by Sophie Hart
Aimee stepped out of the car and clicked the button for the central locking, then smoothed down her clothes where they’d creased during the journey. She was wearing a cream turtle-neck jumper, with a short black skirt, black tights and high-heeled boots, her moss-green woollen coat thrown over the top. The outfit was perhaps smarter than she might ordinarily have chosen, but Jon loved it when she looked feminine and well-groomed, so she’d made the effort for him.
The building she’d just pulled up to was the headquarters of Cunningham Haulage, a small, single-storey structure situated on a twenty-acre site north-east of Norfolk. Scores of the company lorries, in their familiar orange and blue, were parked up outside, and beyond them Aimee could see the vast warehouses used for storing goods before they were delivered to their destinations. It wasn’t the most glamorous of businesses but, according to Jon, it was extremely profitable.
As Aimee walked towards the building’s entrance, she could hear two men talking, although she couldn’t see where they were.
‘Well I think he’s an arsehole,’ one of them said. ‘Rumour is he’s going to stop buying milk for teas and coffees, says we have to bring in our own. Some cost-cutting malarkey. Next he’ll be charging us to use the lav.’
‘You’re joking! His old man would never have stood for that.’
‘No, he was a good ’un, God rest his soul.’
The two men strolled out from behind the industrial-sized wheelie bins, dropping their cigarettes on the ground and stubbing them out before noticing Aimee. She recognised one of them immediately: Rob Mitchell, who’d been in her class at secondary school. The difference between their situations now couldn’t have been more stark.
‘All right Aimee?’ he called.
‘Good thanks, Rob. You?’
He shrugged. ‘Same shit, different day.’
Aimee smiled at the two men, and carried on walking.
‘Who’s that?’ the older man asked, once she was safely out of earshot.
‘Don’t you know? That’s Cunningham’s missus.’
‘Shit! Do you think she heard us?’
‘Dunno. Guess we’ll find out tomorrow if we’ve still got jobs!’
The older man laughed. ‘Still, bit of all right, isn’t she? He’s done well for himself.’
‘She’s done well for herself, more like. Grew up on the Larkman estate, now she’s acting like Lady Muck, driving round in a bloody Mercedes!’
Aimee was long gone by now, and hadn’t heard the exchange, as she pushed open the glass door and walked into the reception. It was sparse and functional, with a couple of chairs and a basic reception desk, livened up with a potted aspidistra.
Irene, the homely receptionist, was on the phone, but smiled when Aimee walked in and pointed down the corridor, indicating that Aimee should go ahead.
Aimee flashed her a smile in return – she liked the friendly, no-nonsense Irene, who’d been with the company almost since it was founded – and strolled towards Jon’s office, her heels clicking on the lino floor. Knocking lightly on the door, she pushed it open and walked in.
‘Darling!’ Jon jumped up from his desk and rushed round to greet her. ‘What are you doing here? Is something wrong?’
‘No, nothing’s wrong,’ Aimee reassured him, reaching up to kiss him. His skin was smooth, and he smelt of expensive cologne. She couldn’t help but notice how handsome he looked in his crisp white shirt and suit trousers, one button of his collar casually undone, indicating that he was winding down for the day. ‘I just got a little… bored, I suppose,’ she admitted. ‘So I thought I’d get dressed up, take a drive out and come and see you.’
Jon took her face in his hands, stroking the delicate skin of her cheeks. His blue eyes pierced hers. ‘What have I told you before about that? You should give Mother a call, she’d find something to keep you occupied. She’s always running here and there, with her committees and her charity work.’
Aimee smiled weakly. ‘Oh, she always seems so busy. I don’t like to bother her.’
‘Of course you’re not bothering her, darling. You’re family now.’ Jon planted another little kiss on the tip of her nose. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted you’ve come to see me. You look gorgeous today. Totally edible.’ He licked his lips wolfishly, his hands finding their way beneath her coat and running over the contours of her body. ‘Delicious.’
‘Oh, and I also came over to tell you that Julia Crawford called this morning,’ Aimee remembered, giggling as she pulled away from him.
