Four Weddings and a White Christmas

by Jenny Oliver

  Hannah reached for a third sachet of sugar. ‘Like what?’

  He laughed at the sugar. ‘Still not great?’ She shook her head.

  Harry nodded, then tried to think about what he’d have wanted from his dad if he could have had anything. ‘Stupid stuff, I suppose, like I wanted him to like what I cooked. Or at least appreciate it. Not to think I should have been an accountant.’

  Hannah had the cup resting against her lips, like she was using it to warm them. He could only see her eyes, waiting, listening.

  ‘I wanted him to understand my life,’ Harry said, surprising himself with his honesty. ‘I wanted him to acknowledge that his way wasn’t the only way. I feel like…’ He paused, took in a breath and carried on, feeling her watching, almost as if now he’d started he couldn’t stop. ‘I looked at his body in the hospital bed and I was angry that he couldn’t talk any more.’ Harry felt his voice break slightly and swallowed to make it go away. ‘I wanted to keep fighting with him. I feel like I never got to where I had promised myself as a kid that I would get to. With him. Fuck.’ He pressed his fingers into his eyes. ‘My mum’s a wreck. My sister’s a wreck.’

  ‘Are you staying with them?’ Hannah asked.

  He shook his head. ‘No in a hotel. I’d booked it for the wedding. And I’m flying back after the funeral so it just seemed easier to stay at the hotel.’ Harry shook his head again.

  There was a moment of silence. Harry made the mistake of taking a sip of his coffee and grimaced.

  ‘Did you love him?’ Hannah asked.

  Harry paused as he stirred in a third sachet of sugar. Thought about his life growing up. How it was fine if everything was as his dad wanted it to be. The shouting at the slip-ups. Harry in his room, sulking, making angry promises in an angry house. ‘Yes,’ he said, the words almost coming as a shock. ‘Yes I loved him, I was just happy not to have to live with him any more. He was a pain.’

  Hannah sat back with a laugh. ‘Well I know where you get it from then.’

  ‘I am really sorry about what I said to you,’ he said.

  ‘Harry, this isn’t about you and me at the moment. This is about you.’ Hannah put the cup down and leant forward, her elbows on the table, her chin resting in her palms. ‘You have to go and sort out what this means. You can’t be angry with a dead man for ever. And you can’t avoid your family. You should be with them right now, not with me.’

  ‘Will you forgive me for what I said?’

  She licked her lips. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Will you come to the funeral with me?’ he asked, staring at his rapidly cooling coffee.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head.

  Harry’s head shot up, confused.

  ‘You’ll thank me for it.’

  ‘I don’t think I will.’

  She smiled at him, picked up her bag and stood up. ‘It’s a risk I’m willing to take,’ she said, and left. Their forty-five minute time limit up.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When she got home, Hannah couldn’t shake the rawness she’d seen in Harry’s eyes. Like he was shot through with fear. Turned inside out and exposed. She thought about something else Holly had said at the hand-fasting ceremony in France. About how her future didn’t have to come from her past.

  Harry’s present was so glaringly controlled by what had come before, the death of his father was like a spotlight illuminating the fact. Him so afraid of structure that he lived at completely the other end of the scale, rules for the express purpose of stopping himself having rules.

  Aside from the obvious – being hurt – Hannah made herself sit at the table and think about her fears from her past that might be shaping her now.

  There were the comments from her bosses about her pregnancy. But since meeting Annie and making that first dress, she was no longer hiding in the shadows.

  There was the fear that she had made a mistake by getting pregnant while everyone else’s lives just ticked along all happy. That the grass was always greener in someone else’s life. But Hannah had been her parents’ mistake and her mother would claim they were a richer family for it. God, even Emily had stood up at her wedding and told the crowd she’d been too scared to marry in public from fear of her former heartbreak.

  Hannah’s biggest fear was losing control of what she had. That perhaps Harry was right, she was a bit uptight. But that was only because she was so afraid of the chaos she had lived through coming back. Deep down, one of her fears wasn’t that she didn’t know the name of Jemima’s father. But that one day they might bump into him and the whole world would rock.

