by Jenny Oliver
He laughed and, even to him, it sounded like a weird fake one. ‘No, of course not,’ he said and saw Silvia watching from the doorway, one brow raised.
His mum let him go, wiping a tear away with her apron.
‘Bye, Sis,’ he said with a quick salute. ‘Any time you want to pop to New York let me know.’
Silvia smiled. ‘I will. And any time you want to pop home,’ she said, with big eyes as if she was urging him to do so a bit more often. ‘Let us know! Maybe more than half a day in advance.’
‘Will do,’ he said, with no intention of doing so whatsoever, and headed out into the cloudy darkness, the rain still pouring and shaking the Christmas lights off the branches of the trees.
Chapter Five
To Jemima’s delight, Boxing Day was spent in front of the television while everyone sewed. The fitting on Christmas Eve had proved that Annie had somehow lost weight over the festive period when everyone else put it on so, as well as finishing all the embroidery, doing the skirt, the sleeves, the neckline, Hannah also had to take it in a half inch. And so the day after Boxing Day was also spent in front of the television, again to Jemima’s delight, while everyone sewed.
‘So she’s invited me to the wedding,’ Hannah said, glancing up at Dylan as she pinned cream ruffles to the skirt.
‘And?’ Dylan was playing Top Trumps with Jemima.
Over at the living room table, her mum was embroidering peacock feathers to one end of the hot-pink overlay while her dad was beading the other end. They were like Lady and the Tramp with vibrant pink net. Lying in front of the TV, watching Frozen, Tony and Robyn were making more ruffles for Hannah to attach to the skirt.
‘Well,’ Hannah scratched her head. ‘Should I go?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t think it’s a sympathy invite? Just because I made the dress?’
Dylan frowned down at his Top Trump. ‘Of course it is. You haven’t been friends with them since school.’
‘So I shouldn’t go?’ she said, sitting crossed-legged on the floor.
‘Hannah, you don’t have time to stop,’ her mum called over from the table.
Hannah went back to pinning the ruffles.
‘Of course you should go. I’d go. All your old friends’ll be there. If anything, just go to get a peek at that Emily Hunter-Brown. She’s a bona fide famous person now. She was in your year, wasn’t she? From what I read in the paper, she’s engaged to Jack Neil now. Remember him from school. God he was a dish.’ Dylan sighed at the memory, then added, ‘Take it from me, Hannah, as your elder and wiser…’
Jemima giggled.
‘The older you get, the much smaller the opportunities to make new friends become. So when they do come up, you should pounce on them immediately.’
Hannah thought about when the last time she’d made a new friend was. She’d met people at college but they were all fifteen years younger than her and, while they’d been fun to hang out with, she’d felt a bit like their uncool mum, having to bite her tongue when they talked about all the drugs they were taking. There were her baby friends that she talked kid stuff with. Work friends that she bitched about her boss with. But new friends who just knew her as Hannah – not as crazy-busy ‘Jemima’s mum’ or the person who could never do the overtime that everyone else did because she had to pick up from nursery – she hadn’t made one of them in a while.
‘Always in life, Hannah,’ Dylan went on, ‘do what works for you.’
‘I think Uncle Dylan is cheating, Mummy.’ Jemima turned her head round to look at Hannah.
‘I am not, you little ratbag,’ Dylan said with a laugh and bashed Jemima with a sofa cushion, making her giggle.
‘I don’t know, Dyl. I’m going to be so tired once this is done.’ Hannah picked up another cream ruffle just as Tony came over and dumped a whole load more onto her pile. ‘And there’s Jemima.’
‘You’re a machine, Hannah. You can keep going for another twelve hours just to drink champagne and eat little cakes. Even I could do that and I have the stamina of a dying fly. And your daughter has a rich, diverse and talented extended family who insist that she is left in their care so she can learn and develop into a thoroughly rounded human being. Hence why we are currently playing One Direction Top Trumps.’
