by Jade Beer
* * *
I’ll wait as long as it takes for your answer, Helen. With all my love, Nick.
* * *
Who the hell is Nick? Her mum has never mentioned him before. Betsy’s assuming it’s a him. Maybe it’s not? Women don’t send each other flowers like this though, do they? Feeling that she probably shouldn’t have read the card after all, Betsy moves back across the room to the window overlooking the grounds of the Manor and then hears her mother’s footsteps approaching up the stairs.
‘Betsy! You’re here!’ Helen bounds into the room, throwing her arms around her daughter and squeezing all the air out of her. ‘I’m so glad you came. My lady is just getting dressed. Give us ten minutes, then pop down, OK?’ Betsy watches her mother’s eyes dart to the flowers and then back to Betsy. Helen moves forward, pretending to rearrange the stems, humming casually to herself, then she swipes the card and pushes it into the pocket of her wool trousers.
‘Great! I’ll be down in a bit.’
Now Betsy knows she shouldn’t have read the card.
* * *
‘OK, we’ve got an hour and a half until my next lady. Let’s make some real progress, shall we, catch up on everything we’re behind on?’ Her mum clearly means business, Betsy can see that, but this is starting to feel a little like a job interview that you stupidly haven’t bothered to prep for.
‘So, thoughts on the dress… There’s not enough time left to have something made bespoke, Betsy, I hope you know that? But if I call in some major favours we can still take an existing dress from a current collection and have it made to measure for you, possibly with some mild design tweaks, if you want them. What kind of gown are you imagining?’
The two women are sitting next to each other on Helen’s new cream leather chaise longue, illuminated by the rails of white dresses surrounding them, as if shining a spotlight on Betsy. There is nowhere to hide. No way of avoiding the exposing line of questioning Betsy fears is coming.
‘I don’t know.’ It’s not the best start.
‘Ballgown, fishtail, A-line? Were you thinking about a high neck or off-the-shoulder? Long sleeves, empire line, full-length, short? Come on, Betsy! You seemed to love the ballgowns when we first talked about your dress, all those months ago. Do you have any more thoughts about it now?’
‘I really don’t know, Mum. Er… what do you think?’ This is hardly helpful. But Betsy hasn’t done the sort of legwork needed to be able to answer these questions with any certainty. And, the truth is, she just can’t picture herself in a wedding dress, no matter how hard she tries.
‘I know exactly what I would choose for you, Betsy. It’s hanging in the fitting room now. The Harmonie gown by Mira Zwillinger – an ivory silk ballgown that’s scattered in roses with sleeves made entirely from the flowers’ petals. They will drape and fall from your shoulders into a dramatically low back. It was made for you, Betsy, the sort of dress I always imagined you might wear on your wedding day.’ She’s obviously spent years thinking about this. ‘But I think the point is, it needs to come from you, darling, at least some of it. How do you want to feel on the day? What kind of dress is going to capture this moment for you, one you will remember for the rest of your life?’
Blank. How can she possibly follow that? ‘I just haven’t had the time to think about it, Mum. I’m away in London more and more, there again on Tuesday… I just haven’t had the thinking space.’ It’s lame, but it will have to do.
‘OK, let’s approach this a different way. Have you thought about flowers, or the way you’d like the church to look? How we might set the tables for your wedding breakfast? That can all be a useful starting point that might lead us to the dress. And you have sent the invitations out, haven’t you?’ Her mum’s face is starting to drain of all the pleasure she was showing at Betsy’s arrival and is now clouded with concern.
‘Of course I have! But I haven’t thought about any of the rest of it.’ The last thing Betsy wants to do is start crying in front of her mum but the way her breath is starting to quiver out of her suggests it’s coming.
Thankfully, Helen is reaching for some designer lookbooks and is yet to notice, because a hand on Betsy’s shoulder right now is probably all it would take to set those tears free. And she can’t handle the sympathy and knows she doesn’t deserve it either.
‘I know work is really busy for you and probably taking up all your time but who are your bridesmaids, Betsy? Can they take on some of this for you? That’s kind of what they’re there for. Who did you choose, Rebecca and Harriet?’
It’s completely logical that her mum would assume she’d chosen her oldest school friends, the girls she shared everything with before everyone got obsessed with climbing the career ladder. But Betsy has seen so little of them both recently, another reason she has farmed the job out to a professional.
‘No, actually. It’s someone from work.’ Why is it that lying to your mum is more difficult than lying to just about anyone else on earth? Because Helen doesn’t deserve it, because she’s only trying to help, but Betsy knows she’d be horrified if she knew the truth about Nat. She’d love the woman herself, Nat’s business-like efficiency and the way she genuinely combines it with all the warmth and concern of a best friend. But the fact she’s hired her? It would be official and final confirmation that Betsy doesn’t care about this wedding nearly as much as she should.
‘Does she have a name?’ Her mum has swivelled around on the chaise longue so she is directly facing her now.
‘Sorry?’
‘Your bridesmaid. What’s her name? And why don’t you bring her in? I’d love to meet her, Betsy – and ideally, before the big day.’
A pause grows between the two women while Betsy seriously considers, for a split second, just blurting the truth at her mum: I’m struggling to get excited about this wedding and to stay excited about Jacob. Oh, and my bridesmaid is a fake. But she changes tack, switching the conversation down a very different line of enquiry.
‘Mum, who’s Nick?’ She knows she’s intruding and can’t quite hold eye contact while she’s asking a question she feels fairly sure her mum won’t want to answer.
‘Oh. Um...’ Helen’s cheeks are immediately colouring. ‘He’s a friend.’
‘A friend?’ The arch of Betsy’s eyebrows conveys how unsatisfactory this answer is.
‘A very good friend.’ Helen tries again. ‘He was the architect for the London shop and, well, I saw rather a lot of him while all the work was being done and we’ve got… close. I’m sure you’ll meet him soon enough.’ That’s clearly her way of putting an end to this chat but Betsy wants to dig a little further.
‘What did he ask you?’
‘Ask me? What do you mean?’
‘What is he waiting for an answer on? The card, Mum, on the flowers – I read it.’ This is full-on prying now and her mother’s reaction could go either way. She watches as Helen’s shoulders slump and the irritation huffs out of her.
‘Betsy, I’m not sure that’s any of your…’ Her mum is on her feet now, trying to busy herself, unnecessarily rearranging a pair of pretty lace gloves fanned out on a side table.
‘Sorry. I was just interested and, well, I like the idea that you may have found someone who…’ Betsy doesn’t want to say ‘might replace Dad’, it’s not what she means but she’s struggling to string the words together, knowing so little about this relationship and what it might mean to her mum. Still, if Helen does have someone new in her life, that can only be a good thing. Betsy hates to think of her spending night after night alone – splitting her life between the never-ending possibilities of London and the quiet beauty of the countryside but with no one to share any of it.
‘You’re putting me on the spot, Betsy.’ Helen has deliberately moved to the other side of the shop now, where she keeps all the pretty dress sashes. She’s straightening them, allowing her to keep her back to her daughter.
‘Isn’t that what you’re doing to me too, with all
these wedding questions?’
‘Oh… I thought I was helping. You’re supposed to be getting married in ten weeks and we don’t have a dress, shoes, lingerie, a veil. Nothing.’ Now she’s no longer the subject of the conversation, Helen has spun back round to face her daughter.
‘Ten weeks is plenty of time, it’s months!’
‘It’s not, actually. I do know a thing or two about this.’
‘Actually, Mum, do you mind if I grab some fresh air? I’m not feeling a hundred per cent.’ This is pointless. Helen isn’t going to elaborate any further about this mysterious Nick and Betsy can’t give her any of the answers she wants so it’s safer to switch back to avoidance tactics.
‘Take all the fresh air you need, darling. Just remember, I’m your mother so I know when something is wrong. You’re not fooling me.’
There’s the invitation. If Betsy wants to unload what she’s really thinking, now is her chance. But she can’t.
She steps outside, leaving her poor mum to spend the afternoon worrying about her. She walks into the grounds of the Manor that sits directly opposite the run of pretty Cotswold cottages housing The White Gallery, then makes her way round the back, where she’ll be more out of sight, and perches on one of the stone walls that separates the Manor from the church grounds. This is the church she should be marrying in, overlooking the lawn where her marquee should be pitched. Everything around her looks so idyllic, just as it should be. The gardens are wonderfully ordered and neat and there is the cheerful chorus of birdsong carrying through the air. Couples are starting to explore the gardens of the Manor, hand in hand, happily planning their futures or just enjoying the freedom of a weekend away in the country – lovely, unplanned days filled with pub lunches and long walks, making memories together.
Betsy pulls out her mobile and her mood instantly lifts as she sees she’s had another text from Dylan. Weird that he should get in touch at the weekend.
* * *
Morning, Trouble! That digital client wants dinner next week. Can you do Tuesday night? It will be a late one so you’ll need to stay over, expense a hotel? Let me know. Dylan. PS we need to discuss New York plans too!
* * *
She pings a quick one back.
* * *
Yes, of course, I’ll book somewhere. Bee
* * *
New York. She’s yet to break this bit of news to Jacob. Will he care that she is spending time away in an exciting foreign city with another man, albeit her boss? Will Jacob even register the excitement she knows she will be unable to hide when she tells him about it? Because right now, the idea of three nights in Manhattan with Dylan and all his capable, manly, go-getting lust for life is considerably more attractive than what’s waiting for her at home.
As Betsy climbs back into her car she decides she’s not going to head straight home, she’s going to detour to Cheltenham. She saw an incredible dress in the window of Whistles last week. Heavy black satin, the sort of fabric that will slide over her curves, pulling her in and pushing her out in all the right places. It’s cut low into a sweetheart neckline and with a slit that she knows will sit noticeably mid-thigh. Exactly what she has in mind for her dinner with Dylan on Tuesday. And it will look perfect with those red shoes.
8
Helen
Helen presses the doorbell and waits, heart banging a little inside her chest. Is she doing the right thing? She’s not sure. Something has to be done, they can’t go on as they are. She has to press it twice more, then hammer hard on the letterbox knocker before she finally sees signs of life inside. It’s eleven o’clock on a Tuesday morning but you wouldn’t know it from looking at Jacob when he finally edges the door open, face filled with irritation.
He’s obviously not expecting her. He’s not expecting anyone. He’s shrouded in a ratty old dressing gown that’s fraying all along the hem. Even from the doorstep Helen can see how dirty it is. He hasn’t bothered to tie it properly and it’s falling open at the front to reveal a t-shirt that might once have been white but is now covered in what looks like last night’s dinner splatters, the sort of mess you might expect to see down the front of a three-year-old – or someone who has eaten in bed, plate balanced on a pillow.
‘Oh, er… she’s not here. She’s at work.’ Jacob is squinting into the bright morning sunlight, clearly seeing it for the first time today.
His future mother-in-law arrives unannounced on the doorstep and that’s the sum total of his concern, thinks Helen, who’s going to have to be a lot politer to Jacob than she wants to be.
‘Good morning to you, too, Jacob. I know Betsy’s not here, that’s why I chose this morning to come. I wonder if you might spare me a little of your time? I think we probably need a chat.’ This is already worse than Helen was expecting. The state of him. She knows her daughter well enough to be sure she would be equally unimpressed by the mess stood in front of her. And Jacob is doing nothing to hide his reluctance to let Helen in.
‘Sorry, I’m working.’ He’s standing firm, not showing the slightest indication that the door will open wider to welcome her.
‘Forgive me, Jacob, but you don’t look like you’re working.’ She hasn’t come all this way, an hour’s drive from Little Bloombury, to her daughter’s unremarkable two-up, two-down on the residential outskirts of Birmingham to be denied access now.
‘I’m about to start.’
Wow, this takes some rudeness, thinks Helen before she has another go at getting in. ‘It really won’t take long.’ Her voice is soft, but persistent.
‘If you’d called…’
‘If I’d called, you would have said you were busy, and I think we really need to talk. It’s about Betsy. I need ten minutes of your time, Jacob. No more.’
The door finally edges open wide enough for Helen to step in, accompanied by the longest sigh she’s ever heard, one that Jacob looks unaware he’s even unleashing. The house smells, as if the windows haven’t been opened for weeks. The carpet is covered in fluff, crumbs and who knows what else; no question now that Helen will keep her shoes on. She follows Jacob through to the kitchen, where all hell has broken loose.
‘Er, you’ll want a cup of tea, then?’ Jacob is wiping a hand across his face, trying to revive himself.
‘I’m not sure you have any clean cups.’ Helen’s eyes are all over everything. There isn’t an inch of work surface that doesn’t have something festering on it. Saucepans are encrusted with old food and the door of the dishwasher is hanging open like someone considered making a dent in the mess and then gave up. She can see it’s over-stacked with a week’s worth of dirty dishes that will take about three cycles to get somewhere near to clean again.
‘Why don’t you go and take a seat in the lounge and I’ll wash one up? How d’you have it?’ Jacob’s voice is heavy with exasperation, he’s hardly keen to ingratiate himself with her.
‘Do you have Earl Grey, by any chance?’ Helen knows Betsy drinks it.
‘No.’
Perhaps he just can’t be bothered to look for it. ‘OK, just white with no sugar, please.’ It’s sad, thinks Helen. This man is about to marry my daughter and we’ve spent so little time in each other’s company that he has no clue how I take my tea. A small thing, perhaps, but it says a lot to Helen. She walks back down the narrow corridor to the lounge, stepping over some recycling that is yet to make it out to the bin. Is it really so hard to muster some polite enthusiasm, even if it is totally fake, for the ten minutes I’ll be here?, she wonders.
The lounge looks like it has become an extension of Jacob’s office. There are papers and books and notepads strewn everywhere, in no discernible order. Not to Helen, anyway. Half-finished mugs of tea are dotted around the room and there is a plate with what looks like the remains of yesterday’s toast crusts wedged in between two sofa cushions. She decides to stay standing. As she’s looking around the room it occurs to Helen that there is nothing of her daughter here. No favourite books, no framed pictures of her, wi
th or without Jacob, no Betsy touches – a scented candle, a familiar ornament, a vase of flowers, a discarded item of clothing. Nothing at all that indicates her daughter lives here. Neither is there anything of Betsy and Jacob, the couple. No joint invitations on the mantelpiece. No photographs of the two of them having fun. No keepsakes that Helen can see that talk of a history together.
There was a time, not long after they met, when Betsy and Jacob would disappear for long weekends together, squandering all their holiday allowance – when Jacob had a proper job – because they just wanted to be together, with no interruptions. Helen barely saw Betsy over those months. Salaries were blown on concert tickets, city mini-breaks, and most weekends they would spend a fortune having friends over for dinner, doing that cosy couple thing. Judging by the state of the place, that hasn’t happened for some time. They chose to marry on Christmas Eve because that’s the day they first met, at a friend’s drinks party. That Christmas Betsy spoke of nothing but Jacob and by New Year’s Eve it was obvious they were going to be together. But now?
Just as Helen starts to pick the dead leaves off a houseplant that gave up living weeks ago, Jacob calls through from the kitchen.
‘Did you say you do take sugar?’
Perhaps it was when Jacob decided computer programming wasn’t for him and novel writing was that the balance shifted between them, thinks Helen. She knows Betsy agreed to it, but it hasn’t been easy, her daughter having to support them both, stretching her not-huge salary to cover everything. Helen knows because the requests for mini loans increased. Then came Betsy’s promotion and things seemed to ease; at least, the handouts from Helen stopped, but when Jacob’s book deal fell through, it seems to Helen their relationship followed it down the black hole. It just isn’t until today, right now, standing in their home with all the trappings of their careless daily life around her, that she can see quite how far it’s fallen.