White Wedding

by Milly Johnson

  She sat on the sofa with her legs up on the pouffe, a pot of tea and the fruit-filled pastry on the table at her side, while she dreamed up some new flavours that she intended to trial in Carousel.

  In summer there would be Nan’s Sherry Trifle, and Cream Tea. In autumn: Pumpkin Pie, and Cinnamon Apple. For winter she would make Mince Pie with Brandy Butter, and Snowcream – a smooth white vanilla with tiny dots of white chocolate and edible glitter. And then for next spring, Crystallized Rose Petal, and Carrot Cake. That would do for starters, but there were so many flavours she was desperate to make. And sitting in Postbox planning it all was a little piece of heaven.

  She called in at Carousel on the way home. When she opened the door Pav came out from the kitchen and startled her.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t expect you to be here today,’ she said, half laughing, half panting.

  ‘I am not needed on the building site. So I come here. That’s okay, isn’t it? I rang your mobile an hour ago to tell you.’

  ‘I forgot to bring it,’ said Violet. It wasn’t that big a deal, though. At least she was spared taking it out of her pocket and seeing that Glyn had rung her loads of times. ‘And yes, of course,’ said Violet. ‘That’s why I gave you a key, so you could come and go as you pleased. No need to ring.’

  The second horse was painted and Pav had started on the third. The attention to detail was incredible. She hadn’t expected that standard when she took him on.

  ‘You like?’ he asked, noticing her studying his artwork.

  ‘Oh I like very much, Pav,’ said Violet. ‘You’re just so . . . so talented.’

  Pav smiled and rubbed his knuckles against his shirt. ‘Yes, I know this,’ he said haughtily, then he chuckled and Violet’s laughter joined with his. She couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed with Glyn.

  ‘Coffee?’ she asked. ‘I just came to –’ avoid going home for a little longer – ‘check on some stocks.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Pav. ‘I will take a break.’

  As she passed him, she noticed the smell of him – something foresty and masculine – and her lungs breathed him in with a sigh. She wondered how old he really was. He was younger than her for sure, but by how many years? He wasn’t perfect-looking – his nose wasn’t perfectly straight and there was a rough scar, faded to silver, under his left eye – but he wouldn’t have looked as striking without them; the imperfections only added to his manly attractiveness. But it wasn’t just the physical appearance of him that Violet found so powerfully alluring; when he painted, his calm manner seemed to radiate out vibes that soothed her frazzled nerves like lavender oil.

  ‘Did you go to art college, Pav?’ Violet asked, as she stood waiting for the kettle to boil.

  ‘No, I have no formal training,’ he replied.

  ‘You left school at sixteen?’

  ‘I was eighteen.’

  ‘Ah.’ Violet got ready for the big question and tried to deliver it as casually as possible. ‘How long ago was that, then?’

  ‘Five years.’

  So there were nine years between them. That wouldn’t have been so much had they both been in their eighties, but when she was twenty, he had been only eleven. Not that it mattered, she reprimanded herself. It wasn’t as if there would – could – be any romance between them, anyway. He was far too young for that. And she was engaged. Plus, he was bound to have a girlfriend, being so beautiful and talented and gentle.

  ‘I can’t believe you do what you do without formal training,’ marvelled Violet, bringing two coffees out of the kitchen.

  ‘Did you go to ice-cream school?’ asked Pav, grinning at her.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ said Violet with a totally straight face. ‘I am actually a doctor of ice cream.’

  ‘I will have to try some of your ice cream one day to see if you are telling me the truth,’ smiled Pav, his ocean-blue eyes fully trained on hers. Violet looked away, as if burned by their attention.

  ‘I see you are engaged,’ said Pav, patting his own bare ring finger.

  ‘Yes,’ said Violet, sipping her coffee. She was aware that her hand had curled in on itself as if trying to hide the evidence. Glyn had chosen the heart-shaped diamond ring himself. The first time he presented it to her, it had galvanized her into telling him that they should split up. The second time, she had accepted it and put it on.

  ‘When is your wedding?’

  ‘The thirtieth of July.’

  ‘Not long,’ he mused. Then, ‘You will work with your husband here?’

