by CJ Morrow
Copyright: © CJ Morrow 2019
Tamarillas Press
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, locations, businesses, organisations and situations in this publication are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or circumstances, is purely coincidental.
Cover images: CJ Morrow, Man image by Alexander Lesnitsky from Pixabay
Cover design: CJ Morrow/A Waite
The Beginning
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
The Beginning
I never used to believe in love at first sight.
Then I met Leeward. Well, not met, more glimpsed across a crowded, noisy bar on a Friday night when I was my friend’s plus one at her after work end-of-financial-year celebration booze up.
And it was only a glimpse, yet though our eyes met for only the briefest of moments we just connected. It was as though a thousand words had been exchanged between us. He had dark eyes, deep eyes and I don’t just mean deep set, although they were, I mean I felt I was seeing into his soul. A tortured soul. Don’t ask me how I knew that, I just did.
Then he was gone, pulled away by an unseen force and I was back listening to my friend’s inane, drunken rambling about auditors and virements and other nonsensical stuff. I did actually know what a virement was, because she’d told me three times in the taxi on the way to the bar and about twenty times since we’d been here – the transfer of a surplus from one account to cover a deficit in another.
I looked around me and saw everyone having a good time, there was plenty of drink sloshing around, anything you wanted from the free bar; I dread to think how much money her company had spent on this evening – I wondered what the auditors would think of it. Not that I was availing myself of it, I had an early start the next day, one which hadn’t been on the rota when I’d accepted this invitation. I thought I was the only person in the entire place, other than the staff, who wasn’t completely off my face.
‘Hey,’ a voice said from behind me.
I turned, and there he was. Leeward. Not, of course, that I knew his name at that point.
‘Hi.’ I offered a shy smile. It was genuine too; I was just so knocked out by his presence.
‘I feel as though we’ve already met.’ He didn’t smile. His face was serious, intense.
‘Yeah.’
‘Across the bar.’ He nodded over to where he had been when our eyes first met.
‘Yeah.’
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Um, yeah, but not alcohol.’ I didn’t say I was on an early shift in the morning, in my head it sounded sort of lame.
‘Not drinking?’
‘No. I’d love a coke or something soft, though.’ I didn’t want him to think I was turning down his offer, even though we both knew the drinks were free.
‘Cool. I’m having a coffee.’
‘They do coffee? I didn’t know that otherwise…’ My voice trailed away, because he was smiling and it took my breath away. It wasn’t a full on, teeth bared smile, just a little upturn to the corners of his lips, slightly crooked, and it had the most profound effect on me. I felt my knees start to buckle and I pulled myself upright. What was wrong with me? I wasn’t even drunk.
‘Would you like a coffee instead?’
‘I would. Oh yes, I would.’
‘Cappuccino?’
‘Yes, please, err...’
‘I’m Leeward.’ He held out his hand. I was afraid to take it, afraid to touch him. What the hell did I think would happen? Sparks, fireworks, explosions, that’s what. ‘And you’re Lauren.’
‘Yeah. How did you…?’ Over his shoulder I saw my friend grinning, holding up her thumbs, nodding in that stupid way drunk people do, especially in front of the stone cold sober. ‘You asked my friend,’ I said, answering my own question.
‘I did. You sit there.’ He nodded at an empty table for two. ‘I won’t be long.’
I flopped into the seat and watched him as he made his way to the bar. I don’t know why I was so attracted to him; he wasn’t my type at all. I went for tall, fair-haired men, I liked them on the lean side, not quite male model heroin chic, but getting that way. I was twenty-five and my two serious ex-boyfriends had been exactly my type. And neither had worked out well. I was only three weeks out of my latest relationship which had lasted seventeen months. I thought we had a future, it seems he didn’t and he dumped me, rather unceremoniously at my brother Sam’s engagement party. I was still smarting from the rejection and definitely not looking for another relationship.
Leeward was short, not tiny, just not much taller than me, and he was stocky, not fat, but definitely not lean. He had dark hair, cut short, but long enough for me to see a few licks of curl around his collar. Definitely not my type, but I still found him attractive.
I think it was his eyes, deep, dark pools of unfathomable something – I just didn’t know what.
‘I gather you don’t work with this lot,’ he said, putting our coffees on the table and sitting opposite me. I was staring straight into those eyes. I read pain and sorrow and a troubled soul but not a loser, definitely not a loser; not someone who needed fixing.
‘No. You?’ Maybe I should have had a glass of wine, it might have helped my speaking abilities.
‘No, I came with my brother over there.’ He nodded in the direction of the bar but I couldn’t tear my gaze away from his eyes to bother looking.
‘Where do you work then?’
‘In the hotel industry.’ He smiled again. Oh God. Don’t do that. ‘Where do you work, Lauren?’ I adored the way he said my name.
‘Just started at a nursing home,’ I said.
He nodded; his face impassive.
‘I’m a nurse there.’ I felt I needed to justify myself, I don’t know why.
He smiled again and he let the smile stay on his lips as I babbled on about my few years in the NHS and how I loved working with old people and this was such a golden opportunity to do that and it was a promotion.
