by Jenny Oliver
Harry could see Emily and Hannah walking their way. He didn’t want to be embroiled in a wedding chat when they reached him. He wanted to appear his normal cool and aloof self and not covered in baby vomit and not doing a thumbs up while grinning about a dress. And he certainly didn’t want any withering looks and cross-examination about his opinions on marriage from the pack of three of them. But his conversation with Holly had moved beyond just chit-chat. Looking down at her he could see the same chin wobble, the same rapid blinking that he’d seen the night she’d talked to him about her mum leaving. He didn’t want her to cry. He wanted her to be happy.
Calculating that he had maybe five seconds before Emily and Hannah reached him, he turned and looked Holly straight in the eye and said, ‘OK, listen. As far as I know, Wilf’s childhood was a complete mess. His mum married more times than anyone can count, some of them were nice, some of them weren’t. Before you came along Wilf was a pain in the arse. You have no idea what he was like to work with. So look at it like this – for him to want to go through with marriage and believe he can make it work, given his mum’s track record, I reckon there’s probably more to it than just tradition. And looking at Wilf just as a person, there’s absolutely no way he could handle not having you in his life, so my opinion is that he would do anything to keep you. Tradition, whatever. Forget about the stuff surrounding it, and just have a nice day where you…you know? I don’t know? That’s the best I can give you. Who cares about marriage. You’re together.’ Harry was just spewing out the words as quick as he could. Holly was nodding, blotting her damp eyes with a cocktail napkin. Emily and Hannah were a step away.
Harry turned ready to start a whole new conversation, but when the women reached them they didn’t even give him a second glance. Instead Emily tapped Holly on the shoulder and said, ‘Look, Holly, look who I bumped into. It’s Hannah!’
And Holly turned around, her eyes now dry, if a little pink, and said, ‘Jesus Christ, Hannah Barker. Oh my god.’ And then she put her free, un-baby-carrying arm around her and pulled her into a hug that looked like it might crush Willow, who she then handed quite absent-mindedly to Harry with the words, ‘Go to Uncle Harry.’
No way. How did he have the baby again?
‘You’re related?’ Hannah asked, pointing between Harry and Holly.
‘No, Willow just seems to adore him. Falls fast asleep every time he holds her.’ Holly laughed. ‘And lovely Harry here’s just been convincing me of Wilf’s reasons for wanting to get married. I think he’s a romantic at heart.’
Harry inwardly cringed. Trying to ignore Holly’s comments, he drained his champagne. And when he felt them all staring at him, said to Hannah, ‘So you got the dress finished.’
Hannah nodded.
Harry nodded. ’Good,’ he said.
She raised a brow as if expecting him to say more, perhaps compliment her on it, say something about how it looked, but before he could think of something suitable, something un-eager, Emily cut in. ‘Harry, you’re useless. The dress looked bloody awesome. I’m gutted I already have mine on order.’ It had been widely reported in the gossip mags that Emily Hunter-Brown was getting married in the autumn and already the dress had caused much speculation. ‘I’d have snapped you up in a second. Maybe you could do something for my bridesmaids?’
Harry watched Hannah laugh with surprise. They all knew that doing those bridesmaids dresses would make her a household name. ‘I’d love to,’ she said and he wondered if she was trying her hardest to sound blasé. ‘I think after this one I could do anything!’ she added. ‘God it was like watching my child walk down the aisle. I wanted to run up and wrap my arms around it and keep it safe.’
‘Well she looked stunning,’ Emily said, reaching round Hannah to pluck a champagne from a passing waiter. ‘And I’m completely serious about my bridesmaids. There are three…’
Harry watched Hannah as she listened to Emily. He wanted to tell her that the dress had looked more than awesome, that it had looked to him like art. He wanted to have said that he knew that feeling. That it was like how he felt when he called ‘service’ on a newly finessed signature dish. That stomach-clenching, all-encompassing moment of delight when there was no one’s opinions about it but one’s own. One’s own pride, one’s own pleasure. One’s own confidence. Only for it to be guzzled in a second and boiled down to some hapless adjectives. But tongue-tied and dealing with Willow who was wriggling around trying to make herself comfortable, it was too late to say anything. Hannah, Holly and Emily were now reminiscing about school swimming lessons in the outdoor lido and laughing about some crazy teacher and Harry just had to listen, silent, holding the umbrella and feeling the weight of Willow increase as she fell asleep.
