Me, You and Tiramisu

by Charlotte Butterfield

  They’d hired out a local taverna the night before, in a small cobbled piazza away from the main thoroughfare, and big glass jugs of the local red kept being thumped down on the table with alarming regularity by the jovial owner. So when Jayne woke early, completely devoid of any lingering reminder of the amount she’d drank, it was a welcome, if a bit surprising, start to the day. Abi was still fast asleep next to her, and as tradition dictated, the men had spent the night elsewhere in the vast, ancient villa. Jayne felt an overwhelming need to get out and inhale the Italian air, and just sit still for a while, doing nothing and thinking of even less. It was going to be a crazy day and she reckoned she had about an hour until the house started creaking awake from its slumber.

  They had been allocated the vast attic suite that she supposed was once where a few housemaids laid their heads after a busy day serving the Italian elite. But in the last fifty years or so, their narrow single beds and chamber pots had been replaced with a sumptuous sleigh bed that Abi was currently spread-eagled on.

  Will had found this villa on a website and knew instantly that it would be perfect. It was remote enough to feel private, yet only twenty minutes away from the picture-postcard town of Maratea with its forty-four churches. Ever since they’d got the booking confirmation through they’d spent their evenings devouring every guide book going, while working their way through the case of twelve bottles of Basilicata wine Will had ordered from a posh wine merchant to get them in the spirit.

  Tiptoeing along the old knotted floorboards that were punctured with shafts of light from the old kitchen below, Jayne held her breath for fear of waking anyone else up. Floorboards gave way to flagstones on the ground floor – big square slabs, no doubt sourced from a local quarry when the house was being built a couple of centuries before. They felt refreshingly cold to her feet as she was still carrying her sandals in a bid to cloak her temporary escape in silence.

  The air was beautifully fresh; although it was September, no one had told Italy that this should signal a move into autumn, and the sun still resolutely bathed the rural hillsides in a strong white light during the middle part of the day. But now, just a couple of hours after sunrise, and later when they would all gather on one of the villa’s cliff-top terraces a couple of hours before sunset, it was perfect.

  The steps down to the villa’s private stony beach were man-made in the sense that hundreds of years of people walking the same route had created ideal shoe-sized rivets in the craggy hillside, which Jayne navigated with uncharacteristic dexterity.

  She felt alive and free, and so unbelievably happy. To think that it was just over a year ago that she and Will had almost called time on their relationship over things that now seemed completely trivial. How she’d let an ignorant sixteen-year-old and the comments section on websites dictate the path her life should take was now shocking to her. The direction of her anger had swerved about like an out-of-control sniper, first aiming at Will for getting them into the situation, then at Crystal for escalating it, a quick veer to the hate-filled strangers for making her feel inadequate and ugly, and then finally, the red dot had focused on her own forehead for allowing herself to feel that way.

  It had taken months to actually mean it when she shrugged her shoulders, or to be able to put real weight behind the words ‘screw them’, but in time she’d nailed it. And she knew that she’d had to. For all of Will’s procrastinations, she recognised that he enjoyed having a toe in the spotlight, and as much as he’d made all the right noises and offered to give it all up for a life as a humble deli-owner, she knew she could never have asked him to do that. So when he’d been approached to present a new TV series tucked away on BBC2 on Sunday afternoons, he’d jumped at it. A niche, but loyal, audience of passionate amateur cooks had replaced the ardent attention that Will’s foray into ad campaigns and primetime TV had commanded, so thankfully the balance had shifted. That’s not to say that they’d dropped off the radar completely, but the media are a fickle lot; when you’re only ever photographed going in and out of your own home or the local Sainsbury’s it’s amazing how quickly the photographers stop loitering around you.

  The deli business was going from strength to strength too, he now had four shops all over south-west London, and when the bicycle shop next to the original Richmond deli closed down, they’d bought that too. With the rhythmic noise of sledgehammers swinging through the dividing wall in the background, Will had told her that it made financial sense to enlarge the deli and put more café tables into it. She was totally unprepared to come back from visiting Helen in Devon a couple of weeks later to find this new area painted a deep-claret red, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and wine racks adorning each wall. Double-height ladders were fixed to rails that slid gracefully along them, while battered leather armchairs and mismatching wooden tables were dotted around.

