Promise Me: A heartbreaking and unputdownable page-turner

by Jade Beer

  ‘Yep, no problem.’ Nat isn’t really taking this in. She’s staring out of the window at everyone enjoying an innocent and uncomplicated day of shopping, wondering how she is going to get Maria out of her white dress without having to resort to Grace’s outfit-ruining plan. Oh God. She needs to start being a little more choosey about the clients she takes on. Is any sum of money worth what she is about to do? Think.

  OK, the options are limited. She could front her up, tell her how much offence her outfit is causing and offer to provide something else for her to wear. They are on the King’s Road, after all, so no shortage of upmarket fashion boutiques. But the woman could – and probably will – say no, and Nat doesn’t really fancy haemorrhaging the cost from her own pocket anyway. Option two: is there anyone else in the bridal party who could realistically talk some sense into Grace and get her to change her mind? No, because that would involve confessing what she has demanded in the first place and, despite the craziness of the situation, Nat has a code, not to mention a contract, with Grace that she must honour. Which just leaves option three: do what she’s being asked to do. It’s hideous, but it’s the only option or she can kiss goodbye to her fee and all the weeks of pandering to this lunatic will have been for nothing.

  All the guests are gathering on the ground-floor terrace for the champagne reception so Nat starts to circle the crowd, looking for Maria. She spots her on the far side, surrounded by a group of young men, all apparently auditioning to be her date for the afternoon. As Nat approaches, she can hear the men talking about Grace.

  ‘I can’t believe he’s gone through with it, to be honest. Really thought old Fletch would have seen sense and called it off long ago.’

  ‘Come on, Piers, she can’t be that bad.’ Maria is actually going to defend Grace, it seems.

  ‘Well, you tell me, you’re her yoga teacher. Does she seem very Zen to you?’

  ‘Maybe she’s just got a bit bent out of shape in the run-up to the wedding. It happens to a lot of women, you know.’

  ‘Oh, it goes way beyond that. The poor bastard! We’ve all tried to talk him out of it over the years. I thought pulling that stunt at their engagement party would have been the nail in her coffin, but he even forgave that.’ The men are doing nothing to keep the volume down, obviously not worried who hears. Perhaps everyone has the same low opinion of Grace, thinks Nat. It wouldn’t be entirely surprising.

  ‘What stunt? What did she do that was so bad?’ Maria’s smirk says she is not expecting this to be anything more horrendous than a bit of mild intoxication. A few ungracious comments about her future mother-in-law, perhaps?

  Nat slides in closer, just behind the group: she needs to hear this too.

  ‘She chose the best-looking woman in the room, a real beauty she was – Grace had been scowling at her most of the evening, if I remember rightly. Then, she offered to pay this woman £2,000 to try it on with Fletcher, more if she succeeded. You know, to really test his resolve and to flatter her own fragile ego that he wanted Grace more than any other woman, I suppose. But it backfired royally because what darling Gracie didn’t realise was that she was propositioning one of the new partners at his law firm. First thing Monday morning, Tanya called Fletcher into her big glass office and downloaded the entire sorry story to him. It still amazes me that Grace managed to bawl her way out of that one.’

  There is silence for a second or two while everyone takes that little anecdote in and Nat raises her eyes to the heavens, thinking again what a bum decision it was to take this bride on. Then Maria takes a deep yogic breath, presumably letting any unkind thoughts flush out of her pure body and refuses to be drawn into the bitching.

  ‘Come on, guys, doesn’t that just show how incredibly insecure she is? Anyway, they’re married now, that’s bound to put an end to all that nonsense.’

  Nat’s here to prove how wrong Maria is.

  People are starting to be called through for lunch, so Nat tags on to the group so she can see exactly where Maria gets seated. There are two long banqueting tables in the Gallery room and both are groaning under the weight of crystal candlesticks and a metre-wide arrangement of fragrant mixed white flowers running the entire length of each table. Every place setting is marked with an exquisite gold charger plate onto which have been etched the couple’s initials. On top sits a glass dinner plate and a thick white linen napkin tied with a textured white ribbon, a single garden rose head placed at its centre. Tucked into each napkin is a personalised menu for each guest, walking them through the five courses they are about to have lavished on them. The heavy white tablecloth is covered in gold votives and each of the gold dining chairs has a white velvet cushion. Then, suspended above each table is a canopy of dense white wisteria, hung with tiny lanterns that are flickering like mini flash bulbs.