The ferry docked and Holly took a peek into the baby blanket and said, ‘Well seeing as she’s so comfy she may as well stay with you for the time being, Harry.’
Harry exhaled and shook his head. He saw Hannah hold in a smile. Emily waved Wilf over and Jack and they exited the boat en masse. As the couples paired off, Harry ended up walking to The Dandelion Café with Hannah. While he mulled over whether it was too late to say something about the dress, he realised that they had walked quite a way without saying anything.
The sky was still as grey as cement. Rain was peppering the umbrella and making them sidestep round puddles. The cherry trees that lined the path had been decorated with multi-coloured lights for Christmas and on every lamp post hung a silver star. Hannah seemed to be inspecting the surroundings. Staring up at every bare cherry tree, the bark darkened to black by the rain. She was clearly distracting herself from the awkwardness.
‘Do you want me to hold the umbrella?’ she said in the end. ‘Seeing as you’ve got the baby?’
‘No it’s OK,’ Harry replied, although her taking the umbrella would have been the obvious decision.
They were silent for a couple more steps, mud squelching underfoot. Along the path the cherry trees gave way to Christmas trees, all twinkling with white lights, lined up like proud soldiers guiding them to the venue. ‘You like kids?’ Hannah said into the quiet, nodding towards sleeping Willow.
‘No,’ Harry replied.
‘Oh.’
‘Does anyone actually like kids? Don’t they just have them so that they’ll grow up and eventually be interesting?’
Hannah didn’t reply.
‘You’re not going to tell me you’ve got about eight of them and you all frolic about in the fields together.’
Hannah laughed. ‘No,’ she said, and shook her head.
‘Well whatever, have them, don’t have them. I just know I’m having far too much talk about marriage and children for my liking,’ he said as they reached the cafe where another waiter was standing under the awning, sheltering from the rain, with glasses of hot, spiced mulled wine. ‘Ah,’ sighed Harry. ‘The best way to ruin red wine.’
‘My god. Just stop, OK?’ Hannah took her little glass cup and shook her head.
‘Stop what?’
‘Stop moaning. We’re at a wedding, it’s Christmas,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I’ve spent two months locked in a room sewing, my fingers have lost about three layers of skin, my back is locked into the wrong position, my eyes hurt. Wow. Look at this place…’ she said, caught off guard by the winter wonderland of kitsch that had once been The Dandelion Café.
‘Carry on,’ said Harry.
‘What?’ Hannah looked up from inspecting the vintage baubles on a hot pink Christmas tree, confused.
‘You were mid-lecture.’
She laughed. ‘It wasn’t a lecture, I was just saying that I don’t need some Scrooge character layering on the bad vibes. This is a happy event. Look, there are little plastic deer and fake snow and…is that a Smurf nativity?’ Hannah bent down to examine the fat blue Smurfs huddled together around a plastic manger.
‘I believe it might be,’ Harry said, chastened, intrigued, watching as she prodded the little baby Jesus Smurf and laughed at the
Smurf kings carrying gifts. No one except his sister had ever really spoken to him like that before. It stopped him in his tracks, made him want to double back and get a mulled wine, although drinking it over the sleeping sprog probably wasn’t that PC an idea. Instead he said, ‘Did you know that in France Smurfs are called, Les Schtroumpfs?’
Hannah glanced back at him over her shoulder, her eyebrows drawn into a perplexed expression. ‘I did not know that.’
‘Yeah well,’ said Harry. ‘Now you do.’
Chapter Seven
‘How do you know that?’ Hannah asked, taking a sip of her piping hot drink and burning her tongue. She didn’t want to give Harry the satisfaction of seeing her mulled wine-related injury so she pretended it hadn’t happened, internally wincing from the pain.
‘I was quite the Smurf obsessive as a child.’
‘Really? I liked Sylvanian Families.’
‘Yeah I never really understood them. Too furry.’