‘Who?’
‘Julia. You know, the wedding planner we met last weekend. She’s going to take the job, isn’t that great? I really liked her.’
Jon nodded, as he went to sit back down in the swivel chair behind his desk. Aimee took the chair on the other side, feeling strangely like she was in an interview.
‘Mother wasn’t really sure about her, although she’d heard very good things. But if you want her, my little cupcake, then you shall have her.’
‘Thanks, Jon. I think she’ll be perfect. We were brainstorming ideas for the wedding, and she came up with some really good ones. Did you know you can get married in one of the old windmills on the Broads? The ceremony would be tiny, but then you can put a marquee up in the grounds and have as many people as you want at the reception. Or there’s a rowing club right on the water at Wroxham. It’s such a pretty location.’
Jo wrinkled his nose. ‘I’m not sure. What’s the capacity?’
‘It can hold up to eighty max, which I think would be fine. We did originally say that we wanted a small wedding, and it seems to be growing out of all proportion. I don’t even know half the people coming.’ Aimee laughed lightly, but she was telling the truth.
‘Sweetheart, I know we initially said something small, but this wedding is so important to Mother,’ Jon said, patting his knee and indicating that Aimee should come round to his side of the desk. She did as she’d been told, sitting lightly in his lap and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. ‘I’m her only son – her only child. And it’s especially important now that my father’s not here any more.’
Automatically, both of them looked up at the photograph of Nigel Cunningham that was mounted above the door. It was a head-and-shoulders shot, taken in the same office in which they were now sitting, with Nigel looking smart in a tailored suit, every inch the successful businessman. He was less handsome than Jon, with a jowly face and a thatch of grey hair, but he smiled proudly at the camera, satisfied with what he’d achieved in life.
Clustered on Jon’s desk were three smaller frames: one of Nigel standing outside his first business premises, beaming beside a brand new fleet of Cunningham Haulage HGVs. The second was a photo of Jon’s parents on their wedding day, with Valerie looking younger and happier than Aimee could ever have imagined her being, in a simple tea-length dress and modest veil. Finally, there was a picture of Aimee herself; she was grinning broadly, a vision of happiness, in a shot that had been taken on a wild night out when she and Jon had first got together.
‘But it’s our wedding,’ Aimee murmured, twining her hands through his hair.
‘Yes, but Mother is paying for it.’
‘Not all of it,’ Aimee bristled. ‘My parents are paying for my dress, and some other things too.’
Jon raised his eyebrows dismissively.
‘And they’d be able to do more if the wedding was smaller,’ Aimee continued, warming to her theme. Her mother worked part-time in the local Spar, whilst her father was a bricklayer and his income depended on what work was available. ‘They can’t afford two hundred chair covers, or pearl-encrusted, handmade invitations, or whatever else your mother’s decided is absolutely essential.’
‘I just want our wedding day to be the most special day of your life,’ Jonathan murmured, as he began to nuzzle her neck. ‘You deserve it. Haven’t I always given you the best of everything?’
Aimee couldn’t argue with him on that point. It was true. Jon had alwa
ys spoiled her.
She thought back to when they’d first met, just over two years ago; she’d been twenty-one years old and drifting through life without any real idea of what she wanted to do. She’d fallen into an admin job for a company that rented out printers and photocopiers – a temp role that had become permanent somewhere along the line – and she was working in a bar a couple of nights a week for extra cash. She was still living at home, blowing all her wages on partying at the weekend and saving up for Ibiza in the summer.
Jon had come into the bar where she worked, and seemed instantly smitten. Aimee wasn’t in the habit of giving out her phone number to customers, but he’d been so persistent, so charming, that she’d finally given in. It was no exaggeration to say that he’d pursued her, and the attention had been both overwhelming and flattering.
Aimee had never dated anyone like Jon before. Her previous boyfriends had all been content with a few cans of beer in front of Netflix, or a night out at Nando’s if it was a special occasion, but Jon was different. He took her to some of the best restaurants in the city, to the theatre, to Paris on Valentine’s Day. And he bought her presents: flowers, jewellery, a book she’d mentioned she’d wanted to read, or tickets to a film she wanted to see, and Aimee had fallen head over heels.
