by Sophie Hart
‘Just milk, please,’ Julia smiled at her, wondering what it must be like to have staff. The house was immaculate, and Julia very much doubted that Valerie ever got down on her hands and knees to scrub the skirting boards or disinfect the toilet. She wondered if this girl was some sort of live-in housekeeper.
‘No biscuits?’ Valerie burst out sharply. ‘Where are your manners, Aimee? Well, I suppose you’re not to know, are you? There’s a Marks and Spencer’s selection in the pantry, go and get those. And for heaven’s sake, don’t just bring the box through. Arrange them nicely on a plate first.’
‘Yes. Sorry,’ Aimee apologised, her cheeks flaming red as she scurried off. Julia felt bad for her – the girl had looked mortified – but when she glanced across at Valerie she merely shook her head and tutted disapprovingly.
Jonathan evidently felt bad too, as he leaned across to his mother and commented, ‘You know, you really shouldn’t be so hard on her. She’s trying her best.’
‘She’s got to learn,’ Valerie shot back, without a trace of remorse. ‘It’s a very valuable skill, being able to hostess and run a household. Now, where was I?’
‘We were talking about venues,’ Julia reminded her, keen to get the conversation back on track and steer Valerie away from the deficiencies of her housekeeper.
‘Ah, yes. Now, we went to look at Hambledon Hall, didn’t we Jonathan?’ Valerie was all charm once more, as she reached across to pat her son on the knee. ‘And that really was beautiful. But the ante-rooms were very cramped, and there were no hand towels in the bathroom – just those noisy dryers, which I find very inappropriate. Wellington Lodge was charming, but they only served Lanson champagne.’ Valerie pulled a face.
‘How many guests are you thinking of having?’ asked Julia, underlining ‘NO LANSON’ in her pad, as Aimee walked back into the room, a selection of chocolate biscuits arranged in a fan shape on a bone-china plate. She set them down in front of Julia and then, to Julia’s astonishment, Aimee poured a cup of tea for herself and went to sit on the sofa, on the other side of Jonathan.
Perhaps Valerie was more lenient than Julia had imagined, if she was happy to fraternise with ‘the help’ in this way. It was Saturday after all, so perhaps once Aimee’s duties were completed she was allowed to sit with Valerie and her son.
Of course, Julia realised suddenly. Aimee would most likely play a key role in helping out with the wedding, so no wonder Valerie wanted her to sit in on the meeting. She was probably some kind of personal assistant, rather than a domestic housekeeper.
‘I think we’re looking at around two-fifty. Possibly three hundred,’ Valerie said airily. ‘Of course, we have an extensive network of friends and acquaintances, then there are all Jonathan’s business contacts, not to mention everyone from the club. How many from your side?’ she asked, her voice dropping several degrees, as she turned away from Julia back towards her son.
‘Not very many,’ Aimee replied in that same, soft voice. ‘I only have a small family, so there won’t be many relatives. I have a few school friends that I’d like to invite.’
‘Hmm,’ Valerie’s lips pursed into a tight pucker. ‘We’ll see if we can fit them in. There might be some room towards the back.’
As Julia looked on in confusion, Jonathan stretched his arm languidly, draping it around Aimee’s shoulders and giving her a little squeeze.
‘Of course we’ll find room,’ he assured her. ‘We’ve got to have… what’s her name? Rachel, that’s it. We’ve got to have her there, haven’t we?’
‘I had thought she could be one of my bridesmaids,’ Aimee offered shyly.
‘Whatever makes you happy, darling. Of course that’s fine, isn’t it, Mother?’
‘I suppose,’ Valerie replied coldly.
‘Thank you, Jon,’ Aimee beamed, snuggling up against him.
Julia was growing more incredulous by the second. Aimee was Jonathan’s fiancée? Aimee, who she’d mistaken for some kind of hired help – whose future mother-in-law treated her like some kind of hired help – was actually the bride-to-be?
‘So you’re the future Mrs Cunningham,’ Julia burst out, unable to help herself.
‘Yes, I am,’ Aimee confirmed, with a tinkling laugh, as she gazed up at her fiancé.
‘I told you I was a lucky man,’ Jonathan grinned. ‘Isn’t she incredible?’
