Probably the Best Kiss in the World

by Pernille Hughes

  “What. Is. That?” Ava suddenly rasped, horror filling her voice and pointing a perfectly-gelled fingernail at Jen’s desk. Jen looked down at the offending article, none too chuffed herself. Having got home, she’d tentatively dug out the SIM and phone from Yakob’s rice incubator. It had already prompted a bag search at Security, but Jen had explained about the canal and the falling in and they’d let her go with some mocking but without a strip search. Yakob had recommended leaving it in a warm place for three days, but she needed her phone to live her life, so she’d hoped to fast-track things. Turning it on, the screen had lit up, much to Jen’s joy, but then fizzed and switched itself off. After that it wouldn’t play at all. It simply wasn’t ready yet, Jen reasoned, shoving it back in the rice and sitting the box on a hot-water bottle, all wrapped in her favourite jumper. The SIM though, having been tested on an ancient brick of a phone she’d found in a drawer, a device whose sum capabilities was basic telephony and rudimentary texts, appeared to be willing. So for now, she was distressingly app bereft and relearning how to use paper and pen for her lists.

  “Phone died,” she mumbled. She couldn’t say much more without getting upset. Being without it for a day in Copenhagen had been surmountable; Lydia had steered everything, while Jen’s mind had been rather caught up in itself; combating the embarrassment of the turquoise 1990’s ruched ball-gown she was wearing and the memories of her evening with Yakob. Coming back to real life was totally different. Functioning was difficult. She’d even had to dig out an alarm clock, for goodness sake.

  Ava looked at her, then at the phone and then back at Jen, sympathy and a tinge of revulsion written all over her face. The phone looked like some love-child of Darth Vader and a Teletubby, with its black and grey styling and small screen in the middle of its podgy belly. Jen slid it away under a pile of flyers destined for English Heritage visitor centres. Had she not needed it in case Lydia ever needed her, she would have buried The Phone of Shame deep in her handbag.

  Jen wished Ava would go away; she had enough to do and needed some head-space to clear her mind of all things Copenhagen. Especially the tall blond parts. She’d lost plenty of sleep already replaying the view of his back disappearing into the distance as she stood by her hotel, her lips tingling, while her body and head argued as to whether she’d done the right thing. No wonder Ava could kindly point out she looked haggard. Lydia prattling on about him the entire following day had not helped, and she had virtually scolded Jen for being tucked up in bed – alone – when they’d returned from Tivoli, which seemed incongruent coming from her best woman on her actual hen-do. However, no matter how many times Lydia barked “What happens in ‘hagen …” at her, Jen held fast that she was a faithful person and she’d absolutely made the right decision.

  Yes, Jen accepted there had been a kiss, the most perfect kiss, and she felt guilty enough about that, but it was thanks to her that it hadn’t gone further, so she’d convinced herself to draw a line under the entire episode. It had been a holiday blip – didn’t she know from past painful experience, that people did unreliable things when away from their normal environments? She deftly tucked aside the thought of Danny and the fact she had previous form in this area. She should have known better. Jen normally prided herself on not making the same mistake twice. And yet … Feeling the need for self-care, she reminded herself she hadn’t made the same mistake twice; she’d curbed it after all and she should give herself due credit. Yay Jen, she cheered in her head and sat up straight. She was engaged and about to embark on her new life, and she should pack thoughts of Yakob away too. It had been a wonderful moment, on a wonderful trip, but that was all. Thank goodness she hadn’t jeopardised her future with Robert on a fling. Lydia simply wasn’t mature enough to see happiness was a long-game project and Jen had a sound plan for hers.

  Not for the first time that morning Jen’s fingers twitched towards the computer. So far she’d deliberately stuck to manual tasks, after checking her emails had already brought her perilously close to Google. Lydia had been pestering her to Google him, to see what he did and discover more about him, but Jen had fended off the temptation, knowing it would be an abyss to fall into. What was the point? It didn’t matter whether he had a Facebook page, real or otherwise. She was stowing him away as a nice memory, she’d decided. That was final. Her twitchy fingers hadn’t quite got the neuro-message yet, that was all.

