by Lucy Dawson
It was Mum who convinced me not to make any rash decisions when I kept crying every time I so much as opened a drawer that had been his, as I tried to reorganize the space in my life.
‘It will get easier,’ she said. ‘I know you don’t believe me, but there will come a time when you think of Josh and you’ll remember what loving him felt like, but it will be more like an echo that won’t hurt like it does now. Moving house won’t help. Leaving your job is bad enough. You need constants now, not more change.’
She was right. I didn’t notice when it happened but, eventually, coming home to the house on my own became comforting after a long day, rather than something to dread. Even during Marc’s and my temporary split, the house was a refuge.
But now, Claudine has successfully achieved in one night what all my experiences of the last few years have failed to do. She’s made me feel unsafe in my own house. The man she hired has violated everything.
I hate her for that.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ says Alice, as I push the door open cautiously. Everything feels alien, as if the house is in on a secret that it has no wish to share. I try to shrug off the hostility along with my shoes, glancing up the stairs warily, as I grip the strap of my bag more tightly with one hand and slip the other into it to feel for the edges of the envelope.
Still there.
‘Sophie, a bit of hair is coming loose.’ Mum steps towards me and tweaks it. ‘Honestly, I shall have words with Carl. We’ve only been home five minutes. Come on, upstairs – we need to pin that back and spray it before anything else escapes.’
I follow her up reluctantly and sit on my bed, waiting for her to start fussing.
‘It’s not really coming apart at all. I want to know how you’re feeling.’ She sits down on the chair where he was sitting only hours ago, and I have to look away. ‘Don’t try and avoid the question, Sophie. It’s important. As I said to you earlier, wedding or not, if you feel unwell, you must tell me.’
I can’t miss this opportunity. ‘My neck feels pretty stiff,’ I confess, glancing at her and feeling dreadful as a flicker of concern flashes across her face. ‘But I expect that’s just from leaning back when I was having my hair washed.’
‘Anything else?’ she says lightly, leaning over and flicking an imaginary piece of lint from the duvet cover.
‘My head is still hurting.’ This is horrible. ‘It’s a bit worse, I think.’
‘You have seemed a little disorientated. I wonder if we ought to call a doctor, just to ask him or her to—’
‘No!’ I turn back to her instantly. It’s much too early yet. ‘I’m fine, Mum. It was just at the hairdressers I—’
Alice and Imogen appear in the doorway. ‘Tea or coffee?’ asks Alice, as Imogen sits down on the bed next to me, balancing on her lap what looks like a large hat box, which she unzips happily.
‘Make-up time! We can’t have five-star hair and B&B faces. I’m going to do us all. You can go first, birthday girl. So, who have you got coming tonight?’ she adds innocently, as if she hasn’t helped prepare the guest list. ‘Can you put your bag down, Soph? You’ve been glued to it all day. What have you got in there? The crown jewels?’
I stare at her, frightened. ‘Of course not!’ I get up and drop the bag behind the chair, where none of them can get at it, before sitting back down again.
‘All right! No need to bite my head off. OK!’ She beams at me. ‘Turn this way. You can’t see where you bumped your head at all, you know,’ she says encouragingly.
‘Really?’ I ask anxiously. That’s hardly helpful.
‘She’s just being nice,’ says Alice. ‘You’ve got a very visible lump there.’
‘Alice!’ exclaim Mum and Imogen in unison.
‘I think you’re crazy not to be getting it checked out,’ Alice says, and I almost smile gratefully. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be older and wiser as of today?’
‘Leave her alone.’ Imogen glares at Alice, then turns back to me. ‘Don’t worry, Soph. By the time I’ve finished, you won’t be able to see a thing.’
‘I hardly think blinding her is the answer,’ Alice says.
‘Can you just go downstairs and make that coffee?’ explodes Imogen, looking incredulously at Mum as Alice gets up and marches out of the room. ‘She’s seriously starting to get on my nerves. What’s wrong with her?’
‘Nothing is wrong with anyone,’ Mum says soothingly. ‘Everything is just fine. Now, Sophie, you were starting to tell me something else about being in the hairdressers and not feeling well?’