  ‘Oh God, no,’ said Violet, her dismissal of the idea firmer than intended. She saw Pav’s eyebrows rise. ‘We wouldn’t work well together,’ she added.

  ‘What does he do?’ asked Pav.

  ‘Nothing at the moment. He . . . erm . . . he’s been poorly.’

  Pav shook his head, not understanding what she meant.

  ‘Poorly – ill,’ clarified Violet. ‘He’s been ill. He used to be a salesman for computer software. But then he . . . he had a . . . he became ill and couldn’t work. What about you, Pav? Are you married?’ Violet quickly moved the subject away from Glyn. She didn’t want to talk about him here. Carousel was a Glyn-free zone.

  ‘I am single,’ Pav said, to her utter surprise.

  In fact she was so shocked that she couldn’t speak.

  ‘Violet? Are you all right?’ Pav asked, seeing her mouth frozen in a perfect O.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ she said, feeling a treacherous blush rush to her pale cheeks. ‘I’m just . . . just . . . wow.’ She coughed and laughed nervously and knew she must look like an idiot. Especially because he seemed to be amused by her dumbfoundedness.

  ‘I am –’ Pav cast around for the word he was looking for – ‘fussy. What is your man like?’

  Oh God. ‘He’s quiet, homely. I’ve got some biscuits in the cupboard, I think.’ She turned and went into the kitchen, knowing that she had no biscuits but making a pretence of looking for them all the same by loudly opening and closing cupboard doors and muttering to herself, ‘Damn, I was sure I had some.’ She returned to him empty-handed.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Pav. ‘I am watching my figure.’ He rubbed his flat stomach. Violet bet there would be a rippling six-pack of muscles under his shirt. She didn’t want to even think about comparing it to Glyn’s belly, which was getting bigger and wobblier by the month. ‘I think perhaps that you need to buy some biscuits for yourself, though,’ said Pav. ‘You are so small.’ He held his hands as if he were encircling a tiny waist. ‘And pale.’

  ‘I’ve always been like this,’ said Violet. ‘They used to call me “Ghost” when I was younger. But trust me, I eat well. I just don’t have much colour.’

  ‘Your eyes have colour,’ said Pav, in such a warm gentle way that she gulped. ‘They are violet like your name.’

  Violet laughed bashfully. ‘Thanks,’ she said, not knowing where to look. ‘Ooh well, I’d better get off home now.’ Before I turn deep purple and my head blows up.

  Pav grinned. ‘Thank you for the coffee,’ he said. ‘And the company.’

  ‘Pleasure,’ said Violet breathlessly, grabbing her handbag and trying to look composed despite bumping into a stack of boxes on her way out. Once behind the steering wheel, she looked at herself in the rear-view mirror and wondered how she was still whole and hadn’t melted into a liquid. And thought how much easier life would be if hearts took the simpler, sensible paths.

  Glyn had left eight increasingly frustrated voicemail messages on Violet’s mobile before finding it in her underwear drawer, switched to silent.

  Violet never knew that he occasionally looked through her drawers and her handbag or looked at her emails and the list of callers on her mobile phone. To be fair, he had never found anything to be suspicious about until recently, when a new name had appeared in the address book of her mobile: P. Nowak. And P. Nowak had rung her today and left a message.

  Glyn rang her voicemail and del
eted the first four of the messages he had left, then he heard the voice of P. Nowak.

  ‘Hello, Violet. Just to let you know that I will be painting at Carousel today as I have no other work to do. Thank you. It’s Pav, by the way.’

  Glyn listened to the next message – one of his own. His voice sounded thin and reedy in comparison to the low, foreign voice of ‘Pav’. Glyn felt a paranoid anger surge through him. He wanted to smash the phone against the wall but he forced himself to calm down and delete the other messages that he had left for Violet.

  Then he went to the bathroom, brushing furious tears from his cheeks, and emptied the laundry basket to check for any evidence that Violet might have been unfaithful to him.

  Chapter 54

  ‘Hello, Shelleybrations. Shelley speaking. How may I be of assistance?’

  ‘Oh good afternoon,’ said Max, delighted to be speaking to Shelley rather than having to leave a message – it was nearly six o’clock, after all. ‘I’ve just found your number on the internet. You make cakes for gypsy weddings, don’t you?’