  ‘It’s a wine-bar library!’ she’d gasped, as Will wrapped her in a bear hug from behind and whispered ‘Surprise’. They’d called it Pinter & Pinot and it had consumed Jayne’s life, in a good way.

  The weeks and months after the Michelle incident at school made Jayne reassess what made her happy, and she had decided to take a couple of years out from teaching. She missed it terribly, so had thrown herself into organising open mic poetry nights, book clubs and informal wine-tastings, where the words ‘nose’ and ‘bouquet’ were strictly taboo.

  She’d also finally done what Rachel had urged her to do on the day they had both bought a one-way ticket to London Paddington eighteen years ago, and that was to forget about Crystal. Accepting that she was merely the vehicle for her and Rachel to enter the world, and nothing else, was an emotional journey, but once she’d made it, it was like an albatross being prised off her back. It had been eight months since any kind of contact had been made between them – even Helen had distanced herself from her daughter’s dramatics, telling Jayne that Stanley had moved out and that she’d managed to find him a place at Pine Grove. Her exact words were, ‘Poor Prue’s passing had a silver lining, but probably not for Prue.’

  Firing Michaela was the last step of many in reclaiming their lives back. She didn’t go quietly, either. Rachel was convinced her rage had less to do with losing a cash-cow of a client and more to do with the fact that she’d been harbouring thoughts of a carnal kind towards her protégé for months. She’d sent Will flowers every day for a fortnight in an attempt to change his mind, which Jayne had thought was a bit weird; he’s a bloke, send him alcohol and season tickets to the Emirates Stadium. For such a clever woman, she wasn’t very bright. Will’s new agent seemed so much more understanding and quiet. The fact that he was a balding man in his fifties was neither here or there, Jayne thought dryly as she finally reached the tiny cove.

  Tucking her long sundress into her knicker elastic, she gingerly edged her toes into the clear water that lapped at the tiny pebbles on the shoreline. Small silver fish darted playfully around her feet as she stood still, indulging their inquisitiveness as the sun’s rays started gathering strength on her face. Closing her eyes, she lifted her chin and deeply inhaled the warm, salty air. If there is a heaven, she thought, this is what it would be like.

  Despite the villa being a good kilometre up the hill, Jayne could sense that it was starting to stir. One of the early risers, not Rachel, she acknowledged glibly, but maybe Bernard, would have filled the juicers with plump oranges and put the kettles on to boil. The network of historic pipes would be clanking into action as showers were turned on in different rooms, and the heavy blue shutters would be creaking open as each part of the house started to wake up. Gathering up her shoes, she started her ascent back up the hill, her mind clear of everything except a pure blissful anticipation of what lay ahead.

  She had been adamant that the chief bridesmaid should wear white as well; a beautiful flowing gown with layers upon layers of silky chiffon that clung to all the right places and skimmed all the wrong ones. Looking in the mirror at them both, Jayne’s eyes started to well up. �
��You look amazing.’

  Abi twirled around, the sunlight catching on the delicate diamante tiara that held her veil in place. ‘Do you think so? Do you think Bernie will like it?’

  ‘He will love it. He’s a lucky, lucky man.’

  Abi narrowed her eyes, ‘ and how are you doing? With all of this?’ she pointed to the open window that overlooked the tree-lined terrace where the ceremony was being set up, ‘I know it’s the type of wedding you’d want.’

  Jayne shrugged and smiled, ‘Look, Hon, I’m not going to lie, this is anyone’s dream wedding, but you know, a characterless ballroom near a tube station with over two-thirds of it filled with total strangers is every girl’s dream too, eh?’

