by Jade Beer
‘I hope this is giving you a little food for thought.’ Helen smiles at me from the till, where the assistant is wrapping up a couple of pieces for her. ‘For the wedding night and the honeymoon, perhaps? Aren’t you going to buy a little something?’
‘No, not this time.’ What would be the point? I know Marianne will only swipe it as soon as she can. But then I change my mind. ‘Actually, you know what, Helen? Yes, I love this!’ I’m holding up a pale blue camisole that is edged with a deep band of the softest cream-coloured lace. It’s ninety-five pounds, but I’m having it. I’ll take it in to work next week and show it off. The first piece for my honeymoon wardrobe!
As we step back outside, and Helen insists on putting me in a cab and paying for it, I give her the tightest hug I can. I don’t want to let go of her.
‘Thank you so much for today, I can’t even begin to tell you how much I’ve enjoyed it. And your company. Can I see you again?’ I realise how creepy this sounds and start laughing at myself.
‘I was hoping you’d say that. Yes, please. It’s been wonderful for me too.’
Then she’s off, and, to be perfectly honest, I am missing her already.
18
Nat
The wedding is off.
These are not the words Nat usually likes to wake to, but that’s all Betsy’s text says. She saw it the second she stirred this morning. It must have been sent through the long, drawn-out frustration of a sleepless night, or an early-hours confession – screaming match, maybe – with Jacob.
As Nat is trying to work out whether to call Betsy straight away, another text pings through, reassuring her that she will be paid for everything she has done so far. Relief is definitely Nat’s first reaction, but she’s deflated too. She had hoped they might be nudging towards friendship, but Betsy has just planted them firmly in business-only territory. Then Betsy is asking if she can come and see her today. If they were keeping it strictly business, this would definitely not be part of the contractual requirements. On the other hand, it’s the perfect opportunity for Nat to redeem herself and convince Betsy she had absolutely no alternative but to speak to Helen about what’s been going on. Maybe she can persuade her to talk to Helen too, then everyone will be happy. Something in the conciliatory way Betsy has phrased the second text, I know I don’t deserve it, has her tapping back, ok, fine, before Nat can decide against it. Betsy is adamant she will come to her, the least I can do, so she has two hours to get dressed and ready for whatever further revelations are coming her way.
Nat pads through to the kitchen, up-ends nearly a quarter of a box of chocolate-coated cereal into a giant breakfast bowl and then heads to the sofa, deciding to ease herself slowly into the weekend. That is until she hears her neighbours kick off their usual Saturday morning sex routine. Every weekend, without fail, it starts up at 10 a.m. sharp. She turned the TV down and listened the first time she heard them, laughing to herself, wondering who she should call and put on loud speaker to howl along with her. But over the weeks and months, it’s become as mundane as the radiators starting up in the morning; the same rhythm, duration and grunting thumping through the walls, always sticking to their preferred repertoire as they hammer away at each other. Round one will be over in about the same time it takes to lightly brown and butter two slices of toast. Whatever they’re doing, thinks Nat, as she’s splashing semi-skimmed milk all down her striped jim-jams, it sounds horribly forced, like someone laughing too hard at a joke. The sort of exaggerated noise you make when a firework goes up, or someone puts a big slice of cake in front of you.
If that’s what married sex sounds like, then no thanks. There’s no denying Nat’s on a bit of a downer at the moment. Last weekend’s wedding – the beautiful love-filled homemade one that had easily topped her list of favourites this year – had an unexpected sting in the tail. Heidi and Alex had one of those weddings where no one seemed to care about formality, all their interest focused instead on celebrating this one crazy cool couple. The day drifted easily along through cider brandy and rhubarb cocktails, wooden boards laden with Welsh rarebit and wild mushroom brioches and into the chill of the evening, before the fairy lights started to twinkle in the branches above them all and everyone was drawn to the warm, smokey glow of the fire pit. One of the groom’s best friends appeared with a guitar and started strumming out the crowd’s requests as the volume rose and every last inhibition drifted upwards with the fire embers.
