulate me,” I tell Emma and Katie, draining my glass of juice.

  “Anyone would think it was me that was getting married.”

  “Well it’s quite an honour being my bridesmaid, you know,” Katie says, looking pointedly at Emma.

  “I know, I know,” she says. “I’m a terrible person. But,” she adds, dramatically, “you are going to love, love, love my reading.”

  “I can’t wait,” Katie says, grinning.

  “Me neither.”

  It’s still pouring when we leave the hotel for the hairdressers. It’s a good job that’s where we’re going because we get drenched just getting to the car.

  I did point out the fact that Katie has four brand new umbrellas back in her room.

  “They’re for the wedding,” she said. “I don’t want to spoil them.”

  “A bit of rain won’t hurt them,” I laughed.