by Jade Beer
Jenny looks so harassed, thinks Helen, as she moves towards the back of the boutique to the small kitchen where she’ll make them both a cuppa, giving Jenny a vital few minutes to catch her breath.
‘Well, I’m very happy to help. How d’you take your tea?’ she calls over her shoulder.
‘Milk, no sugar, please… and some water would be great. Thank you.’
When Helen returns with two beautiful vintage floral teacups and saucers, two sugar cubes balanced on the edge of hers, the two women settle down on a blush velvet chair each, surrounded by everything a woman could need to create the outfit of a lifetime.
‘OK, let’s have a look at your paperwork. We never really got much chance to chat last time, did we?’ Helen is wading through her trusty concertina file, trying to locate Jenny’s brief notes.
‘I know, I’m sorry, I think I just got a bit emotional.’
Jenny is not looking entirely comfortable now, thinks Helen, as she watches her fiddling with her phone and shifting nervously in her seat. ‘Everyone does. At some point, it happens. It can be on the first appointment, or the very last, but I promise you, Jenny, every bride before you has wept on me and you’re not the first to run out on me either, I’m afraid. I am entirely used to it – I shed a few tears myself sometimes.’ There is something different about this girl, thinks Helen, that doesn’t seem quite right. She can hear the cup and saucer rattling as Jenny lifts them, her hand shaking. Helen needs to unpick her a little and see if she can help at all.
‘So, you said your wedding date was…’ Helen’s fingers can’t locate the relevant piece of paper quickly enough to accurately finish her own sentence and she looks to Jenny to fill in the blank.
‘Um… it’s, oh, what did I say, er, July the 20th. Yes, that’s it. July 20th.’
‘Great. Plenty of time for you to choose pretty much anything you like. Oh, hang on…’ Helen raises Jenny’s form aloft. ‘I’ve got June 20th here. Sorry, let me correct that. I must have jotted it down wrong. Definitely July 20th?’ She wouldn’t be the first stressed bride-to-be to give Helen the wrong wedding date. Others have even managed to get their own venue details completely wrong, until Helen double-checked them.
‘OK, perfect. I know you loved the Hayley Paige embroidered ballgown but is there anything else you would like to try on? If that’s the sort of silhouette you like, then I would also suggest you look at some of the gowns here by Rosa Clará, Suzanne Neville, perhaps Naomi Neoh and Alice Temperley?’
‘Let’s do it, yes, please! But, er, I don’t need to pay anything today, do I?’
‘Not until you decide on the dress, then I just need a small deposit. A few hundred pounds usually.’ She can see Jenny’s eyes widen, but like most brides, it’s the most expensive dress she’ll ever buy, so the fear normally comes from knowing it needs to be just right. ‘And my offer of a discount still stands.’
The first dress Helen helps Jenny into is one of the very prettiest in the new Rosa Clará collection. A lace bodice with long tattoo lace sleeves, it dips low at the neckline with beautiful scalloped edging before a skirt that billows out into layer upon layer of the lightest tulle. It’s one of those shapes that seems to look beautiful on most women and Helen is right, it looks so elegant on Jenny, too. As Helen is straightening the neckline, ensuring the waistband sits just where it should, she uses the time to fill in a few more details and gain a clearer picture of the kind of day Jenny is planning.
‘Are you having a church wedding? The sleeves on this gown might feel very appropriate if you are.’
‘Um… yes, it is. Most people do, don’t they?’
‘No, actually. I’d say most of the women I see are going for something different now. There is so much choice – and I think the idea of a formal walk to the altar puts a lot of them off a religious ceremony.’ Helen is on her hands and knees now, fluffing the skirt from below, so that all the layers sit neatly on top of each other. ‘Will it be your father walking you down the aisle?’
Helen has to stand and ask the question again after getting no response from Jenny, who’s absorbed by her reflection in the fitting-room mirror.
‘He is, yes.’
