‘Where from? There aren’t any clothes shops on your industrial estate, are there?’
‘No, but there’s one in Maltstone. It’s only a ten-minute drive up the road.’
‘Bit posh for work, isn’t it?’
‘It was only fifteen pounds in the sale. It’s hardly a Stella McCartney, Gordon.’
‘Who?’ said Gordon.
‘She’s a fashion designer.’
‘I’ll bring in fish and chips for tea,’ said Gordon, rattling the creases out of his newspaper and not acknowledging her answer.
‘Well, I’d be better picking them up on my way home,’ said Grace. ‘I’m going for a drink after work with the girls.’
‘Again?’ said Gordon. ‘How come you’re going out all of a sudden?’
‘It’s only a quick drink, Gordon. All five of us go after work. It’s nice.’
‘Getting some fancy ideas from them women you work with, aren’t you?’ he said with more than a hint of sarcasm. ‘Talking about designers and getting dolled up. Aren’t you a bit old for all that?’
Grace bit down hard on her lip. Old, old, old. Gordon hadn’t grown old, he was born old. She was fifty-five, only fifty-five. She liked clothes and yoga – and laughing.
She picked up her bag and said that she would see him later. Something about that last conversation she’d had with Paul stopped her dignifying his barb with anything else. Gordon was not a man to antagonize at the moment.
‘Hi, is that Anna?’ trilled the voice down the mobile into Anna’s ear.
‘Yes,’ said Anna. She didn’t recognize the incoming number and hoped this wasn’t a ‘we’re doing a customer survey’ because they really got on her nerves.
‘It’s Jane Cleve-Jones. Listen, Anna, slight change of plan. Vlad’s taken a lightning trip to Milan so we’re going to be shooting at your place tomorrow. We’ll have a good look at your wardrobe. We’ll be there first thing in the morning – that OK? Say eight?’
‘Really?’ Anna was flown into sudden panic. The house was a tip. And she couldn’t show them her real wardrobe because it was full of total crap!
‘Really. See you tomorrow,’ said Jane. ‘Ciao.’
‘Oy, are you part of this conversation or what?’ said Anna, nudging Dawn whose eyes were drawn to the cowboy guitarist and his sexy black quiff. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a 1950s film. He had waved at her when they first walked in and she was lost in watching him play.
‘Sorry,’ said Dawn. ‘I just love those guitars.’
‘Not in a “wanting to have sex with one” way, surely?’ said Christie.
‘Oh, don’t start all that again,’ laughed Dawn. ‘I’m still traumatized from watching that woman fondling a piece of fence. Not sure I’m ready for this week’s episode – it’s about women who have five hundred orgasms a day.’
‘Lucky cows,’ said Anna. ‘I’d settle for five hundred in a lifetime.’
‘There’s no cure either,’ said Dawn.
‘Who the hell would want to look for a cure?’ replied Christie with a snorty laugh.
‘Hope she doesn’t have a celebratory fag after every one,’ Dawn giggled.
‘Hey, Dawn, how are your wedding plans going?’ asked Raychel.
‘Oh, so so,’ said Dawn, the laughter dying quickly to a sigh. ‘Calum’s auntie gave us two thousand pounds towards things, so that was nice.’
‘It won’t go very far with the price of wedding paraphernalia these days,’ said Grace. Sarah’s wedding to Hugo had cost over thirty thousand. But then she had to have ‘designer this’ and ‘designer that’. She had every indulgence known to man that day. But a big wedding didn’t necessarily make for a solid foundation. Her son-in-law had an affair before he’d reached their second anniversary.
‘You don’t look very thrilled about it,’ said Raychel. ‘I was so excited when I got married, although we only had a register office do and none of the trimmings.’
Dawn hummed a little bit. ‘It’s not that I’m not excited . . .’ How to put this sensitively? ‘I just feel . . . like . . . as if . . .’
‘Spit it out, lass,’ said Christie.
Dawn huffed and came straight out with it, feeling immediately disloyal to her in-laws-to-be as soon as the words had left her.
‘I just feel that it’s not my wedding any more. I feel that it’s been taken over and my choices have been pushed into second place.’
‘Who’s doing that to you?’