  It is absolute perfection, thinks Nat as she enters the room. Beautiful Bruce has excelled himself.

  Maria is seated on the table nearest the balcony, the opposite one to Grace. Nat is watching everyone milling around, finding their places. She glances around the room, keeping one eye on Maria and another searching for the bride, who enters the room on Fletcher’s arm. Maybe, Nat prays, Grace has cheered up or had a few glasses of the fizzy stuff and will no longer care about what anyone else is wearing, but as a mild, unenthusiastic ripple of applause starts, she’s mouthing the words do it across the room at Nat.

  Nat feels sick as she stops a passing waiter and orders the glass of red. All this white, it’s going to make such a mess. She pictures the moment when the blood-coloured liquid pours down Maria’s back, causing her to screech and every pair of eyes in the place to fall accusingly on Nat. She drains the last of the fizz in her glass and hands the empty flute back to the waiter in exchange for the wine. Then she starts her journey around the table to where Maria is already seated. As she approaches, she can see Maria is taking care of all the introductions around her, making sure everyone is comfortable and chatting, that everyone’s glass has something in it before she lifts her own.

  Nat is behind her now and can feel her hand start to tremor as she lifts it, ready to tip the entire contents onto this lovely, unsuspecting woman – the only person she has met so far today who has had anything pleasant to say about Grace. She steals a last look at Grace who is nodding slowly, chillingly from the other side of the room. As the glass is tilting, Nat feels the tears coming and closes her eyes briefly, absolutely hating herself for what she is about to do. Just as the liquid is about to plunge over the lip of the glass, she feels a hand, tight on her other wrist and quickly rights it.

  ‘Don’t.’ His voice is strong and authoritative. He’s not asking, he’s telling.

  ‘Sorry?’ Nat’s voice wavers as she loses control of her bottom lip.

  ‘Don’t do it.’ Fletcher is moving her now, out onto the balcony and out of earshot of any other guests. ‘I know exactly what you were about to do.’ He looks sad rather than angry and a denial from Nat right now seems a little insulting.

  ‘Really?’ She gulps in the fresh air, trying to bring her heart rate back down to something approaching normal.

  ‘She asked you to do it, didn’t she? Grace. She asked you to ruin that poor woman’s dress? Come on, I’ve seen the way she’s looked at her all day, we all have. Christ, I thought she was beyond all that! Who are you, anyway?’

  ‘I’m Nat, the bridesmaid.’ She hangs her head, wondering how on earth she’s going to talk her way out of this one. He’s totally onto her – and Grace.

  ‘Nat the bridesmaid. Right. One of Grace’s friends from yoga, aren’t you? Tell me, how d’you like the scorpion? Or are you more of a peacock sort of girl?’

  ‘Um, sorry, what?’ Bloody hell, this is a disaster, Nat’s never going to see that fee now.

  ‘You’re not Grace’s friend. You don’t do yoga. Is your name even Nat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, here’s the deal, Nat. Whatever she’s agreed to pay you for this total charade, I will
cover it, on the strict understanding that you don’t attempt any more stunts like the one I just prevented.’

  This is a first. She’s never been rumbled before. But then she’s never had a bride push the boundaries of human decency quite like Grace before. Perhaps this outcome was inevitable.

  ‘Agreed.’ She’s failed to meet Grace’s expectations, this is the only way she’s going to get paid and she knows it.

  ‘Just get through the meal to avoid any more awkwardness, then you can go. Here’s my card.’ He reaches into his breast pocket and hands her his business card. ‘Email me your details tomorrow and I will sort the payment. Now, let’s both get back in there and pretend none of this happened. Can you manage that?’

  ‘Yep.’

  He turns to walk back into the dining room.

  ‘Fletcher?’ She catches him just before he makes it back to the glass doors. ‘I’m really sorry, this whole thing just spun out of control a bit today. I really hope I haven’t ruined your wedding day?’