  The front door of the office slammed open and turning, Jen’s eye-line was filled with a mass of bright floral fabric. Ava had turned too, but immediately knew what to do with this visual assault.

  “Mumsie!”

  Ava’s mother, though short, filled the entire width of the doorway. Her penchant for floral two-pieces did nothing to lessen this spatial illusion, whilst also making her look like a walking sofa. Her enormous blonde curls were immaculately dyed and set, and doubled the size of her head, which might have appeared comical, had it not perfectly matched the size of each of her huge boobs. Height aside, everything about her shouted Big Personality and she hadn’t even opened her mouth yet. Jen braced herself.

  “Girls!” she boomed, “so glad to have caught you before you close for lunch.” Jen wasn’t sure what decade Ava’s mother thought it was, lunchtime closing hadn’t been a thing during her working lifetime.

  Ava and her mother were busy doing kisses. “Lovely to see you, darling sweetie, but it’s not you I’m here to see.” Jen felt the woman’s gaze lock onto her like a target. Only at that point did it properly occur to her she wasn’t just looking at Ava’s mother, and Robert’s for that matter, but in fact her future mother-in-law. Her entire insides contracted in an instant spasm. Brain taking over in some autopilot fight or flight mode, Jen pushed herself up to standing, preparing for the imminent close proximity of the floral force of nature that was barrelling towards her. Hopeful, Jen held out her hand. Her hopes were dashed, as she was crushed by a pneumatic embrace, making it almost impossible to get her “Nice to see you again, Mrs Thwaites” out.

  “Don’t you Mrs Thwaites me, Jennifer. We’re family. You must call me Mumsie, or Celia.” Mrs Thwaites pressed a wet kiss on both her cheeks and finally released her.

  Jen dragged air back into her body but managed a “Thank you, Celia.” There was no way on earth she would call her Mumsie. Lydia would take the piss beyond endurance.

  “It’s going to be such fun having you in the family,” her mother-in-law started, her face highly animated. “I know you miss your parents, darling sweetie, we all do,” she cupped Jen’s cheek tenderly, as Jen wondered how much they really would have missed their car mechanic and seamstress, “but now you’ll have Giles and me as surrogates, you poor dear. You must come to us with any problems, just as you would to them were they here.” Celia nodded vigorously as she spoke, her loud voice making it an edict. Jen couldn’t stop herself from nodding along, not least because the woman’s hand was still on her cheek and moving up and down. “Do you play golf, darling?”

  “Um … no,” Jen said, glad the topic had been moved from her parental situation. She wasn’t in the market for new parents, she just wanted her old ones back.

  “Well, that’s what lessons are for. You’ll learn quickly and I’ve put you forward for membership at the club.” Jen opened her mouth to say she really didn’t feel the need, but her mother-in-law was on a roll. “Bridge? Do you play?”

  “No, but I–” She wanted to say, thanks to their mum, she and Lydia could play a mean game of poker, but Celia carried on.

  “Hhmm,” she said, her large lips pursed, “disappointing. That’s not as easy to remedy. Bridge is a game of extreme skill. But if you study my game carefully, I could apprentice you until we partner one day. Margery, my current partner, has been making mistakes recently.” She leaned closer to Jen and lowered her voice fractionally, “I think the Alzheimer’s might be starting, so I’m planning ahead. I’ll let you know when the next game is so you can attend. Meanwhile, the WI run a beginners course. I’ll sig
n you up, so you can actually hold some cards.” Jen could feel her heart rate steadily climbing in panic. She’d assumed she was marrying Robert, not his mother.

  “But for now it’s the wedding we need to focus on, isn’t it?” Celia was doing that nodding thing again, though thankfully she’d released Jen’s shell-shocked face.

  We? Jen needed to nix this straight away. “Yes, Robert and I need to talk about it all.”