‘You both look so happy together,’ Julia told them. ‘And what a gorgeous engagement ring,’ she gushed, suddenly noticing it for the first time and leaning over to take a closer look as Aimee stretched out her hand. ‘It’s very unusual. Is it a ruby?’
‘In a pavé diamond setting,’ Aimee nodded. ‘I have to confess, it’s far bigger than anything I would have chosen. I’m terrified of losing it.’
‘No need to sound so ungrateful, dear,’ Valerie interjected. ‘It’s a family heirloom,’ she informed Julia, her face once again a picture of disapproval. ‘And Jonathan has clearly decided that Aimee is the right person to give it to.’
‘Of course she is, Mother,’ Jonathan laughed easily.
Valerie picked a piece of lint from her skirt, brushing it onto the carpet. ‘Well, at least it’s heavily insured.’
‘It really is a beautiful ring,’ Julia cut in hastily. Valerie’s displeasure hung heavily in the room, a black thundercloud looming threateningly on the horizon. ‘And Aimee, do you have any thoughts about what you’d like for your wedding day? I’m sure you have lots of ideas.’
‘Oh, if it was up to me, I’d probably have a very small, intimate wedding. Just me and Jon – maybe on a beach somewhere tropical…’
Julia glanced across at Valerie and saw her turn positively pale at the thought.
‘But I’m happy to go with whatever Jon wants. And Mrs Cunningham is so good at organising. She has ideas for things I’d never even have thought of.’
‘Well, we have to make sure that everything’s appropriate, don’t we?’ Valerie smiled tightly. ‘That the day is elegant and sophisticated, with a real sense of class. And some people are just better at this kind of thing than others.’
Her words lingered in the air, a thinly veiled insult, and Julia waited for Aimee to spit back a reply, or for Jonathan to defend his fiancée against his mother’s obvious barbs. But no one spoke. The only sound was the chink of china as Valerie placed her teacup back down on its saucer.
Julia swallowed, wondering whether she really wanted this commission at all. She could be back at home now, cuddling with Jack, watching him smile and gurgle as she played with the furry caterpillar toy that never failed to make him squeal with delight; not here in this strained atmosphere, wondering whether she could ever meet Valerie’s impossibly exacting standards…
But no, she was being silly, Julia reassured herself. It was merely nerves at being a working woman once again and getting back into the swing of things. She’d dealt with bigger events than a simple wedding, and come up against bigger divas than the demanding Valerie. Besides, Aimee seemed like an absolute sweetheart, and Julia felt sure that as the wedding drew closer, Valerie would take a step back and let Aimee have her say. After all, how bad could the woman possibly be?
Shaking her head to dispel any negative thoughts, Julia opened her notebook to a fresh page, and turned to Aimee with a beaming smile. ‘So,’ she asked brightly. ‘Have you started shopping for your dress yet?’
4
‘Hollywood brides keep the bouquets and throw away the grooms’ – Groucho Marx
‘That’s my T-shirt, give it here!’
‘Not until you give me back my lip gloss. It’s Benefit, it cost a fortune.’
‘I haven’t got your stupid lip gloss. You probably lent it to one of your stupid friends.’
‘You’re such a liar! I know you took it out of my school bag. Give it back or I’ll punch you.’
‘I’d like to see you try…’
Gill closed her eyes, trying to block out the sounds of fighting coming from upstairs. She’d just got
herself settled in the living room with a cup of tea and a copy of Blushing Brides magazine, but she should have known that five minutes of peace and quiet in her chaotic household was going to be impossible. She turned to the first page, but barely had a chance to take in the contents when there was the sharp sound of a slap, followed by an outraged yell.
Gill threw down the magazine and jumped up from the sofa, taking the stairs two at a time.
‘What’s going on here?’ she demanded, as she burst into the room that her thirteen-year-old daughter, Kelly, shared with her soon-to-be stepsister, twelve-year-old Paige. Posters of boy bands were plastered over every spare inch of wall space, whilst the floor was a sea of discarded clothes. Hair straighteners, tongs, and half a dozen bottles of glossing spray jostled for space on the vanity table, alongside perfume and jewellery and abandoned school books.
