by Sara Downing
‘So,’ Evie persists with her earlier line of questioning, ‘Have you……?’ Her eyebrows wiggle up and down naughtily.
‘Yes,’ I squeak, pulling a face like an excited child on Christmas morning, and bouncing up and down in my seat, unable to contain myself any longer. ‘Yes, we have!’
‘And?’ she continues.
‘And…….it was lovely,’ I reply, with a smug, self-contained expression that lets Evie know not to ask for any more detail. I don’t want to embellish; it’s all just for Tom and me for the moment. ‘It was whilst I was still with Mark though, but please, please, please don’t judge me!’ I plead quickly. I glance at Alex to check her reaction, but she is fine this time. She smiles at me, and I sense in that smile that at last I have her blessing. Thank God. I can’t bear the thought of losing one of my best friends as a result of all this. I think I have managed to convince her to be happy for me, and that I’m not some kind of wild, voracious man-eater.
Lunch over, we still have more shopping to do. Evie is on the look-out for the perfect outfit to travel in next week. Only Evie could be so concerned about how she will look when she’s on a plane. The rest of us are happy to go in our comfy jeans, but Evie is up there with the celebs in the fashion stakes; she needs to cut a dash at Florence airport and show those Italians that style isn’t only home-grown. So we help her hunt down a gorgeous little dress which looks so good on her, plus some shoes and a bag to go with it. She has to be the only woman I know to buy new leather goods before going to Italy.
I am still revelling in the fruits of my shopping in Positano, back in May. I have tonnes of new sets of coordinating bags and shoes in my……….. wardrobe. I suddenly have a pang of longing for my fabulous dressing room and all the clothes and accessories I have left behind. I feel a sneaky trip back to the house coming on this week. Well, it’s not really that sneaky, is it? It’s still half my house, after all. Perhaps I shouldn’t be out spending all this cash, I might need it over the next few months, as I don’t know what the future holds for me financially. I can’t imagine for one minute that Mark would leave me with nothing, but at the same time, I only have my salary to fall back on now, not our joint income. Maybe I should be a bit sensible, so I decide against any more purchases today. My role will be purely as personal shopping consultant to Alex and Evie for the rest of the day.
‘Excuse me, madam. Do you have a few minutes?’ Oh God, it’s one of those annoying survey women that are the scourge of our high streets and shopping centres these days. Usually I am pretty adept at adopting aggressively off-putting body language as I walk past so they daren’t risk their lives asking me to stop and tick their boxes. This time though I am caught unawares, my head up and away with the fairies in the clouds, and I don’t have time to prepare my defence. In any case, she looks quite nice, this one. Not too cringe-worthy, no ‘How are you today?’ like she knows me, and no hand on my arm. I can’t abide being physically grabbed by a total stranger. Being verbally grabbed is bad enough.
‘Do you mind if I ask you a couple of quick questions?’ she asks. I notice from her badge that her name is Fenella. Bet her Home Counties parents never expected her to have a dead-end job like this when she grew up. With a name like that she ought to be a doctor or a lawyer. She’s clearly far too middle-class for all this. ‘It won’t take too long, I promise.’
I clock out of the corner of my eye that Evie and Alex have disappeared into another shop, no doubt to avoid the same fate as me. They throw a sly smile over their shoulders as they abandon me to Fenella and her clipboard. Thanks girls.
‘What’s it about?’ I ask, hoping that it’s something completely irrelevant, like a nappy-effectiveness survey, or a Horse Rider Monthly subscription and I can duck out now.
‘Oh, just your shopping habits, that kind of thing. I’m not selling anything, I promise.’
‘OK then, fire away,’ I acquiesce.
‘Firstly, can I ask which age bracket you fall into?’ I point to the 26-35 box and she ticks.
‘Are you married, single, co-habiting, divorced, or other?’ she asks. Suddenly that seems a difficult question to answer.
Er, single, I suppose,’ I reply. I’m not about to explain my circumstances to a complete stranger. I’m not single either, really, but Tom and I are so new I don’t really feel I can quite call him my boyfriend yet, even though he is. This is hard – I didn’t expect to find a high-street survey so challenging!