  On every other point Will had compromised, or given in completely, but having a big fancy wedding with a guest list to match was one area that he was not budging on. Even the night before they left for Italy, while they were both padding back and forth between their chest of drawers and the opened suitcase on the bed, slowly filling it with piles of clothes, he’d reeled off another ten names of make-up artists or boom operators that he wanted to add to the ever-growing list. The old Jayne would have stamped and whined a bit, but she’d come to the conclusion that as long as by the end of the day she was Mrs Scarlet, it didn’t actually matter too much how she got there. Except now, looking down on the terrace and seeing ten or fifteen of their closest friends standing around laughing, drinking aperitifs surrounded by the lengthening shadows of the cypress trees, she realised it actually did matter. It mattered a lot.

  ‘Anyway, never mind about me,’ Jayne fluffed out the back of Abi’s dress, straightening the small train, ‘I had a nice chat with your mum and dad before. She’s definitely come round, they’re having a whale of a time.’

  Abi rolled her eyes, ‘Sheesh, you would have thought they’d be happy not to foot the bill for a grand Irish wedding, but it was never what me and Bernie wanted, getting wed in front of second cousins twice removed and your great-aunt’s neighbour. I just want to look out and see the people that I love there, not a bunch of strangers. Oh shit, sorry.’

  They were still laughing at her unintentional faux pas when Abi’s dad gently knocked on the door, which was Jayne’s cue to leave them to it. She felt another pang of bittersweet envy as she realised that an emotional father-daughter moment was yet another wedding-day scenario that she would never get to experience.

  Standing under the pagoda, the soft breeze wrapping itself around the gently billowing white drapes, Will looked more handsome than she’d ever seen him. He and Bernard were in matching linen suits, with open-necked white shirts under the jacket, where small white flowers lit up their lapels. A jazz trio were playing It Had to Be You as Jayne walked slowly towards him up the makeshift aisle between the two rows of chairs. This moment would be perfect, Jayne thought, if only she wasn’t being closely followed by the bride.

  When they reached the registrar, Abi reached back to give her the single-stem calla lilly that she’d chosen in lieu of a traditional bouquet and as she took it her eyes locked with Will’s. He gave her a wink and she felt herself blush. How was he still able to make her feel like that after all these years?

  As Abi and Bernard spoke their vows, Jayne glanced over at Mrs Sheeran, who had one hand clasping a tissue and the other entwined with her husband’s. Next to them were two of Abi’s brothers, who were the only siblings to make the journey; the others were placated by the promise of a big party back in Ireland in a few weeks’ time. Rachel and Kyra sat behind them, sun-soaked and obviously totally in love. They had recently moved out of the flat and into their own little terraced house in Barnes, which was achingly chic with its reclaimed this and restored that mingling with designer Danish furniture from the fifties. Jayne admitted that she had been so wrong about Kyra, blinded by a combination of her own insecurities and Kyra’s caramel highlights.

  Jayne’s focus shifted back to what the registrar was saying about love wrapping an invisible, but unbreakable, loop around Abi and Bernard, a loop that no one could see but everyone could feel. The loop could extend out, giving each a bit more space when they needed it, or it could tighten, bringing them back close, where they could feel the warmth of the other, their breath, their heartbeat.

  Over Bernard’s shoulder she could see Will wipe a little tear away from his eye before putting his shoulders back and trying to stand a little taller. No one else was managing to be so controlled with their emotions, sniffling into their tissues while whispering to each other what a passionate lot the Italians were. This is what she wanted, Jayne thought – not to repeat her vows into a microphone so that the people in row thirty-two could hear her. She knew that cancelling the hotel now would lose them the hefty deposit, not to mention the potential friendships of some strangers she hadn’t met yet, but she didn’t care. She wanted this.

  Silver trays of delicate crystal flutes of champagne had appeared as soon as Bernard and Abi had sealed their union with a rather over-enthusiastic lip-locking. Jayne hadn’t realised that Bernard had it in him, but seeing him dip her best friend back and passionately assert his right to kiss his wife changed her mind. Maybe he was the perfect match for Abi after all.