Hannah laughed, suddenly liking talking to him a bit more. He hadn’t seemed the type to reveal a childhood passion for Smurfs. He hadn’t seemed the type to reveal anything or, for that matter, to have anything to reveal. She glanced at him standing there dressed in his suit trousers and white shirt with no tie and the top button undone, unshaven, hair a bit awry, certainly not slicked for a wedding. One little quip about his childhood and suddenly he seemed to change from flat to 3D. It was as if his eyes suddenly led back into a real person – albeit one still sporting a set expression of sardonic disinterest.
They were silent again for a moment. And in an attempt to keep up the chit-chat, Hannah picked up a little Smurf and said, ‘So did they inspire you to become a chef?’
Harry frowned. ‘How do you know I’m a chef?’
Hannah swallowed, realised that the only way she knew was because she had talked about him with her brother when she got home after the dress fitting. ‘My brother’s eaten at your restaurant.’
‘Oh yeah? Is he here?’ Harry glanced round the room.
Hannah shook her head. She saw Harry’s lips twitch a touch. Saw the little train in his brain toot-tooting with smug delight, fully aware that she’d talked about him after their first meeting in the café.
‘Did he like the food?’ Harry asked after another silence.
She could only remember him talking about the people being told off about their phones rather than anything they ate. ‘I think so.’
Harry scoffed. ‘Doesn’t sound particularly memorable.’
‘Oh I’m sure… You know?’ She struggled for more to say. Her brain bashing into walls with every starting topic. ‘Do you like being a chef?’
Harry shrugged. ‘When I get feedback like that it makes it all worthwhile.’
Hannah looked down at her feet then across at the kitchen where the waitresses were starting to bring out platters of tapas canapés. She was finding this hard work. But she’d been out of the casual small-talk scene for so long that she didn’t know if it was her fault or his. She fished around in her head for more to say, aware that she probably hadn’t helped matters by telling him off for moaning earlier. The baby seemed to like him. They were good judges of character. Although if she thought of Jemima, she liked anyone who knew all the dance steps to the latest Little Mix album. In the end she said, ‘Do you march around the kitchen shouting orders like Gordon Ramsey?’
Harry’s brows folded into a pitying glance. ‘No.’
Hannah bit her lip and looked away. She tried to focus on the decorations. The whole café had been decked out like a vintage grotto. The tiny multi-coloured baubles she’d watched Annie hanging were looped from one side of the café to the other. Old 1950s tablecloths of varying Christmas design covered all the booth tables. The pictures had been replaced with blown-up images of retro Christmas cards – one of little bunnies and squirrels gathered under a huge white snowy tree, another of a young boy skating on the lake, a Christmas tree over his arm. Every table had a miniature hot-pink Christmas tree in the centre and a collection of figurines – Bambis and Santas and kittens playing in the snow. Then, over the counter, hung what looked like a hundred vintage baubles, each one from its own coloured ribbon, like it was raining a rainbow. ‘It looks amazing, doesn’t it?’ she said, the decor seeming like much safer ground.
‘It looks like someone vomited up Christmas.’
‘OK, I’m done talking to you.’
‘What have I done?’ Harry said.
‘You hate everything I say,’ Hannah sighed.
Harry laughed. ‘OK then, fair enough. I’m going to go and find a drink.’ And with that he walked away in the direction of the bar at the far end of the café. Hannah exhaled as she turned in the opposite direction - back towards the entrance where most people had congregated. She had to squeeze her way through the crowds. All of them chatting, laughing and cooing over canapés. The windows were steaming up. It couldn’t be all her fault, she thought as she put some distance between her and Harry. There must be easier people to talk to in the building than him. She looked around for someone else she knew but Emily was over in the other corner and Holly was deep in discussion with Wilf.
She tried to join a group chatting animatedly about something but when she stood next to them the guy just stepped back and said, ‘Sorry do want to get through?’
Maybe it was her?
She had a canapé and stood by the window. Pretended to check her phone and then quickly popped the garlicky prawn into her mouth and took a moment to savour the flavour. All around her was the bubbling rise of chatter. Everyone seemed to know each other. Seemed to know what to say and how to say it. She felt devoid of chat. A couple of people patted her on the arm and said, ‘Great dress by the way,’ but then moved on. She felt out of practice and out the loop. She looked at the clock on her phone and wondered when it would be polite to leave.
