Wedding Season

by Katie Fforde

  ‘No, it's my name. I'm Laurence Gentle.'

  ‘Hello, how nice to meet you,' went on Elsa's mother with a grace her daughter envied. 'Would you like to come in and have a drink or do you want to get off?'

  ‘I think we'd better get off, thank you.'

  ‘Bye, Mum, thanks for tea. I'll see you soon.' Elsa kissed her mother's cheek, then called, 'Bye, Dad!’

  Mrs Ashcombe stood in the doorway as they went down the path. 'Oh, is that your car? Better not let Elsa's father see it or you'll never get away.'

  ‘Another time I'd be delighted for him to have a look if he's interested.'

  ‘How kind. That would be fun but don't hang around now if you've got a table booked. Have a lovely time.' Elsa waved.

  *

  Laurence was good company. He guided her to a table in the garden and organised drinks and menus with the calm efficiency that made him such a good best man.

  ‘Now, what would you like?' he said as a large glass of white wine was set down on the table by her. 'The fish is very good here. What do you fancy?’

  The menu was more sophisticated than the relaxed garden atmosphere implied. 'I'll have to read it properly. There are so many lovely things.'

  ‘How hungry are you? The pâté is particularly delicious.'

  ‘Mm, but maybe I'll just have something light…' she said, having eaten a cheese sandwich less than an hour earlier.

  ‘And follow it up with the steak and chips. Good idea, I think I'll join you.'

  ‘I hadn't decided on that but maybe-'

  ‘Hand-cut chips, who can resist?’

  She put her head on one side enquiringly. 'Are you softening me up for something?' she asked him suspiciously.

  He nodded. 'Of course! I told you. I have a favour to ask you.'

  ‘So you have. What is it?’

  He shook his head. 'Later. You're still quite starchy. I'll wait until you've had your second glass of wine.’

  Elsa picked up her wine and sipped it, thinking it was already her second glass really. 'Why don't you drink, Laurence, or is that an embarrassing question?'

  ‘I just decided not to, years ago. I've never regretted my decision.’

  He obviously didn't feel the need to elaborate further. Elsa frowned a little. 'But don't you get bored at parties when everyone's drunk and getting tedious?’

  He shrugged. 'If I am, I just drive myself home. Now, what do you want to eat?'

  ‘Pâté and steak and chips,' said Elsa decisively. She usually took hours to make up her mind.

  ‘You must leave room for pudding. The chef trained in Vienna and his tortes are amazing.'

  ‘My mother went to Vienna once with some friends. She learnt to make apple strudel. So come on, tell me, what's this favour?’

  Laurence gave her a considering look as if weighing up waiting until the food had been eaten before asking it, or going straight for it. 'OK. I want you to be my partner at a very swish ball.'

  ‘Do you?' Elsa was stunned. She'd expected him to ask her to make a dress, or alter something, or even take up his jeans. 'Why?'

  ‘Because you're very good company and I'd like to take you. And' – his smile was definitely rueful – 'it's being run by someone who is always producing women for me. I'd really like to bring my own this time.'

  ‘That dress wasn't mine, you know,' said Elsa quickly, in case he thought she looked like that on a regular basis, with her hair and make-up done and a fabulous dress on. 'I've given it back. I haven't got a ball dress of my own.’

  He dismissed this concern with a shake of the head. 'That doesn't matter. It's a costume ball.'

  ‘A costume ball?' Elsa was intrigued.

  ‘Yes, only it's not just dressing up. We all have to be in Regency dress.'

  ‘Oh my goodness.' Would that involve quite a tricky corset? She managed not to share this thought with him.

  Laurence laughed, seeing the way her mind was going. 'But really, you don't have to make your dress. You can hire one. In fact, I can hire both our costumes.’

  He was obviously completely unaware of the enormity of his suggestion. She struggled to find the words that would convey her dismay at this idea. 'Asking a dressmaker to hire a dress from goodness knows where is like asking…' She paused, struggling for a metaphor. 'I don't know, asking a top chef to stop by for a hamburger and fries.’

  Laurence appeared to consider this. 'I think most chefs would be prepared to do that, if pushed.’

