by Adale Geras
‘And peasants no doubt lining the pavements and doffing their caps,’ said Louise. ‘I think you’re crazy. What happens if it rains?’
‘Not many peasants in Clapham,’ Zannah replied. ‘I suppose we might warn a taxi firm beforehand that we might need them. Anyway, it won’t rain. It wouldn’t dare.’
‘Oh, that’ll be really great.’
‘Don’t be such a pessimist! It’ll be fine. I’ve already asked Charlotte. We’re staying at her house overnight so the preparations, like hair and so forth, will be done there. I’ll walk to the church and so will everyone else. Guests will come to Charlotte’s first and leave their cars. Edie’s son drives a big black Peugeot so, in an emergency, that’ll have to do. He’ll polish it beforehand, of course.’
‘Okay,’ said Louise. ‘Let’s leave the matter of transport. You’ve not even mentioned the most important thing of all. What about the dress?’
‘I’ve got a day in town with Maureen next Saturday,’ said Zannah. ‘I’m dreading it. I wanted my mother to come down that weekend, but she’s doing a reading in a local library and she also said that Maureen probably regards the occasion as a chance to bond with me … God I hate that word. It makes me feel as though I’m being glued with epoxy resin, or something. Never mind, Em’s coming with me for moral support, but can you picture it? Me trying on one hideous creation after another. In front of my future mother-in-law? I’d get Ma’s view if I happen to like something, of course.’
‘What about a make-up artist?’ asked Louise. ‘You need one of those. And a hairdresser. Have you got one?’
‘Not really, but Em knows loads from her work. She’ll find someone. And she’s already volunteered to do the hen night. You two are invited, by the way. In fact, I think it’s just you two, me and Em. I can’t think of anyone else I’d want to ask.’
‘Great! Hope there are lots of naked men involved. Is there a date yet?’ Louise wanted to know.
‘No naked men, no pub crawls and the date isn’t fixed but it will be soon. Can we talk about something else now? I’m sick to death of weddings in general and mine in particular.’
Saturday
Joss leaned into the dressing-table mirror, making sure that her eyeliner was on smoothly, without the blotches and smudges she was inclined to make when she put on her make-up too quickly. No, that was okay. Em would be proud of me, she thought. She couldn’t help feeling a thrill of excitement, and for a moment she imagined herself in one of those arty documentaries on BBC2. Yes, I’m about to go and give a reading at the library … only my friends and neighbours, I expect. A modest glance down to the right. An enigmatic smile. A dress that made her look young and prettier than she was. Joss came back to reality. She was wearing French navy linen trousers with a pale jade-green linen blouse. She sighed. At this very moment Zannah would be going round that shop with Maureen. She hadn’t been able to face it, which was the real reason why she’d decided not to go to London. Everyone, including Zannah, seemed to think a reading in a local library was something important and immovable. Of course, she could have changed the date in a second. It wasn’t exactly the Festival Hall they were dealing with, but Joss had seized on the reading as an excuse. She simply didn’t want to spend the afternoon with Maureen. Zannah was clear on the phone that she didn’t intend to make any decisions about her dress and that Joss must enjoy herself being a famous poet, even if it was only in a suburban library.
The book was in her handbag. She’d dedicated it to her daughters and of course, a copy had gone to each of them, to Charlotte and several friends. She had no hesitation about not sending a copy to Gray and Maureen as a couple. She wanted more than anything to send Gray his own, signed copy, but couldn’t. Come, let us kiss and part meant no contact, and she intended to stick to it even if he kept breaking their agreement.
Bob had taken her out to dinner the night before to celebrate publication. Charlotte, Zannah and Em had sent flowers, so had Mal, and Isis had made a special card, with a picture of pirates, a wrecked ship and lots of glitter sprinkled on the very blue sea curling round it. Darling Grandma, lots of love from Isis. It made Joss feel happy whenever she thought about it. She’d also printed out a lovely email Isis had written, all about her holiday with Cal. Joss kept it in her handbag, and took it out now to read again.