Over in the corner someone dropped a tray of drinks and as the glasses smashed to the floor a loud cheer went up, followed by a communal chant that everyone knew except us.
‘I’ve got my car outside,’ Leeward said, fixing me with those damn eyes. ‘Would you like a lift?’
‘Yes please.’
And I wasn’t even drunk.
Sitting next to him in the car was driving my senses wild. I could smell him, of course he smelled of expensive aftershave, but there was something else there: man. Being so close to him made my body tingle.
We pulled up outside my parents’ house and he turned to me.
‘Would you like to meet up again? We could go for dinner somewhere.’
It was hard to say no, but no is what I said. I was still smarting, I rea
lly didn’t trust men, any men. In the end we exchanged phone numbers and left it at that. For a while…
One
Ten years later – late August
I so don’t want to be a bridezilla.
‘Brides usually lose weight but your weight loss is quite shocking.’ The seamstress who has altered my wedding dress for the fourth time in as many months pulls up the zip and smooths the dress down, spanning her hands around my waist.
I can’t remember the last time I was this thin. In fact, I don’t think I have ever been this thin. Is it wrong to revel in it?
‘It still feels a little loose,’ I say, smiling.
‘I really don’t want to take it in any more. I think it will spoil the line of the dress.’ She smiles at me, a smile that defies argument. ‘Also, you’re wearing flat shoes, heels are going to change your posture, that can affect the fit.’ She frowns down at my cream, silk ballet pumps, the pearl-encrusted toes peeking out from beneath the dress. It’s the first time she’s seen them, but I’ve told her all along that I’ll be wearing flats. ‘I hope the dress is long enough,’ she says, in a weary tone.
‘Length is perfect,’ I say, sounding just a little snappy. Then I smile, because no one wants to be a bridezilla, do they?
‘The dress is perfect, Lauren,’ Mum says, perched on a tiny stool in the corner. She’s by the open window and wafts outside air into the room with her hands; it is so hot today, especially with three of us cramped into this tiny room. ‘You want to be able to eat on your wedding day.’ She laughs and stands up, waving her hand over her face. ‘I’ll wait for you in the car.’ Mum totters out of the room, the smallest bedroom in the seamstress’s home, down the stairs and lets herself out of the house.
‘I think your mum’s right.’ The seamstress unzips me before I have a chance to comment and she’s whipping the giant dress-bag off the hook in the corner and getting it ready to receive the dress.
‘Okay.’ I offer a smile and wiggle myself out of the dress. I’m so thrilled with it, with myself, with everything.
∞∞∞
‘I couldn’t bear to be in there another minute,’ Mum says as I approach the car; she’s sitting on the open boot and swigging from a bottle of water. ‘Sorry. It was just so hot and airless. I was starting to feel quite sick.’
‘I know. It was. But we’re done now.’ I wiggle my bagged-up dress and smile at it.
Mum stops swigging and leaps off the boot so I can place the dress inside. I lay it down and can’t resist another smile.
‘I’ve never been this thin,’ I say as we get back into the car.
‘No. You haven’t. Shall we drop the dress home and go and get some lunch or do you have plans?’
‘No, no plans. Leeward is spending the day with his brothers doing man things.’ I imagine Leeward, Kenton and Steve arranging a special treat, a surprise that Leeward will spring on me at the last moment. I wonder what it will be?
Either that, or they’re getting their bits waxed in some kind of macho dare all arranged by Kenton. Much more likely. And why not, Leeward doesn’t get many Saturdays off work, so he should just enjoy himself.
∞∞∞
At Mum’s I take the dress upstairs to my childhood bedroom and hang it on the hook behind the door. Mum has come up with me, but only so she can change her shoes; she says her feet have swollen in the heat of that tiny room.
‘While we’re up here, can I get a photo of your dress?’ I ask Mum as she frowns.
‘Why?’
‘Not all of it, just a bit that shows the colour. Jayne is paranoid about you turning up in the same colour.’ Jayne, Leeward’s mum, has been bugging me for weeks about what Mum will be wearing to the wedding. She’s convinced they’re going to turn up looking like mismatched twins. Well, it wasn’t my idea to insist that all the guests wear blue, it was Leeward’s, and I suspect Jayne had a hand in that.
‘Help yourself. I’m going to the loo.’ She waves at her wardrobe and disappears.
∞∞∞
‘Ah, there you are,’ Grimmy says as we burst into the kitchen together. ‘I’ve been waiting for my lunch. It’s past twelve you know.’
‘Where’s John?’ Mum asks, meaning my dad.
‘Hello, Grimmy.’ I lean in and give my great-grandmother a quick kiss on the cheek. She flinches.
‘Mmm. I don’t know. In the garden.’ She shakes her head. ‘Shed. I don’t know. I haven’t seen him for hours.’
Mum’s eyes widen, not in shock or concern, but in disbelief. You cannot trust Grimmy’s estimate, or grasp, of time.
‘He’s supposed to be doing your lunch,’ Mum says, glancing up at the clock. It is indeed past twelve; three minutes past.
