by Jade Beer
‘How do you feel about it all?’ She needs to have this conversation with her daughter and if it has to be done in front of an audience, then so be it. She needs convincing that Betsy is going to be OK at the drinks reception tomorrow – Christmas Eve. That there won’t be any further outbursts.
‘A bit hollow, really. And embarrassed.’ Betsy manages a vague smile through a sideways glance at her mum. ‘You know, for thinking I was being so clever, for not crediting him with the intelligence to work any of it out and for stupidly believing I could fool anyone. When I look back over the past three months, it’s like I’m seeing a different person. I went to such lengths to put myself in Dylan’s path and out of Jacob’s. I’ll just never understand why Jacob didn’t stop me. Why he didn’t say something, challenge me, give me some awful ultimatum? Anything would have been better than letting me humiliate myself, day after day.’
‘I’m guessing he didn’t think he owed you that.’ Betsy’s her daughter and Helen loves her deeply, but she also wants to be honest with her. Betsy broke the trust she and Jacob had and therefore has no right now to moan about his lack of consideration. Helen drops her free left hand to Betsy’s thigh and gives it a quick rub, just to let her know that despite what she’s saying, she’ll always be on Team Betsy.
‘Thanks, Mum. I just hope one day I get a chance to properly apologise to him, when he stops hating me as much as he does right now.’
‘That day will come, I’m sure it will.’ It’s so reassuring for Helen to see the old Betsy is returning; one who cares what people think of her and is determined to do the right thing, no matter how awkward it might be or how long it takes. ‘For now, he has the book deal to think about, which will be a brilliant distraction, until someone else comes along, and she will.’ Helen’s also reassured to see that last comment raises no reaction from Betsy, not one flicker of regret or jealousy that another woman will inevitably end up sharing Jacob’s life.
‘And what about Dylan? How are things between you both?’
‘I’ve barely seen him.’ Betsy shakes her head and allows her shoulders to visibly drop a couple of inches. ‘I know he’s just trying to give me the time and space to deal with all the Jacob stuff, but I miss him so much. The two weeks before Christmas are always manic for him, he’s trying to lock everything down before everyone disappears for the holidays. And I’ve been needed in the Birmingham office more.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Helen’s not entirely sure she understands this. Wouldn’t Dylan make time for Betsy, no matter what, given what she’s going through? Betsy, perhaps sensing how inadequate her explanation sounds, continues.
‘He was mortified about Nick walking in on us – we both were – and there is a part of me wondering if he just thinks the whole thing is better left. I also wonder if he’s still stinging from the fact I had said I should make a go of it with Jacob. He doesn’t know how that conversation really panned out and I’ll have to be honest with him about it when we talk properly.’
‘Maybe just give it time? It’s a funny time of year, isn’t it, Christmas? Everyone’s emotions heighted, stress levels through the roof. Maybe just give him a bit of space, allow there to be some distance between you both, then tackle it in January with a clear head and fresh eyes, if you know what I mean?’
Helen can tell from the sad nod of Betsy’s head that this is not what her daughter is hoping for. She wants a big, romantic gesture, Helen can see it in her eyes and the way this turn in the conversation is encouraging the champagne to disappear quicker. Betsy wants a sign that someone out there can’t live without her; the Hollywood ending where Dylan swoops in, makes everything OK, confirming all the highs and lows of the past few months were worth it in the end. But is her daughter going to get it? Is she going to get a surprise gift on her doorstep Christmas morning, or an unexpected ring of the doorbell later on tonight – something that might confirm his adoration, despite everything?
‘More than anything, I’m just relieved. Whatever happens now, at least I’m not living a lie – not doing a daily battle with the guilt of all that bullshit.’
Helen shoots her daughter a frown. ‘Betsy!’
‘Shit, sorry! Argh! Sorry again. You know what I mean.’
