by Jade Beer
A couple of hours later, when my eyes have had enough screen time and are starting to blur all the bouquets into one over-the-top mess, I emerge from the bedroom to find Marianne looking extremely pleased with herself.
‘Fucking brace yourself, Jenny, because you’re not going to believe what I’ve done while you’ve been hiding in there!’ She looks like she’s about to explode with the sense of victory, her eyes are popping out of her head and her lips are pulled back over her gums like some sort of manic horse.
Whatever it is, it’s not going to be good. There is smugness and mischief pouring out of her. Please let it just not involve me.
‘Go on.’ I really don’t want her to go on.
‘I called the company that fitted the new dishwasher, said we weren’t at all happy with the way it’s running and that they need to send the same two guys back ASAP to take a look. They’re only bloody coming tomorrow night! But this time, I will be here, my friend. You don’t get to have all the fun on your own. Didn’t your mother teach you to share?’
I slump off back to my room and fire off an email to Helen. Does she by any chance have an appointment tomorrow, early evening? Otherwise, I’m going to be sat in Pizza Express around the corner from the flat, hugging a cappuccino for hours until Marianne has satisfied herself and it’s safe to go home.
14
Nat
It’s the wedding Nat has been looking forward to most this year: Heidi and Alex, a couple who met on day one of university and have been inseparable ever since. Helping Heidi finalise all the details for their party in the Kent countryside has been nothing short of magical. No dramas, no egos, no arguments over budgets, just one big happy family coming together to make it everything it should be. And as much as she’s enjoyed it, it has made her heart ache a little more for Betsy, who is becoming more distant by the day.
And why did Heidi hire Nat? For the best possible reason. Because she wants her real friends to be stress-free with no obligations beyond attending the wedding and having the time of their lives. Heidi has been a dream to deal with, she and Nat often spending way longer than they needed to on the phone, chewing over all the details, genuinely sharing each other’s excitement for the day that is now so nearly here. She’d love to be more like that with Betsy too.
The attention to detail has been impressive. This wedding is being held on a flower farm, where everything will happen outside, around giant fire pits – a nod to the couple’s love of the great outdoors. The bride’s father has been growing herbs all summer for them to display in vintage tins on the tables and there will be dahlias, peonies, roses and ripe pears hanging everywhere. All the invitations were painstakingly handmade by Heidi, featuring a watercolour map of the wedding site with a cute key denoting where to camp, dance and party under the stars. A log cabin will be filled with beautifully upholstered furniture, fur shrugs and a bar where guests can help themselves to hot toddies. Then, as a wonderful surprise for the couple and a thank you for all their hard work, Nat has co-ordinated the guests to bake homemade cakes and treats for an indulgent dessert table that will be covered with lamingtons, fruit scones, lemon curd tarts, fondant fancies, and a ginger cake smothered in butter frosting. Her mouth is watering at the thought of it all.
All Nat has to do now is finalise her dress. This should be straightforward enough, except it means an appointment with Helen – and Helen wants to talk about Betsy.
On the journey across London, through a congested and rain-soaked Wimbledon town centre and onto the eastbound District line, Nat is thinking about nothing other than how she is going to handle this. She needs to tread carefully. Helen may know a lot less than Nat fears she does. She may simply have worked out that Nat and Betsy know each other somehow so all Nat needs is a solid enough cover story to flick her straight off the scent. But what? The truth is, unlike many of the other brides-to-be Nat works with, she has struggled to get close to Betsy. Not because she doesn’t want to, she can feel there’s something between them that could be much more than one great night out together, but there is a reluctance on Betsy’s part to let Nat in. What’s she hiding? She didn’t even want to choose Nat’s bridesmaid dress. Whatever you think is best, Betsy said. Maybe Nat can get that done today, if Helen isn’t too inquisitive. But she needs to protect Betsy too: it’s not her job to fill Helen in on any of this.
By the time she’s ringing the doorbell to The White Gallery, Nat is feeling jumpy and unsure of her facts and how this is all going to play out. She decides to focus on what she’s really here for, to finalise the dress for Heidi and Alex’s wedding in a few weekends’ time. Everything else will just be question-dodging and hoping she hasn’t woefully underestimated Helen’s investigative skills.