I went to see Otto in his sanctury. He’s brown and has big white circly eyes he was asleep on his perch. That’s because it was daytime. We went climing up a very green hill and I won. I got to the top first. Dad says it wasn’t fair he was carying the food which slowed him up. I love Otto. We’re going to see him again. I hope it’s nightime and I can see his eyes. Dad says there orange. Here’s a picture of an owl like Otto.
‘Joss!’ Bob called her from downstairs. ‘Package for you, love.’
‘Coming!’ She picked up her handbag and ran downstairs. The hall smelt wonderful. She was determined to take no notice of Bob’s mutterings about turning the house into a funeral parlour with all these bouquets.
She opened the package, which had no return address on it. The name on the label was Lydia Quentin. Her heart began to beat more quickly. There were thousands of little polystyrene worms in the small box. No card. Nothing to say who it was from.
‘What is it?’ Bob asked. ‘You’re going to be late, aren’t you?’
‘No, I’ve got time still … It’s a cup and saucer.’
‘Hmm,’ said Bob. ‘Funny thing to send, isn’t it?’ He wandered off before she had time to explain. Could he have guessed? No, she was sure he hadn’t, but he had been perplexed. The cup and saucer were a present from Gray and they weren’t a funny thing to send. They were just right. No one else would know that this was the pattern on the crockery at the Shipwreck Café. How on earth had he managed to find it? She could ask him. She could send him an email … Surely just one email would be safe? To say thank you? No, she wouldn’t. She’d stick to her resolve, not so much because she felt resolute but because she knew that if once she started, if once she allowed herself even one email message, all the feelings she’d been bottling up for weeks would come rushing out, and carry her to places she yearned for; places that terrified her, too.
Bob came out into the hall again. ‘Still mooning over that crockery?’ he asked. ‘Put it down now, Joss, for heaven’s sake. We’ll be late for the library.’
‘Are you coming to the reading?’
‘D’you want me to?’ He looked genuinely astonished. ‘I will if you like, only I thought I’d take the opportunity to have a dekko at the local history section. Is that okay?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Joss and she meant it. She had no desire for Bob to hear her reading her work aloud. As it was, she was nervous, and having him there would make things even worse. She got into the car, closed her eyes and leaned back against the seat as Bob drove off in the direction of the library. She thought of the cup and saucer sitting on the table in the hall: pretty, rose-patterned, almost translucent. A present from Gray.
*
Emily wondered if Zannah knew how much she’d sacrificed to come with her on her wedding-dress expedition. She could have gone to the movies with Cal and Isis. They were off to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and she’d have loved that. It would have been much more fun than spending any time at all with Maureen in full sail. Emily was longing for this afternoon to be over, because Cal was coming back with Isis to the flat for supper. If I were at the movies, she thought, I’d be eating popcorn and pretending that we were a family: a mum and a dad and their daughter out on a Saturday afternoon, having normal fun. How great would it be if Pa could suddenly materialize at her side, in the way he used to when she was a girl. They’d always had fun together.
‘Psst … wanna see a mummy?’ This was on a Saturday afternoon when Zannah had gone off with some friends and she’d been feeling left out and grumpy.
‘Egyptian kind of mummy?’ Emily sat up, looking interested.
‘Yup,’ said Pa. ‘A princess
called Asru.’
They’d gone into Manchester in the car and had coffee in a funny little café just down the road from the university. When they’d got to Asru’s display case, she was spookily and shiveringly and very satisfyingly dead and wrinkled and mummified. Pa had been the only person looking at her who knew anything about her, and Emily remembered being proud of him as he held forth in his rather too-loud voice. Which proves how young I was. It embarrassed me when I was a teenager. Wish I could be a kid again, she thought, and have some normal fun.