Her friends were stunned, commenting that she’d really landed on her feet by dating a handsome, loaded guy like Jon. But for Aimee, it genuinely wasn’t about the money. She’d never been a materialistic kind of girl, one who needed the latest handbag or a wardrobe full of designer outfits. She loved spending time with Jon and learning what he had to teach her. Six years older than her, and from a considerably different background, Jon had far more life experience than the sheltered Aimee, and she was in awe of his worldliness and confidence.
Before long, she’d given up her bar job to spend her evenings with him, and when Aimee came home from work one day, complaining of feeling unappreciated and undervalued, Jon suggested she resign. They were already living together in his flat near Eaton Park, so he would cover the mortgage and the bills, plus give her a small allowance to treat herself. The temptation to walk into work and tell her boss where to shove it was at that moment stronger than Aimee’s desire for independence and, after a brief hesitation, Aimee had accepted Jon’s offer.
Then just over six months ago, Nigel Cunningham had died of a heart attack, leaving Jon to take over the family business. Jon had been working there since he was eighteen, and had been his father’s second-in-command, but heading up the firm was a whole different ballgame. He’d experienced moments of doubt, moments of insecurity, all wrapped up in a heady package of grief, and Aimee had been there for him every step of the way.
Nigel’s death had left Jon thinking about his own mortality, and his instinct was to marry Aimee and start a family as soon as possible. He wanted to create a legacy, his own little piece of immortality. Nigel Cunningham had left big shoes to fill, and Jon was very aware of that.
‘Let’s not fight,’ Jon whispered, as his hand began stroking Aimee’s knee, his fingers drifting up beneath her skirt and sliding between her thighs. ‘I tell you what, I’ve got some spare time before the accountant comes at four…’
Aimee giggled and glanced up at the clock. It was 3.30pm.
‘So how about I lock the door, tell Irene to hold my calls…’
Aimee caught her breath as his fingers moved higher, and she leaned in to kiss him urgently. ‘I think that sounds like an excellent idea…’
7
‘Marriage is a wonderful invention; but then again, so is a bicycle repair kit’ – Billy Connolly
‘The wheels on the bus go round and round, all day long…’
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, as she clapped her hands and mimed the actions, Debbie looked round at the smiling group of toddlers in front of her. There were thirty of them altogether, boys and girls all aged between two and five years old, some cuddling furry toys, others kneeling up excitedly as they sang along with the familiar words. It was a pleasure to see.
‘The wipers on the bus go swish, swish, swish…’
The room they were in was brightly decorated, filled with toys and games and bookshelves crammed with copies of The Gruffalo and The Very Hungry Caterpillar. One wall showed a display of enormous paper leaves, messily painted by the children in shades of orange, brown, red, and, in one case, a distinctly un-autumnal pink. Paper pumpkins, decorated with faces drawn in black felt tip, hung from the ceiling, while sandpits and trikes had been pushed to the edge of the room to create the communal singing space in the centre.
‘The mummies on the bus go chatter, chatter, chatter, all day long.’
When the song came to an end, everyone burst into applause.
‘Okay, lunch time,’ Debbie’s colleague, Angela, called out, causing another excited outburst and a near-stampede as the little ones scrambled to their feet and made their way through to the dining hall, shepherded by the staff.
Two Trees Nursery was housed in a sprawling Victorian property, with the front parlours being used as the main playroom and dining room, whilst the back boasted a large kitchen and staff rest room. Upstairs was a separate baby room for the younger children, and there was a big stretch of garden out the back, where the kids could play out when the weather was fine.
‘Can I have a yoghurt?’ asked three-year-old Mia, who stared up at Debbie with big blue eyes as she toddled along beside her.
‘As long as you eat your lunch,’ Debbie smiled. ‘And as long as you say please.’
‘Pleeeeease,’ Mia sang, as she skipped off to find a seat.