  Elsa tutted. 'Well, I'm not prepared to hire a musty old curtain that smells of sweat and is historically incorrect!’

  He seemed a little dashed by this. 'Does that mean you won't come with me?’

  It suddenly occurred to Elsa how churlish she had sounded. She'd been invited to a lovely occasion and all she'd done was moan. She had no idea what sort of hire place he had in mind and the costumes might be of the very finest, in authentic fabrics and every last detail attended to. Her mother would be appalled. 'Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. What must you think of me?’

  Again Laurence was thoughtful. 'I think you're a very busy woman and the thought of taking time and trouble to make a dress for yourself isn't on the cards just now.’

  Elsa bit her lip and nodded. That was it exactly.

  ‘It isn't for another month, if that helps. I knew it was a big ask,' he said quietly. 'Maybe I should take you out to dinner several times to make up for it?’

  Elsa was still silent. Part of her wanted to go to the ball, very much; to be Cinderella, not just the fairy godmother with the wand who made the beautiful dress, only with a lot more effort than waving a foil-wrapped stick with a tinsel star sellotaped to the top. She'd had a taste of it at Ashlyn's wedding and rather enjoyed it. But the other part was very comfortable slicing through swathes of tulle with life-threateningly sharp scissors, taking in seams, adding bugle beads, keeping in the background. Who was she -really?

  ‘I do wish you'd say something,' said Laurence. 'I'm beginning to think I asked you to come to an orgy without realising I was speaking in code.'

  ‘I'm sorry.' Elsa sighed and smiled at the same time. 'I've been dreadfully rude. You ask me to a lovely party and I just fret about it taking up too much of my time.' Among other things, she added silently.

  ‘I hadn't taken into consideration your perfectly justifiable feelings about hiring a dress.' He put his head on one side. 'Is there anything I can do to make things better?'

  ‘You could ask someone else, someone who could actually dance, which you know perfectly well I can't do. After all, you must know plenty of other women. And they wouldn't make a big fuss about hiring a dress, either.'

  ‘But I asked you.' The corner of his mouth moved. 'Even knowing your limitations.’

  She put her hand on his, trying to make up for her rudeness. 'But that's what I'm saying! You could have someone without limitations.'

  ‘I have a plan for your limitations. I'm going to arrange for you to have waltzing lessons, or at least one. Then you will be able to dance.'

  ‘But why not choose someone who can already?’

  He laughed with exasperation. 'You're a very hard woman to ask out!’

  Elsa looked aghast. 'No I'm not – I came here, didn't I? I'm just a hard woman – actually, I'm not a hard woman at all. I'm soft as soap…' Then, realising that she'd got mixed up and that soap was usually hard, she went on, 'Or something very soft – but I don't want you to have to go to all that trouble and expense when someone else would do.’

  He looked at her in exasperation. 'No, they wouldn't do.' He spoke slowly as if to a small child intent on misunderstanding. 'I do know lots of women I could ask, but you are the one whom I have asked. It'll be fun; we'll have fun.'

  ‘Oh.' He did seem genuinely to want her to go.

  He smiled to ease her moment of anxiety. 'It would be worth all the trouble and expense just to see my friend's face when I walk in with a beautiful woman – or as her boyfriend might put it, a bit of top tot
ty. Please say you'll come.’

  Elsa wasn't sure what to do. She did want to go, she realised. It was a very flattering invitation, and she liked Laurence, but did she have time to make something? As long as Carrie didn't suddenly make a decision she could. 'OK. I could probably make something for it if I can do it now, but the moment someone I'm doing a wedding dress for makes a decision, I'll have to drop everything. I've got a couple that need final fittings and finishing off as it is.' She paused. 'I work evenings too.' She regarded him under her new fringe, trying to look firm. 'And I will have a waltzing lesson. Only one though. I won't have time for more.’

  Now he put his hand on hers. 'Thank you, Elsa. I'm really pleased.’