‘Well . . .’ Dawn felt almost as if Muriel was looking disapprovingly over her shoulder. But who else could she talk to? And she badly needed to open up to someone and get a fresh perspective on things. ‘My new mother-in-law is quite a force to be reckoned with. She’s paying for some of the stuff and she thinks that gives her the right to choose. They’ve booked a karaoke and a beef dinner in a dingy pub and I wanted a band and chicken in white wine in a bistro . . .’ Dawn snapped her mouth shut before any more came tumbling out. She was already feeling painful prickles behind her eyes.
‘And what’s your fiancé had to say about it?’ asked Christie gently.
‘Oh, he’s a bit under the thumb. His mother’s, not mine. He just agrees with whatever she says. God, I’m sorry.’ A big fat tear broke through and rolled down Dawn’s cheek and she felt Grace’s hand upon her own.
‘Weddings are very stressful,’ she said in that lovely calm voice she had. ‘You try and make sure you get what you want though. Your mother-in-law has had her big day. This is your turn.’
‘I half-wish we’d just carried on living together and not bothered with all this palaver,’ said Dawn, blowing her nose on a tissue that she pulled out of her jacket pocket. But you leaped on that drunken proposal Calum made, didn’t you, and you ran with it before he could sober up and change his mind? She shook the thought away. Brains could be very cruel sometimes.
‘It’s your day, so stand your ground,’ said Grace. She would never have dreamed of interfering with Sarah’s plans. Not that she would have been able to. Sarah even dictated the colour Grace had to dress in.
‘What’s your Calum like then?’ asked Anna.
‘Quiet,’ said Dawn, thinking how to describe him. Quiet sounded more acceptable than comatose. ‘Laid-back, too laid-back really. He’s a fork-lift truck driver. Five years younger than me, medium height, slim build, blond hair, likes a pint.’ Pub every night, pub every Sunday lunchtime. Nap on Sunday afternoon and goes to his mother’s house for his tea every Monday for the Sunday dinner leftovers . . .
‘He sounds very . . . stable,’ said Christie, nodding kindly. Dawn knew what was going through all their minds though. Try as she might, she couldn’t sex him up in her description. Nor did she want to at that moment. She thought of how young Raychel spoke about Ben and his gentlemanly ways, and how Christie’s brother came across as being lovely when she spoke about him, and then how long Grace had been married, so she must be really happy. Even Anna’s estranged bloke sounded sexy and interesting, but there was no getting away from it – Calum was pure shades of grey. It was his family who were colourful and lively. Calum had no passion, that was the problem. He drank beer, he ate food, he watched TV and he slept and that was enough for him. But it wasn’t enough for her. She was quite aware she was killing the fizzy Friday feeling but she couldn’t stop herself.
‘What made you fall in love with him?’ asked Raychel.
‘I used to do his mum’s hair when I was a hairdresser. She’s lovely, really,’ Dawn recalled. ‘She asked me along to a night out with a busload of women. Her daughters went along as well and we all had such a laugh. Then she asked me to tea at theirs and there was Calum, all killer smile, floppy hair and work overalls. He’d just broken up from his girlfriend and his mum suggested we went out. So we did and suddenly I was part of their family.’ They were all listening intently, Grace especially.
‘How did he propose then? Was it the down-on-one-knee job?’ asked Anna.
‘Nope. We were all out o
ne night and he . . .’ got absolutely hammered, ‘got a bit tipsy and just came out with it and suddenly we were all celebrating.’ Dawn smiled. ‘It was fantastic. I was so happy. Me and his sisters were dancing on tables and Cal’s mates were all there being loud and funny and Denise – that’s my future sister-in-law – rang her parents and they came down and joined in . . .’ It was just a shame that her new fiancé was catatonic under a table five minutes after asking her to marry him. She thought it best to leave that bit out as she painted a romantic and merry scene for her work-mates. But all of them, without exception, picked up on the fact that the ‘other half ’ in this relationship seemed to be the family, not the man himself.
‘The big question is – do you love him?’ asked Anna.
‘ ’Course I do,’ replied Dawn quickly.