Helen does at least seem very pleased to see her. ‘Come in, my darling. This weather is appalling.’ She scoops Nat in under the shop’s smart striped awning and into the warmth, where she stands dripping all over the polished parquet floor, which already makes her feel like she’s done the wrong thing.
‘Don’t worry about that, it will dry,’ chirps Helen. ‘Let’s get you out of those wet clothes.’ Helen is wriggling her free of her sopping wet mac and the useless bent-out-of-shape umbrella. ‘I’ll pop everything out the back. Why don’t you take your jeans off too and slip on a robe? Then everything will be dry by the time you leave.’
What Nat wouldn’t give to have someone like Helen around permanently – she’s practical, organised and full of good ideas. Good mum material. But now that she’s near naked under the robe, she feels even less confident about this meeting. The exposure somehow places her on the back foot and more at the mercy of Helen’s questions.
‘OK, so the wedding is soon now. I noted before you loved a few different looks, so let’s narrow it down, shall we? I’ve put two in the changing room if you want to go through and get into the first one?’
‘Good plan.’ Nat disappears into the fitting room, hopeful that Helen may have entirely forgotten the reason she asked her to come today. She lifts the first dress from its hanger and starts to remove the robe. It’s a long-sleeved navy jersey dress that’s sashed at the waist and perfect for a winter wedding.
Helen steps into the fitting room and starts to help Nat belt it tight around herself. Nat’s trying to pretend she’s admiring herself in the mirror, but whenever she thinks she can risk it, she’s flicking a glance at Helen, trying to read deeper into her mood, and ignore the slightly charged atmosphere she can feel building between them today – the sort of feeling you get when you know that once the pleasantries are done, there will be a more difficult conversation.
‘What d’you think?’ Helen stands back a little to get a better look. She’s smiling. ‘We’ll need to pull it in across the chest a bit to stop the gaping, but otherwise, it’s not a bad fit, I’d say. It looks great on you, Nat.’
‘Yes! I like it. But let’s try the Ghost one too, because that deep plum colour is gorgeous for this time of year.’ Has she forgotten? wonders Nat. She seems so focused on the dresses, there is a possibility she has.
‘Let me help you.’ There is not one trace of annoyance or agitation on Helen’s face. She is, as always, dressed beautifully, this time in a pale lilac shift dress that opens wide at the neck to reveal a delicate gold chain with a cluster of initials dangling from it. Probably a love token from her husband and children, thinks Nat. There is a stiff, double bow at her waist in the same thick satin fabric and her nails are polish-free, but buffed so well they catch the light from the crystal chandelier dangling above them.
The next dress has a thin halter-neck strap that sits on Nat’s collarbone and a giant ruffle that fans out across her chest, before dropping super-low at the back.
‘It’s stunning on you, Nat! I love it, but you’re going to freeze to death. There are plenty of cover-ups I can suggest, but the back is so low. Now I see it on you, I’m just not sure it works for this time of year. What d’you think?’
Nat can always
rely on Helen to be entirely honest with her. Even when there’s an opportunity to add more to the bill, Helen won’t do it if she doesn’t think the look is perfect.
‘You’re right, you’re always right. Let’s stick with the navy.’ It’s smiles all round, as this goes down as one of the quickest appointments Nat has ever had with Helen. And why would she ever go anywhere else? Helen’s expertise is near-legendary on the wedding circuit and even if she may have privately questioned the frequency of Nat’s appointments, she has never put her on the spot about it, never grilled her for answers she might not want to give. Although, Nat wonders, is that about to change?
As Nat is rushing out of the dress, keen to make her getaway, Helen disappears to retrieve her clothes. When she returns, her face has altered; she looks suddenly more solemn and Nat knows full well what’s coming.
‘Am I also right that you know Betsy?’ She stands in front of Nat with her clothes draped across her arms, as if to say, answer my questions, or you’re not getting these back.