Heidi looked heavenly in a Claire Pettibone dress with beaded silk flowers blooming across the bodice and down both sheer sleeves, finishing at a waistband of pearls and delicate crystal stones. The skirt was a blush silk that draped across the floor as she walked, blending in perfectly with the deep coloured backdrop of the flower farm – purple and red violas, primroses and ivy berries. She looked like she had stepped straight off the pages of one of those flower fairy books from Nat’s childhood, as if she wouldn’t be going home this evening but would curl up later under some dew-covered petals or a toadstool.
Just so romantic, remembers Nat, as her neighbours are reaching their predictable, underwhelming crescendo. Uh. Uh. Uh. Done. She pictures them, sitting up in bed, discussing who’s going to collect the dry cleaning and remind the milkman they’re away next week.
Only one girl hadn’t been smiling last weekend, and it took Nat all day to work out why. She tried to chat to her a couple of times, but after getting sharp one-word answers, she gave up. Then, as the temperature dropped, and guests started to make their way into the cosy log cabin the couple had built especially, she saw it happen. Alex hung back, so it was just him and the girl in the pale mint silk dress left by the fire – and Nat, watching from a safe distance. He tried to whisper something in her ear and, as he did so, he let his hand slide over the smoothness of the silk, pausing at the sexy curve of her hip, like he might have done a million times before. It was so deliberate and brazen, it took Nat’s breath away for a second. She spun around quickly to see if anyone else was witnessing what she was – no, thank goodness – then the two of them pulled apart, Alex heading for the cabin, the girl stomping off in the direction of the parked cars.
It completely killed the evening for Nat. Knocked the wind right out of her, like the night all those years ago when she opened her eyes too soon and saw her mum stuffing presents into the stocking at the end of her bed. She’d never said anything then, finding it too sad to put it into words, and the feeling was the same this time. Now, soggy cereal finished, she’s flicking back through her phone at pictures of Heidi and Alex; him all duplicitous smiles, her totally lost in the happy abandon of it all. It’s making Nat wonder how many other weddings she’s helped orchestrate this year that were somehow less than they should have been. Although she doesn’t have time for it, she grabs her laptop from the bookshelf and starts to look back through some of her recent client records.
There’s Miranda, who approached her wedding like she was brokering a business deal; Grace and all her insecure trust issues and ludicrous red wine throwing antics; Susie, the influencer, who saw her big day as just another pay day; Betsy, who doesn’t want to marry at all. Nat lets her fingers tap forward to the weddings booked in for next year. Can she see any signs of positivity there? No. One bride-to-be who is hiding the fact that she will never get pregnant from her fiancé, through fear it will halt their wedding plans; a gay couple who are devoted to each other, but have had endless rejections from suppliers who don’t recognise real committed love when they see it, and a woman so uncomfortable with her own company that she is now planning her fourth wedding. None of it makes sense – and yet Nat is so central to making it all happen. Whether she’s simply pulling on a bridesmaid dress or being asked to orchestrate the whole thing, why does something that was once so fun, now feel so meaningless and wrong? Why doesn’t she feel proud of what she does any more?
Another text from Betsy confirms she’s already in Wimbledon. Nat needs to get a move on, she’ll be here in less than half an hour.
While the hot shower is pricking her skin, she thinks seriously about the value of what she does all day, every day, how she chooses to pay the bills. Unlike Helen, who is so honest with her judgement, where does Nat’s moral compass point? Straight to her bank balance, apparently. Susie was the first client whose offer of work she ever turned down. Why has she agreed to help marry so many couples who were clearly not meant to be together? More than anything she just wants the next wedding she attends to be authentic, honest and maybe, just for once, not wrapped up in a novel’s worth of deceit.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, as Nat is pulling on a pair of boyfriend jeans and a white t-shirt, the intercom pings, telling her Betsy is here. She buzzes her in, and having decided her entire career is founded on something paper-thin, she’s not in the mood for trouble. More than anything she just wants the tables to turn, for Betsy to cheer her up. Now the two of them are ripping up the business contract, can’t someone else come up with all the ideas for once, tell Nat how to make her life more fulfilling?