‘Then that’s all that matters,’ said Christie. ‘You’d be surprised how many people marry someone they don’t love because they have other reasons for doing so. And I’m afraid they’ll almost always be disappointed if that’s the case.’
Grace felt her lip tremble. She volunteered to go and fetch the second round from the bar before those tears pricking at the back of her eyes made a show.
Dawn stayed behind when the others had gone, watching Al on his guitar. He had the same rapturous look on his face that her dad had whenever he got lost in his music. As the song ended, a soft rock ballad with a Western twist, he came back to the present world and smiled at her and held up a finger. One more song, then we break. She knew that’s what he meant. She could have listened to their music all night, even though to most people in the bar they were just a pleasant background hum. The lead singer was obviously a relative of the bass guitarist, both sharing lean, blond and blue-eyed looks. Then there was the good-looking older guy with the beard who was playing another guitar. Then there was Al with his black hair and lips so full and red they should have been illegal on a man. She made up her mind to ask him that evening to play at her wedding. That would put an end to any flirtation.
‘Hello again, Miss Dawny Sole,’ came that smooth caramel voice over her shoulder as she ordered two Diet Cokes at the bar.
‘Oh hello, Mr Holly. And how are you today?’
‘I’m just fine, ma’am, just fine. You bought that for me? Thank you, that’s very kind.’
‘I didn’t want you thinking I don’t stand my round,’ said Dawn. ‘I might find myself bad-mouthed all over America.’
‘Shame on you!’ said Al. ‘I’m a Canadian. British Columbia born and raised.’
‘You all sound the same to me,’ Dawn smiled playfully, quite aware that whatever her gracious intentions had been, she had opened international flirting barriers, no passports required.
Al laughed and took a long drink of Coke. Dawn watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall in his throat. There was dark chest hair poking out of the top of his shirt and she had the impulse to reach out and touch it.
‘So what brings you here again? You got a recording contract you want me to sign?’
‘I only wish I had,’ said Dawn. ‘We come here every Friday after work, just for an hour or so, to end the week on a jolly note.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I work in an office,’ said Dawn, keeping it short. ‘Are you a full-time musician?’
‘I am now. I was a carpenter but my parents died and so I decided to live out my dream for a few years. I’ll retire at thirty-five and buy a small farm and strum my guitar in the evenings on the porch and frighten all the animals.’
Dawn laughed. He had wit like Anna, all the funnier for the dry delivery.
‘You’re like me then, an orphan,’ she said. Something else they had in common.
‘I guess so.’ He leaned down and whispered conspiratorially in her ear, ‘But I’m living my dream and I suspect you’re not.’
‘Oh, and what do you think my dream would be then?’ Dawn asked. He’d hit a nerve and it showed in the shake in her voice.
‘I think you’d like to be strumming alongside me on that stage.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Dawn. ‘I’m not good enough by half.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that. Bring your guitar and come along on Sunday morning to our practice session.’
And that’s how, despite all her best intentions, Dawn found herself agreeing to meet Al Holly on Sunday at the Rising Sun with her guitar in tow.
Chapter 42
Anna had no time to feel lonely that Friday night. She had a house to scrub. OK, it wasn’t that bad, it just needed a bit of TLC, especially from a caressing duster.
The crew had arrived by seven thirty, although there was no Maria because apparently she was with Vladimir in Milan. It looked like Jane didn’t do mornings because she was puffy-eyed and not in a very smiley mood at all. It took the make-up lady, Chas, quite a while, and a lot of Touche Éclat, to sort her out.
Anna’s wardrobe was totally garbaged, as she expected. Jane had brought some clothes with her that she thought would suit Anna, including V-necks which Anna never wore.
‘Why not? They accentuate your bust perfectly and lengthen your neck!’ enthused Jane. ‘There are women out there who would kill for the breasts you were given!’
She dressed Anna in red and dark blue and purple outfits and matching killer heels. But Anna wouldn’t admit that the reflection in her wardrobe mirror was pleasing to the eye. Her confidence levels were too damaged to accept any praise.
Mark was setting up a laptop in the corner when they had a break for coffee.
‘Do you mind me asking, are you OK?’ Anna said to a very glum Jane, mentally away on another planet while she sipped at a coffee.