  ‘Who’s calling, please?’ The woman on the phone had a slightly defensive tone in her voice now. Since her shop had been ‘outed’ by a local newspaper as a favourite of prospective gypsy brides in the county, she’d had some mixed responses – and a large chunk of unhealthy journalistic interest.

  ‘I’m getting married,’ explained Max. ‘And I want a huge cake. I’m not a gypsy, but I’m having a gypsy wedding.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Shelley, warmth flowing back into her voice again. ‘What sort of thing were you looking for?’

  ‘A palace,’ said Max. ‘Like the one on the front page of your website. Only bigger and with more pink icing. I’ve got a scanned image with actual dimensions, so shall I mail it over to you?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Shelley. ‘Can you wait a minute, till I get to my desk?’

  Max hit ‘send’ and waited until Shelley confirmed that she had received the design.

  ‘My,’ said Shelley, following it with a long whistle. ‘That’s a big palace. How many people are coming to your wedding?’

  ‘Oh not that many,’ said Max. ‘But it doesn’t matter if it gets eaten or not, I just want that cake. Can it be done? And how much will it cost – approximately?’

  Max’s eyes widened when Shelley gave her the figure, but never mind. It was what she wanted, what she had decided upon, what she could easily afford, and what she would have. Yes, most of it would be wasted, probably, but sod it – she only got married once and she was having the works.

  ‘When’s the wedding?’

  Max winced and prepared to be disappointed. ‘The second of July. Four and a half weeks.’

  Shelley whistled again. ‘It’s tight,’ she said.

  ‘Tight but possible or tight and impossible?’

  ‘Nothing’s impossible for me,’ said Shelley. She was used to working all hours because the gypsy community often wanted her massive creations quickly, and they were prepared to pay her handsomely for doing what she did better than anyone else. She metaphorically rubbed her hands at the prospect of such a lucrative job and quickly reached for a pen to take down Max’s Visa number for the big fat gypsy cake deposit of fifty per cent.

  Stuart opened the door and switched on the light, then he placed his hand on the radiator to check that the heating was on. It was, yet the house never felt warm. It wasn’t cosy like his mum’s terraced house. Or Jenny’s.

  He tapped his head with his fingertips, trying to break up yet another cluster of thoughts about Jenny Thompson. He wished he’d never set eyes on her again. It was as if some rogue part of his heart was desperately hungry and empty and looking to be filled, and finding that Jenny Thompson was exactly what would satiate its appetite.

  He kicked off his shoes, padded across to the stark white kitchen and opened the fridge. He took out a beer and poked around for something to nibble on. The fridge was packed but there was little in there that appealed to him: yoghurts, a crustless quiche, anchovy paste, olives stuffed with garlic, a tub of salade niçoise, a crayfish-stuffed baguette, a bag of peppery rocket, a round of Brie. He hated poncy French cheeses; he liked Red Leicester, but it never arrived with the Tesco home-shopping consignment even though he kept asking Max to add some to the next load. No, it was always a garlicky Roule or Camembert or stinky stuff with blue veins running through it.

  He bet Jenny’s fridge had cider and an apple pie in it, beef spread, mini pork pies and Laughing Cow triangles. And a block of Red Leicester.

  He flipped the top off the beer bottle and took a long swallow. The house was so quiet, still and chilly. Everything was neutral-coloured or black and he suddenly felt like going mad and throwing some red paint over everything. He was going loopy and he knew why he was so agitated. So he’d better make sure he didn’t see Jenny Thompson again.

  Chapter 55

  Max finished work early on Friday and picked up Violet and Bel so they could all go to White Wedding together. She wanted to choose some bridesmaids’ dresses.

  ‘I don’t want to pour any cold water on your plans but are you sure you’re doing the right thing, Max?’ Bel asked, when Max excitedly told them about the honeymoon she’d booked. And the cake. And the rest. ‘Won’t Stuart go mental?’

  ‘No, I’m absolutely as sure as houses that he won’t,’ Max flapped a dismissive hand. ‘Anyway, it’ll be too late to do anything about it when I’m halfway down the aisle in my big frock. He’ll just do his usual rolling of the eyes and go along with it. He’s done that for seventeen years so one more afternoon won’t kill him. He can’t surely expect me – Maxine McBride – to get married in a church without a huge dress. He knows me too well.’