‘And your household salary bracket, if you don’t mind me asking?’ I look at her clipboard, and my eyes are instantly drawn to the £125,000+ line, right at the bottom. That would have been true up to a week ago, when our combined salaries were well in excess of that figure. But then I do a double take and realise that most of that is Mark’s salary. Of course it is. Mine is only a lowly teacher’s salary, I can’t include Mark’s paycheque any more, so I meekly point to the ‘£25k–£40k’ box and she ticks again. How depressing. Not that Mark’s salary prospects would have been sufficient to keep me with him, of course they wouldn’t, I’m not that shallow, but I have just been knocked from highest to second-to-lowest, as far as this survey is concerned. Depressing thought, and I resolve yet again that I am done with spending for today. Time to be sensible, Grace. After all I have a huge wardrobe back at our house (I no longer want to use the word home, as it isn’t any more). I don’t need any more clothes, shoes, bags and make-up. I need to be grateful for what I have and curb my materialistic streak from now on.
Grace, Queen of Shoppers, has just been demoted. Dowager Queen now, at most. I’ve had it too easy, I realise.
Twenty
Frannie is radiant in her cream silk dress and she looks a picture. Well done to her for being brave enough to wear a wedding gown; women of a certain age and above almost always seem to get married in a sensible trouser suit, and it does seem such a waste of a great opportunity for dressing up in a posh frock of some sort. OK, so she hasn’t gone for the great big meringue – that would have looked more than a little inappropriate – but instead she has chosen a simple, long, straight dress, with full-length sleeves and a scooped neck, and a small veil too. She has never done this before, so I can’t blame her for wanting to do it in style, and she looks beautiful and just right for the occasion.
Gerald’s son has the honour of walking her up the aisle to meet her future husband, and he carries it off with such aplomb, proudly delivering her to his father’s side before taking his own seat at the front of the church. Gerald himself is resplendent in his morning suit, looking quite dashing. His son is a carbon copy of himself, only a couple of decades younger. He must be reassured looking at his father that he is likely to retain his good looks well into his old age. What a handsome family they make.
Tom and I stand side by side in our pew, near the front on the side of the bride. Gerald had given strict instructions to his ushers to ensure we had good seats, and a very nice young man, one of Gerald’s colleagues, I think, escorted us to our places and made sure we were properly installed. There aren’t that many people here; Gerald does have family, and those that can be here, are, but Frannie is effectively alone in the world now, apart from her friends and the family she is about to acquire via marriage. So as one of her closest and truest friends, I have pride of place on her side of the church, almost like an honorary daughter.
I’d wondered how I would feel about today. After all it was the day I had originally picked for my wedding to Mark. A wedding that never actually made it to the planning stage. Probably just as well, really, given how quickly things between us deteriorated. At least we hadn’t got as far as booking the church, the reception, the honeymoon and all that, so there were no cancellations to be made when we broke up, to add to the pain and the sense of failure.
Actually, I feel fine. There is no pining for what could have been, no aching wish that I was the bride standing there with Mark by my side. No, definitely not, even though I had dreamed of getting married for so long. I sneak a
look up at the handsome man standing beside me and know I have made the right decision. Tom looks gorgeous in his smart morning suit, a tall and commanding presence, and I slip my hand into his as the vicar starts on his ‘Dearly Beloved……’. Tom looks down at me and smiles, and squeezes my hand.
‘…………….I pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.’ There is a cheer from the small congregation as Gerald pulls his wife into his arms and kisses her hard on the lips. Frannie really has been swept off her feet, and I am so pleased for her. Her smile is enough to light up the whole church, as the service ends and the pair of them practically skip – in an elderly person sort of way – down the aisle together to the strains of Handel’s ‘Music for Royal Fireworks’. No ‘Here Comes the Bride, La Da De Da’ for Frannie; it had to be a lot classier for her. And no doubt there will be a few fireworks tonight for Frannie and her new husband, given her track record. Let age be no barrier, and all that…..