  ‘No,’ he says, his expression sad but accepting. ‘You haven’t. I think you’ll find Grace is the captain of her own Titanic. I don’t know why she does it.’ His head drops, defeated and tired. ‘You’ll have to excuse her, Nat. She convinced herself a long time ago we would never last, that one day I’d get fed up and leave her. Even my proposal failed to quash her doubts. I just don’t want to be that predictable. Deep down, she’s good, I know she is. I just hope people will get to see that one day, if she ever finds it in herself to trust me properly.’ Then he’s gone, caught up in the backslapping and congratulations from around the table.

  Nat takes her seat opposite Grace, who can see her requirements will not be met. She saw Fletcher’s intervention, the two of them come back in from the balcony and, well, there’s Maria still wearing white. Nat watches as Fletcher takes his seat next to his new wife, who reaches out her hand to take his, testing how hostile the waters might be. He squeezes it. ‘It’s our wedding day, Grace,’ Nat hears him say. ‘Please try to enjoy it.’

  So, the bride barely touches a mouthful of the £200-a-head meal her parents have paid for, but she does, over the course of the next three hours, polish off seven glasses of expensive French wine. Nat watches her sink each one as the mascara starts to smudge down under her lashes and her lipstick feathers out across her mouth. It’s as if the window dressing is coming down and the room is finally seeing the real Grace. Thank the Lord the speeches are planned for later, Nat couldn’t bear to sit through that right now. Watching Fletcher cope is one sight she’s happy to be spared. Every nice thing he planned to say about his new wife melting the crowd but not making a dent on her hardened heart. Nat hopes Grace realises what a lovely, forgiving man she’s married before her fears about him leaving her become a painful reality.

  At six o’clock Nat rises from the table to make her getaway. She gets as far as the cloakroom before Grace catches up with her. She’s a drunken, sobbing mess and at this moment Nat feels nothing but mild loathing for her.

  ‘Nat, wait, I need your help.’ She’s staggering around like some awful hen-do pretender in a big white dress.

  ‘I’m going home, Grace. I think I’ve done enough.’

  ‘It’s just, I think I’ve made a terrible mistake. I think I’m in love with Bruce. He just understands me so well, totally gets me. I think he feels the same way too, don’t you?’

  ‘Your parents have paid him a lot of money to totally understand you, Grace. The man who really loves you, the one trying to understand the madness of you, is upstairs. And I can’t help feeling you’re pretty lucky to have him.’

  Then she’s out into the welcome fresh air, leaving Grace to cry all over someone else.

  7

  Betsy

  If you ignore countless calls and texts from your mother and make no attempt to answer the gazillion wedding-related questions she’s been firing at you for weeks, then you can expect to pay the price. Just like Betsy is now.

  She woke at eight o’clock, after a night of imagined encounters with Dylan, none of them appropriate, to a text from her mum.

  * * *

  I’m in the Cotswold boutique today and there’s a last-minute cancellation. You could be here in just over an hour. Come, please. There is so much to do.

  * * *

  She’s been summoned. And as much as she’s not in the mood to talk tulle, neither can she remain in denial. The wedding date is closing in on her. Plus, a day tiptoeing around their tiny two-bedroomed house, ducking the mood swings and snarky comments from Jacob is even less appealing. The thought propels her out of bed, through the shower and into the kitchen for breakfast before he has even stirred.

  She’s pulling together the meagre amount of wedding research she’s done – some hurriedly torn pages from bridal magazines and a few designer lookbooks, all of which she only has because her mum posted them to her – when Jacob eventually mopes into the kitchen.

  ‘Good night, was it?’ He’s unshaven and starting to look flabby, thinks Betsy. All those sedentary hours staring into a computer screen are catching up with him. There’s definitely a bit of belly overhang at the top of those pyjamas and the corners of his eyes are crusted up with the remains of sleep. Fairy dust, her mum used to call it. But on Jacob this morning it looks, she’s slightly shocked to think it, repulsive. As he brushes past her to reach for the kettle she can smell his breath too, sour and stale and the faintest tang of body odour coming from a t-shirt she knows for a fact hasn’t been washed in at least a week.