The two girls barely looked up at Gill, her eyes blazing, her hands planted firmly on her hips. She was a formidable woman in her early forties – stocky, with a large bosom, her hair cropped short and dyed a vivid shade of aubergine – but her daughters paid little attention.
‘She took my lip gloss,’ Kelly screeched, at the same time as Paige yelled:
‘She never lets me borrow anything, she’s such a mean cow.’
‘Don’t call your sister a cow.’
‘She’s not my sister! And you’re not my mum. I should have known you’d take her side, you always do,’ Paige stropped, flinging herself down on her bed, tears springing to her eyes.
‘Paige, that’s not true. Kelly, can’t you let her borrow it? Just a little bit to try?’
‘Mum, that’s not fair,’ Kelly retorted, with a terrifyingly teenage roll of the eyeballs. ‘Just because she doesn’t have nice stuff doesn’t mean she can borrow mine. She shouldn’t even be wearing lip gloss, she’s only a kid.’
‘I’m, like, nine months younger than you.’
‘Yeah, and you still don’t have any tits.’
‘Oh here, have it back,’ Paige yelled, flinging the lip gloss with venom. ‘I didn’t want to wear it anyway, you selfish bitch. I’ll probably catch herpes from it.’
‘Paige, language!’ Gill was shocked.
‘I don’t care. I hate you.’
Gill inhaled sharply, stung by Paige’s words. She knew the situation was difficult for her – well, it was difficult for all of them – but she didn’t deserve to be spoken to like that.
‘Paige, you can’t—’ Gill began, when a riot of shouting erupted from the next bedroom.
‘Yes! I killed him! I totally beat you, you loser.’
‘Yeah, but only ’cos you cheated. You never normally win.’
‘I didn’t cheat! How could I cheat? You’re just mad ’cos I totally smashed your score.’
‘Boys, please,’ Gill snapped, poking her head around the door to where her nine-year-old twins, Freddy and Finlay, were furiously bashing at their PS3 controllers.
‘Sorry, Mum,’ both of them replied in unison, neither looking up from the screen where round two of Street Battle had just started.
Four-year-old Sammy was sitting on a beanbag watching them, half-heartedly playing with a plastic dinosaur. When he saw Gill, he jumped up and ran over to her, twining himself around her legs like a cat. She reached down to stroke his soft, sandy-coloured hair, and he stared up at her with hopeful eyes.
‘I’m hungry. Can I have some peanut butter?’
Gill smiled. ‘Okay. Let’s go make some snacks.’
He wandered happily out of the room, Gill following behind him. Then he sat down at the top of the stairs, slowly bumping his way down every step.
‘Sammy,’ Gill said warningly, as she eyed the threadbare carpet in the centre of the stairs. ‘Do it properly, please. On your feet.’
Sam swivelled round, flashing her an adorable smile, before continuing to bump-bump-bump all the way down to the bottom where he waited for Gill, taking her hand and leading her through to the kitchen.
‘So, peanut butter,’ Gill said brightly, as she pulled the almost-empty jar out of the cupboard and opened the breadbin. ‘Do you want banana on it too?’
Sam thought for a moment, his dark eyes serious, before he nodded decisively, hitching up his trousers, which were starting to slide down.
Gill quickly made the sandwich, cutting it into four then pouring Sam a glass of blackcurrant squash. She carried it all through to the living room where he climbed up onto the sofa beside her, balancing the plate on his knee.
‘What’s that?’ he asked through a mouthful of bread, spotting Gill’s magazine.
‘It’s full of pretty dresses. Wedding dresses. Do you want to help me choose one?’
Sam reached for it, leaving smeary banana fingerprints on the glossy pages.
‘Pretty,’ he commented. ‘Like Princess Elsa.’
Gill laughed. ‘Yes, like Elsa from Frozen. Although I’m not sure I’m going to look quite like that,’ she said ruefully, looking down at her distinctly un-Disney-princess-like figure.
Sam took another bite of his sandwich and chewed it thoughtfully.
‘Are you my mummy now?’ he asked.
Gill took a breath, the question catching her off guard. ‘No,’ she began carefully. ‘Not exactly. You’ve already got a mummy, remember?’