We all trundle off to Compton Hall for the wedding breakfast, and are thoroughly spoilt from the moment we arrive. Frannie may never have seen herself as the marrying type before, but now that she has crossed that boundary, it’s obvious that she has planned everything to the tiniest degree, from the delicious canapés and crisp champagne awaiting us, to the little wedding favours on the table, the coordinating flowers and balloons, all tastefully done of course, but all indicative of the fact that she has probably spent hours and hours poring over brochures and getting things just the way she wants them. She has done herself proud.
The champagne flows and the evening wears on. No loud and booming disco for our Frannie and Gerald; instead a swing band moves onto the stage to take the place of the string quartet from earlier, and the music picks up pace. The newlyweds take to the floor for their first dance, and Gerald handles Frannie like a professional, whizzing her round and twirling her under his arm. He doesn’t go as far as any lifts or leaps, even though she must be as light as a feather – we don’t want his paramedic colleagues to have to don their working gear tonight – but the two of them put on a real show before they beckon to the onlookers to come and join them.
‘Are you dancin’?’ Tom asks me.
‘Are you askin’?’ I smile in reply as he pulls me to the dance floor. To the strains of ‘Great Balls of Fire’ we whizz around the floor, wondering how these older folk manage to keep up with the pace of it, but amazingly enough, they do. After a couple of tracks my head is spinning and I make for our table for some water. As I go to sit down I feel the ground come up to meet me, and Tom catches me in time before I collapse into a heap on the floor.
‘Grace, are you OK. What is it?’ Tom asks worriedly.
‘I don’t know, I came over all dizzy for a bit there. Must have been all the spinning round.’
‘Do you want me to take you home?’ he asks.
‘No, no, I can’t do that, I’ll be fine. I’m OK now,’ I reply. I can’t abandon Frannie in her moment of glory. I feel pretty lousy but I keep that to myself. A few quiet minutes sitting here and I’m sure I’ll be fine.
‘I’ll go and get you some more water,’ Tom offers. As he goes off in search of a jug, I rest my head on my hands at the table and try to work out what just happened. I’m not predisposed to fainting; it’s not normally my thing. I suppose I haven’t eaten much today; somehow I just didn’t fancy the smoked salmon starter, even though it looked gorgeous, and only managed a little bit of the main course, too. The pudding though, that went down a treat. Me and my sweet tooth. Yes, that must be it, too much alcohol and sugar and not enough proper food to soak it up. And it’s really warm in here as well.
By the time Tom comes back, worry-lines furrowing his brow, I am much recovered, and make a move to stand up.
‘Stay there, Grace, sit down for a bit longer,’ he says. ‘Are you really sure you don’t want to go home?’
‘I’m fine, really,’ I protest. And I am, now. I don’t know where it all came from. As quickly as it hit me, it’s over. I jump up quickly and pull him onto the dance floor as it seems the only way to convince him that I am fine.
Tom and I have taxis booked to take him home and me back to Evie’s house later.
‘Cancel your cab, come home with me tonight,’ he whispers in my ear as we dance a ‘slowie’ together. ‘I can keep an eye on you, make sure you’re OK,’ he goes on. ‘With the added bonus of being able to make passionate love to you, too,’ he whispers with a twinkle in his eye, and I feel the hairs stand on end on the back of my neck. ‘If you’re feeling up to it, of course,’ he jokes.
I giggle and nuzzle closer to him, my face against his shoulder, breathing in his fabulous smell. I know I hadn’t wanted to rush into things straight after the break-up with Mark, but I have to say the idea of being looked after, when I am feeling a little delicate, has a huge appeal. Not to mention that it would be just gorgeous to spend the night in his arms. All night, with no guilt attached, and no one to rush back to in the morning, for the sake of keeping up appearances. And Evie is away, so I have no explanation to give there either, even though I’m sure she wouldn’t have expected one, had she been home. I’m a big girl now, quite capable of making my own decisions, thank you very much. A night in Tom’s arms, even if I’m not up to much in the passion stakes – I am still feeling a little drained after the earlier dizzy episode – is just what I need. The thought of it sets my senses all a-tingle. What better cure.