‘Hi. Oh, you’d better come on in.’ The bags lodged under Betsy’s eyes immediately tell Nat this is going to be no jolly visit.
‘Hi, Nat. I’m sorry to just land on you like this. Thank you for seeing me, especially after… last time.’
Betsy looks awful, like she hasn’t slept properly for a week. Her hair is matted and her face completely make-up free. She’s nervous too, her eyes are darting around the room, settling on Nat’s laptop, then shifting off through to the bedroom, like she expects someone else to appear. Nat stands there for a second, registering how pitiful she is, then gets hold of her. It’s a proper bone-crunching squeeze, one that’s long overdue, and she can feel Betsy drop her bag to the floor so she can fully reciprocate.
‘Don’t say a thing, just park it on the sofa and I’ll make a cuppa. How d’you have it?’ The one benefit of doing what Nat does for a living is that she is great in a crisis.
‘Thank you. Milk, no sugar,’ Betsy is using the heel of each hand to smudge away her tears, creasing the skin around her eyes, instantly ageing herself.
She stays in the lounge for the four minutes it takes Nat to make their drinks, not saying a word, but Nat can hear the quiet sobs she’s trying to stifle.
Nat hands her a mug of piping hot tea, knowing full well that she’ll now be writing off the morning. Whatever’s going on here, it’s not going to be resolved quickly.
‘I’m sorry, Nat. I behaved so badly the last time we saw each other, and you didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of all that. I just saw you and Mum together and, well, I didn’t exactly handle it very well.’ Betsy looks nothing like the ranting mess that screamed Nat down in the street that day. She looks broken, like every drop of energy has been hoovered out of her. Helen would be distraught if she could see her.
‘She’s really worried about you, you know.’ Nat takes a seat on the sofa, sinking deep into its cream linen cushions.
‘Mum? I know, we’ve spoken. I called her. I can’t say it was the easiest chat we’ve ever had, but we cleared the air a little. I promised to sort myself out. But what she doesn’t know is that the wedding is off. I just can’t bring myself to take the wind out of her sails just yet. And… Jacob doesn’t know yet either.’
‘Betsy, I hope you’re not here because you’re expecting me to deliver the killer blows? That’s really not what I do.’ As much as she wants to help, Nat is going to have to draw the line at being the one to officially confirm all of Helen’s worst fears about her daughter.
‘Oh God, no! That’s not what I meant at all. I just need to be able to tell someone. I can’t speak to my friends, because so many of them are Jacob’s friends too, and I obviously can’t tell anyone at work because…’ She trails off like she’s just realised she really can’t finish that sentence, and slumps down lower on the sofa.
‘Has this got anything to do with Dylan, by any chance? Do you work with him? We may as well cut to the chase. Nothing ever got solved from dancing around it for twenty minutes.’
‘He’s my boss.’ Betsy keeps her eyes glued to the mug of tea she’s holding in her lap, too embarrassed, apparently, to make eye contact with Nat now.
‘Right. And what? You fancy him? He fancies you? I know that would be majorly inconvenient timing right now, but it doesn’t make you enemy number one. There are worse things you could be telling me.’
‘It’s more than that.’
Betsy clearly isn’t going to elaborate and it’s going to be up to Nat to tease this confession out of her. ‘You wouldn’t be the first or last woman on earth to snog the boss, Betsy. I’m not sure it’s worth getting too bent out of shape about – certainly not worth calling a wedding off for – unless…’ She can see the tears are starting to make their way down Betsy’s cheeks again. ‘… unless there’s more to it than that?’ She moves to sit alongside Betsy, curling a leg up under herself so she can turn to face her directly.