  “Nonsense, darling,” said Celia brusquely. “I’ve never met a man yet who had the first clue as to how a good wedding works and what’s important.” She turned to Ava, “Remember Rupert wanted that drinks luge thing at yours, darling sweetie? Thank goodness we vetoed that.” Jen knew for a fact Rupert had had one at his stag-do instead, fifty men suckling vodka from the nipples of an ice Venus de Milo. It was still on the homepage of the ice sculptor and Jen had recognised Rupert’s drunken face when Ava had asked her to cost an ice bladder for demo use at a health show. “Weddings are for mothers and daughters to plan, and in lieu of yours having passed, I shall step in. This’ll be my third now, so I’m very well versed and all the local suppliers know me.” I bet they do, thought Jen. She’d been to Zara’s wedding as Robert’s “plus one”. She’d assumed Zara had chosen all the twee arrangements, but remembering the hooped floral bridesmaids’ dresses, she wasn’t so sure now.

  “Don’t look so scared, darling,” Celia barked, failing on the comforting front, “the planning might sound daunting, but as long as you stick to the traditional, and don’t try to be all modern and wacky, it’s very straight forward.”

  Had Jen not been so terrified of Celia having a hand in her wedding arrangements, she would have been offended by the suggestion of her worrying about the planning. Jen was a planning queen.

  “There’s a very good shop for dresses here in town, so we needn’t travel up to London, which is a blessing as it’s both expensive and dirty. I’ll make a booking.”

  Jen knew she had to stand up for herself. Getting steamrollered by her mother-in-law this early on would not bode well for the future. She needed to lay sound foundations for their relationship and the foundations she wanted involved some distance. She hadn’t thought about the dress yet. Her wedding critiques with Lydia hadn’t involved imagining her own face poking out of the dresses. She needed to buy some time.

  “Actually, Celia,” she said firmly, “perhaps you could put that on hold?” Celia was surprised to be stopped in her tracks. It wasn’t par for the course. “I was thinking about looking for my mother’s wedding dress first.”

  Ava drew a sharp breath. Celia looked quite put out. A paragon of manners however, she recovered herself swiftly. “Yes of course dear, that could be a charming idea. Sentimental value always supersedes fashion at such occasions. I’m sure everyone will agree it’s lovely.” Jen bit her tongue – Zara’s meringue dress had had nothing to do with fashion. She settled for a small smile and a nod instead. She didn’t want to start on a bad foot with her mother-in-law, but some lines needed to be drawn.

  Celia delved into her handbag and pulled out a piece of card with holes in it of descending sizes. “Well here’s the highest priority job of the moment. I know you’re desperate for it. I picked up this sizing gauge from my jewellers. Pop your ring finger though and find the right size. I’ll drop Grandmama’s engagement ring in with him on the way home.” At that she pulled the ring box out of her bag with a magician’s flourish.

  “Oh, let me see!” Ava said, storming across the room. Celia snapped the box open. Ava recoiled. Jen watched many emotions cross her face as she beheld the monstrosity. “Oh Jen, that’s very special,” she said, way too sweetly. Ava knew she’d dodged a bullet.

  Jen concentrated on the sizing chart, and reluctantly found her size. N. For Nightmare.

  “Want to have a quick try on your finger before I take it away?” Celia asked, keenly. Ava watched her closely.

  “Nooo,” Jen wheedled and both faces dropped, “I’d like the next time it goes on for it to be Robert sliding it on forever.” Their “Awww”s said she’d saved it.

  Set on her mission, Celia grabbed Jen to her bosom again, kissed both cheeks and left, promising to be in touch to set up a wedding planning date. Ava went with her to have lunch. It was eleven thirty after all, it was hardly worth starting anything.

  Jen sat down in her chair, eyes wide like a rabbit in the headlights. She looked at her ring finger, naked for now, but with a sentence hanging over it. And then she remembered soft fingers brushing over her knuckles not forty-eight hours ago and again her fingers started to twitch towards the computer. She abruptly sat on them. It seemed safest, whether to prevent any Googling or to hide her ring finger from sight, she couldn’t be sure.

  Chapter 12

  “Oh, you utter prat,” Lydia groaned, shaking her head at Jen. “Have you seen Mum’s wedding dress?” Jen looked up from weighing the cracked malt she’d shortly be steeping in hot water, while Lydia sat in her normal spot on the worktop, bottle in hand. Many hours had been spent like this over the years, talking through school issues, life issues, boy issues. The cosiness of the outbuilding, the comfort of the Horlicksy malt scent, made it a refuge for them both.

