by Katie Fforde
‘Could you? That would be wonderful! It's this lunch thing with the Golf Club wives.’
Relieved to have got off the subject of Roger, Bron sat down at the kitchen table while Pat made coffee. 'What are "The Golf Club Wives"? It sounds like the title of a sex-and shopping blockbuster!'
‘Not quite as much fun as that, sadly, but pretty daunting. Vince wanted me to get involved with them in case any of the husbands are people he wants to get in with. We none of us play golf but we put on little social events between ourselves.’
There but for the grace of God go I, thought Bron as she nibbled oat and honey biscuits and sipped coffee. She could just imagine it – competitive fundraising with Women Who Lunched.
‘The thing is,' went on Pat, 'Mrs Bedlington, the chairperson-'
‘You have a chairperson? Golly!' muttered Bron.
‘-is quite a dominating woman and I would like to look my best for the occasion.'
‘I'll come upstairs and help you choose an outfit if you like. My friend Elsa – you know? The one who made the dresses for that big wedding, who had to be a stand-in bridesmaid? – well, Ashlyn's mother – Ashlyn was the bride, if you remember – well, Ashlyn's mother-'
‘I think I'm still following you,' said Pat, 'though it's not easy.’
Bron laughed and went on, 'Well, she made Elsa get her colours done. It was a present for being a last-minute bridesmaid. She made me go too. It was huge fun! There were three of us trying on jewellery. It was just what I needed…' Her voice tailed away. Pat already felt quite guilty enough without Bron rubbing it in. She changed the subject a bit. 'Getting people to give up wearing black is always a bit of a problem, apparently.’
Pat seemed totally confused. 'What do you mean, she got her colours done?'
‘Oh! Don't you know? It's a firm – well, a franchise, I suppose – called Colour Me Beautiful. They tell you what sort of colours you can wear.’
Pat humphed. 'It sounds a bit like Mrs Bedlington to me.’
‘No! It's not bossy, it's liberating! They take all your make-up off, or most of it, and then they hold all sorts of different colours against your skin and you can see which ones work and which don't.' Bron thought for a few seconds. 'Actually, it's not unlike choosing the right colours for people's hair. Some colours make people look like death and others make them glow.' She peered at Pat's hair for a moment. 'I think we could put a semi-permanent on yours, just for a bit of a lift. We haven't got time for foils and all that.'
‘Not unless you come at dawn and I'm not sure I fancy having my hair done with Vince snoring in the bedroom.' Bron laughed. 'Let's go up and sort out what you're wearing and then I'll tell you about my new project. I'm going to make an official wedding cake!'
‘Bron, that's marvellous. You always were a grand baker. Are you getting it iced professionally?'
‘No!' Bron squeaked her indignation. 'I'm icing it. It's going to be tricky because it's a tree. You know, one of those ones like lollipops that posh restaurants have outside their doors.'
‘My goodness, Bron.'
‘Trouble is, I don't know where I can make it. It has to be in a properly approved kitchen and also one big enough.' Pat went quiet for a moment and then suddenly looked very pleased with herself. 'I think I can help you there. The woman I have in mind is away at the moment, but I'll get back to you as soon as I can. She's lovely, I know she'll let you use her kitchen if she can. It's been through all the checks apparently, you know, health and safety.'
‘Oh, Pat!' Bron put her arms round her and gave her a hug. 'You're amazing.’
Pat hugged her back. 'Roger doesn't know what he's lost by cheating on you.’
They released each other and Bron gathered up their coffee mugs and put them by the dishwasher. 'I think he did know. He thought he wanted a little woman to be at his beck and call, but in fact what he really wanted was someone more exciting. It's a perfectly valid choice.’
Really, thought Bron, she had been just as bad for him as he had been for her. They had both dragged each other down.
Having helped Pat decide on what to wear for her important lunch with an association she was certain Sarah would condemn as too sexist and retro for words, Bron decided to cook a special meal for James. It was, she realised, a knee-jerk reaction. The way to Roger's heart had been through his stomach and although she didn't want to reach James's heart, he had been kind to her and she wanted to do something nice for him in return.