‘We slept together the other night in the office and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since.’ Betsy glances up through her fringe, perhaps waiting to see if the judgement she might reasonably expect is there on Nat’s face: it’s not.
‘I think you need to be really careful, Betsy. How many years have you been with Jacob?’
‘Too many.’
‘Well, are you going to throw all that away for an office affair that might fizzle out before Christmas – or become so awkward, you end up having to leave?’ Nat’s seen enough brides-to-be wobble in the run-up to their weddings, then regret it later, a classic symptom of her slide, not decide generation who can have another date lined up on social media the same afternoon they call the wedding off.
‘I think it might be more than that.’
‘But you’re not sure?’ Nat’s trying to channel a bit of Helen’s calm inquisition.
‘Well…’
‘Has he had affairs with women in the office before? What d’you know about his previous love life?’
‘Not a lot, really.’
‘Who started it all? Did he make all the play?’ She can see Betsy hasn’t asked herself any of this stuff, too distracted probably by the should she, shouldn’t she? lusty thrill of it all. Nat watches as Betsy’s cheeks flush a deep rose and she sucks in a huge lungful of breath.
‘I did. I feel like I made all this happen. I wanted it, I dreamt about it. It’s consumed me for months. I want him, so badly. Everything else in my life – Mum, work, Jacob and this wedding – has just faded into the background. And I’ve had to tell so many lies to cover my tracks. I can’t keep up with it all. I know I’m going to break people’s hearts but how can I avoid that?’
‘You can’t, and you won’t. Do you think Jacob is onto you? Because your mum certainly is.’
‘In a way I wish he was, but there’s no chance. He’s too wrapped up in his own world to even notice me half the time. He’s shown about as much interest in this wedding as I have, and I couldn’t tell you the last time he tried to touch me, get close to me. And thank God, because I know it sounds so awful, but the thought of it now makes my skin crawl.’
‘Maybe you need some time away, Betsy. Out of the office. No Dylan, no Jacob, just a few fun days to clear your head and work out how you’re going to handle all of this.’
Nat watches as Betsy’s mind ticks over, piecing something together, trying to work out if something might be possible, then a small smile starts to ease across her lips.
‘What are you doing next Wednesday?’ Betsy looks at Nat, full of hope, like her answer to this question might just solve everything.
‘Nothing, actually. I was just checking through my bookings and now that you’ve cancelled me, the diary is looking quiet until the end of the year.’ Oh God, maybe she should have heard what’s coming before she answered that so conclusively.
‘Great. How d’you fancy coming to New York with me? No hotel costs. I’ll cover all our expenses, even your flight.’
> Nat’s mouth starts to move to politely decline, but then she stops. Hasn’t she got a bit of thinking to do herself? A few things to work out about her own future and where it’s going? This could be a very useful trip. And, despite all the drama that seems to surround her, she likes Betsy. She could make it her mission to ensure she has some fun, gives up all the angst for a few days. Sounds pretty appealing, actually.
‘Why are you going?’ Nat drills down on the details.
‘It’s work, but I’ll have plenty of spare time for sightseeing and no plans for any of the evenings.’
‘How long are you going for?’ Because once Nat and her plastic hit Greenwich Village it’s going to be carnage.
‘Three nights. And all moping will be banned. I really don’t fancy going alone.’ She needs saving, Nat can see that. She also knows she has the skills to make this happen for Betsy. The two of them could rampage all over Manhattan without a care in the world. She can also see the wide-eyed expectation in Betsy’s face, how if Nat just says the word, it’s going to make everything better.
‘You could ask your mum, you know?’ Helen would love the chance for a bit of mother-daughter bonding.
‘I think we both know that’s not the sort of trip I need this to be.’ Yep, she’s got a point. Helen will be all about Vera Wang and Kleinfeld’s, while Betsy will want cocktails and bottomless brunch. God, that does sound tempting. It’s a free trip to New York. When the hell is anyone going to throw that at her again?
‘You know what, Betsy, that sounds like just what I need too. Sod it, I’m in!’