Hannah looked from Dylan to the three-quarters finished dress that hung from the dressmaker’s dummy and was just beginning to look as good as it should. Behind it the Christmas tree twinkled and the fire crackled and she felt her mind and her body at war. Physically she was so exhausted that she wanted to fit Annie in the dress and then scurry home to the big sofa and eat a mince pie with a glass of wine. But that would be the same as Christmas last year and similar to the one the year before. Whereas her mind was quietly fizzing with excitement. With the possibility of the people. The life. Of going back again to Cherry Pie Island. It was like standing in front of a television screen and being invited to step inside to where the colours were brighter and the life richer. Where people married their childhood sweethearts, ran cute little cafés and dressed like hot-pink Christmas trees.
‘So, what do you think? Have I persuaded you to go?’ Dylan asked with a confident little smirk on his lips.
Hannah glanced back at him. ‘I think you might have done.’
‘Ha. Brilliant. I knew it. I’m a genius.’ He laughed and then made Jemima give him a high-five.
Chapter Six
‘Nah, mate. I’ll stay here, you’re alright. She doesn’t want me coming to her wedding. She doesn’t know me. And she sure as hell doesn’t like me,’ Harry said as he served up golden, buttery bacon sandwiches. He’d spent years tweaking his perfect method of making them. Sizzling streaky bacon pressed down in the pan with the base of another to make sure every inch was crispy, then lined up widthways on the bread to ensure even distribution when cutting. Next came the tiny, sweet cherry tomatoes grilled till they split. The whole sandwich then dipped in whisked egg and touched back down on the highest heat to hiss and pop and turn the bread a rich golden brown. All served with big mugs of stewed tea.
‘I have to have brown sauce,’ said Wilf as he pulled up a seat at the island unit in his sister Emily Hunter-Brown’s kitchen.
‘You can’t have brown sauce. It’ll ruin it. It’s perfect as it is. I promise.’
Wilf shook his head. ‘Nope.’
‘God you’re a philistine. I don’t know how you own so many restaurants.’
‘I am a connoisseur of taste, my dear chap. But I also appreciate the little luxuries in life, such as a bit of HP sauce.’
As Wilf was talking, Emily appeared and slid onto the stool next to him. When Wilf had said Emily’d put Harry up as well as himself, Wilf’s fiancée Holly and their baby, Harry had tried to refuse, saying he’d check into a hotel, but then Wilf had emailed him a photo of Montmorency Manor, Emily’s home, and said it practically was a hotel. He could have as much or as little privacy as he wanted. And Wilf had been right, but Harry felt as if he’d been here too long already. He was ready to go home, back to normality. But of course Wilf, having said ‘let’s discuss business over the holidays’, hadn’t wanted to talk business until Christmas was done, and then now till the wedding was done, and all Harry hoped was that he could get it all in the bag prior to New Year, be back in New York and back in the restaurant to make sure no one buggered up the eight course New Year’s Eve menu he’d spent months finalising.
‘What you have to understand about my brother, Harry…’ Emily drawled, her white-blonde hair all mussed-up on top of her head like a halo. ‘Is that he had a very dysfunctional childhood. His only comfort came from matron at boarding school – the big-bosomed provider of the HP sauce,’ she said with a smile, then picked up her sandwich and added, ‘This looks dreamy,’ before taking a giant bite.
Wilf scoffed. ‘Well, dear Sister, I’d take a bottle of HP over having my whole life catalogued in Hello! magazine. Or indeed hidden amongst redundant Blockbuster video stock. Which r
eminds me…’ He held up a hand. ‘Harry, have you had the pleasure of witnessing Emily’s fledgling film career? I can probably get my hands on a copy of When the Wind Blows, if not?’
‘Oh piss off, Wilf,’ she said. ‘Everyone knows it was crap. It was a crap script and I was crap in it. So it’s pointless bringing it up.’ She shook her head. ‘You’re so lame at arguing.’
Wilf did a huge, guffawing laugh and then pulled Emily into a sideways hug which she did her best to bat away.
Just then the big sliding doors of the kitchen opened and Emily’s partner Jack came in from the garden, all sweaty from a run. ‘Hey. Something smells amazing,’ he said, going over to Emily and kissing her on the forehead before necking her glass of water. ‘Is there one for me?’ he asked.
‘Jack, you’re all sweaty, it’s gross,’ Emily said, wiped his sweat from her face with a tea towel while Harry pushed a plate his way.