But what should she cook him? The trouble with cooking for someone you hardly knew was that you had to second-guess their tastes. He'd cooked her an omelette when she'd moved in: he might well be vegetarian. One solution would be to go home tonight and ask him, and then invite him for a meal, but that would make the whole thing seem a bit formal. She would much prefer to just leave a note on his front door saying, 'Don't bother to cook, just come round to mine at about seven.' That way it would be nice and casual. All she wanted to do was to save him the bother of cooking, and perhaps eating something nicer than he might make for himself. Everyone liked to be cooked for once in a while, especially when they lived alone as he appeared to do. She hadn't noticed him staying away at all or a potential girlfriend visiting him. But then she didn't really know that much about him, just that he seemed a kind man who liked to keep pretty much to himself.
Having wandered up and down the high street and stared into the butcher's window for a while, Bron decided she'd just have to ring and ask him.
‘James? It's Bron, your new neighbour.’
He chuckled. 'Vague as I can be, I haven't forgotten who you are yet.'
‘Oh good. I was just ringing because I wanted to cook you a meal – to say thank you. Tonight OK?'
‘That would be excellent.'
‘Not sure about that, but I'll do my best.' Bron suddenly found herself a bit more anxious about this than she thought she would have been. 'So, are you vegetarian? We had eggs..
‘No.'
‘Or vegan?’
He chuckled. 'I think that's pretty much a given. I couldn't be a vegan if I ate meat, now could I?'
‘No,' said Bron, feeling silly. 'Any particular hates?’
‘Anything except eggs would be great.’
Bron felt herself blush and was pleased he couldn't see her. 'I'd forgotten about the hens. About seven, then?’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Having decided that she definitely mustn't cook chicken – he wouldn't want to eat his pets' relations – she couldn't think of anything else that wouldn't take hours and hours.
She wandered aimlessly up and down the High Street, searching for inspiration, wishing she hadn't decided to leave her cookery books behind. She'd ask Pat to collect them for her. She didn't want to go back there if she didn't have to. At least there'd be no doubt about them all belonging to her.
Then, somehow, before she knew how it had happened, she found herself outside the salon, staring in the window. She suddenly thought that there was a computer there, she could look up a recipe on the Internet – a tried and tested one that she knew would work.
She was trying to look through the window without being seen when one of her clients spotted her and waved. Before Bron could indicate that she didn't want to be seen, Sasha, obviously more on the ball than she was, spotted her, and shot out of the door, grasping her wrist like the Ancient Mariner, only in fishnet tights.
‘Have you decided to come back?' Sasha was wary, testing the water in case Bron planned to rush into the salon and declare Sasha a total slapper, or some such. 'Your job's here if you want it.' Maybe she'd finally realised what a good hairdresser she'd lost.
She didn't add 'provided you don't make trouble' but she didn't need to. Sasha had always been well able to make her requirements known without having to express them out loud.
Bron looked down at her arm, which had the effect of making Sasha loosen her grip. 'Er, no, it's all right. I mean, I don't want my job back.’
Just being next to Sash
a on the pavement was horrid enough. Bron would rather do anything than go back into the salon with its bitchiness, long, boring hours and all the little arguments about tips.
‘So why are you here?' Sasha's smile was definitely false but a little more relaxed. Bron smiled back, equally falsely.
‘I left some things here and I also wondered if I could borrow the computer? I need to look something up on the Internet.' She might as well use it now she was here.
Sasha considered. Would Bron make trouble if she refused? She obviously couldn't decide. 'OK then. If you're not too long.'
‘Thanks.' Bron smiled and walked past Sasha into the shop.
A couple of her ladies were sitting under driers. Spotting Bron they called out to her, 'Hello dear! How nice to see you.'
‘I was told you'd left when I rang yesterday. Now here you are,' said one.
‘Come for your cards, have you? Now, Sasha, don't you make any trouble for her, she's a lovely girl. Always did my hair just as I like it.’
The other one had been looking at Bron thoughtfully. 'Not in the family way, are you? You wouldn't want to be working with all these chemicals if you are.’