Normal fun was not what Maureen had in mind. She appeared from the depths of Green Park Underground decked in autumn colours, and it was clear even before she’d come up to them that she had dressed for this occasion as though it were some special kind of party. Not quite cocktail, but smart-smart. She looked, Emily thought, like someone from the days when a lady didn’t leave her house without a nice clean pair of gloves. Okay, she wasn’t actually wearing gloves, but you felt that they were there in her head, so to speak: part of her image of herself. Another part of the picture now, ever since the bombs on the Tube in July, was an almost visible air of Vera Lynnishness about her: a gallant smile, a devil-may-care stiff upper lip, a sort of squareness to the shoulders. She was probably imagining crowds of admiring people around her, commending her on her courage in undertaking this brave assault on Bond Street undeterred by the worst Al Qaeda could throw at her. One part of Emily chided herself for her unkindness, but still a voice in her head murmured: I bet that’s how she thinks of herself. I bet it is.
Zannah kissed her politely on one cheek, and Emily smiled from the sidelines.
‘Hello, Emily. I didn’t know you were coming with us. How lovely!’ Emily could see that Maureen would have been far happier to have Zannah to herself, and she noticed the barely perceptible hint of disapproval (slightly raised eyebrows) as she took in the black denim skirt and cream jacket that would evidently let the side down in whatever blisteringly chic emporium she’d marked out for them to visit.
‘It’s just down here,’ Maureen said, striding briskly into the network of small streets behind Piccadilly. ‘Not many people know about it – it’s quite a trade secret – but it does have the most gorgeous selection of dresses from all sorts of designers. I’ve made an appointment for you, Zannah, and you can take your time trying everything on, with no pressure at all, of course. Just a little reconnaissance, if you know what I mean.’
Dreamdress didn’t look much from the outside. Zannah was dutifully talking to Maureen as they went in, so Emily had to keep her thoughts to herself. Discreet was the word that came to mind: a silver door, and that was it. You had to ring a bell and be let in, as though you were getting in to some members-only sex club. Members. Emily smiled to herself at the smutty joke and wished Maureen weren’t there so that she could share it with Zannah.
Inside, a short flight of stairs led up to an enormous space, carpeted in a shade of pink so luscious you felt like sinking on to your knees and licking it. Doors all round the walls looked as though they led into other rooms, but turned out to be nothing but glorified cupboards. The saleslady was even smarter than Maureen, which was saying something. Her make-up was perfect; her nails likewise. She would have made most women – but not Zannah, who was seriously thin – feel positively chubby.
Emily found herself on a chair opposite Zannah and Maureen, who were sharing a sofa as though they were the best of friends. Only a sister would see that she’s ready to make a run for it, Emily thought. Zannah kept biting her lip, always a giveaway. And her hands were literally twisted together in her lap as the dresses came out, one after another. Soon, there were about eight bridal confections hanging from hooks that hadn’t been noticeable before because they were cunningly disguised to look like decorations on the doors/cupboards.
‘Now take your time, dear,’ said the supersmart saleslady. ‘Try them on, one after another, and see how you feel about each one. Choosing a wedding dress isn’t something one should do in a rush. And, of course, if there’s a style or a look you fancy that you don’t see here, just let me know. We have so, so much more to offer, if these don’t appeal.’
‘Thank you,’ said Zannah, and stood up with the air of a Resistance heroine about to be interviewed by the Gestapo. She walked towards a dress that seemed made of a thousand layers of tulle and organdie.
Emily stood up as well, and went over to her. ‘Shall I come too? To zip you up?’
‘Thanks!’ said Zannah, her relief obvious. She turned to Maureen. ‘Won’t be a moment.’
In the changing-room, Emily looked around and said, ‘Get a load of this, Zan! They could let it out to a single mum and her kids, couldn’t they? Or we could have the reception in here. Whaddaya say?’
‘Oh, God, why did I agree to this, Em?’
‘To please Adrian? To bond with Little Mo, in Ma’s words? Perhaps even to choose a wedding dress … Here, let me do that up for you. There you go. The cream-cake look!’
‘It’s awful. I hate it. I hate them all.’ Zannah stood in front of the mirror, stricken.
‘Nonsense. You look like a very pretty cream cake. Go out and show your ma-in-law.’
‘Must I? Even though I know I’ll never, ever wear anything like this. Not for love or money.’
‘I’ll tell them,’ Emily said. ‘I’ll go and get another one and say you want something simpler. How’s that?’