‘You love it!’ Jack laughed. ‘Love me, love my sweat,’ he added as Emily grimaced and threw the tea towel at him so he could dry his face. Jack just chucked it over his shoulder, more interested in the bacon sandwich. Taking a huge bite he sighed as he chewed. ‘What a treat! Thanks, Harry.’ Then, after he’d swallowed, added, ‘So, what have I missed?’
‘Wilf is just giving Harry the low-down on my epic film career,’ Emily answered with a faux smile in Wilf’s direction.
‘Well if you will put yourself out there, Sis, you’ve got take the criticism.’
Jack leant over and gave Emily a sympathetic little squeeze.
‘Still too much sweat, darling,’ she said, pushing him away, but he wouldn’t let her go and in the end she laughed and let him hug her tight. ‘You’re so manly,’ she mocked, then gave him a big, flamboyant kiss on the lips, after which she turned to Wilf and picked the argument up where it had left off. ‘It was like ten years ago, Wilf. No one needs to talk about it or see it.’
‘I did actually see When the Wind Blows,’ Harry said, leaning his elbows on the kitchen counter. ‘I didn’t think you were as bad as everyone said.’
‘Thank you, Harry.’ Emily held her hands wide as if vindicated. ‘For that, you may stay as long as you like.’
Wilf rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah and for that you can find yourself a suit because you’re coming to the wedding. And if you don’t come, you’re staying here and babysitting Willow. Up to you.’
‘Stop scowling at them,’ Wilf whispered out the corner of his mouth as he and Harry sat on the hard wooden seats of Swan Island Folly – a little temple that had been built to celebrate the great poems of someone Harry had never heard of in the eighteenth century.
‘I just don’t see the point,’ Harry muttered back, watching the groom, Matt, and the moody teenage son, Water, no River, pacing and looking increasingly nervous as the bride got later. ‘Why do you need to do this?’
‘What?’
‘Get married.’
Wilf considered it for a second, then said, ‘Tradition.’
‘Hang on, what did you just say?’ Wilf’s fiancée, Holly, sat forward, Willow asleep on her shoulder. ‘Were you kidding? You think people get married just because of tradition?’
Wilf made a face like he’d done something wrong without really thinking about it and wishing the right words were in his head so that he could reply with the right answer. ‘No,’ he said instead.
Harry’s lips twitched. He liked Holly a lot. She reminded him of his sister. He’d heard a lot about her before he met her, what with Wilf being his boss, but the gossip hadn’t really done her justice. No one could ever quite describe what she looked like, only to say she wasn’t Wilf’s usual type. Which was a roundabout way of saying she wasn’t model-stunning, but it also suggested that she had a brain and didn’t fawn annoyingly over him like all the others always did. Harry thought Holly was very pretty in a freckled-nosed, pale-skinned kind of way, but mainly he thought she was brilliant because of her obvious calming effect on Wilf. Since they’d been together things got done, plans got made, he wasn’t pissed when he turned up to meetings, nor did he flounce out bored if things didn’t go his way. She’d also probably been one of Harry’s favourites to talk to on this trip. She was calm and down-to-earth and as Harry didn’t sleep very well and she was up half the night feeding Willow, they’d had some pretty enjoyable night-time chats. She’d told him stories of life growing up on Cherry Pie Island and her time rowing at the Olympics. He’d talked about his life in New York. It had only got weird once when she’d talked about her mum leaving when she was a kid and had looked away embarrassed, tears clearly catching her by surprise. Harry had gone to get her a tissue but she’d used Willow’s muslin to dry her face by the time he got back. Then she’d stood up and said she was going to go and wake Wilf up because she needed a hug. And Harry had been kind of surprised, expecting her to soldier on on her own. But that probably said more about him than it did about her.
Back in the Folly, Holly wasn’t going to let the subject of marriage lie, and in a hushed whisper, because Willow was showing signs of stirring, said, ‘So what is it then, Wilf? Why did you propose?’
Wilf took a deep breath. ‘Because, er…’
Holly raised a brow. ‘It’s the done thing?’
The music started.
The crowd quietened down.
Harry watched as Wilf’s brain seemed to click into gear. He was willing him not to mess this up.