She doesn’t elaborate any further and Helen fears she may be treading on difficult ground here. ‘I don’t want to make you talk about anything you’d rather not, Jenny, so please don’t feel you have to answer any of my questions. It just helps me build a picture of your day, that’s all.’ Helen moves round to the front of her so Jenny can see from her face she’s sincere.
‘Actually, I was just thinking how much Mum would have loved this dress.’
Helen can see she’s trying to be brave, but Jenny’s face is giving her away. The smile doesn’t last quite long enough before she swallows hard, trying to force the emotion back down inside her.
‘I’m sorry, it must be tough, planning your wedding without her.’ Helen can’t help but make the mental comparison; this poor girl being forced to plan alone, when Betsy is choosing it that way.
‘Everything is hard without her.’
Helen watches as one single tear teeters on the very edge of Jenny’s left eye, balancing there sadly. She makes no attempt to wipe it away. Does she cry so often, she doesn’t even realise she’s doing it? ‘Here.’ Helen hands her a tissue from the pretty white porcelain box she always keeps to hand.
‘Thank you.’ Jenny relaxes, like there is little point trying to remain composed any more. ‘I was only sixteen when I lost her. A long time ago, but it doesn’t get any easier. I think about her every day. Her voice is there, inside my head, wherever I go, whatever I’m doing. It’s hard to separate it from my own some days. I feel like she could be with us right now.’
‘I don’t doubt for one second that she is. A mother’s love is so strong, I don’t think even death could dilute it. She would want to be here and so I bet she is.’ Helen is squeezing Jenny’s hand now, letting her know that she is happy to talk about this, that they can forget the dresses and just get to know each other, if that’s what Jenny would prefer. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Angela. She wrote me letters.’ Jenny has moved towards the chaise longue and is perched there now, looking hopeful that Helen will join her.
‘Really?’ Helen understands the invitation immediately and takes a seat beside her.
‘Yes, lots of them, before she died, so I could open them at important times in my life. But I haven’t stuck to the rules, Helen, I’ve opened some of them earlier than I should have. Does that make me an awful person? Would she be disappointed in me?’
The need for reassurance is etched all over Jenny’s face, in the downcast sadness of her big blue eyes and the defeated dip at the corners of her mouth. ‘My goodness, no! I’d say it makes you human. I expect it was simply not in your mother’s make-up to be disappointed with you. How could she be? Look at you. You’re a beautiful young woman, you have a job, a man who wants to marry you, you’re succeeding. She did a wonderful job in the time she had with you.’ Helen means the words to be comforting but they are having precisely the opposite effect and now the tears are pouring out of Jenny, like she saved them all up for this appointment today. Helen gathers her up in her arms and just holds her there for a few minutes, not saying a word, but feeling the sharp sobs shake out of her. She’s wondering how this girl made it all the way through the day. All the people she must have encountered, all the missed or ignored opportunities to help her. Then feeling the swell of pride that she can gladly offer Jenny that kindness.
Helen notices, but doesn’t mind at all, that some of the tears have dropped onto the dress, dotting the skirt with tiny wet patches. She can get it dry-cleaned.
‘It’s just a thought, but is there something of your mother’s we could work into the dress, Jenny? A piece of fabric from a treasured item of her clothing, her own wedding dress even, or a special piece of jewellery? We could use some of the stones or look at ways to actually attach it?’
The mention
of her mother’s jewellery sends Jenny’s right hand shooting towards her engagement finger, where, Helen can see, there is no ring today. She couldn’t help but notice the emerald-cut aquamarine last time Jenny was in, but now it’s absent. She surely couldn’t have lost it? No, she would be on her feet and heading for the door by now if that was the case.
‘OK, don’t panic. Did you take it off this morning when you were washing? Or at work?’ She must have hit the nail on the head because she feels Jenny’s body give way and relax back into her arms.
