by Jade Beer
There’s a tightness in her jaw as she wonders what happened to the sweet, sweet girl Betsy used to be. The one who saved her pocket money to buy a cheap potted pansy at the garden centre for Helen’s birthday every year. Who charged out of school each day like the starting pistol had just been fired, her face beaming at the first sight of Helen at the school gates, never once late. And the one who told Helen she needed her to hold her hand on her wedding day, to walk her down the aisle when it really should have been Phillip’s honour. Helen had planned how she was going to plant the softest kiss on her daughter’s cheek, give her fingers a reassuring squeeze, tell her how much she loves her one more time before she stepped aside and surrendered the keys to Betsy’s heart to Jacob. Now, none of it will come to be. And Helen wants to know why. She needs to understand how the version of Betsy she holds so dearly in her heart bears so little resemblance to the indifference she has shown.
She’s trying her hardest not to obsess about all of this when a text lands from Nick: he’s fifteen minutes away. Then she’s welcoming a visibly overexcited Tabitha – quite the vision in pink over-the-knee socks and a sequinned batwing top – who is bouncing from one foot to the other.
As soon as Helen opens the door to Tabitha and her equally ebullient mother, they both rampage through the boutique, grabbing at everything that sparkles, pulling fine pearl decorated accessories off Helen’s perfectly straight silk hangers, forcing their feet into crystal-embellished sandals and loading their heads up with Swarovski-dotted veils and crown-like tiaras. Helen takes a deep, calming breath. They are, at least, a welcome distraction.
‘OMG, this is TDF!’ Tabitha shouts at the top of her tiny lungs as she forces her fist into a sheer sequinned glove.
‘Is that a good thing?’ Helen’s not sure she has the energy to work this out.
‘To. Die. For. I love everything in here. Get me into that fitting room. NOW!’
Helen dutifully does as she is told. She can feel her phone vibrate in the pocket of her plaid wool trousers and sneaks a quick glance: Betsy will be half an hour. Great. She excuses herself for a moment and sends a quick message back.
* * *
Lovely, Nick on his way too. We can all catch up.
* * *
Helen has a break of an hour after this appointment so perhaps the three of them can grab a coffee together. Then she flicks her phone to silent, knowing these two are going to demand her full attention, just as Tabitha bellows from behind the curtain, ‘So, if I do a load of tweets about my dress, will you give me some money off, then?’
It’s not the first time she’s been asked this question, far from it, but it always astounds Helen that anyone has the gall to do it. Would she go into a restaurant and haggle over the price of a main course, or try to pay less than the cashier requested for her weekly supermarket shop?
‘I’m afraid not. There just isn’t a large enough margin in the cost of these gowns to allow me to do that. Sorry. But I do have some very competitive payment terms if you’d like me to talk you through them?’ Helen says the words very clearly, and definitively, killing any suggestion that this might be up for debate, but still with her usual gentle, professional tone. She’s not in the mood for anything even approaching an argument.
Tabitha and her mother are looking at Helen like she’s insane, their lips curled back over their excessively white front teeth, heavily painted brows forming a quizzical arch before Tabitha audibly snorts and returns to burying herself in the rail of dresses.
‘The Bridal Closet said they would.’ The mum, dressed all in black, has turned to face Helen, arms folded tightly across her chest. She lets the words hang unpleasantly in the air while she fixes her gaze on Helen, her daughter seemingly unaware of the standoff that is developing around her. When Helen refuses to be drawn on the subject, she adds, ‘I thought you might at least match their offer of thirty per cent off.’
‘It’s not something I do. I never have, I do make that quite clear on the website.’ Still Helen remains friendly, busying her hands and deflecting her gaze to a row of beaded sashes that line one wall of the fitting room.
‘Why on earth would we shop here then?’ The mum raises her voice and Helen can tell she is going to have to react. Calmly. The flush in the mum’s cheeks is telling her there is a level of anger under all that foundation that she is not keen to see unleashed.
‘Well, of course you don’t have to. If you feel there is a better offer waiting for you somewhere else, then I understand that.’