  But perhaps that would be a good thing? Perhaps then he wouldn’t be the adventurer any longer. He would be a person.

  She thought of Harry struggling with the memories left by his father. Imperfect but still loved.

  She had shielded herself and Jemima. She had kept them safe and protected. But maybe, as Harry was about to understand, you had to get involved, get into the thick of things, face the realities, open yourself up to chaos, pain, love, in order to find your true freedom.

  Hannah pulled her drawing pad over from where it sat at the end of the table. She didn’t cross a line through what she’d done or screw it up into a ball and start again. Instead she turned the page, picked up her pencil and, forgetting what had gone before, she drew. From her fears, from her wishes, from her wildest fantasies. From the inside out.

  Chapter Twenty

  Hannah had been right.

  If she had gone to the funeral then, Harry would have stood with her. Instead he had stood next to his mum. And when she had searched for a hand to steady her as she had walked back up the aisle of the church at the end of the ceremony, his was there to hold.

  If Hannah had gone to the funeral he wouldn’t have seen his sister’s boys giggling nervously in the graveyard and leant down and told them to go and play in the playground rather than stay and watch a coffin being lowered. He wouldn’t have seen his sister frown at him and him shrug to say the decision had been made, she should focus on crying and blowing her nose. He wouldn’t have stepped forward and put his arm around his mum’s shaking shoulders. He wouldn’t have laughed with his sister when the earth she threw on the coffin had a snail in it. He wouldn’t have had a very boring chat with his uncle as people milled around in the churchyard, nor would he have had to eat the old humbug that his aunt fished out of her handbag for him. But most of all he wouldn’t have gone to the wake. He would have skived it by saying he had to take Hannah home and then gone back to his hotel and got pissed in the bar.

  ‘OK, Harry, you go and take the tin foil off the food and I’ll put the kettle on,’ his mum said as she unlocked the front door.

  There weren’t many people coming back to the house, a dozen or so as well as family and his mum had put on a buffet.

  ‘I was up for hours last night,’ she called through from the kitchen. ‘Making all his favourite foods. Thought it would be a nice, you know, like a tribute.’

  Harry was standing in the lounge, staring at his dad’s chair. At the imprint still where his bum sat. ‘Yeah,’ he said, absently, inwardly sighing at the idea of cheese and pickle sandwiches, sausage rolls and slices of fruitcake. He wondered how she’d have turned gammon and eggs into a finger food as he lifted off the tin foil.

  The first plate was a salt-baked salmon.

  The second wafer-thin slices of Wagyu beef.

  The third little empanadas with cocktail stick paper flags to show which was beef and which was chicken.

  Harry frowned.

  The more tinfoil he lifted, the more of his own recipes he saw on the table.

  The final bowl was the one his mum used at Christmas and he narrowed his eyes before looking at what was inside.

  He could hear his mum walking into the lounge.

  Underneath the foil was a big pile of Brussel sprouts, cooked with pancetta, chestnuts and marsala wine.

  ‘You’re kidding?’ Harry said, turning to face his
mum who had paused by the sofa.

  She shook her head.

  ‘These are not his favourite foods, Mum.’

  ‘They are,’ she nodded. ‘I promise. On his life. I promise.’

  Harry scoffed. ‘This is ridiculous.’

  His mum walked over to the table and popped a Brussel sprout into her mouth. ‘When it’s all you’re given you have to try it sometime, don’t you? Or at least your dad did.’ She smiled as she looked up at Harry. ‘I got your book, Harry, after last Christmas. Look, it’s over there.’

  Harry glanced to where she was pointing and saw a copy of his cookbook on the kitchen shelf.

  ‘I made everything. It’s been all I’ve cooked. And in the end he had to eat it. That or starve and he wasn’t going to do that, believe me. Stubborn old bugger though he was. And I think even he was surprised. These really are his favourites, Harry. Still liked to know which day of the week they were coming, but you can’t change everything, can you?’

  Harry looked at the food on the table then back at his mum. ‘He ate the sprouts?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes. There was period of time in this house that you might call Sprout-gate. We got there,’ she said with a twinkle in her eye.