‘Is it harder for you at Christmas time?’ ventures Helen. ‘That’s when I used to really struggle, after losing my husband. It feels like a selfish thing to say now but when everyone else was moaning on about the shopping they still had to do or the number of people they had to feed, all I could think was how I would have traded places with them in an instant to have Phillip’s shopping list back in my purse. You know, one year, after he was gone, I bought all his presents as normal. Wrapped the lot of them and put them under the tree. I even bought his favourite cream sherry. It made me feel better, like he was watching me, and I needed to show him he hadn’t been forgotten. Then I had to unwrap them all again and take them to the charity shop, months later.’ She can smile a little now, knowing she is a long way from those dark days.
‘I keep seeing things in shop windows that I think she’ll like, then remembering I can’t buy them. Or I’ll hear her favourite Christmas song and see her dancing around the kitchen – like you know Jon Hamm’s watching, she used to say – glass of advocaat in hand, while the house filled with the smell of cloves, citrus, onions and eventually – because she never got the timing right – roast turkey.’
Helen’s pleased to see Jenny’s smiling a little now, that for a moment the lovely memory of her mum is stronger than the pain of losing her. She can also feel every word of this pricking at her own memories, the ones she has time-locked away and visits only very occasionally now.
‘I was crying over the dates in M&S the other day because she only ever ate them at Christmas time. The day after, it was an old kids’ film that happened to be on, because I remember the day we curled up on the sofa together and watched it, working our way through a mountain of salted popcorn. I ate so much, it made my lips go numb. The way she planted a kiss on my cheek or hand every ten minutes without even realising she was doing it.’ Helen could kiss Jenny right now, and actually considers it for a moment, but gives her the space to keep talking, knowing how good it is for her to do just that.
‘It never felt much like Christmas after we lost her. Dad never made an effort with the decorations – I understand why – and the day was always tinged with a sadness no one could shift or ignore. In the end we just started treating it like a normal day. Dad would spend it catching up on a bit of DIY and my sister and I would try to land an invite to a friend’s house.’ Helen can see how tightly clasped Jenny’s hands are in her lap, perhaps a distraction to prevent the tears from welling up again.
‘And what about now that you’re older, how is it now?’
‘I’m on my own this year, so it will be harder.’ Helen can hear the tremble in her voice. ‘Dad and Sylvie, his new wife, are going skiing and it’s my sister’s turn to spend it with her husband Will’s family, so that just leaves me.’
‘But what about your fiancé? Won’t you be spending it with him?’ Helen is confused, surely he won’t leave her on her own?
She watches Jenny jolt like she’s just remembered something important, then hang her head, saying nothing, before finally adding, ‘He’s busy.’
‘You couldn’t join him and be together, even if it’s a work thing, just for some of the day?’ There must be some way for this poor girl not to be left alone at Christmas time? It’s a reminder that Helen’s own Christmas is shaping up to be a little fraught if Betsy and Jacob don’t sort themselves out. And where might Nick fit into all of this? She’s yet to work that out.
‘I’m afraid not.’ Jenny quietly shakes her head.
There is a pause while Helen seriously weighs up the appropriateness of inviting a near-total stranger to spend it with her. She knows she can’t, not when she’s spent less than two hours in her company. She decides to try and lighten the mood a little.
‘And that must get pretty confusing, mustn’t it?’
‘What’s that?’ Jenny lifts her head to look at Helen, whose eyes are back scanning her paperwork.
‘You and your sister, both with partners called Will? I mean, what are the chances of that?’ Helen watches Jenny search for and fail to find an answer. She can also see her cheeks flush and a startled look return to her eyes – the one she recognises from all the times she caught a teenage Betsy attempting to fib her way out of trouble.
There’s definitely more to Jenny, Helen knows that for sure now, and wonders if a little more time in her company might help her understand this girl better.
‘What are you doing tomorrow, Jenny? Fancy some help with a little wedding planning?’ She’s made the offer before she’s even really had time to consider how above and beyond the call of duty it is. But then, Helen could do with some fun too. It will be good for both of them, if Jenny doesn’t think it too weird a suggestion.
‘Really? I would absolutely love that!’ She looks like she can’t believe her luck.
‘OK, perfect. I know just where I’ll take you.’