‘Get your clothes back on, Tabitha! We’re going!’ The words growl out of her, making Helen stumble backwards slightly into a glass-topped side table. A vase of blowsy pink carnations rocks back and forth and she has to steady them quickly.
‘I want to try on the Hayley Paige!’
She’s brave, thinks Helen, taking on the might of her mother.
‘You can, but we’ll do it at a proper bridal boutique. One that actually appreciates its customers.’ The woman throws the filthiest look at Helen, it’s pure venom.
And just as Helen opens her mouth to protest she can hear Nick’s reassuring loud voice out in the main shop: ‘Can I borrow you please, Helen?’
She needs no further excuse and leaves the two women raging at each other.
Seeing Nick’s concern-filled face – he’s obviously overheard the entire thing – makes her long for a big protective hug. She can feel her heartbeat jackhammering inside her and the energy drain from her legs. Nick directs her into a chair as the two women stomp back through the boutique, slamming the door so loudly that one of Helen’s beautiful framed photographs topples over. He immediately moves to straighten it as Helen watches closely. She knows which one it is, the image that Nick is holding in both hands now, studying. It’s herself and Phillip on their wedding day, laughing as if they had not one care in the world – they didn’t. She can see a small smile force itself across his lips as he replaces it; he knows she’s watching him. ‘Wow, you look so happy! Beautiful, too.’
He’s so kind and measured, thinks Helen, paying her a compliment even though she can tell from his slight stiffness that he’s not entirely happy to see the picture there.
‘Look, I hate to bang on about it, but have you decided about getting some help with the boutique yet?’ Nick takes a seat beside her, obviously keen to move the conversation on. ‘I don’t want to push you on this, but equally, I don’t like to think of you here alone, dealing with women like that.’ He nods towards the door, thankfully still secure in its frame.
‘Yes! I’m going to make someone an offer. I just need to pin her down, see if she’s interested.’
‘Perfect! Who is she?’ He looks genuinely thrilled at this news.
‘Well, let’s see if she’s interested first, shall we? Then I’ll tell you all about her.’ Helen isn’t ready to let him in on her plan just yet; the big reveal will have to wait. ‘Now, what did you want to talk to me about that’s so pressing, you had to drive straight here?’ Helen is all smiles, thinking Nick is probably about to suggest something romantic, spontaneous. A mini-break to a European capital city, perhaps?
‘Betsy.’ His face is so serious, no flirtatious little smirks now, and when he takes both of Helen’s hands in his, she knows she isn’t going to like what’s coming.
‘What about her?’ Helen’s mind is whirring on ahead, trying to work out what Nick could possibly know that she doesn’t. ‘Have you heard from her? Seen her?’
‘Yes, I have seen her.’ He struggles to hold eye contact with Helen, taking his time, looking like he’s trying to work out if he can say what he intended to.
‘You need to talk to her, Helen. And soon.’
‘Well, that’s not a problem, she’s due here any minute.’ The words have barely left her lips when the door to the boutique bursts open and Betsy comes hurtling through, flushed, panting and in the sort of rage that Helen has never seen before.
‘Shut up! Just shut up!’ She screams the wor
ds at them through angry tears, obviously not caring for a second that there could be customers in the shop, and sending Nick immediately, defensively, to his feet.
‘Betsy! What on earth is wrong?’ Helen stands up too, her palms raised, protectively open, trying to physically take the sting out of her daughter’s anger. She’s assuming that anger is being directed at her until she sees the accusing look Betsy is shooting at Nick.
‘Calm down, Betsy. There is absolutely no need to get upset about this.’ Nick is clearly trying to remain composed, but Helen can tell from the startled way his eyes are pinned wide open that he is not used to being spoken to like this.
‘What gives you the right to interfere in my life?’ Betsy throws her bag at the floor and focuses every ounce of her fury at him.
Helen starts to sob, at a total loss to understand how the two people she cares most about can be so violently opposed to each other. What on earth has happened?