‘Close your eyes,’ instructs Imogen. ‘I’m just going to give you a quick wipe.’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ I reply, flinching as she scrubs my skin. I hope she’s not as rough with poor little Evie. ‘I felt a bit pukey, that’s all.’
Imogen stops and I open my eyes just in time to catch her pulling a face at Mum, before she composes herself again. ‘You’re absolutely sure you’re not pregnant?’ she says. ‘You don’t just get morning sickness in the morning, you know – it can be any time of day. For lots of women it’s worst at night. With Evie it was brushing my teeth that did it. I’d be standing there at the sink and—’
‘Were you actually sick?’ Mum interrupts.
I swallow nervously. ‘Yes,’ I lie.
Mum gives a sharp intake of breath.
‘I haven’t been since,’ I add quickly. ‘I’m all right Mum, honestly. It’s my fortieth birthday, I got drunk last night and I’ve been feeling crappy all day, that’s all.’ I turn back to Imogen. ‘Keep going, but please don’t make me look like a transvestite.’
Imogen looks insulted, adding quickly, ‘You want fake eyelashes though, surely? I’ve brought loads.’
Alice comes back into the room holding her phone out to me. ‘It’s Marc,’ she says. ‘He’d like a word.’
Imogen and Mum smile and get to their feet, as if they have been expecting this. I look between them and uncertainly take the phone. ‘Hello?’
‘Hey!’ He sounds slightly breathless, as if he’s rushing somewhere. ‘You OK?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Where are you?’
‘On my way – don’t worry! Are you at home right now?’
‘I’m sitting on the bed with Imogen, who is about to do my make-up.’
‘Excellent,’ he says. ‘Right, well, I’d like to give you your birthday present from me.’
‘But you’re not here.’ I look around me, panicking suddenly. ‘Are you?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m not. But it’s something I want to give you for tonight.’
Oh, God – here goes. The dress. I take a deep breath. Remember, you don’t know you’re getting married, so even if it’s white, don’t say anything…
‘Can you tell your mum to bring in the main present?’ he says.
‘Marc says can you bring in the main present?’ I say faintly, and Mum, beaming with delight, disappears next door into the spare room.
‘Is she back yet?’ he asks.
‘No, she’s— Oh my God! Marc!’ I gasp.
Mum has reappeared in the room carefully carrying a full-length, shimmering silver silk gown. It’s only as I stand up and move over to touch it incredulously that I realize that what is catching the light are hundreds of tiny strung beads on an elegant, sweeping fringe that falls like water from the nipped-in waist, over a long skirt and from the wide neckline designed to skim the collar bones. All that’s missing is a martini and a copy of The Great Gatsby.
‘Do you like it?’ he asks eagerly.
‘Like it?’ I whisper. ‘It’s unbelievable.’
‘Good unbelievable or bad unbelievable?’ He laughs.
‘It’s perfect,’ I say truthfully, and it is. I’d never have chosen it for myself, but it’s somehow both understated and full-out glamour all at once – the perfect wedding dress in a very unobvious and clever way. I’d never have suspected his plan if I didn’t already know it.
‘I’ve got som
ething else for you, too,’ he says. ‘Go over to your top drawer – your underwear one.’
Feeling as if I’m in a trance, I do as I’m told and slide it open.
‘Can you see a box in there? Dark blue with a light blue ribbon?’
I reach in and rummage around and, sure enough, there it is. As I pull it out, I glance at Mum and remember her messing around there earlier. She smiles at me and I turn back to the small package, which has G. Collins & Sons stamped across it.
‘Got it?’ says Marc. ‘Open it up.’
I put the phone under my chin and pull the ribbon. As it slips silkily to the floor, I lift the lid. Nestling on a velvet pad is a delicate art nouveau platinum bracelet. Eight panels are entwined together, with a diamond set at the centre of each one.
I lift it out and Imogen exhales sharply. Alice says, ‘Shit!’ and Mum’s mouth falls open.