Jane turned to Anna, said that yes, she was absolutely fine and promptly burst into tears. Anna was straight over with a comforting hug and a tissue. She had lots of tissues in the house. She’d bought them in bulk on the first supermarket shopping expedition after Tony left.
‘Sorry,’ said Jane, blowing her nose. ‘It’s nothing. Oh God, I’m messing up my make-up!’
‘Sod the make-up, what’s the matter?’ Anna drew a few more tissues out of the box; it looked as if Jane was going to need them.
‘This is my last series. They’re thinking about replacing me with Elaine Massey.’
Anna’s brow furrowed. ‘What, Elaine Massey, the bird from the ex-girl band that were so crap I can’t even remember their name? That can’t be right; she’s only twelve.’
Jane let loose a very teary snort of laughter at that. ‘No, she’s twenty-two, I’m twenty-eight. Six is a big number in television years,’ she sniffed sadly. ‘She’s so gorgeous and young . . .’
Anna couldn’t believe her ears. ‘Whoa there,’ she cut in. ‘You’re twenty-eight? What’s that if it’s not young? And you’re far more gorgeous than she is!’
Jane smiled. ‘You’re very kind, but “fresh” is the order of the day and I’m nearly thirty. There’s a meeting on Tuesday to decide who’s going to be fronting the next series.’ More tears rolled down her cheeks.
Anna leaned in close.
‘Then you’re going to have to convince them not to fix something that isn’t broken, aren’t you?’
‘I only wish I could,’ Jane croaked. There was no point in damage limitation to her make-up now; it would have to be totally redone.
Anna took a big breath. ‘Do you know, one of the reasons that I never blossomed was that I didn’t appreciate my youth. I took all that freshness and energy for granted. When I was twenty, I looked back at my teens and wished I was still at school. When I was thirty, I wished I had my totally fresh twenty-year-old skin and the stomach that snapped back to flat when I’d lost some weight. And now I’m forty, I’m looking back at my thirties and wishing I’d just appreciated what I had then. I was always looking back and regretting things. I was quite pretty when I was a teenager, but I didn’t realize it at the time and I only wish I had.’ She put her hands on Jane’s arms and pulled her squarely in front of her.
<
br /> ‘You are in your twenties and I am telling you now you need to appreciate how gorgeous and clever and fabulous and popular with the public you are. And you need to do it whilst you’re living it, not ten years later. Go fight!’
Anna saw her words sink into Jane’s brain. She saw fluttery activity behind her lovely blue eyes. Jane nodded slowly.
‘My God, you’re right,’ she said with a pleasing bit of strength in her voice. ‘I should, shouldn’t I? I’ve never thought that I’m only twenty-eight.’
‘Precisely – you are only twenty-eight.’
Jane’s face broke into a huge smile. ‘Anna, I’m going to fight my corner like you said.’
‘Good for you,’ said Anna with a wink.
‘Girls, we’re ready for part two,’ Mark interrupted. ‘Anna, park yourself in front of this laptop. We’ve got something fab to show you.’
It wasn’t fab at all. In fact, it was hideous and Bruce captured every horrified arrangement that Anna’s features made as she watched the huge image of her in crap underwear being projected onto the side of a big building in Leeds. Jane then proceeded to stop passers-by and ask them what they thought of Anna’s semi-naked figure.
Anna watched through gaps in her fingers and waited for Joe Public to pass comment.
What a wobbly-arsed woman!
Glad I don’t look like that ugly cow!
Chuffing hell – who is it? Has Hattie Jacques come back to life?
Imagination was a powerful suicidal weapon. In fact, the people of Leeds said nothing of the sort.
Nice full bust, I’d kill for that.
The underwear doesn’t do her justice.
Good womanly figure, the way a bird should look.
A good-looking woman. I’d say about forty-five years old.
‘OK,’ started Anna. ‘Tell me all the nasty comments about my blobby stomach that you’ve cut out.’
‘No one mentioned your stomach, which isn’t surprising considering you don’t have that much of one,’ replied Jane. ‘The most negative thing anyone said was that you were older than your real age and that your underwear wasn’t good, and I didn’t think that was critical.’
A Summer Fling Page 18