‘You couldn’t wait to get over here, could you? Score yourself some brownie points by telling her everything! It’s not going to make her love you, you know! What did you think, she would thank you for telling her what a slut her daughter is?’
‘That’s enough!’ It’s Helen’s turn to shout now. ‘Get out, Betsy!’
That silences her. Betsy’s frozen for a moment, eyes flicking between her mum and Nick, stunned by the realisation that her mother is siding with him over her own daughter. She doesn’t move.
‘I mean it, I’ve had enough of you. The way you treat me. Your lack of respect. Everything. Until you can treat people with the kindness they deserve, you are not welcome here. And for your information, I do already love him!’
Nick’s arm is suddenly around Helen’s shoulders as she buries her face in a fistful of tissues.
‘No.’ He says it quietly. ‘I’m the one who needs to leave, you both need to talk. Stay, Betsy. Sit down. Talk to each other.’ He plants the briefest kiss on Helen’s cheek and is gone, without looking back.
* * *
Helen has no choice but to cancel her next bride, something she has only ever done once before. She tells Betsy to go upstairs to her flat above the boutique, makes the call, then follows her daughter, full of trepidation.
Betsy is sat with her legs curled up under herself on the sofa. Her face is a puffy, tear-stained mess. But for once, it isn’t working with Helen. She’s not about to cave in and say everything will be OK. Not this time, not after the show Betsy just put on in front of Nick.
‘Just start from the beginning, will you. Tell me everything. What was all that about?’
‘Nick saw me and Dylan together. My boss. You met him at dinner.’ The sting has left her. No one, not even a fully petulant Betsy, can stay that angry for long.
‘Yes, I know who he is. But saw you where?’
‘In his office.’
‘Right. And…?’
‘It’s not where we were that’s important, Mum, it’s what we were doing.’ Betsy says the words quietly, perhaps guessing Helen is seconds away from fully understanding what she is guilty of.
Helen doesn’t say a thing. She sits down next to Betsy on the sofa, turns to face her and simply lets her eyes quietly fill with tears, knowing what her daughter is about to confess.
‘We’ve been having an affair. Not for long, but long enough for me to know I can’t marry Jacob and…’ She’s sobbing hard now, her voice travelling up an octave or two. ‘And I’m so sorry I’m such a terrible daughter. And you’re ashamed of me. And that you deserve so much better than the way I treat you.’ Betsy’s smearing tears and mascara across her face with the back of her hand.
‘I’ve tried to stop it. I came back from New York determined it would end, but when I got back to the office and saw Dylan, that all changed. Then Nick arrived. I’m so sorry I’ve let you down, Mum. What must Dad think of me?’
It’s the first time Helen has ever heard Betsy reference Phillip in this way since his death. They’ve reminisced about him endlessly, revisiting their favourite memories of the world’s best father and husband – Helen often sharing stories from Betsy’s babyhood that she couldn’t possibly remember. But Betsy’s never spoken about him as if he was watching over her still, forming an opinion, making judgements. It’s so sad, and it’s opening Helen’s heart up all over again.
‘He loved every part of you, Betsy. And he would still love you, if he were here now. Try as hard as you like but there will never be anything you can do or say to change that. He idolised you, would forgive you anything. And I’ll never stop loving you, Betsy. You are part of me, my most treasured part. I hope you know that.’ Helen uses her fingers to gently sweep Betsy’s tears away, then guides her daughter’s head onto her shoulder, and tries to hug all the misery out of her.
‘People have affairs and their relationships survive. Have you thought about that? About what you are giving up?’ Helen’s saying it because she feels she must. But she’s seen Betsy and Jacob together. And Betsy and Dylan. It’s a futile question, one she already knows the answer to. Helen, of all people, understands the pull Betsy is feeling, the thrill of being desired and adored.
‘I don’t want to marry Jacob. Ever.’
‘That’s very final.’
‘Not as final as getting married. Surely, it’s OK to be thirty-four and not married?’
Helen gently nods her head. Her daughter is finally talking to her and she doesn’t want to interrupt her.