‘It’s beautiful, Marc,’ I say quietly. ‘I can’t believe you’ve done this for me.’
‘Well, don’t get too excited,’ he says. ‘Richard Gere isn’t waiting in the bathroom, but I wanted you to have a really fun, fairytale day. The whole works. Oh, damn – I nearly forgot! Tell Imogen, the shoes!’
‘Marc says the shoes…?’ I say faintly.
Imogen nods importantly and vanishes, before coming back with a shoebox that says ‘Sass Taylor’ on it. I’ve never even heard of him or her. Inside is a pair of preposterously high silver and rose-gold leather platform sandals, with an art deco fan over the toe. I don’t think I’m even going to be able to balance in them, let alone walk.
‘I can’t wait to see you later,’ Marc says. ‘You’re going to look amazing. And I love you very much. Happy birthday!’
‘Thank you.’ It’s all I can manage to say – again – and he laughs at my stunned reaction.
‘You are very welcome. I’ve got to go, OK? See you in a bit!’
I hang up, and look again at the dress, shoes and bracelet. Peering at the label, I realize it’s Oscar de la Renta. Good Lord… I must be looking at the best part of twenty grand’s worth of outfit. That’s absurd. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ I blurt.
‘Er, “Thank you, God, for my amazing fiancé?”’ exclaims Imogen. ‘I don’t know a single girl who wouldn’t love her boyfriend to do what yours has just done.’
I hesitate. She’s probably right. ‘I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I’m just a bit… overwhelmed.’
There’s silence for a moment, and then Mum says, ‘Well, don’t you want to try it all on?’
‘No!’ cries Imogen. ‘Not until we’ve completely done the make-up! You need the full effect. You’re never going to get another chance to feel this much like a film star ever again – it has to be perfect!’ She puts the shoes down carefully on the bed, sits down next to me and reaches once more for the make-up box. ‘Ready?’
I turn back to her, looking at the dress again out of the corner of my eye as Mum hangs it up on the wardrobe door. It’s shimmering as if it has a life of its own.
‘Soph, do you want a drink of water?’ Alice says quietly. ‘You look a bit pale.’
I nod, and she leaves the room.
‘I chose the shoes!’ Imogen says breathlessly. ‘They were eye-wateringly expensive, but so beautiful, I couldn’t not. Do you like them?’
I examine them more carefully this time. That makes more sense. I couldn’t see Marc picking them out.
I don’t know if ‘like’ is the right word. They’re very impressive in their cool, remote glamour. They look intensely uncomfortable. I glance at the dress. ‘Marc chose that, though?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Mum smiles. ‘Very much so. He had very definite ideas about what he wanted.’
‘Ready?’ Imogen instructs, holding a brush.
Is that really all anybody expects of me today – just to do as I’m told?
Reluctantly, I close my eyes.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘There,’ says Imogen triumphantly, as Mum walks back into the room having changed into her evening wear: an elegant, coffee-coloured column gown. ‘I’ve finished. No, you can’t look, not until you’ve got everything else on.’ She puts the make-up box to one side and stands up. ‘OK. Dress time!’
I obediently strip down to my underwear. Imogen looks horrified, opening her mouth, but drawing the line before she can say anything, I hold up a firm hand. ‘They’re non-VPL – don’t worry.’
‘But—’
‘I won’t tell anyone I’m wearing M&S pants if you don’t.’ I unhook my bra and step half-naked into the dress that Imogen and Mum are holding out. The silk lining slips over my skin, and as they zip and hook me in at the back, the metallic material tightens over me, automatically making me stand a little taller.
‘That’s so clever,’ Mum says admiringly. ‘The zip is completely concealed.’
‘And look at how well it’s lifted her,’ says Imogen in amazement. ‘That’s couture for you. I don’t think you’re going to need Spanx after all. No, it’s not too long, you just need the shoes – and where’s the bracelet? Here… oh, wow!’ she steps back admiringly and Mum puffs with pride. ‘You look wonderful, Sophie!’