‘Betsy?’ Nat’s stalling for time, trying frantically to think of a response that will shut this down, refusing to make eye contact with Helen while she fumbles around with the dress.
Helen bides her time until Nat is down to just her undies and now has no choice but to face her.
‘Yes, Betsy.’ Helen says the words painfully slowly, like she has all the time in the world to hear the explanation that she assumes is coming. ‘It’s just, you never said that you knew her when her name came up in conversation the last time you were here. But then I found this at her house and, correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s your business card, isn’t it? And that’s your mobile number? It’s taken me a while to work it out, but there can’t be many that end in triple five.’ Helen holds up the card. Her business card. Nat immediately recognises the font and the discreet tiered wedding cake logo in the bottom right-hand corner.
‘Nope, that’s not me.’ This is bare-faced lying. And it’s not going to work, she knows it’s not, and the rising panic she’s feeling, intensified by the high-pitched scream of a police siren as it passes the boutique, is hampering all logical thought. Helen is like a gun dog on the scent.
‘Really? This isn’t your mobile number?’ There’s no anger in Helen’s voice, just the weariness of someone who is being lied to and knows it. This conversation is about to reach its horrible, inevitable conclusion.
‘No, doesn’t look like it.’ It’s a real shame this conversation is having to happen with Nat wearing just her bra and knickers, her near-nakedness sapping her of the mental strength to cope with it. But she can’t blab. Firstly, because she has a contract with Betsy that promises discretion but also because she knows that even if she confesses to merely a working relationship with Betsy, Helen’s questions will not end there. It will be impossible to silence her once Nat has removed some of the doubt.
Helen places the bundle of clothes gently down on the fitting-room chaise longue and lifts the handset from the wall just above it. Oh shit! As she starts to punch the numbers from the card into the phone, Nat hangs her head. The only sound then is that of Nat’s mobile phone, buried in her stiff radiator-dried jeans and trilling loudly between them. Despite the early confidence in her conviction, Nat can see the way Helen’s face crumples at the sound, as her theory is proven to be right. Now she knows for sure there is some connection between Nat and Betsy. Nat just can’t be the one to fill in all the missing blanks.
‘Why does Betsy have your card? Why did you deny knowing her and can you please shed some light on why my wonderful daughter seems to be not the slightest bit excited about her own wedding day?’
‘No, I can’t. I have to go, Helen. Sorry.’ Nat says the words far too abruptly, sounding mean and heartless, but none of this is her story to tell. She can’t rat on Betsy, no matter how much pained concern is swamping Helen’s face.
‘Please, Nat.’ Helen takes one small step towards her, then stops, perhaps not wanting to appear confrontational, then continues her plea. ‘I’m her mother and something is obviously not right. I can’t help her if I don’t know what’s wrong.’
‘I think you should speak to Betsy.’ She looks away from Helen, whose eyes are starting to fill with tears, and it’s agonising. Nat knows she could quash some of her anguish in a few short sentences, but not without dropping Betsy right in it and she’s not going to do that to someone she’s hoping she might become friends with.
‘I’ve tried speaking to her but as you’ll know, if you know Betsy at all, she can be incredibly stubborn when she wants to be.’
Helen is standing between Nat and her exit out of here. She’s dressed now and could run. She’s seriously considering it. But then she’ll never be able to return. And God, look at Helen’s face, filled with all the concern of a mum who is in the dark and feels her daughter is slipping away from her.
‘Call her, Helen.’ Nat’s trying her best to sound sympathetic and reasonable, like one quick chat is all that’s needed to sort this out, while continuing to edge slowly and deliberately towards the door.
‘She won’t answer my calls!’ There is the faintest hint of hysteria powering Helen’s words now, a trait Nat has never seen in her before.
‘Go and see her then.’ Nat is trying a firmer tone. Helen needs to know she’s not going to cave.
