Something Blue

by Rosie Orr

  ‘A huge house with a swimming pool, three cars … Life simply couldn’t be better.’ He looked at Anna with concern. ‘And you’re … cooking, you say?’

  Much more of this and she’d knee him in the balls.

  ‘Well, hardly cooking.’

  She laughed lightly, as if the mere idea were preposterous. ‘No, I’m with Avant Art – Brighton’s answer to the Tate, you know – in a culinary advisory capacity.’ Thank you, Sam. She managed the little gurgle of pleasure again.

  ‘Oh.’ A world of condescending dismissal was invested in the single syllable. ‘So you’re not designing, then?’

  What did I just say, cloth ears? ‘Not a tremendous amount these days, no. But I write a lot of poetry. It’s taken the place of all that, so I don’t really miss it.’

  ‘Oh, well.’ He smirked. ‘It’s not as if you ever actually got anywhere with it, is it?’

  Anna felt the blood rush to her cheeks. Furious, she was about to respond when she noticed Tara-Louise looking anxiously from one to the other. Poor girl – none of this was her fault, and she must be exhausted from the journey. She gave her a friendly smile. ‘But enough about me – what do you do, Tara-Louise?’

  ‘I –’

  Tony gripped his fiancée’s slender upper arm possessively. ‘She’s a neurosurgeon.’

  Anna’s jaw dropped.

  Another smirk. ‘Blonde, beautiful and brainy, right? Not only Miss Melbourne 1991 but MD, too, not to mention FSABS, Fellow of the Society of Australian Brain Surgeons, natch, as well.’ He looked solemn. ‘I don’t mind telling you, she’s a whizz with a laser. In fact she was in theatre operating right up until a couple of hours before we left; an emergency craniostomy – or was it a lobotomy, precious?’

  Before Anna could tell Tara-Louise that she had definitely been lobotomising the wrong bloke, the kitchen door swung open. Desmond stuck his head round it, looking anxious.

  ‘Anna! Psst, Anna! Think the egg whites are almost there, but it’s tricky …’ He made frantic beckoning signs and disappeared.

  Anna had never been so glad to see anyone in her life. She gave a rueful smile. ‘I dunno – these five-star, Paris-trained chefs! Oh well, I suppose I’d better go and sort him out …’ She began to back round the corner of the desk. ‘Lovely to see you again, Tone.’ He’d always hated her calling him that. ‘Tara-Louise – look forward to meeting up again later.’

  Waving cheerily, she disappeared though the door.

  Tony stared after her, looking extremely annoyed. Suddenly he pulled his fiancée to his chest and kissed her vigorously. ‘Whaddya say to a few tinnies and a quickie, precious, before we get our glad rags on?’

  Tara-Louise nipped playfully at his earlobe. ‘Whatever you say, big boy.’

  Entwined in a passionate embrace, they headed for the lift.

  Her eyes as big as saucers, Bernadette watched them go. As the lift door clanged shut, she reached for the phone. Siobhan was going to bleddy die.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Eleven fifteen.

  Anna stood at the top of the steps at the hotel’s main entrance, ready to leave for the church. Back home in Brighton, Anna had planned her timetable for the morning of her son’s wedding with the utmost care, as advised by the writer of the M-of-the-G article. Now Brighton seemed light years away, on another planet. The Bride article routine had been scheduled to take three hours, from the first pluck of the tweezers to the final spritz with the perfume. Her morning hadn’t exactly gone to plan. By the time she escaped from the kitchen she had had less than half an hour to get ready. She’d been in such a rush she’d hardly had time to check the results in the ill-lit bathroom mirror, and would have been amazed if she’d known how beautiful she looked. Her hair, upswept in a smooth chignon, shone beneath the little pillbox hat; her skin glowed beneath its faint dusting of translucent powder. The exquisitely tailored delphinium-blue velvet suit, over which she’d laboured so long, fitted perfectly. It was set off by the corsage of tiny cream orchids that had been delivered earlier, with a handwritten note from Sam that she dared not read because tears would have made her mascara run and there would be no time to repair the damage.

  The taxi she’d asked Bernadette to book to take her to the church was due at eleven fifteen. As she waited, she watched the guests milling in the forecourt below gradually sort themselves out and climb into their cars. As the last of the preening Tina coterie and bragging IT faction disappeared down the drive, hooting at each other and jostling aggressively for right of way, she tried to relax – the events of the last couple of hours had been taxing, to say the least.

  At least the mousses chocolats au Grand Marnier had gone well. She had to agree with Desmond that they were a total feckin’ triumph. He’d called her back to the kitchen at exactly the right moment; the egg whites were of the right consistency, neither too soft nor too stiff. She’d folded them quickly into the chocolate mixture, then decanted the frothing concoction into the flowered jug; she and Desmond had taken it in turns (Desmond delighted as a child to be allowed to help) to fill the rows of waiting tiny gold pots. They were chilling now – rich, dark and delicious, perfumed faintly with Grand Marnier – in the depths of the ancient fridge. She smiled. A feckin’ triumph indeed, though she said it herself.