She thought perhaps a moment of fresh air might help and pushed her way towards the door, only to be pushed back again by the arrival of Annie and Matt, the bride and groom.
Annie was radiant. Her whole face had changed since the Christmas Eve fitting and before. The tension was gone, the panic, the stress. Now she was all soft skin and beaming smiles. ‘Hannah!’ she shouted. ‘Hannah! I’m so pleased you stayed. Look…’ she said, pointing down to the dress. ‘You did it. You absolutely made my day. I feel like a princess. You’re a miracle worker. Can you believe it rained? Apparently it’s meant to be good luck!’
As Annie rambled on with joy and praise and happiness, Hannah realised that that was why she was here. To see her, to see the dress, to see the magic.
Thoughts of terrible small talk with Harry chugged to the back of her mind as Matt leant forward to kiss her on the cheek in greeting and at the same time whisper in her ear, ‘I’ve never in my life seen Annie happier. Thank you.’
Hannah had to swallow down a lump in her throat. She’d done it. All those nights with her family sewing metres and metres of white ruffles and beading peacock feathers. She’d achieved what she’d only faintly believed she could do.
Emily and Holly appeared, both with glasses of champagne and different tapas on napkins.
‘So what happened to you, Hannah? Where did you go?’ Holly asked as Annie was drawn away, mobbed by her guests for photos and congratulations.
‘Oh I was just talking to that miserable chef.’
‘No.’ Holly bashed her on the arm. ‘I mean in life. I haven’t seen you for ages.’
‘I know, it’s been so long.’ Hannah nodded. ‘Do you remember we used to sit in here after we’d been to that terrible club over there…’ She pointed towards the other side of the river. ‘What was it called?’
‘The Black Room.’
‘Yeah.’ Hannah laughed. ‘God, it was awful. And do you remember, we’d come straight from the club to this place and wait outside in the freezing cold for it to open.’
‘And have coffee and slice of cherry pie.’ Emily smiled at the memory.
; Hannah could almost taste it. The sharp, bitter cherries and the sweet snap of the pastry. ‘I was always so jealous that I didn’t live on the island.’
‘Where are you living now, darling?’ Emily asked.
‘Still at home.’ Hannah made a face like she was embarrassed to admit it. ‘I had a baby,’ she said.
‘Did you?’ Emily looked surprised, as if she should have been privy to the news.
‘Yeah.’ Hannah looked a bit sheepish. ‘I kind of went under the radar with it all.’
‘I can understand that.’ Holly nodded. ‘This is one of the first times I’ve left the house since Willow,’ she said. ‘Everyone assures me it gets easier,’ she added with a slightly hollow laugh.
‘Oh it does, I promise.’ Hannah smiled.
‘So what about the father?’ Emily asked, plucking a couple more little canapés from a passing waiter’s tray.
Hannah shook her head. A touch taken aback. No one ever asked. ‘There’s no father.’
‘Goodness. A virgin birth. How timely,’ Emily laughed and swept her hand around to take in all the Christmas decorations, almost whacking Annie in the face in the process, who was coming over to join them.
‘Am I missing the reunion?’ Annie asked, champagne in one hand and a silver glittered fairy cake in the other.
‘Hannah’s just enlightening us on the immaculate conception of her child,’ Emily said.
‘You have a child?’ Annie asked. ‘God, sorry I didn’t even ask. This wedding, it was just all-consuming.’
Hannah shook her head. ‘It’s fine. I have a little girl, Jemima. She’s five. And there is a father but he’s not in the picture.’
‘Well I’m sure you’re a fabulous mother,’ Emily said, with a big, beaming smile. ‘I had about a gazillion fathers and all of them were useless.’
Hannah was about to reply, about to make a quick joke about how she really wasn’t that good a mother, it was all trial and error and winging it, but instead she said nothing. She thought how easy it had been to describe her past. Her name’s Jemima. She’s five – just started school. The father’s not in the picture. Done. That was all they needed, wanted, to know. The thought was surprisingly liberating.