The therapist starts giggling. ‘Oops, I’m sorry too! I have been trying not to listen but it’s not easy when we’re this close.’ The three of them share a few laughs before the therapist adds, ‘Actually, it’s so lovely to see a mum and daughter get on so well. Usually they sit here and don’t say a word to each other for forty-five minutes. One will be glued to her phone, the other all stroppy because she’s feeling ignored. Top-up, ladies?’ Then she excuses herself to fetch the bubbles and refresh her tools for Betsy’s mani.
‘So, Nick mentioned you two met for a coffee. To clear the air.’ Helen can feel herself smile at the mere mention of his name.
‘We did. He’s so lovely, Mum. I really like him. After you gave me his number, I called and fluffed my way through some pathetic attempt at an apology. Then he suggested we grab a coffee. I think he knew that seeing each other was the only way to rub out all the awkwardness I caused. And he was right. I’m so sorry, Mum. I’m not sure I can ever say it enough to make you forget about that awful afternoon in the boutique.’ She buries her head in her hands, reliving the aggressive confrontation with Nick all over again. ‘Are you serious about him?’
‘Very. I love him, Betsy, and that’s not something I ever imagined I would be able to say about another man.’ Helen is facing Betsy now, looking intently at her, studying her face for any sign that this wounds her daughter, feeling tense that despite her obvious approval of Nick, she might not be ready to fully accept him into their little family. ‘Is that OK with you? It doesn’t make you sad in any way that I’m moving on with my life?’ Helen looks at Betsy, like the answer to this question can’t possibly be more important. ‘Be honest, please.’ She holds her breath.
‘He’s so good for you, Mum. Don’t lose him, too.’ Betsy chokes out the last few words and then, without warning, and as much as she’s trying to keep them in, tears stream down her face.
‘Oh darling, I’ll never forget him, you know that, don’t you? I’ll never stop loving him. Half my heart will always belong to your dad.’ Helen’s eyes glass over, and she is close to weeping herself, knowing what a bittersweet moment this is for both of them. ‘I still dream about him sometimes. And he’s so vivid, so alive to me, I feel like I can almost touch him. But they’re happy dreams now. I wake up smiling, not crying.’ She pulls Betsy in to her, being the strong one. She’s not going to cry today, not when she’s on the verge of something so exciting with Nick. There is too much to be happy and grateful for.
Four more glasses of fizz and two perfect manicures later, Helen and Betsy stumble out into the crisp early afternoon sunshine and the swarm of last-minute demented Christmas shoppers. Helen waits until Betsy has started her walk up Bond Street towards Oxford Street and the tube, her heart aching slightly at the thought that her daughter will wake up on Christmas morning alone. Then she heads down Brook Street, past Claridge’s, pausing only to collect a frothy all-white bouquet of garden roses from a tiny florist on Davies Street. She decides against taking a taxi and walks back through the brilliant December sunshine to the boutique, where she knows Nat will be waiting for her.
* * *
‘The Bruce Oldfield dress you asked me to steam is all done and hanging in the fitting room. I found some time to buff the shoes you laid out next to it and— wow, what beautiful flowers! Can I pop them in some water for you?’
‘Thank you, you’re an angel.’ Helen’s already wondering how on earth she coped before Nat agreed to come on board.
Nat is every bit as efficient as Helen was hoping she’d be. She’s not even officially beginning her new role managing the boutique until the new year but insisted she had a clear diary and should come in and start learning the ropes. It’s the only reason Helen was able to spare the time t
o catch up with Betsy today – and she already loves Nat for that.
Once the flowers are in water in the kitchen at the back of the boutique, Nat fills Helen in on everything she’s done today.
‘Miss Jenkins collected her Freya Rose shoes and paid the balance. Then I updated all your diary appointments, copying them from the emails into the concertina file, just as you said you like it. The whole place has been hoovered and polished and I’ve added some new appointments to the diary for January. Seems a few people have already opened diamond rings this Christmas, because we’ve had quite a few calls. Will you let me do some fittings with you in the new year, Helen? I’m really keen to get cracking!’
Helen doesn’t answer. Instead, she steps forward, wraps her arms around a clearly startled Nat and thanks her over and over again for being the right-hand woman I know I need.