  Elsa felt a slight tingle. He had nice hands and she rather liked the feel of it. Fortunately for her peace of mind, at that moment the waiter came to take their order. Elsa used the time she wasn't placing her order to get her head round the fact that a very nice man had asked her to a costume ball and that she was going to have waltzing lessons, just like an ingenue in a Georgette Heyer novel. The nice man also seemed quite keen on the idea. There was a lot to take in.

  When the waiter had taken their orders and their menus Laurence said, 'So you'll definitely come?'

  ‘Yes, I will. And thank you very much for asking me.' After a pause she said, 'But you'll owe me, big time.’

  He laughed and then became serious. 'Anything you ever ask me, I'll be happy to do for you.’

  She smiled. He was reasonable looking, apparently comfortably off, and single. So what was wrong with him?

  There must be something, or he wouldn't be asking her out.

  ‘What do you do for a living?' she asked. If he said

  ‘undertaker' she'd know.

  ‘Something in the City,' he said, smiling. 'If you're not careful, I'll tell you all about it.’

  `No thanks, you're all right.' She smiled. He was all right.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bron lay in bed for a few moments to see if Roger was stirring. Sunday morning was his favourite time for sex -he had usually had a bit too much to drink for it on Saturday night and was too obsessed with getting ready for work on weekdays. Although it really did nothing for her now, Bron knew that avoiding sex wouldn't help her relationship. She counted to ten and slipped out of bed and into the bathroom feeling relieved and guilty – but more relief than guilt. Maybe they did need a weekend away together somewhere, although in her heart of hearts she knew it would take more than that to fix it.

  When she came back into the bedroom he was awake. He peered sleepily at her. 'If there's nothing else going on here this morning, you might as well bring me breakfast in bed,’

  he grumbled.

  Bron pulled on some clothes as quickly as possible to stop him getting too interested. 'What do you want?’

  `You know what I want, but you're obviously not going to give it to me.’

  Bron forced a smile. 'I meant for breakfast, silly. I've got lots to do today before we go to your parents'.'

  ‘I'll have eggs and bacon, toast and coffee. Oh, and half a tomato.'

  ‘Not toast in bed, Roger, please!'

  ‘Oh, don't be so anal.' Then he moved down in the bed, turned over, and apparently went back to sleep instantly.

  Downstairs, she put the kettle on and then opened the cupboard and found her secret stash of chocolate. She sighed. Roger wasn't all bad by any means, but he wasn't particularly alert when it came to their relationship. Was he really happy to carry on as they were? Wouldn't he like something more like it was when they first got together?

  She got a packet of bacon out of the fridge. When she'd made Roger's breakfast and taken it up, she'd come down, make a cup of tea and dip chocolate in it, while she read yesterday's paper. It would be a few golden moments of self-indulgence before the hurly-burly of Sunday properly began.

  When she took up his tray he seemed to be fast asleep. Should she wake him? Just leave the tray and risk it getting cold, or take it downstairs again? She could eat the toast herself. But before she could make a decision, he groaned, farted loudly and said, 'Did I tell you there's a cricket club do on at the pub this evening? You won't have to do any cooking at all today, with Mum making lunch.'

  ‘I have just made your breakfast,' she pointed out, but without rancour; she couldn't be bothered to argue with him this morning.

  ‘Doesn't count. You never do during the week.' He sat up and smiled. 'This looks nice. Could you bring me up the motoring section of the paper? I know you're only interested in the girly bits.’

  Bron considered telling him that he hadn't mentioned the cricket do but decided she didn't want to risk an argument. If their life together couldn't be exciting, let it be peaceful.

  *

  That evening, Bron was aware that Roger wanted her to look good so she took trouble with her make-up. Her hair was freshly washed and blow-dried and her nails were a reasonable length for once. She took out her favourite dress. It was last year's but still looked pretty and fresh with its shortish, flirty skirt, spaghetti straps and delicate floral pattern. It was one of those dresses that had never really been in fashion and so was never really out of it. She pulled out a pale orchid-coloured pashmina to wrap up in if she felt cold, but the evening was verging on the sultry and she probably wouldn't need it. She tied it round the handle of her bag so she wouldn't lose it, and then went to present herself to Roger who had his feet on the coffee table, reading the sports pages of a Sunday paper he'd cadged from his parents.