Bron, who was wearing a loose summer top over her jeans, decided not to be offended. Sasha gave Bron a they think-you're-fat look, which Bron ignored.
‘Not that you're showing yet!' said the woman, anxious lest she'd put her foot in it.
Bron laughed and revealed her normal flat stomach under her top.
‘Well, if you will go round in a nightie that doesn't show off your nice figure, what can you expect?' said the woman, still embarrassed.
Bron laughed again. 'No, I'm not expecting, but I have left. Sasha is very kindly allowing me to use the Internet. I've left my boyfriend too.' It was Bron's turn to look meaningfully at Sasha.
Sasha said, 'If you want to use the computer, go on through. You know where it is. And don't be too long. I'll need to order some stuff soon.’
Bron smiled at her ex-clients. 'You can always contact me privately if you want to.' She rummaged in her bag for the business cards she had for weddings. 'Here's my mobile number.’
Sasha's hatred was almost audible. It's because she's in the wrong, thought Bron. She can't forgive me.
Bron found a recipe quite quickly as she knew which books she had, and could look up most of them. She had just printed out one for pork tenderloin that was easy, didn't take hours and didn't involve chicken. She would need to go back into the main part of the town though. She was just waiting for the printer to wake up and start performing when Sasha came in.
‘You're not doing anything you shouldn't, are you? Such as stealing my client records?’
Bron knew perfectly well that Sasha didn't have her client records on the computer because she had never got round to putting them there. 'I'm just printing out a recipe,' said Bron calmly.
‘It was wrong of you to give my clients your card,' Sasha went on crossly.
‘It was wrong of you to give my boyfriend-'
‘Oh, all right!' Sasha snapped, before Bron could go on. 'I'm sorry about that!’
Bron shrugged. Sasha sounded about as sorry as she used to be when slipping in an extra appointment meant that Bron missed her lunch break yet again. In other words: not very. Tactfully, the printer creaked into action and produced Bron's recipe.
‘Now, if you've finished with the computer, please go. I'll see you get your cookery books soon.' It did seem as if Sasha was genuinely trying to be pleasant, but she just couldn't do it.
‘Thank you, that would be kind,' said Bron graciously and moved swiftly out of the door. When she'd said a long goodbye to her ex-clients, she set off once more for the shops.
It was only when she'd planned her menu, washed her hands and tied a large tea towel round her waist that Bron realised the kitchen in the little cottage was not geared to haute cuisine, or even ordinary family cooking. She'd managed fine up to now, when she mostly lived on boiled eggs, the odd chicken breast or bit of fish, but for anything more than that, its size was prohibitive. She'd been so busy recently, she just hadn't taken it in.
For a start, the only surface big enough to work pastry on was the floor. She'd been planning to make apple pie. She'd never met a man who didn't like it.
She chewed her lip and wondered how she could get round this problem. Supposing she sterilised the floor and covered it with foil? No, she'd need a mile of foil, which she didn't have, and it would all crinkle up. Still prepared to roll pastry on her knees, she considered putting a towel down and using that as a surface. It would give the pastry an interesting texture and she was on the way to fetching a towel when she realised she'd have to roll the pastry out with a wine bottle.
So it would have to be apple crumble and not pie. Roger would have complained horribly but James would probably be perfectly happy.
As she rubbed butter, flour and sugar between her fingers, she realised that problem-solving was one of her favourite things. It was why she'd been so keen to make Carrie's cake. She just hoped that Pat's friend's kitchen was suitable and she would be allowed to use it. Anyway, Sarah would have some ideas.
She lit a fire, not because it was really cold but it had started to rain, making the cottage seem a bit dark. Having a fire and lighting some candles she'd brought with her cheered it up a lot.
Once her living area was more gemutlich she put a couple of plates in front of the fire to warm, aware she was probably the last woman on earth under thirty who cared about hot plates, then went back to her cooking. She hoped James wouldn't be late. She didn't want her pork fillets to dry up.
He wasn't late. He arrived with a bunch of flowers that obviously came from a garden and were a wonderfully eclectic mix.