There were four circular wooden tables, with kid-sized blue plastic chairs arranged around them, and Debbie and the other staff quickly got the children settled, eating their sandwiches and fruit. As Debbie finished pouring out glasses of squash, Angela sidled up to her, a mischievous grin on her face. She was tall and athletic looking, with mid-length copper-coloured hair and a cute freckled face. The two of them had worked together for three years now, and were best friends.
‘I’m going to do a McDonald’s run when the kids go down for their nap. What do you fancy? Large Big Mac meal with a strawberry milkshake?’ Angela wiggled her eyebrows enticingly.
Debbie’s eyes lit up in anticipation. She was on the verge of saying, ‘Hell, yeah!’ when suddenly she caught herself.
‘Not for me, thanks,’ she replied, with a supreme effort of will. ‘I’ve actually brought something in today.’
‘You made a packed lunch? Are you trying to save money for the wedding or something? I can get it if you want, my treat.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ Debbie insisted, thinking of the homemade chicken salad sitting in a Tupperware box in the fridge, and desperately trying to convince herself that she wanted it more than a cheeseburger. ‘I’m on a bit of a health kick, actually. Sort of a diet thing – you know, for the wedding.’
‘Oh, you’ve got loads of time ’til then. You’re not getting married ’til the middle of next year.’
‘I know, but I’m really trying this time. Luke, eat your crisps properly,’ Debbie called to a little boy who was grinding his cheese puffs into a fine dust on his plate. ‘I even went to Zumba class the other night.’
‘Did you? You never told me. I’d have come with you.’
Debbie shrugged, looking a little guilty. ‘I wanted to go by myself, see if I liked it.’
‘And did you?’
‘Yeah, more than I expected to. It was good fun. I’m planning to go again on Thursday, so you can come with me then if you want.’
Angela looked at her admiringly. ‘You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?’
Debbie nodded eagerly. ‘I think I’ve had an epiphany. Honestly, Ange, I’m tired of being this size. I'm tired of getting insulted by strangers, and never being able to buy clothes from Topshop because they don’t make them to fit women like me. I’m sick of hiding my body from Stevie because I’m so ashamed of it, and of on
ly having S-E-X with the lights off.’ She lowered her voice, aware of the children nearby. ‘Being married will be a new chapter in my life, and I don’t want to start that chapter like this,’ she finished, gesturing in frustration at her stomach and thighs.
‘I’m not sure I want a Big Mac now,’ Angela joked. ‘After your inspiring speech, I feel like I should be going out and running a marathon instead.’
‘Don’t be daft. Just because I’m eating rabbit food doesn’t mean you have to. Maybe I’ll even steal some fries.’
Angela shook her head. ‘No, I won’t let you! You sound so committed, I don’t want you to break it for the sake of a few chips. Ah, now I get why you didn’t have a KitKat at break time.’
Debbie nodded, feeling caught out. ‘Do you think I’m being stupid?’
‘No, I think you’re amazing. I wish I had your willpower.’
‘Well, we’ll see how long I stick to it. I’ll probably crack in a couple of days, just like every other time I’ve tried to lose weight, and by next week I’ll be stuffing my face with chocolate, eating all the burgers you can throw at me.’
‘You know what you need to do?’ Angela said thoughtfully, as she bent down to help Luke peel his banana. ‘You need an incentive scheme – it worked for my friend Clare. Every time you lose, say, half a stone, you treat yourself to something nice. Maybe getting your nails done, or buying a new outfit.’
‘Not looking like a heifer on my wedding day is a pretty big incentive in itself.’
Angela rolled her eyes. ‘You do not look like a heifer. But if you are determined to do this, then it’s something to think about. You could buy yourself some new lingerie, give Stevie a treat too.’
‘Maybe it would be nice to remind him what I look like with the lights on,’ Debbie agreed, remembering back to the evening that had kick-started this latest diet, when she’d hidden her body from her fiancé and been horrified when he’d tried to snap a photo of her. Suddenly, her eyes widened, sparkling naughtily. ‘Ooh, I just had a brilliant idea!’