  ‘Not really, no. I’m sorry I was late, I just missed the train by a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Yeah, I had a feeling you might. Forget it. You going out? Someone needs to go to the supermarket if you are. We’re out of bin bags again.’

  Betsy’s eyes flick to the tower of rubbish stacked next to the overflowing kitchen bin. Endless crisp packets have been stuffed inside empty cereal boxes. There is an upturned carton of milk, its dregs already pooled into a dry white circle that will really whiff by lunchtime. It’s surrounded by teabags that have been thrown but missed their target.

  ‘I’m going to see Mum for the day. Try on some dresses, catch up with the venue while I’m there. Anything you want me to ask about?’ She sounds considerably more enthusiastic than she feels. One of them has to make an effort.

  ‘Nah, not really. I’m going back to bed.’ And with that he swipes his mug of tea and retreats back to the darkened bedroom where she knows he’ll stay, watching crap weekend TV, until he can procrastinate no longer.

  * * *

  As Betsy’s VW Golf finally turns off the Fosse Way into Little Bloombury, she lowers the driver’s window, letting the proper countryside fresh air blast away the negativity she’s been holding inside her all the way here. The village looks so pretty at this time of year. The small stream that runs through it is perfectly calm, disturbed only by a couple of ducks making their way towards the old mill. The smell is one of the changing seasons, a mix of wood fires, horses and wet Barbour jackets. Willow Manor sits grandly against a cloudless blue sky, like it’s presiding over the village and everyone in it, its striped lawn untouched this morning by a footprint or dog paw. It’s just opposite the Manor that her mum’s first bridal boutique is positioned, the one Betsy proudly remembers Helen opening after losing her husband and Betsy’s father, Phillip.

  The thought of him makes Betsy pause for a moment. She sits on a bench overlooking the stream, lets her head fall backwards into the bright autumn sun and thinks about the good man he was, how he looked after them all and how unimpressed he’d be with Jacob’s work ethic. Now she’s thinking about it, maybe her dad’s absence explains at least some of her reticence about this wedding – no adored father-of-the-bride to hold her hand. It somehow seems a little hollow without him. She’s reminded of how utterly broken her mother was when she lost him to lung cancer. But she had refused to stay that way, finally selling the family home in Bristol and buying the business here,
where they had both shared so many happy weekends together. Before too long, it was so successful and she had built such a good reputation that the London store was planned and opened. Just at the point when most women her mother’s age are calming down, clearing their diaries and making a little time for themselves, hers was firing up to London on the train, meeting architects, charming the bank manager and driving her business forward. She knew that a part of her mother, the shadow of that cautious woman she once was, would be scared, but she was doing it anyway and Betsy has such huge respect for everything she’s achieved. How she has transformed herself from devoted housewife and mother to savvy, ambitious businesswoman – one who charges back and forth between London and the Cotswolds to keep both boutiques running with minimum help. But it’s here, to the countryside, Betsy loves to come; where the pace slows and there’s room to breathe, to think and to plan.

  She knows her mother will have a client with her, so Betsy enters around the back, climbing the small uneven flight of stairs up to Helen’s apartment above the boutique. She pings her mum a quick text to let her know she’s arrived, then makes herself at home. As usual, the place is immaculate. The mantelpiece is lined with thank you cards from happy couples, and Betsy starts to read through a few of them. There is one from a Jessie and Adam Coleridge with a beautiful photograph clipped inside of the couple in the grounds of an impressive stately home, with what looks like both sets of parents stood behind them. All six are beaming out of the picture, probably because in Jessie’s lap, bundled up so tightly so you can barely see it, is a newborn baby. They couldn’t possibly look any happier.

  There are also framed pictures of Betsy and her brother, Jack, all over Helen’s orderly bookshelves and another gloriously happy one of Helen and Phillip on their wedding day. Betsy is about to pick it up for another closer look, but is distracted by a colossal bunch of flowers positioned on the small fold-out antique dining table. They are far too grand to be something her mum would buy for herself, and Betsy can see a card nestled in amongst the yellow rose leaves. She dips her head to smell them and pauses. Should she read it? It feels like an invasion but then her mum would have hidden the card if she didn’t want anyone to see it, surely? She pushes the stalks apart so she can make out the words: