by Jade Beer
‘Here you go.’ Jacob hands Helen a mug of grey tea.
‘Thank you.’ There is no chance she’s going to raise it to her lips and she looks around for somewhere, anywhere, to place it. As she leans over the arm of the sofa, stretching to reach the side table, she spots something, shoved underneath on the floor there. A crate full of cards and envelopes. She dips a little lower, trying to make out the picture on the front of one of the cards. A typewriter. It’s all one hundred and twenty of their wedding invitations, unwritten, unaddressed, unposted, despite Betsy’s insistence otherwise. She can hear Jacob wittering behind her, but she can’t pull her gaze away from the box. My God, why would she lie? It’s not like Helen doesn’t know they’re behind with everything. This isn’t Betsy and it’s worrying, seriously worrying. Helen can feel her skin prickle from the realisation that what is unravelling here is more than just a bit of wedding planning and slack housekeeping.
Jacob cuts in.
‘So, what’s up? What’s the problem with Betsy?’ There’s no concern in his voice, thinks Helen. He could be talking about the woman who lives three doors down, the one who lends them her lawnmower every summer.
‘She’s staying in London tonight, I gather?’ Helen needs to ease into this gently. The last thing she wants is to upset Jacob and then have to explain herself to Betsy later.
‘Is she?’ He’s shifting newspapers off the other sofa, trying to make space to sit down, not in the least bit bothered.
‘Yes. Didn’t you know that?’ How could he not know that?
‘She might have told me, I can’t remember. Anyway, what’s wrong with that?’
Helen is starting to wonder if he would actually notice if Betsy was home or not. ‘Nothing, but I am getting a little concerned that the wedding planning has stalled, Jacob. Do you talk about it much? Do you need some help from me?’
‘I dunno. We haven’t spoken about it for ages. As you’ve pointed out, she’s not always home. It’s not really my priority right now. Listen, is this going to take long, Helen, because I could do with getting on?’
Helen can see this is pointless. ‘Do you mind if I pop to the loo?’ It’s obvious Jacob isn’t going to be any use, she may as well be on her way. A two-hour round journey completely wasted. She starts to climb the stairs to the bathroom, dreading what might be awaiting her there. As she reaches the landing, she turns and passes their bedroom. The door is open and she slows, sneaking a quick look inside. Betsy obviously packed for London in a hurry – there are clothes everywhere, thrown over the wardrobe door, piled up on a chair next to the bed and almost completely covering the ottoman that sits at the end of it. Helen can hear Jacob clattering around downstairs, so steps into the room. She’s not even sure what she’s looking for, but being in the house feels as though it might be like stepping inside Betsy’s head. It’s a confused, jumbled mess. Hard to live in, certainly impossible to be happy in, Helen suspects.
There are a few quality carrier bags on the floor next to the bed. Betsy has been shopping. None of the new buys are here so Helen can only assume they have been packed for the client trip to London. A receipt has tumbled out of one of the empty bags onto the floor and Helen bends to pick it up, pausing for a moment while she questions the ethics of what she’s doing. But the receipt is in her hand now, much harder to put it back down than steal a quick look.
It’s from a lingerie boutique in Cheltenham. Helen knows it because so many of her clients head there for the racier honeymoon pieces. She can see from the printout that Betsy has bought a black corset, panties and a suspender belt totalling nearly £300. Whatever this is, it’s not her bridal lingerie, Helen knows that. And it seems pretty unlikely she’s thinking about the honeymoon when the wedding is so disorganised. A horrible thought briefly passes through Helen’s mind, one she does not want to believe her daughter is capable of. Perhaps Betsy is simply trying to reignite something that’s gone out with Jacob? Although that’s equally hard to believe, considering what’s crashing around downstairs, wrapped up in the sort of dressing gown that most sixty-year-old women wouldn’t let the milkman see them in.
She drops the receipt and heads straight to the loo, emptying her untouched tea down the sink while she’s in there. And suddenly it’s like she’s stepped into the beauty hall of an upmarket department store. The shelves are lined with expensive cosmetics: Chanel, YSL, Givenchy, it’s all here. For a girl who used to think a quick swipe of clear lipgloss and a dab of cheek colour constituted being made-up, Betsy’s beauty expenditure has obviously gone through the roof. What is very Betsy is the way the products sit orderly on the shelves, lined up in ascending height order and grouped helpfully together – lips, eyes, cheeks, skin. It’s the only part of the entire house where she can feel her daughter’s calm organisation. The only part of the house that smells clean. It feels like Betsy’s sanctuary, away from the mess and madness of everything else.
Helen makes her way back down to the kitchen, where she adds her mug to the mountain Jacob is shifting into the sink, making no attempt to actually wash them. She leans back against one of the kitchen units and watches him. There is a noticeboard on the wall in front of him, covered in all the paraphernalia of a life that is running away from them – unopened bills, an overdue car MOT reminder, Betsy’s to-do lists with nothing crossed through. Helen takes a couple of steps forward. There is something in the middle of the board that looks faintly familiar, a business card, partially pushed under an old picture of Betsy and her friend Harriet clinking cocktail glasses on a girls’ night out.
‘How’s the book going?’ It’s a blatant attempt to distract Jacob with something he might want to talk about while she gets closer to the card.
‘It’s getting there.’ It’s the most positive thing he’s said since she arrived. ‘Lots to write and rewrite today but there is a plan, at least. I’m going to rework one of the major characters, making him more…’
Helen isn’t listening. She’s leaning in, getting closer to the card. She raises a hand to push the photograph to one side, giving her clear sight of it now. ‘Oh, I love this picture of Betsy,’ she says, as Jacob looks to see what she’s doing.
Natalie. Just one name on the card with a small illustration of a wedding cake and a mobile number that she feels sure her fingers may have tapped out before. It couldn’t be her Nat though, could it, the girl who has been coming to The White Gallery time and time again for bridesmaid dresses? No, why would it be? When Helen mentioned Betsy’s wedding to her just recently, Nat didn’t say anything about knowing her daughter at the time. And yet, that mobile number does look so familiar.
Helen needs to chat all of this over with someone – someone with a clear head, some perspective and a little distance from it all. Someone she knows will care…
Helen and Nick have exchanged a few short texts since that mortifying lunch at Scott’s but nothing more, just confirmation that she will think about his offer. She’s been too embarrassed to talk to him properly. She misses him, though, his absence making her realise that her reaction that day was much more about her shock at his depth of feeling than any sense she doesn’t want to have him in her life. And if there’s going to be any future for the two of them, she needs to share every part of her life with him, however messy it might be, doesn’t she? Betsy seemed so keen to find out more about him too. Perhaps it’s time to acknowledge he’s important enough for all of them to meet?
‘Jacob, there is someone I would love you and Betsy to meet soon.’ Helen takes a deep breath, knowing she is about to utter his name and make this whole Nick-and-Helen thing far more official. People will start to have an opinion about them and to ask what the future might hold for them. She’ll be expected to have a view herself.
‘Oh right.’
‘It’s a close friend of mine, Nick. I wonder whether the three of us might get together for dinner with him sometime soon. Would that be OK?’
‘Probably best to check with Betsy, she’s the bus
y one. And the last time I tried to check her diary, I couldn’t get into her phone – there’s a lock on it now.’
Helen knows Betsy has furnished Jacob with the details of her past life, it’s Betsy’s too, after all. Jacob knows about Phillip, the months and months of pain that followed his death, her retreat from life until she finally found the courage to re-emerge. So, his lack of interest, his failure to grasp the significance of what Helen is saying, is so hurtful. She doesn’t want to be in Jacob’s company for a second longer. She makes her excuses, sees herself to the door and leaves, feeling even more concern for Betsy than she did when she arrived.
* * *
Helen saves making the phone call to Nick until she is back in Little Bloombury. She needs the drive home to prepare herself for hearing his voice again and the heart-fluttering effect it might have on her. She parks the car behind the boutique then takes a walk through the village, feeling the warm glow from the Cotswold stone cheer her up. She takes a seat on one of the benches in the churchyard and searches for his number in her mobile, suddenly so nervous. What if he’s annoyed it’s taken her this long to call? Their lunch at Scott’s was weeks ago now. Maybe he’s just talked himself out of caring so much? Forced himself to mentally move on after such a public rebuttal from her? But then he did send the flowers with a note that reassured Helen at the time she wasn’t forgotten. She makes the call. He’s probably in a meeting anyway and she’ll be able to get away with leaving a more cowardly voicemail.
He answers almost immediately.
‘Helen?’
‘Yes. Hello, Nick. How are you?’ She can feel the nervous quiver in the back of her throat as she’s saying his name and hopes he isn’t hearing it.
‘Absolutely delighted to hear from you. Are you OK?’ Isn’t this all anyone wants, thinks Helen, someone to ask you if you’re OK and to genuinely care that you are?
‘I’m fine, thank you. I wanted to call and say thank you for sending such beautiful flowers. It was such a wonderful surprise and, well, I’m not sure I deserve them but thank you nonetheless.’
‘I miss you.’
She can feel her heart rate picking up and she wants to blurt the same words back at him but they’re just not coming.
‘I’d love to see you, Helen.’ His voice is full of intent, he clearly doesn’t want this call to be just a polite but necessary thank you for the bouquet. It’s making her wish more than anything he was here with her right now, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her in to his chest. It would all be much easier if he was.
‘I know you’re very busy with everything but I wondered if I could introduce you to Betsy and her fiancé, Jacob? Would you have time for that?’ Why is she sounding so formal? She doesn’t mean to, she just can’t relax enough to be normal with him.
‘If you’d like me to, I’d love to. Dinner one night?’
‘That would be lovely, I’ll get some dates together.’
‘Can I see you alone, too? I don’t want to trouble you, Helen, I just want to be with you. I want to hold your hand and just be with you, alone, just for half an hour, that’s all I ask.’
She wants to tell him to jump in his car and get over here now but instead she mutters a passive, ‘That would be fine. I’ll see you soon, then.’
Helen disconnects the call and then sits there for a few minutes, allowing herself to daydream about what life with Nick might actually be like.
9
Jenny
Never have I dreaded a shift more. Lucy will be working with me this morning and there will be no avoiding what I know is coming. The hundreds of questions firing my way. Who is he? Where did you meet? When’s the wedding? How did he propose? I’m timing the walk from the tube station to the main entrance of St Mary’s so that I have the least amount of time possible in the staffroom with her. I’m praying for once that the night shift has been manic, that the handover to the day shift will be swift and that there will be no time for the grilling she’ll want to give me. I just need to get through this. When I get home tonight, my sister, Lulu, will be there, visiting for a few days and maybe I can share the whole sorry thing with her. In between some lovely shared stories about Mum, she’ll make me see the funny side, I know she will. Mum wrote letters to Lulu too and over the years we have shared them with each other. Never the letters themselves, but the content of them. I think we both understand that her words are like a private conversation for each of us to hold close.
Right now, I need to get my story straight. I’ve given this serious, endless thought, since Lucy’s sighting of me in the wedding dress last week. I’m gonna keep it simple: what she didn’t see was my friend in the fitting room – the real bride. I was simply trying things on for her after she got an attack of the nerves. Urgh, it’s pathetic and they probably won’t believe it, but I’ve got to say something and that’s the best I’ve got. Then we can all move on. Perhaps there will be some incredulous mocking behind my back at break time but I can suck that up.
Fifteen minutes until I start. I’d normally be enjoying a few last relaxed minutes with a cup of tea and Grazia, and instead I’m lingering in the hospital’s main reception, killing time, watching visitors and patients try to navigate the warren of wards and departments that branch off confusingly from here. I need to get up to the maternity unit or I’m going to be late and I’m not sure I can handle one of Jean’s disappointed frowns today.
As the lift doors open onto the second floor, I can hear the din from the staffroom. It will be rammed in there now, with everyone from the night shift trying to finish up and everyone from today’s shift rushing to get ready. As I turn the corner and start my walk towards it, I can see it’s even busier than usual. Odd. Some of the support staff are in there, and some of the doctors, even our two usual cleaners. What’s going on? Whatever it is, it’s going to give me the diversion I’m hoping for, thank goodness.
Then I see it.
There’s a giant foil banner draped the length of the staffroom with the words You’re Engaged! screaming across it. And balloons, silver and gold, with horseshoes and wedding bells printed in white across them. Someone must have hit play on the iPad because as I freeze to the spot that horribly familiar tune ‘The Wedding March’ – da da da-dah, da da da-dah – booms out at me.
‘Here she is! Make way for the bride-to-be, everyone!’
I can see from the ecstatic smile on Lucy’s face that she is loving being the source of this revelation. I can also feel the tears coming. I’m not going to be able to stop them, I know I’m not. And I give up trying almost immediately. I’d like to say it’s a few subtle, ladylike tears that slide down my face and look endearing, but no, this big, snotty bawl jumps out of me like a builder’s belch. And once it comes, there is no stopping it. Why am I crying? Because this is about as mortifying as life – my life – can possibly get. Because I’m touched, really touched, that my colleagues have gone to so much trouble. Because the picture of my mum’s beautiful smiling face is suddenly filling my mind. What the hell would she make of this? It’s all of it, all crashing around in my head, while I know I am going to have to say something. The crowd will go silent and I’ll have to speak.
There is a moment of stunned hush while everyone registers the bawl, raised eyebrows and sideways glances, and then the arms start flying in around me.
‘Give her some room, the poor thing. This is all a bit overwhelming,’ bellows Lucy protectively.
She has little effect. Someone thrusts a bouquet of flowers at me and plants a big kiss on my cheek, while someone else plonks a plastic kid’s tiara on my head. Bloody hell. I’m sweating under this duffle coat and my cheeks must look sunburnt from the sheer embarrassment of it all.
‘Wow!’ is all I can manage as I’m dragging my snotty nose along the arm of my coat again; I need to get this thing dry-cleaned. Some of the men are saying congratulations then making their excuses and leaving, sobbing, hysterical women being all a bit too much for seven o’clock in the
morning, probably.
As a horseshoe of midwives forms around me, Lucy moves to the front of the crowd, keen to remind everyone, I think, that this is all her doing.
‘Was that the dress, Jenny? Because it looked absolutely beautiful on you.’
I look at everyone’s expectant faces, the ring of unbroken smiles, all directed at me, and I know what I need to do: come clean and deal with it, whatever shitty response will come my way when they all realise they’ve wasted their time and money.
Come on, Jenny, it’s time to do the decent thing – the sane thing!
‘I think so!’ I’m grinning like a maniac and I can hear my own forced, hollow laugh in the back of my throat. Why isn’t my mouth sticking to the plan? Too late now. This story has started and every excitable woman in this room will be with me for months until we all see how it ends.
‘Come on then, who’s the lucky man?’ Jean is moving towards the front. She places a soft kiss on my cheek, a comforting arm around my shoulders and pulls me into her. And it feels wonderful. ‘Congratulations, Jenny. It really is the most wonderful news.’
‘Thank you. Um, his name’s…’ Think, think, think, they need a name! Sam? No, let’s not go back there. Um… ‘Will.’ It’s my sister’s husband’s name, and the first one that pops into my head. ‘We met online a while ago. It’s all been very quick, really.’ No choice but to embrace this now, I’ll just skirt over it all with as little info as possible.