‘She won’t be honest with me! If she wanted to do that, I’m guessing you wouldn’t be here on her behalf.’ It’s the first time Nat has ever heard Helen raise her voice. ‘Please, Nat, what is so bad that you can’t tell me? Is she in some sort of terrible trouble? She hasn’t lost her job, has she? Oh God, is it Jacob, has he done something awful to her?’ Helen’s head is in her hands now and she’s stopped trying to keep a lid on her anxiety or a stop on her tears.
Nat lets the sound of another siren reach its peak volume outside the boutique, watching through the giant glass windows as cars swerve in sharply to let the police car past and listening as its urgent warning sound fades into the distance of the surrounding streets. She sucks in a huge, body-expanding breath, then turns back to face a teary Helen. This is one of those times, Nat concludes, when the adult conversation is going to have to happen. She’s going to have to place Helen’s feelings above her own need for discretion and risk whatever might come her way from Betsy later.
‘OK, Helen, I’m going to tell you what I know, which isn’t that much, actually. But I need your total assurance that it will go no further. And especially not to Betsy. I’d rather she didn’t hate me and I have a reputation to protect in all of this, it’s my livelihood.’
‘Your livelihood? What on earth do you mean? What exactly has Betsy asked you to do?’ It’s the first time Helen’s questioned whether any fault may lie with Betsy herself, not those around her.
Nat can see from the wideness of her eyes and the way Helen is barely breathing that her mind is going to a much darker place than it needs to, and so while it might be unforgiveable – and certainly unprofessional – Nat begins to tell her everything. ‘Come on, take a seat.’ The two of them sit stiffly next to each other on the chaise longue. ‘I’m a professional bridesmaid.’
‘A what?’
‘Basically, it means women hire me to pretend to be their bridesmaid.’
‘I know what it means, but why would any woman do that? I don’t understand. I mean, I’ve read about this in the American magazines, but I didn’t think it actually existed – not here, at least.’ Nat can see Helen is still trying to work out how this can possibly be relevant to her and Betsy.
‘I know it sounds odd but believe me, there are many reasons…’
‘But Betsy’s not lonely, she has plenty of friends. And she has me. We’ve always been so close. Why won’t she talk to me, what have I done to push her away like this?’ Helen turns to Nat, searching her face now for some indication as to how there could be so much distance between her and her daughter.
‘I think Betsy’s reasons for hiring me are quite dif
ferent, Helen. You say she’s not excited about the wedding and that’s really been obvious to me, too. She’s handed most of the arrangements to me so far. I designed the invites…’
‘She told me she did!’ The impact of the deceit on Helen’s face is painful to watch, a horrible contorted mix of sadness and incredulity.
‘I’m afraid not. I was supposed to be choosing my bridesmaid dress while I was here with you today. She just told me to choose whatever I wanted, no steer on colour or style or anything. She’s asked me to think about cakes and flowers too.’ Nat stops because she can see the tears are starting to flood Helen’s eyes.
‘She told me her bridesmaid was a friend from work.’ The words are sobbing out of her now.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry, Helen. Maybe it would be kinder if I just shut up and you chat this all through with Betsy. I really don’t want to lie to you, but I have loyalties to Betsy too. I’ve already said far too much.’
‘Is she paying you to do all of this?’ Now that they’ve started, and exactly as Nat predicted, Helen seems determined to extract as much information from her as possible.
‘She is, yes.’ Urgh! With every word she utters, Nat feels her betrayal of Betsy more and more strongly.
‘And why do you think she’s doing that? Why doesn’t she want to plan this wedding with me?’ Helen is trying to wipe the mascara clear from under her eyes but is just smearing it further down her face. ‘Have you spoken to her much about it? Maybe it’s all my fault, there’s a man I’ve been getting close to. Maybe she feels neglected. I’ve paid too much attention to him and not to her, haven’t I? Is that it?’
‘She hasn’t confided in me much. In fact, I’d go as far as to say, she’s probably the most evasive bride-to-be I’ve ever tried to work with. If it makes you feel any better, Helen, I wouldn’t say she’s gained any pleasure from any of this.’ Despite the disgust at her own treachery, at least the nerves are starting to dissipate from the pit of Nat’s stomach, now that the beans have been well and truly spilled.