  Will sidled up and planted his lips on Jayne’s bare shoulder, ‘You look sensational.’

  ‘You look rather handsome yourself.’

  ‘No, seriously, you look amazing Jayne, really beautiful.’

  ‘They say you shouldn’t wear white to another person’s wedding, but it was Abi’s choice, and I love it, are you sure I looked okay?’

  ‘You look gorgeous.’ He gestured to a young waitress carrying a tray to come over and took two glasses from it, handing one to Jayne, ‘What did you think of the ceremony?’

  ‘That it was the most beautiful service I’d ever been to. In fact, the whole thing is just beyond perfect.’

  She opened her mouth to follow it up with some emotional plea-bargaining, when Will added, ‘I thought so too.’

  Her eyes widened in disbelief, ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. So much so, I think we should get married just like this.’

  ‘Really?’ Jayne shrieked.

  ‘Really. Turn around.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Turn around.’

  Coming slowly down the steps of the villa onto the terrace were a frantically waving Dave and Trish. It was the first time Jayne had seen Dave in anything other than jeans and Trish had a feather fascinator fastened to her chin with elastic that was designed to go around the back of your neck. They were followed by a beaming Duncan and a sober Erica. ‘What the? What’s going on?’ Jayne asked, bewildered, ‘Why’s your dad here?’

  ‘They’ve come for the wedding,’ Will smiled.

  ‘But they don’t even really know Abi or Bernard – they only met at that Christmas!’

  ‘Our wedding.’

  Jayne’s mouth dropped open as the enormity of what Will had just said hit her. Everyone started walking closer, forming an intimate circle around them.

  ‘Jayne Brady, would you do me the honour of being my wife?’ Will’s eyes danced, delighted at pulling off the biggest surprise of his life.

  ‘But how? I don’t–’ She was cut off mid-sentence by Abi removing her veil and gently tucking the comb into Jayne’s own curls.

  ‘Your something borrowed,’ she explained.

  Out of nowhere Rachel appeared beaming and carrying a small bouquet of peonies, Jayne’s favourite flower, tied together with a small blue ribbon. She handed them over and kissed her sister’s cheek. ‘Sorry, we were all in on it.’

  Their friends had clustered around them, smiling self-satisfied grins at each other; she was obviously the only one in complete ignorance. ‘But how? How did this happen?’

  ‘I did all the paperwork in the UK and then when we arrived here, when you thought I was playing golf, I was meeting the registrar.’

  ‘But what about the big do you wanted? I feel bad you’re not going to have tha
t!’

  ‘Don’t! Everything I said in the last few months was just a wheeze to put you off the scent of this. I don’t even really know what a boom operator is, let alone know one I’d like to witness our nuptials, and if you’ll have me as your husband, I’d really like to marry you now, please.’ Jayne burst into laughter as Will picked up her hand and kissed it. He took a little ring box out of his inside pocket. ‘Your something new.’

  ‘And I’m your something old.’ Jayne swivelled round at the sound of a delightfully familiar voice. There standing completely clad in orange with a wide-brimmed straw hat, adorned with fragrant fresh flowers was Helen, her hand resting comfortably in the crook of Stanley’s arm. Finally detangling herself from her granddaughter’s wild embrace, Helen pushed Jayne towards the pagoda, where the registrar stood smiling at this wonderfully eccentric bunch of English people. ‘Now don’t leave the poor man waiting, my darling, it’s been twenty years already.’

  The sun was just disappearing over the hills as the fairy lights strung through the trees came to life. Bernard, Abi and Will, during their secret wedding-planning meetings in the months leading up to this, had decided that they should have one long table for everyone to eat together, in the spirit of an Italian street party. The white tablecloth was now adorned with heavy silver cutlery and little glass jars with flickering candles gave off a romantic glow.

  Pots of aromatic herbs held the menus in delicate clips, displaying the names of the dishes that Will was adamant had to be present at the big Italian feast. In neat swirling handwriting the words Garlic bread * Lasagne * Tiramisu were clearly printed.