  “What? Of course I’ve seen it. It’s in the picture on the mantelpiece. It’s white, satin, simple.” Considering the dress was nearly thirty years old, it could have been horribly dated, but their mother had picked a classic boat-neck neckline, and it was exactly Jen’s style. “All it’s got to do is fit or else I’m stuffed.”

  Lydia’s face took on a smirk. “When was their anniversary?”

  “Valentine’s. So Dad could remember.”

  “And when is your birthday?”

  “March 9th. You know that.”

  Lydia waited for her to join the dots.

  “Oh. Oh!” She’d never really done the maths.

  “Why do you think all the pictures they had out were ‘shoulders up’ only?”

  “Really?” Why hadn’t this dawned on her?

  “Enormous bump, proudly presented in an above-the-knee maternity style with empire-line waist complete with a bow. You were a sumo baby. Huge.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Elementary, my beer Jen,” Lydia gave her a grin, “Mum and I laughed our way through the photo album.” In spite of Jen’s new predicament, they fell into a moment of quiet.

  “She had a great laugh,” Jen eventually said.

  “And a wicked sense of humour,” Lydia agreed. “I was only just beginning to get it. It felt like I was gaining membership to a club.” Jen knew exactly what Lydia meant, their mother had been witty and very dry in her humour. And she wouldn’t have been remotely abashed about wearing white for her wedding even if about to drop a baby.

  “Well, maybe it’s genetic then, Lyds – I see her in you all the time.” It wasn’t just a kindness, it was the truth and Jen could see it pleased Lydia. She’d tried very hard to make sure Lydia got to know their parents as she grew up, in spite of their absence; keeping their pictures out and saving their things. Despite the sadness, they found talking about them whenever they could helped them come to terms with what had happened.

  “She’d think you wanting her dress is hysterical.”

  “It wasn’t so much a want, more an escape route.” What was she going to do now? She’d dig it out, but the front would have way too much fabric in it. Celia probably wouldn’t be too chuffed about a short dress either. Although, Jen quite liked her legs, so short could be good …

  Lydia took a swig of her beer. “You can still pull out, Jen. The hen-do wasn’t binding.”

  Jen concentrated on the steeping malt, she wasn’t getting into this. “I meant an escape route from Celia, Lydia.”

  “Mumsie,” Lydia corrected.

  “Celia. If I ever call her Mumsie, shoot me.”

  “Deal.” Lydia gave Jen’s ribs a slow prod with her foot. “Have you Googled him yet? You’ve got to be itching to.” Such a stirrer.
r />   “Who?”

  “Don’t you give me that. You know who I mean. Mr Copenhagen.”

  Jen sighed a parental sigh.

  “No Lydia, I haven’t. Nothing happened, so there’s nothing to pursue. He was just someone I met by chance. Someone who helped me out when I’d been marooned by my nearest and dearest. And again, nothing happened and nothing is going to happen. Robert and I are engaged, we are getting married, so there’s no need, at all, to be Googling other men on the internet. Capiche?”

  Some younger sisters might have got the message. Lydia wasn’t one of them.

  “You want to though, don’t you?”

  Jen decided the best plan was to ignore her completely and turned back to the sticky sweet wort of malt, chalking adjustments to the ingredients up on her blackboard, the quantities and the dates. This was it, the last beer.

  Staring out of the aeroplane window, desperate to think about something other than a certain Scandi man, Jen had started writing notes on the back of a sick-bag. Gradually, her wedding favour beer had started to come to fruition. She was going for some mellow flavours, picking back up on her ideas from the night Robert had proposed, something crisp, lightly smoky, and slightly salty. She’d chosen her malts and devised the timings for the hops and selected which types she’d use, finally finishing the recipe just as they came to land. She’d also made the decision that this beer would be the last. Not knowing when she’d pack it away, but knowing it was imminent, was hurting too much. She was going to pour everything into this beer and call it a day, hoping the smart of a quick plaster-pull would be kinder than a prolonged agony. She’d make several batches, of course – she needed enough to serve and give as favours – but then that would be it and she’d dismantle the outbuilding. Looking at her board now, Jen could only hope nipping things quickly like this would work. The recipe was good, she could feel it – she only hoped it would be enough of a high to go out on.