  Harry found there was a smile playing on his lips. ‘He really ate the sprouts?’

  ‘And he liked them. Like little sweets he said.’

  Harry laughed. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Little sweets. Blimey, I wouldn't expect him to have said that.’

  ‘He gets there in the end – got there in the end – Harry, always did. Just used to take quite a lot of steering. Like a big tanker. You were just both always too stubborn to realise.’

  ‘Don’t say too similar.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Not too similar. But similarly determined.’ She put her hand over his where it rested on one of the dining room chairs.

  ‘He really liked the food? You’re not winding me up?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare,’ she said with a laugh.

  Harry could scarcely believe it. He had to sit down. His mum went off to the kitchen to make the tea and the front door unlocked and his sister and her boys came bounding into the living room.

  ‘Hi, Harry, bye, Harry,’ they shouted as they ran straight past him and out into the garden. Then they skidded back and, grabbing an empanada, each said, ‘Granny makes the best empanadas.’ And dashed out into the garden with a little pasty in each hand. The comment cementing, for Harry, the whole thing as truth.

  When his mum came back in with a teapot and cups on a tray and his uncle and aunt arrived with a couple more guests, he said, ‘Where the hell did you get Brussels sprouts this time of year?’

  ‘From the freezer,’ she said, sliding the tray onto a space on the table. ‘That’s how much of a favourite they were. Always had a bag on hand.’

  Harry helped her lay out the cups and, as she was about to go back to the kitchen, he stood up and said, ‘Thank you. Thanks, Mum.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For steering him.’

  ‘We all need a little shove sometimes,’ she said. ‘I mean, look at me, haven’t even been to your restaurant. Unforgivable.’ More people arrived and started to mill into the living room. His mum was about to go over and talk to them when she paused and added quickly, ‘I let him have too much of a hold, I know that, Harry. But I wasn’t strong enough. Sometimes people just aren’t strong enough.’

  Harry spent the rest of the wake chatting to relatives and old work colleagues of his father’s. Then went out in the garden to play with his nephews and have a glass of wine in the shed with his sister to escape the small talk.

  He stayed until the last guest had left. He stayed for a quick nightcap with his aunt and uncle. Then he stayed because he didn’t want to leave and he slept on the sofa next to his dad’s chair and in the morning, when he left to catch his plane, for the first time in his life he was sadder to be leaving his family than he was happy to be flying back to New York.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘Go on, Simon, say it…’ Emily was back from her honeymoon and as brown as a berry. Everyone else in the boardroom had slid comfortably into autumn, the women wearing cardigans and big scarves wrapped round their necks. The men had V-neck jumpers on or hipster cardigans over their shirts. Emily, however, was keeping summer alive and flaunting her tan in an electric-blue tank top and acid-yellow pencil skirt. She was sitting back in her chair all relaxed, her caramel-coloured legs and arms crossed, her big blonde hair loose around her shoulders, and the hugest smile was sitting smugly on her face.

  The whole boardroom had turned to look at the EHB Head of Sales, Simon, who was seated to Emily’s right, opposite Hannah, and was flicking slowly through the new boards of her designs. His face was impassive as he stacked the boards on top of one another and pushed them gently to the middle of the table. Then he reached up and straightened his tie before sitting back in his chair and resting his clasped hands on the table in front of him, his iPad, notebook and phone sitting neatly to his left.

  Hannah swallowed. She had worked flat out. She had drawn and redrawn till every single element was perfect. Till each item looked on the page exactly as it felt in her head. Until she had captured the essence of every emotion she was trying to convey into the most perfect piece of clothing. Till she was satisfied that it said Hannah for EHB, that the two slotted together like a Tetris piece, and she could sit back in the knowledge that it was the very best she could possibly do. And if they didn’t like it, it was because they had differing tastes, differing goals, not because it wasn’t good enough.

  Simon cleared his throat.

  Emily rolled her eyes. ‘Come on,’ she urged.

  The PR girl to Hannah’s left scribbled something on her notepad and then read her emails as they waited. She was a casual observer, unlike Hannah. Her heart wasn’t thundering in her chest waiting for Simon’s answer.