‘You’re on,’ I say, trying to sound casual, but knowing that it is what I want, one hundred and fifty percent. How on earth are we going to take this relationship slowly, I wonder, if I’m already agreeing to spend the night at his place, only a fortnight or so after splitting from Mark? Slow quite obviously just isn’t the way to go, as I’d thought it would be. But as long as whatever I do feels right to me, then it can’t be the wrong thing, can it?
I wake up to the smell of fresh coffee and bacon. My stomach growls in anticipation and I remember just how little I’d eaten yesterday. Tom comes into the bedroom in just his boxers, bearing a tray with coffee and said bacon in a couple of large, crusty baps, and I could fall on him with gratitude. How anyone could turn vegetarian and miss the pure, unadulterated culinary bliss of a bacon sarnie I will never comprehend. It has to be the most fabulously mouth-watering smell on the planet.
‘Thank you,’ I say, through a mouthful of sandwich, as he pulls back the covers and reclaims his spot in the bed beside me.
‘Well, isn’t this nice,’ he giggles, snuggling up and tucking into his own breakfast. ‘What’s for dessert?’ he sniggers, putting one hand under the covers and rubbing it electrifyingly along the outer edge of my thigh.
‘You’ll have to wait and see. No one comes between me and a bacon sarnie,’ I reply.
With that as a challenge, Tom finishes his breakfast and dives under the duvet whilst I’m still chewing on mine, his salty lips and tongue reaching down and seeking me out under the covers. The only thing that comes between me and my bacon sarnie at that point is me. Ha ha.
‘What shall we do today, then, my lovely?’ Tom asks when he has emerged from the darkness of duvet-land. ‘Shall I keep you here all day as my sex-slave, or would you like to take me out somewhere nice and show me off?’ He nibbles at my ear and sets the nerves in my nose a-tingling.
‘Both options sound very appealing, I have to say,’ I reply, ‘but I do have to get back and feed Evie’s menagerie. Why don’t you pop over later and we could go for a walk or something? Grab a bite to eat in the pub?’
We agree on a venue – I don’t really feel right about inviting him back to Evie’s, even though I know she wouldn’t mind – and I make an attempt at getting up and showered. This takes three goes, as each time Tom pulls me back to bed and it’s such a wrench trying to get back up again when he is covering me in kisses and caresses.
‘Let me go, you sex-crazed maniac,’ I plead, jokingly. He does, but then follows me into the bathroom, turns me around, and in one deft moveme
nt, lifts me up onto the vanity unit and we start all over again. At this rate I won’t be able to stand, sit, or do anything involving the lower half of my body for at least a week. I’m not complaining, though, as he works his magic on me yet again before finally yielding to the fact that I do actually need to go, and letting me get into the shower – unaccompanied.
‘See you later, gorgeous,’ he says as I eventually make it to the door, fully clothed and without him attached to me at some bodily contact-point. The taxi he has called for me has been honking its horn outside for the past fifteen minutes, and it feels like an advertisement to the world at large that I have just spent the night making wild passionate love with the man in flat number 53.
‘Not if I see you first,’ I joke, planting a big sloppy kiss on his cheek as I finally leave.
Twenty-One
What a blissful thought, six weeks of holiday yawning like a vast chasm ahead of me. Well, five weeks, really I suppose, if you take out the final week – I will be in school for most of it, sorting stuff out ready for the new year, plus there’s usually a bit of training to be done, too. But that’s fine, and five long, luxurious weeks is more than enough.
And for the first time in I don’t know how long, I have absolutely nothing planned, and that’s a surprisingly refreshing feeling. I used to be pretty quick off the mark getting holidays booked, arranging time to see family and friends, and organising Mark’s diary and annual leave around all those. But this time, all I have to worry about is me, I can take each day as it comes, go away if and when I feel like it, and generally just please myself. Plus of course see lots of Tom as well, although he does still have some work commitments over the hols, being the Head and the chief responsible person and all that. We haven’t discussed a holiday together; it seems too soon and a bit too scary to be entering into a joint venture like that just yet, but we will have lots of days together and generally see plenty of each other. We’ve both said we want to invest lots of time really getting to know one other, and we’re lucky that we share the enviably long summer break in which to do just that.