Sam frowned, so Gill stood up and walked over to the dresser, rifling through the top drawer and pulling out a photo. It was a holiday snap, taken in what looked like a bar or restaurant in some hot Mediterranean country, and it showed an attractive young woman with curly blonde hair and a deep tan wearing a vivid pink bandeau top. She was smiling at the camera, and in her arms she held a mousy-haired child, less than a year old. He was wedged on her hip, looking away from the camera at something that had caught his attention.
‘That’s your mummy. Do you remember?’ Gill asked softly, brushing the crumbs from Sam’s cheek.
He stared at the photo in silence.
‘And who’s that, do you know?’ Gill prompted, pointing at the young boy in the picture.
‘A baby,’ Sam replied confidently, as Gill smiled.
‘It is a baby, but it’s you. It’s you when you were a baby, with your mummy.’
Sam stared up at Gill, wide-eyed with disbelief. Then suddenly he seemed to lose all interest in the photo. Cramming the last of the sandwich into his mouth, he climbed down from the sofa and announced, ‘I’m going to play with Freddy and Finlay.’
Moments later, Gill heard the pounding of his feet as he ran up the stairs, followed by the blare of computer games as he pushed open the door to the twins’ room.
Gill was deep in thought as she replaced the photo in the drawer, taking one last look at the woman – whose name was Tina – before firmly closing it. She found herself wondering what it would be like to have your own child forget about you. How you could go off and leave your babies without a backward glance, then get on with living your life as though nothing had happened. To Gill, the idea was inconceivable.
She carried Sam’s plate through to the kitchen, brushing off the crumbs and quickly rinsing it, before heading back to the living room where her tea was rapidly cooling. Sitting down, she picked up her magazine, and had barely raised the mug of tea to her lips when Kelly wandered in.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Gill asked cheerfully, noting her pouting lips and sullen expression.
Kelly shrugged, managing to convey frustration and anger and apathy all in one movement. Gill was reminded once again of how terrifyingly teenage her daughter had already become.
‘Come and tell me all about it,’ Gill offered, putting down her tea and patting the space beside her that Sam had just vacated.
Kelly flopped down on the tired brown sofa, letting out an enormous sigh. Gill waited patiently for her to speak.
‘It’s not fair!’ Kelly burst out finally. ‘Why do I have to share a bedroom with Paige? She’s so annoying, and she always steals my stuff. I thought I’d lost my Jack Wills hoody,
then I found it stashed in her wardrobe. She reckoned it had got there “accidentally”.’ Kelly put air quotes around the word.
‘I know it’s hard sometimes, but there’s no other option.’
‘Why can’t we get a bigger house? I bet it wouldn’t cost that much more.’
‘It’d cost more than we could afford.’
‘But I’m the eldest,’ Kelly pressed on, with flawless logic. ‘I should have my own room, not Sam. Why does he need to be on his own? He’s only a little kid.’
‘We’ve been through this. Obviously the twins can share a room, and it makes sense for you and Paige to share.’
‘Why can’t Paige share with Sam?’ Kelly was kicking the sofa with her heels in a slow rhythm. ‘They’re brother and sister after all.’
‘Yes, but Paige is twelve and Sam is only four. It wouldn’t be… appropriate. If you two could learn to get along, I’m sure you’d love it.’
Kelly frowned, looking at Gill as though she’d just suggested going on a hot date with Nigel Farage. ‘That’s not happening, Mum.’
This time it was Gill’s turn to shrug with frustration. She reached for her tea again, and Kelly caught sight of the magazine curving over the sofa arm.
‘What’s that?’ she asked, giving an exaggerated yawn as she saw the title. ‘Oh, wedding stuff. You’re still planning on doing that then?’
Gill couldn’t hide her amusement. ‘Yes, we are still planning on doing that. Do you want to help me out? Maybe give me your opinion on some dresses?’
‘No, not really.’ Reluctantly, Kelly took the magazine her mother was proffering, listlessly flicking through. ‘That one’s okay I suppose,’ she offered, pointing out a very simple dress, with a lightly jewelled bodice and plain skirt. ‘But seriously, Mum, you’re going to look ridiculous.’
Gill’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.
‘I mean, you’re not some skinny twenty-five-year-old model, like in the photos,’ Kelly went on. ‘You’ve already been married once anyway. What’s the point in doing it again? There’s no guarantee you’ve made the right decision this time around either.’