  Hannah had already steeled herself for the fact he wouldn’t like it. She couldn’t see him changing his opinion that a more experienced designer would be better, even if he wasn’t completely averse to the new collection. She was OK with that. She’d made peace with it because she was proud of what she’d put together. But still she waited, unconsciously holding her breath, waiting for him to speak.

  Simon mumbled something.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Emily sat forward, rolling her chair in so she was sitting properly at the desk. ‘What was that?’ she asked.

  Simon coughed. ‘I said, I think they’re very good.’

  Hannah blinked.

  Emily laughed, her loud horsey, infectious laugh.

  Simon straightened. He glanced up and across at Hannah and gave her a nod.

  She nodded back.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think we can do something with these.’ And then he pulled his notebook out from under his iPad and started to make some quick jottings, back to business as usual.

  Emily stretched up in her chair, a wide, satisfied grin on her face, and then, after a big exhale said, ‘Right then, team, let’s get cracking. We’ve got work to be doing.’

  And Hannah snuggled down in her chair, every ounce of her being beaming with quiet delight.

  You are invited to the wedding of Jane Williams and William Blackwell

  31st December, 4 p.m., All Saints Church

  followed by a reception to welcome in the New Year at

  The Duck and Cherry Pub, Cherry Pie Island

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It started to snow the week before Christmas. Not massive flakes but a gentle flurry to dust the grass with white.

  Hannah pointed towards the window to make Jemima look as the phone rang in her ear and she waited for someone to pick up.

  Jemima glanced up from licking the bowl and her eyes widened with delight.

  Hannah laughed.

  ‘Hello?’

  The voice pulled her back to the phone call. ‘Oh hi,’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘Hi, Harry? Hi, it’s Hann
ah.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah I saw,’ he paused then added. ‘On my phone. Your name came up.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She nodded.

  ‘You OK? What can I do for you? It was a nice surprise, to see your name.’

  ‘It’s actually, well, it’s not me calling. Well it is, but actually it’s Jemima who wanted to talk to you. Hang on. Jemima, it’s Harry.’ Hannah held the phone over to Jemima who had forgotten the snow and was trying to hang off her arm to get to talk to Harry.

  ‘Harry? Harry, it’s Jemima. I’ve made a cake. I made it all on my own. Mummy took it out the oven but otherwise it was all me. It’s the Christmas cake, and guess what flavour it is? I chose it.’ She looked from Hannah to the cake, beaming.

  Hannah couldn’t hear Harry’s reply but whatever it was it had Jemima in stitches.

  ‘No, silly, it’s banana. Banana and chocolate. The perfect combination, remember.’ She paused, listened. ‘Yep. I made her put it on Instagram. Do you follow her? It’s just HannahBarker. Yep, then you can see everything. Yep. Yep. It’s snowing here. Is it snowing there? Wow. We don’t have that much. It’s just started. Yeah I’m going to go out in it in a minute. Look at my cake, yeah? Promise? Thanks. OK. Yeah, I will. Yeah. Here’s Mummy.’ Jemima thrust the phone at Hannah and then went darting off down the stairs to the back door and out into the garden.

  ‘Hi,’ said Hannah. ‘Sorry about that. She just, well, she wouldn’t stop until I rang you. You don’t have to follow me on Instagram.’

  ‘I’m doing it as we speak on the iPad. Nice cake. Nice flat.’

  Hannah laughed. ‘Thanks.’

  There was a pause then Harry said, ‘So how are you?’

  ‘Yeah I’m good thanks. Really good. The EHB collection launches in February so that’s really exciting. I think everyone’s really pleased.’

  ‘That’s amazing. Well done. You should be really proud.’

  Hannah nodded. ‘Yeah I am, thanks. It worked out well in the end. I got there.’ She went over to lean on the windowsill and watch as Jemima and Hannah’s dad made snowballs in the garden. ‘How are you? I haven’t spoken to you since the funeral. Was it… I don’t know how you ask about funerals. Can you say was it OK?’