‘Well he hasn’t. He let me in, made this cup of tea hours ago and disappeared off.’ She makes a motion with her hand suggesting he vanished into thin air. She looks cross, but then, she always looks cross. The only time her super pearly whites make an appearance is when there is food on offer. She eats a lot for someone so small.
‘We’re going out for lunch, Grimmy. Why don’t you join us?’ I can’t imagine she will, but it’s polite to ask.
‘No thank you. I want cheese and pickle and proper white bread with a decent cup of tea, not a toasted panny and a cup of froth. I went with your mum a few weeks back. Not nice, not nice at all.’ It was actually six months ago and we’ll never hear the end of it. There’s no point in wasting a treat on Grimmy, she doesn’t appreciate it.
Grim by name and grim by nature; my oldest brother, Mark, had given her the name Grimmy when he was about fourteen. It had stuck, we all called her Grimmy, except Dad. To be fair parts of her life have been grim, she lived in London during the war, had a daughter who ran away at sixteen and returned at seventeen about to give birth. Her name was Catherine and that’s who my oldest sister is named after. Catherine died in childbirth and Grimmy brought Dad up. She’s also outlived three husbands. So maybe she has a right to be grim, but it can be wearing, especially as she lives in leafy Wiltshire now with my parents running around after her.
Mum goes off in search of Dad and I tell Grimmy about my dress. She appears to listen and her mouth curves up at the sides, suggesting she is smiling, but her eyes dart quickly towards the door when Mum and Dad make an appearance. It’s all about the food.
‘Where have you been?’ Her tone is sharp. ‘You left me alone for hours.’
Dad waves a loaf of bread at her, white sliced that only she will eat, gnawing on its viscous dough for what can seem like hours.
‘I told you I had to pop out for fresh bread. I’ve been gone ten minutes.’
‘Mmm.’ She frowns at Mum and Dad before turning to me. ‘What’s happened to your hair, Lauren?’
‘I had it done last night. Blonde slices and stuff. Ready for next weekend.’ I let my voice go up at the end, as a verbal reminder without the words.
‘What’s happening next weekend?’ I don’t think she’s joking.
‘My wedding. Next Saturday. We sorted out what you are going to wear last week. Remember?’
‘Of course I remember, I’m not senile. How is Gollum?’
‘What?’ Did I just hear her correctly?
‘Well…’ Mum butts in, ‘Now you’re sorted, Grimmy, we’ll be off. John will make you a lovely sandwich, just the way you like it.’ Mum pats Grimmy on the shoulder.
‘Bye, Grimmy,’ I add, grabbing my handbag and still wondering if she said what I thought she did.
‘Eat plenty,’ Grimmy says. ‘You’re very thin.’
I smile as I turn away; I know I am and I love it.
‘Bye Dad,’ I call. ‘Did Grimmy just call Leeward Gollum?’ I ask Mum as we head out of the door.
‘God knows. Best ignored.’
‘Has she even seen Lord of the Rings?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Mum answers, a bit too quickly.
‘She has, you know, I remember. Last Christmas with the boys.’ I definitely remember her sitting i
n the middle of my nephews watching TV, with Leeward sitting alongside and constantly telling them not to talk over it – it’s his favourite film, if you don’t count the other Lord of the Rings films, while us girls – well the adult ones anyway – drank wine and giggled over YouTube videos shown to us by my nieces.
‘Where do you fancy for lunch?’ Mum asks, changing the subject.
‘Your favourite,’ I say, laughing, because we both know that’s where we’ll be going even if I suggest somewhere else.
∞∞∞
Twenty-minutes later we’re sitting in Metcalf’s ordering our lunch. Mum’s having a panini stuffed full of God’s knows what, because, unlike me, she can eat like a horse and never put on weight. I’ve ordered salad, with a half portion of tuna for the protein. I can’t afford to put weight on before my big day because despite there being room in my wedding dress, there definitely isn’t any room in the holiday clothes I’ve bought for my honeymoon. Leeward helped me choose, ensuring they were appropriate, but without telling me where we’re going; it’s a surprise. I think I’m more excited about the honeymoon than I am about the wedding, after all, we’ve been together for ten years, and only been on holiday three times and two of those were city minibreaks.
I give an involuntary little shudder when I think of how much the wedding is costing. Mum and Dad have chipped in, not that I wanted them to, Leeward’s mum has contributed what she can, which has mostly been advice.
‘Are you all right?’ Mum frowns her concern.
‘I’m fine, fine. Just a little hungry.’ It’s half lie, half true. I’ve been on a diet for six months now, and I’m permanently hungry.
It was Leeward’s idea; we’d both go on a fitness regime. For him it meant sessions down the gym, for me it meant eating less. A lot less. Not that I was fat to start off with, just a normal, average, not-look-twice size. He wanted me to be a knockout, after all, every bride should be the star of her own wedding. He was determined no one would outshine me. And, with my twenty-two-inch waist, I doubt anyone will. Especially now I have the hair; sliced and coloured and all the rest of it, and with a dozen or more hair extensions glued in. It’s a good job I’m not at work this week, or God knows how I would have coped with the hair. As it is, I can just let it hang down and enjoy it. That was Leeward’s idea too; he loves a long blonde do.