  ‘How do I look?' she said. She hated herself for needing to check, but if she didn't, Roger would tell her she looked wrong anyway.

  He glanced at her. 'OK.'

  ‘Is it the skirt? Too short?’

  He shook his head. 'No, it's fine. Quite classy.' A compliment! She couldn't believe it! 'So don't open your mouth and ruin it,' he added.

  ‘What do you mean by that exactly?' she demanded.

  He sighed. 'Nothing! Don't get all worked up, it was only a joke. I just meant don't go boring everyone with tales of the salon. Having to cut out a tangled roller is just not that funny. A lot of the wives who'll be there have got really high-powered jobs.’

  That was her put in her place. And as he had roared with laughter when she'd told him about this incident when they first met, she felt hurt and nostalgic for happier times. Was this relationship really salvageable? And if not, what were her alternatives? She knew the answer really, but didn't want to acknowledge it. Secretly, she had compiled a list of clients – either people she'd already worked for away from the salon, or people who'd go with her if she left. But knowing Roger would be unhappy about this only made her feel more guilty.

  ‘Well, darling, hairdressing isn't exactly rocket science, is it?' he went on, possibly sensing he'd hurt her feelings and trying to make her feel better.

  ‘Actually, rocket science isn't rocket science,' she said, feeling tired before they'd even set off. 'It's quite simple.’

  Bron had heard this somewhere, but didn't really know if it was simple or not. She clattered out of the room on her high heels that weren't all that easy to walk in before he could answer. She took refuge in the kitchen and sipped a glass of water.

  Oh, how she didn't want to go to this do! She'd hardly know anyone, and the ones she did know she didn't particularly like: they were all city traders or lawyers or the like. And Roger had been right about the wives – they all had careers they could talk about with pride. She knew perfectly well that what she did was just as challenging and difficult as what many of them did, but she also knew that society – that society anyway – assumed that hairdressing was a job for thickos. At times she considered getting a T-shirt that said 'I'm a hairdresser, please speak slowly' but thought people probably wouldn't understand it was meant ironically. A T-shirt with 'I have twelve GCSEs, three A levels and had a good offer for a place at university, and I chose to be a hairdresser' probably wouldn't help her case either.

  *
>
  When they arrived at the pub they had to fight their way across the crowded room. It was a country pub, one that Roger knew well from going with his cricket crowd, but Bron had only been to it a couple of times. The cricket club took over one of the rooms so it felt more like a club than a pub, really.

  ‘What are you drinking?' Roger asked. 'You're driving.’

  As she always drove when they went out with his friends this was no great surprise. ' Orange juice and soda, please.’

  While she waited behind Roger as he fought his way to the bar, feeling, as always, like a child waiting for its mother to pay it some attention, she looked around. She recognised a few faces and then her gaze landed on one she knew well. It was Sasha, the owner of the salon where she worked, and her bete noire. What was she doing here, of all places?

  She looked away quickly, hoping Sasha wouldn't see her. It was already going to be a difficult enough evening -the last thing she needed added to it was her boss.

  Roger handed her a glass. 'Come on, I can see the others over there.’

  Deeply depressed, Bron followed Roger to the area where Sasha was, ensconced among Roger's friends as if she was already part of the gang.

  ‘Hi guys,' said Roger. 'Cheers!' He raised his pint glass, not bothering to introduce Bron, who wondered why on earth he'd brought her.

  She smiled into space and sipped her drink.

  ‘Hi, Bron!' said Sasha. 'Bet you didn't expect to see me!’

  Bron forced a smile. 'No. I don't expect you thought you'd see me, either.' It was interesting that Sasha seemed quite at home among all these high-flyers, but perhaps owning a salon raised your status somewhat.

  ‘Oh, I knew you were coming.' Sasha looked at Bron in a knowing way that made Bron feel as if everyone was in on a secret except her. 'Roger said he'd bring you.’

  Bron looked at Roger, who was looking perfectly comfortable. Sasha and Roger knew each other slightly, she knew that. But she didn't know that Roger had spoken properly to Sasha, ever.