‘No. Absolutely not. It’s a public show of my deep and unutterable love for you, my gorgeous, darling, terrifying partner and my sweet, wailing baby,’ Wilf said, then before Holly could reply he leant round so he could give her a big kiss without disturbing the baby, and with one eye open said, ‘Ooh here’s the bride.’
Harry saw the dressmaker, Hannah, first. Saw her slip into a seat at the back, a second before Annie entered. He watched her fidget with her hands in her lap and then sit on them. He quite enjoyed seeing her nervousness, her apprehension. It was interesting. Far more interesting than all the beaming smiles around him.
Given the dress he’d seen at the café, he’d assumed Hannah would be wearing something equally way-out. Have layers of bizarre jewellery and some odd diaphanous Aztec number on. But she was wearing navy. Really simple except for a luminous-yellow belt. Flat shoes. Hair up. Red lipstick. Almost disguised bags under her eyes. She looked like her Christmas had been as stressful as his own. And surprisingly attractive.
But then the bride came in and he stopped looking at Hannah. The whole crowd seemed to inhale collectively. It was like before their eyes Annie had transformed from stressed café-owner to Hollywood movie star. To supermodel. To eye-wateringly ravishing beauty. Harry had been intending to cast a glance back at the groom to see him wince at the weird hot-pink dress, but since he’d last seen it the dress had been refined, shaped, pressed, little organza sleeves had been added and darker beads and crystals to dim down the crazy pink. Green and blue peacock feather embroidery snaked around the bodice and, just below the waist, gave way to soft cream silk and then, almost like a shredded workhouse dress, underneath the silk were ruffles like feathers that frilled to the ground. She looked amazing. Her cropped blonde hair was all slicked and cool, and her make-up made her eyes all big like a Pixar character, but it was the dress. The dress made her like the very best it was possible for her to ever be and more so. Harry was gob-smacked.
When he could tear his eyes away he looked back at Hannah who was still staring nervously, clasping her hands tight, her eyes squinted as if she couldn’t quite look and her mouth tense. As if she could sense someone watching her she turned his way and when her eye caught his, Harry found himself nodding, then, quite bizarrely, in a gesture he’d never before done in his life, he gave her a thumbs up.
She frowned and he spent the rest of the service wondering what had come over him.
***
The gardens of the folly had been decorated with strings of white bunting and fairy lights that were now dripping in the rain. Blob
s splashing down onto evergreen leaves and into puddles on the paved path. A ferry was waiting to take the guests the short hop over to Cherry Pie Island for the reception at The Dandelion Café. Harry held his umbrella over Holly and baby Willow while Wilf chatted to one of the guests.
‘Wilf just doesn’t really get it, does he?’ Holly said, holding Willow tight against her as she stepped onto the boat and picked up a glass of champagne a waiter was holding on a tray. ‘I mean. That’s what he actually thinks, isn’t it? He actually just thinks people get married because of tradition.’
Harry shrugged. He was slightly distracted looking for the dress designer. He wanted to somehow smooth over the thumbs up incident. To make it quite clear he wasn’t a thumbs up kinda guy, but he had absolutely no way of knowing quite how to get that across.
‘What do you think? Harry?’ Holly nudged him with her arm to get his attention.
‘Yeah, he does. I know. But you do have a kid so…’
‘So?’ Holly tipped her head to one side and looked at him with a sigh. ‘That doesn’t mean we should automatically marry. If we’re not getting married for the right reasons then probably better for Willow that we’re not married. You were the one saying it was ridiculous.’
‘Oh yeah, I think the whole notion of marriage is completely insane. Why you’d want to lock yourself into a relationship is beyond me.’ Harry saw a drip of rain land on Holly’s arm and moved the brolly so she was completely covered. ‘The automatic response has to be to want to escape. It stands to reason. It’s suffocating.’
Holly frowned. ‘I wasn’t going that far, Harry.’
Harry caught a glimpse of the dress designer. She was laughing with Emily, walking up the gangplank with her, both of them sheltering under Emily’s huge rainbow-coloured umbrella. Emily was pointing over to where he and Holly were standing.
‘I just don’t want him to want to do it only because of tradition,’ Holly went on.
‘What do you want him to be doing it for?’
‘I want him to do it because he loves me. Because he loves me so much that he can’t not do it.’