17
Jenny
It’s Marianne’s backside I see first, as I’m trying to slip back into the flat, unnoticed. I make it inside, close the front door painfully slowly on the icy November evening, not making a single sound. Then I tiptoe down the hallway, stepping over what looks like a pair of her hold ups and an up-ended empty wine bottle. Edging closer to the safety of my room, and glancing briefly in through her open bedroom door, there it is – thrust skywards, wobbling away, free from any underwear. She is bending right over, completely naked from the waist down, and I panic, thinking she can’t have finished with the workmen yet. I stumble backwards slightly, very nearly revealing my presence. Bugger it! After The White Gallery, I killed as much time as I could on the way home, walking at a snail’s pace to the tube, then pottering around M&S, examining things I had no intention of buying, but, argh, maybe it wasn’t long enough?
I watch, horrified, as she moves about her room, pulling various items of clothing off the bedroom floor, sniffing and discarding them, until she finds something she deems clean enough – that is, something that doesn’t smell repulsive. It’s a pair of my fake leather Zara leggings that have been missing for months. Of course it is. She pulls them straight on, without bothering with knickers. She can keep them, I’ll buy another pair. I can’t risk a sixty-degree wash not killing whatever might be making its home in the crotch fibres.
Much as I want to, now is not the time to make a scene – and she won’t care if I do, anyway. She still hasn’t spotted me and by the sounds of it, the blokes have gone. Oh, thank you, God! I’m past her opened bedroom door, easing my weight across the floorboards, avoiding the ones I know always creak, down the hallway, until my hand is extending out towards my own bedroom door handle. If I can just make it into my room, then I’ll slip into bed, turn off the light and avoid hearing all the gory details, at least until tomorrow morning when I might have the stomach for it.
But no.
‘Ahhh, there you are!’ Marianne appears in her bedroom doorway, glaring at me. She’s pulled on a black string vest, not mine, both of her nipples poking aggressively through the holes. I’m tempted to ask what exactly is the point of wearing it, but, ugh, whatever! She looks a mess, more so than usual. Her lipstick is feathering out way beyond the natural line of her lips and she looks dirty, like she needs an hour-long soak in the bath. Maybe it’s just because I know what she’s been doing. What she thought I’d be joining her for.
‘Oh, hi, Marianne, sorry I’m so late. Killer of a shift. I did mean to call, but it was just so busy.’ I drop my bag, and, a littl
e over-dramatically, the few groceries I’ve picked up on the way home, to the floor, as if to demonstrate my exhaustion. Maybe she’ll take pity on me. I’m really not in the mood for a confrontation tonight. I’m also struggling to find somewhere for my eyes to fall that isn’t her nipples being strangled by the cheap thread of the vest.
‘Well, that was a lot for me to deal with on my own. I gave it my best shot, obviously, but God!’ She looks genuinely clapped-out and I have to stop myself imagining what sordid acts might have gone on in the hours before I sneaked in.
‘Sorry. Listen, I’ve got a banging headache and it’s been one hell of a day so I’m going to turn in, if you don’t mind. Let’s chat tomorrow, yeah?’ I muster a half-hearted smile that isn’t returned.
‘Sure. But, Jenny?’ She steps closer to me, into the hall now.
‘Yep.’ I’m gathering my things up, ready to close the bedroom door on her, which is the only way she’ll understand that this conversation is over.
‘Why did you lie? Nothing happened between you and those guys, did it? They didn’t have a clue what I was talking about when I mentioned what you said – you know, the threesome. You made me look like a right nutter.’ Her hands move to her hips and I can see from her rarely serious face that she is annoyed.
I should have known she’d work it out – it wasn’t going to take a genius, was it? There’s no point in trying to talk my way around this one.
‘I don’t know, Marianne. Why does anyone lie? Because it’s easier? Because just for once I wanted to exceed expectations? I didn’t realise you were going to call them, did I?’ I’m trying to muster the sort of expression that looks apologetic but also tells her to leave it alone. The way my voice is wavering must warn her not to dig any further because she backs off.