‘You really don’t need to thank me. I think it’s you who has saved me, actually. Although our orders of bridesmaids’ dresses may plummet a little now. Anyway, if there’s nothing else, I’d better get going.’
‘Yes, of course, off you go.’ Just as Helen is closing the door behind Nat, she spins back around and holds her hand out.
‘I almost forgot to ask. Would it be OK if I bring a friend to the drinks tomorrow, Helen? Sorry, I hope you don’t mind me asking. It’s an American, an… er… a surprise visitor and, well, they don’t know anyone else here.’
There’s something in the way Nat coyly tucks her hair behind her left ear and tries and fails to stifle a giant smile that makes Helen smirk. ‘I can’t wait to meet him – I assume it is a him?’
‘Yes. It’s Ethan. Ethan Miller. He’s staying with me for a while. I think you’ll like him.’
‘Great. Make sure you introduce me.’ She watches Nat disappear up the road as the familiar figure of Nick is approaching the shop. Even from a distance she can see he’s full of beans, his walk more of a bounce than a stride. He’s perfectly groomed and wearing the sort of smile that makes Helen’s heart swell with love and pride.
‘What a lovely surprise!’
Nick steps into the boutique and plants a passionate kiss on Helen’s lips before she’s even had a chance to step back out of the doorway.
‘Well, I have a Christmas present to deliver, don’t I? I’m not going to have time to monopolise you tomorrow, so I thought I would hand deliver it this evening, along with this.’ He pulls a bottle of pink champagne out from behind his back and Helen catches herself thinking once again, is this really happening to me?
‘Oh no, in all the rush to get everything done, I haven’t bought you anything! I feel terrible now.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Helen. I never expected anything and, actually, this gift is sort of for the two of us anyway. Go on, sit down, get opening and I’ll pour the fizz.’
When he returns from the kitchen with two full glasses, Helen is already breaking through the thick metallic wrapping paper, being careful not to chip her freshly painted nails. She can feel it’s a heavy silver photo frame, then sees it’s inlaid with pretty mother-of-pearl detail – he’s obviously chosen something that will work perfectly in the boutique. He’s placed a picture inside for her, too. It’s of the two of them together, taken in Hyde Park by a passer-by, that day on the bench, just as the first snow was starting to fall. Helen is smiling directly at the camera so hadn’t appreciated at the time the way Nick is looking at her like nothing else in the world matters. They both look so happy.
‘I love it.’ Helen holds it between her fingers, feeling herself fill with emotion. She knows what Nick is hoping for and she’s ready to do it. She turns to face him, placing her hand on his left cheek, then giving him the sweetest thank you kiss. Without saying another word, she places the photo on the central table, next to the others she’s collected over the years. Then she lifts the one of her and Phillip on their wedding day and moves it close to the till, next to a roll of crisp white tissue paper that she uses to carefully wrap accessories before her brides take them home.
They enjoy the champagne together, running through last-minute canapé orders and timings for tomorrow.
‘Are you ready, Helen?’ Nick is so full of excitement it’s sending a wonderful spike of nervous energy right up through her. She takes a deep breath.
‘Yes, I think I am.’ Helen moves closer to him, allowing her head to gently topple onto his shoulder. ‘I love you.’
‘Then I wonder if you would let me give you this, too?’ Nick has pulled the red Cartier box from his pocket and opens it to reveal the pear-shaped diamond ring that he first offered her over lunch in Scott’s that day. She smiles to herself now, remembering how she had bolted from the restaurant, regretting her actions almost the second she was outside.
‘I wouldn’t mind at all.’ She sits up straight, not taking her eyes off Nick’s face as she feels the coolness of the ring sliding onto her finger. The perfect fit. When her gaze drops to her lap, it takes her breath away. It’s the most exquisite piece of jewellery she will ever own. Then, without realising it, her hand moves up to her neck, her fingers reaching for the necklace she wears every day, feeling for the initials of her little family and the two rings from Phillip that sat for thirty-five years on the finger Nick is still holding.
‘It’s OK, Helen, I’d never ask you to take it off. I understand Phillip will always be part of your life. He helped shape the woman you are, the woman I love, and if he were here now, I’d thank him for that. I’m going to look after you, Helen, just as he would want me to.’