‘I think we’ve been on our way to being over for a very long time, Mum. I’ve just been making excuses and hoping we’d turn a corner.’
Helen isn’t going to argue. She remembers all too well the surprise visit she paid to Jacob that morning and his total disinterest in her, Betsy and the wedding.
‘I want what you and Dad had, what you and Nick might have one day. Someone who is going to put me first. Someone I’ll want to put first too.’ She pauses, clearly imagining the worst, then confirming it. ‘Everyone’s going to hate me, aren’t they?’
‘What you’re doing is very brave. It would be easier to plough on, wouldn’t it? But yes, everyone will have an opinion on it – from the guy who serves you your morning coffee to every colleague and Jacob’s family. You’ll have to be ready for that. Looking at this positively, at least the invites never went out.’
Betsy sits up to face her mum again. ‘How did you know that?’
‘It doesn’t matter, it’s a long story. But would you still feel this way if nothing comes of you and Dylan?’
Betsy pauses, for a lot longer than Helen feels comfortable with, and she can see the sigh rise and fall in her daughter’s chest.
‘I think so, Mum. More than anything, I’m just sick of pretending.’
‘Nick didn’t tell me, you know? I don’t think he ever intended to. He came here today to try and spell out how much we needed to talk. I think you owe him an apology, when you’re ready to face it.’
‘I know. But how can I make it up to you, Mum?’ Betsy is talking to her mum’s soft, perfumed chest, hiding her face again.
‘That’s easy. I want you to spend Christmas Eve with Nick and me. We’re having drinks for close family and friends, I want you there.’ Helen is smiling down at the top of her daughter’s head, running her hand lovingly over her hair. ‘I think, as a family, we are due a special get-together.’
‘Well, it’s not like I have any plans that day now, is it?’ Betsy’s sarcasm is misplaced but Helen knows it’s just her way of trying to lighten the mood, to let her mum know she’s going to be OK.
‘You do now.’ It’s the first proper smile Helen has felt like sharing all day but it’s fleeting. ‘Betsy, does Jacob know any of this yet?’ Helen fears that a man so self-absorbed and apathetic as Jacob won’t have considered for a moment what is coming his way.
‘No.’
‘Then that’s your next job. Whatever you think of him now, you have shared some beautiful times together and he deserves your honesty. Do it soon. As s
oon as you can.’
‘I’ll do it tonight. The second I get back.’
25
Jenny
‘I really can’t see what you’re so worried about. It sounds like a load of nonsense to me.’
I don’t know how many times I’ve suggested to Marianne that she might want to put on more than her mesh bra and knickers before she joins me for breakfast in the morning. I’m starting to wonder if she’s doing it just to wind me up. It’s working. There is zero chance of enjoying my soggy cornflakes when, out of the corner of my eye, I can see all sorts escaping down her thigh.
I also don’t know why I bother to share my problems with her. She has absolutely no idea of the gravity of what I’ve done. And even if she did, she still wouldn’t give a toss. In her world I’d be slapping on some lipstick, tossing my head in the air and finding someone else to blame. Well, it’s not going to be that easy. I need to confess all about Mrs Marks’ injection to Jean the second I get to work this morning, and maybe even go to her home to administer it, if Jean will let me. Then take the roasting that is presumably coming my way.
‘If you ask me, maybe you should invest a bit more time planning where your next shag is coming from, Jen. Because, I’m not being funny, but you haven’t had it for, what? Six months?’
She clocks my hard swallow and the way I immediately try to busy myself sweeping crumbs off the tablecloth and into my palm.
‘Shit! It’s even longer than that, isn’t it? How are you getting through the day? And who the hell is Will?’
I see then that she’s got something in her hand. A heavy white envelope with Jenny & Will in black swirly calligraphy across the front. ‘This came in the post this morning. I made a point of opening the door to him, just to see how he would react to my new undies. And I’m pleased to say he flushed even redder than usual.’ I have no idea why Marianne does this to our elderly postman every morning, but the poor bugger must dread coming here.