‘Would you? Really? Please, Em … go and get me something that at least looks wearable.’
*
Two hours later, Zannah, Emily and Maureen were recovering from the Dreamdress experience in Fortnum & Mason’s.
‘My treat,’ said Zannah. This extravagance, Emily knew, was the result of guilt. Zannah was feeling bad about hating every single one of the wedding dresses she’d been shown. She would, Emily knew, try to put a positive slant on the afternoon over a soothing cup of tea and some cakes priced as though they were items of jewellery.
‘Well,’ said Maureen. She was making a bad job of keeping the bitterness of disappointment out of her voice. ‘That was interesting, don’t you think? I must say, Zannah, I’m not quite sure what it is you want. You seemed not to like anything we were shown. So many different styles … so many fabrics. What was the matter with them?’ Maureen was keeping her temper, but it was clearly an effort.
Zannah took a deep breath and launched into an explanation. ‘I’m so sorry, Maureen. It’s very kind of you to have come all this way and I’m terribly grateful, only the thing is … well, I did tell you that I have a good idea of what I want. I’ve had the same idea for years, really. Since I was about twelve.’
‘I was sure your childhood vision would be there somewhere. Are you quite certain there wasn’t anything even remotely similar?’
‘The main thing was, most of the dresses were strapless.’
‘That’s the fashion these days,’ said Maureen. ‘You’ve only got to look at a couple of magazines to see that.’
‘Yes,’ said Zannah. ‘I’ve noticed. I’m not very keen on it.’
‘Why on earth not?’
‘That style doesn’t suit me, I’m afraid. I’m too bony round the shoulders. I’ve got no bust to speak of. It’s just … it’s not a look I like, that’s all. And besides … ’
‘Yes?’ Maureen’s teacup was halfway to her lips. The suspense was killing her.
‘They don’t look bridal, those dresses. Not my idea of bridal.’
‘Anyone would think,’ said Maureen, sweetly, ‘that you were a virginal young girl walking innocently up the aisle. You’re the mother of an eight-year-old child, though, and this is your second marriage.’
Emily was dying to make some really rude remark that would have put the kibosh on the whole afternoon, but restrained herself. She could see Zannah was hurt. She was doing that thing she always did when someone really upset her: biting her lip and looking down at her hands. Her voice was strained as she said, ‘I’ll think about it, Maureen, and get
back to you. Perhaps I should look into having something made specially for me … to my specifications, I mean.’
‘Anyone worth their salt as a designer-dressmaker would charge you a good deal more than a thousand pounds,’ said Maureen, as though she’d already looked into it. She probably had, Emily reflected. You couldn’t accuse her of not doing her wedding homework. Her laptop was doubtless steaming with the amount of Internet consultation that must have gone on. Now she was gathering her things together as though she was getting ready to go home, and not before time either. She was smiling at Zannah now, confident that she’d had the last word. ‘You wouldn’t want to spend that amount, surely?’
Which, being translated, meant: You can’t afford to spend that much.
Zannah shook her head. ‘No, of course not. Well, I’ll just have to think, I expect. I’ll let you know what I decide, Maureen, and it was kind of you to fix up the appointment for us. Really helpful.’
‘A pleasure, dear,’ said Maureen, standing up. ‘You now know exactly what you don’t want, which is half the battle, isn’t it? Now I really must fly. Regards to your parents, of course. Such a shame your mother couldn’t be here too.’
You had to be on Maureen’s wavelength, Emily thought. What she’s saying is: if Ma had been here, she might have talked some sense into her wayward daughter. And what sort of a mother isn’t at her daughter’s side when such earth-shaking decisions had to be made? A bad one, that’s what Maureen evidently thought. Zannah just smiled, which was typical. If she’d said that to me, Emily reflected, I’d have found a suitably sharp response. Not to mention a suitably sharp knife to stick into the bosom which she doubtless thinks of as ‘voluptuous’ but which, Emily saw, was running the risk of becoming something more matronly altogether. She’s making it seem as though Ma isn’t interested, when the truth is much more likely to be that she didn’t want to spend the afternoon with Maureen, and who could blame her?