  ‘Yeah, but how much further are you going with your plans, Max?’ asked Violet, reaching out for the White Wedding door handle.

  ‘How much further can she go?’ Bel added. ‘It’ll end in tears if you aren’t careful, Max – and I don’t mean cake ones.’

  Freya was unpacking tiaras from white tissue paper when the doorbell announced their arrival.

  ‘Hello, there,’ she greeted them. ‘How are you all today?’

  ‘Good,’ smiled Max. She had hoped to have a word with Freya about some ideas she wanted incorporating into her dress design, but decided now to do that on a separate trip at the weekend. When Bel and Violet weren’t around to spoil things with their ‘be careful’ caveats.

  ‘And what can I do for you ladies this time?’

  ‘Bridesmaids’ dresses,’ Max responded. ‘Big ones.’

  ‘Behave,’ cautioned Violet, poking her in the arm.

  ‘Colour?’ asked Freya.

  ‘What colour do you fancy, girls?’ Max turned to her friends and spread her arms wide across the shop.

  ‘It’s your wedding, Max. What colour do you want us to be in?’

  Max recalled gypsy Margaret’s bridesmaids in that neon shade of sunburn.

  ‘Pink,’ she said. ‘Very bright pink.’

  Freya beckoned them to the middle of the long shop, where the bridesmaids’ section was. She reached for a dress in a delicate blush.

  ‘Don’t even take it from the hanger,’ said Max. ‘That’s the sort of pink I’m talking about.’ And she pointed to a dress so bright that they all needed sunglasses to view it. And intensive therapy afterwards.

  Bel raised her eyebrows at Violet, but this was Max’s wedding and they both knew that her dictionary did not carry the word ‘understated’.

  The dress was very plain in style, even if the perfect colour.

  ‘I can adapt the design if you want something in the same style as the wedding dress,’ Freya offered.

  ‘Perfect,’ Max decided. She knew that Freya would make a marvellous job of it too. There was something about Freya that elicited absolute faith in her.

  ‘Have you got time to do that? The wedding is so close,’ asked Bel, hoping Freya might say no.

  ‘Yes, I have time,’ said Freya. ‘I’l
l just take your measurements, if I may,’ she added, unlooping the tape measure from round her neck and addressing Bel. She already had Violet’s, of course. ‘It shouldn’t take me too long to have them ready.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Max, Violet and Bel said in unison. One voice more enthusiastically than the other two.

  Chapter 56

  Stuart rolled over in bed and his arm fell on to the place where Max should be. He would have probably remained asleep if it had found her there, but instead he woke as his hand found only a fast-cooling quilt.

  Max was buttoning her shirt.

  She saw him open his eyes and quickly sit up, and immediately held out her flat palm to stop him asking questions.

  ‘I’ll be back as quickly as I can,’ she said, her voice brimming with giddy excitement. ‘I’m just going into the office to pick up some files. The American firm B.J. Brothers Industries rang me in the middle of the night and left a voicemail saying they want to talk to me urgently. They’re massive, Stuart.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ huffed Stuart. ‘It’s me that needs a massive BJ.’

  ‘I’ll give you the biggest birthday BJ I can when I come home. I shouldn’t be more than an hour. If you’d stayed asleep, I bet I would have been back before you woke up.’

  Stuart’s head dropped onto the pillow.

  ‘No point in asking you to turn your phone off at evenings and weekends, is there?’ said Stuart tightly.

  ‘How can I?’ said Max. ‘It’s my company. I have to be available 24/7. I can’t believe I bloody slept through the ringtone.’

  Stuart kept conveniently quiet about the fact that he hadn’t. It had woken him up at half-past one and he had leaned over Max and pressed the ‘ignore’ button on her phone.

  She bent down and kissed his cheek, then asked, ‘What time are you meeting Luke to go and look at wedding suits?’

  ‘Half-past three,’ replied Stuart with a low grumble. As if the day hadn’t started off well enough, he had to spend part of his birthday trying on fecking wedding suits.