They sit then, wrapped in each other’s arms, each of them occasionally throwing out reminders of things the other one said they’d organise for tomorrow.
‘Cake napkins?’
‘Don’t worry, the hotel is providing them.’
‘Did you confirm the cocktail choice?’
‘Yes, all sorted.’
‘And the numbers that are staying the night?’
‘All taken care of.’
‘We’re ready then,’ Nick says finally, draining the last mouthful of champagne from his glass.
‘I’d say we are. Yes.’
They share one last conspiratorial smile.
‘And I can’t persuade you to come home with me tonight?’ He raises an eyebrow, his face full of hope.
‘No. Let’s do this properly, shall we? I’ll see you tomorrow, don’t be late.’
* * *
After waving Nick off down Connaught Street, Helen closes the door and steps back inside the boutique. She circulates one last time, making sure everything is as it should be – she won’t be back for nearly two weeks. She switches off all the lights and turns the sign on the door to ‘closed’. In the near darkness she returns to the till, picks up the framed image of herself and Phillip and holds it close to her chest.
‘Goodbye, Phillip,’ she says aloud. ‘Wish me luck for tomorrow, my darling.’ Then she wraps the beautiful old frame in three layers of white tissue paper and places it in the drawer under the till, next to a selection of her favourite Estée Lauder fragrances and some loose pictures of her favourite brides.
She steps out into the twilight of London, on this most exciting of evenings, seeing the light bounce warmly off her engagement ring. It already feels completely at home on her hand.
29
Jenny
Can this really be happening? Can I really be going to Helen and Nick’s gorgeous Christmas drinks wearing something that belongs to Marianne? Sadly, yes, I can. It’s only happening because she buggered off to Victoria train station this morning with every decent thing I own, rammed into three Sainsbury’s carrier bags. When I yanked open my wardrobe doors this afternoon, ready to carefully select my outfit, it was almost bare. A few well-worn summer dresses – that haven’t fitted me for at least three years – looking tragically rejected on their tangled wire coat hangers, plus a highly flammable nylon nurse’s outfit I wore to the work’s Christmas do last year. That’s actually the one thing I thought she
might have swiped, considering she’s off for another one of her liaisons with heaven knows who. Because there’s no pause for Marianne, no moment of reverence while we celebrate the Lord’s birthday.
So, I have no choice but to plunder her own fashion cast-offs and the choices are terrifyingly limited. Once I discount anything dirty, see-through or just too complicated to work out how to put on, I’m left with two options: a purple velour jumpsuit that is extremely tight around the crotch and has a comedy thick band of silver sequins running down the outside of each leg, or to go shopping for something I can’t afford. I opt for the jumpsuit but add some sensible black block heels and a smart boxy handbag I’ve had since early job interview days. It will have to do. I am just about getting away with it, I think.
Thank goodness for the distraction of these Christmas drinks. I am trying to put all thoughts of the shitstorm at work behind me. I’m not due back there until mid-January. After the incident, as it was referred to in the days that followed, Jean suggested it would be in the best interests of everyone if I took a bit of time off. It broke my heart to hear her say that. She added she would square it away with management and that it would give me some time to think about what I did and hopefully negate the need for an uncomfortable official inquiry. I think she also wants to see if Mr and Mrs Marshall make a formal complaint too. I’m a goner if they do and I’ve accepted that.
The good news is Baby Rudy is fine, and the family were discharged as normal, in plenty of time for Christmas together. But a week on, whenever I think about the moment I let every professional responsibility follow me out the door of the labour room, I can feel my heart banging so fast, like it’s trying to overtake itself. I have to physically stop myself thinking about all the different possible endings to Mrs Marshall’s story. Conclusions I could have created in one fleeting moment of stupidity. I still can’t quite believe I did it. Maybe this was someone’s way of saying enough’s enough? Step away from the buttercream towers now, please, Jenny. Close the Pinterest account. Stop making appointments at bridal boutiques, you mentalist!