Even Alice looks impressed. ‘Fair dues, Soph,’ she says after a moment. ‘You’ve got a pretty amazing figure.’
They stand to one side, and I walk uncertainly over to the mirror. Never mind that they’re about 4-inch stilettos, the shoes are also slightly too big.
A tall, armoured woman stares blankly back at me. The surroundings of my bedroom don’t seem to fit any more, either – I feel as if I should be in some vast, white, floaty-curtained hotel suite that smells of gardenias, waiting for my close-up. I look nothing like my normal self, but then I don’t feel anything like me either.
I’m slightly shocked to realize that, if anyone, I resemble Claudine. Not literally, although now I notice it, I suppose our colouring is similar. But I look polished, confident – a woman not to be underestimated.
I take a deep breath. ‘What time is it?’
Mum checks her watch. ‘Six o’clock. We ought to leave here in about an hour, girls.’ She looks at the others, who nod.
We’ll be leaving well before that.
‘I don’t think I should sit around in this for that long. Can one of you unzip me again?’ I am still facing the mirror, looking uncertainly at my reflection. Here goes…
Mum is looking down carefully at the clasp. Imogen has started rummaging around in the make-up box. Only Alice is watching me silently. I meet her gaze for a brief second, and then against every instinct I have, and trying not to break my fall with my hands, I close my eyes, crease at the knees and slump sideways to the floor in an apparent dead faint.
‘Oh God! Sophie!’ Mum exclaims in panic as I let my head loll forward. I feel the hands of my sisters hauling me up onto the bed, lying me back on the pillow. ‘Sophie? Can you hear me?’
I turn my head away from her. I feel so guilty I can’t meet her eye – but it must only serve to make it look as if I really am confused, because she says, ‘Alice, call 999, ask for an ambulance. Now! Get this blasted dress off her, she can hardly breathe!’
I can already hear Alice’s urgent voice in the background. ‘It’s for my sister. She injured her head earlier today and she’s just collapsed.’
I can’t actually remember the other symptoms that I’m supposed to be displaying. ‘My head hurts,’ I announce lamely.
‘What’s that, darling?’ says Mum worriedly, still trying to undo the clasp of the dress. ‘What did you say? I think she’s slurring slightly,’ I hear her mutter to Imogen.
What? No, I’m not… But then I stop concentrating on Mum, because I realize I actually do feel quite nauseous. ‘Um, I need to take this off now,’ I say, starting to panic for real. ‘I think I’m going to throw up.’
The zip flies down and I yank my arms out, stand up and step out of it, like some kind of schizophrenic lap dancer, naked apart from my ridiculous shoes and very sensible pan
ts. Kicking them off, I push past Alice and lurch out into the hall before slamming into the bathroom.
‘Go after her!’ Mum exclaims. ‘She might pass out again!’
I’m already hanging over the loo, however, and to my huge surprise, I am sick, for real, as Alice appears behind me. ‘You all right?’ she whispers anxiously, then grimaces as she catches sight of the vomit in the bowl. ‘Urgh. Did you just stick your fingers down your throat?’
I hesitate, then nod quickly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
She sits back on her heels. ‘I had no idea you were such a good liar. I’m slightly freaked out, to be honest. MUM!’ she yells. ‘She’s just puked!’
I hear the sound of footsteps, and Mum and Imogen crowd into the small space with us.
‘Lift her up. We need to get her into some clothes before the ambulance arrives. Sophie? Can you walk, darling? We’re going back to your bedroom, OK?’
The letter. I cannot forget that. ‘I’m fine. I can get dressed on my own.’
‘No,’ insists Mum. ‘We’re coming too. Imogen, go downstairs and open the front door so they can see which house it is when they arrive.’
Alice and Mum, supporting me under an arm each, lead me back and sit me down on the bed. ‘Can you pass my jeans, Mum?’ I nod at them on the floor as I reach for my earlier discarded bra. ‘Alice, my mouth tastes horrible. Could you get my toothbrush for me?’
I wait for her to disappear off back to the bathroom. As far as Alice is concerned, I now have no need for the party clothes at all.