‘Oh, they're wonderful!' said Bron. 'What are they all?'
‘Well, they're mostly just common things. Those salmony-pink roses are Albertine, the double-double purple ones are really called aquilegia, but are always known as grannies' bonnets. The stripy grass is called gardeners' garters. I'm sure you recognise the moon daisies.’
Bron laughed. 'I'll put them in water and then give you a glass of wine.'
‘I've brought wine too. Shall I deal with it?’
As Bron produced the two tumblers she had washed and polished for the occasion, he pulled the cork from the bottle. He was a very calming presence, she decided. And not bad-looking; she wondered once again if he were single. She handed him the glasses before retrieving her potato dish from the oven and carrying it to the table. The table wobbled.
‘A bit of fag-packet should sort that out,' he said knowingly, and then added, 'Pity I smoke roll-ups.' Bron tore the top off a box of cornflakes. 'Here, try this. How's the giving-up going?'
‘I've cut down a lot. It's only about five a day now, but I would like to quit completely.’
Bron bent down to wedge the cardboard under the offending table leg. Suddenly she felt terribly shy. She was getting to know James and they were neighbours, but she was aware that they were sharing a very small space and he was a relative stranger. The cottage seemed to have shrunk to half its already tiny size. She stood up awkwardly.
James, perhaps sensing her sudden discomfort, said, 'I've got some dry logs next door. Shall I go and get them?' When she had lit the tea lights on the table that went with the ones dotted round the place she suddenly realised that it could have all looked too romantic. She wasn't coming on to him, she was just thanking him for helping her settle into her new home. He might be quite attractive in a rustic way but she couldn't even think about another relationship until she'd had quite a bit of freedom first. When he came back with the logs she handed him a full glass.
‘Come and sit down. You must be starving. Cheers!' she went on cheerfully, clinking her glass against his. 'Dig in! Oh – I didn't meant that as a ghastly pun, you being a gardener and all.'
‘It's all right, I'm not remotely sensitive about it. I used to be in IT until I couldn't stand it any more and decided to retra
in.’
Bron took a sustaining draught of wine. 'Perhaps I should retrain. You've no idea how embarrassing it is telling groups of people you don't know what you do for a living.'
‘What, that you're a hairdresser?'
‘Mm. It's very satisfying and I really enjoy it, but people just assume you're stupid.'
‘Are you sure? Why should they think that?’
Bron shrugged. 'Traditionally it's what girls who aren't likely to pass many exams get pushed into doing. But I did it because I wanted to. I passed plenty of exams.'
‘As I didn't know that hairdressers were supposed to be stupid you don't need to show me your certificates to convince me you're not.’
Bron giggled and took another sip of wine, feeling much more relaxed. James was very easy to talk to, now her initial awkwardness had worn off – and he listened as if he was genuinely interested, unlike Roger. 'I am branching out a bit, actually.'
‘Yes?'
‘I'm supposed to be making a wedding cake, but I'm not quite sure how to do it.' Bron smiled. 'Anyway, what about you?' she asked. 'Did you have to study, too? Although isn't gardening sort of instinctive?'
‘Instinct helps but it's not enough. Especially if you want to work in one of the great gardens.'
‘Which you do?’
He nodded. 'The garden here is lovely and I was terribly lucky to meet Vanessa. Working for her has been brilliant, but I don't want to do it for ever. I want to go into garden design more and to do that you really have to know about plants.’
Bron smiled a little quizzically. 'Traditionally, the boys who weren't expected to pass exams were taught gardening.’
James laughed now. 'Here's to people who aren't expected to pass exams but do.’
As their tumblers collided, Bron said, 'Much more toasting and we'll both be tipsy,' then blushed, hoping she hadn't implied anything. 'Do start. I don't want all this getting cold.’
They ate in silence for a while and then James said, 'So, how are you finding it, living alone?’
Bron considered for a moment. 'It's fine, really. Much better than I thought it would be. I've never lived on my own before and I've always assumed I'd hate it, but I really like the freedom.' She paused and took another sip of wine. As James didn't comment she went on. 'I've got friends and my work, I don't need anything else.'