  But the same could not be said of the meeting with Tony. She shuddered every time she thought about it – which, unfortunately, was roughly every thirty seconds or so. She’d known it would be difficult. She’d been prepared to shed a tear for old times’ sake, even. And of course she’d expected him to look different – twenty years would naturally have taken its toll. But bloody hell – that ludicrously affected Aussie accent! The cringe-making slang! And as for that ridiculous safari suit! She’d bet the pockets were full of compasses and Swiss army knives and collapsible billabongs or whatever they were called. She wouldn’t be surprised if he was planning to wear one of those leather bush hats festooned with dangling corks to the wedding …

  And as for Trixie-Labelle, or whatever her name was, she made the Stepford Wives look positively lackadaisical in their attempts at man-pleasing. And this Katie Price lookalike was a brain surgeon? It was a bit like discovering that Marilyn Monroe held a PhD in quantum physics, or that Victoria Beckham had been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Typical bloody Tony not to have warned anyone about her. How on earth was Sam going to take it? And what the hell would the O’Shaughnessys make of her?

  Oh, if only Jack … No. She mustn’t think about Jack now, or she’d cry.

  Anna straightened her back, took a tiny lace-edged handkerchief from her bag and dabbed at her eyes. Where the hell was that taxi? She looked at her watch. Half past eleven? She ran back into the foyer.

  Bernadette looked up warily from her emery board as Anna approached, scenting trouble. However, being the youngest of eleven children had had its effect. She had been an expert in the art of denial from an early age. Whenever any accusation was hurled – especially when she was guilty, whether of stealing the week’s milk money from the tobacco tin or filching her eldest sister’s new lipstick – she specialised in an expression of injured innocence of which any RADA graduate would have been proud. This was her expression as the realisation sank in that in her hurry to speak to Siobhan that morning she’d entirely forgotten to make Anna’s taxi booking. (She’d also omitted to arrange for the lift repair man to call, but that wouldn’t come to light until the following week when an elderly American banker would find himself trapped between floors for several hours and have a heart attack as a result). Declaring her certainty that he must surely be about to arrive at any moment, she advised Anna to resume her post on the steps while she investigated.

  Ten minutes later, there was still no sign of it. Desperate, Anna was prepared to force Bernadette to put a call through to the Garda and make them send a police car, if necessary, when two young men, the IT contingents, emerged. Dressed to kill in suits so modish they looked positively old-fashioned,
they cantered down the steps animatedly discussing the latest development in Japanese electronics. Ignoring Anna, they sauntered towards a sleek black BMW Z4, the only car remaining in the forecourt. Without even thinking about it, Anna found herself in hot pursuit, begging hysterically for a lift.

  Agreeing with barely a glance in her direction, they continued their discussion as the owner held open the nearside door for her and with a jerk of his head indicated the luggage shelf behind the low-slung bucket seats.

  She took a deep breath. Preserving her modesty as much as possible under the circumstances – which wasn’t easy given the tight space, the shortness of her skirt and the lacy-topped black stockings that made Jack seem somehow less far away – she clambered in and crushed herself into the tiny space.

  There was a short but appreciative silence. Then, grinning, her benefactors climbed in after her and, with a roar, they set off.

  The journey was uncomfortable, but thanks to the driver’s predilection for speed and total disregard for either his own or his passengers’ safety, mercifully brief. Fergustown proved to be a pleasant little Georgian spot; as they shot over the peaceful river and through a main street lined with intriguing little shops, Anna reflected that had it not been her son’s wedding day, she’d have liked to stop and look around. Despite her worst fears, St Aloysius was well signposted, and in a wide, tree-lined street with ample parking space. The BMW snaked easily into a space between a silver Rolls (one of Tina’s brothers-in-law) and a vintage forest-green MG (Sam’s boss). Thanking the driver, who showed a reluctance to let her continue unaccompanied, Anna hurried through the garlanded church lychgate and up the path. There were a few guests ahead of her, still trickling through the open church doors. A photographer sat in the shadows of the porch, head bent, loading film into a camera in an unhurried kind if way.

  God, what on earth? That had to be the biggest, maddest, pinkest straw hat she’d ever seen – forget cartwheels, think fairground big wheel. Not only was it huge, it had giant scarlet and mauve cabbage roses bedecking the brim. It probably had little fairy lights that flashed on and off when darkness fell … Must be some madwoman on day release from the local loony bin. The poor thing might have been jilted on her own wedding day and been attending the nuptials of strangers ever since like a modern-day Miss Haversham. Please God let her get past and into the church without being stopped to listen to some harrowing story …

  Head down, Anna had almost made it inside when she felt a hand claw at her arm. She turned quickly. ‘Look, I’m afraid I really can’t stop.’

  ‘So, you’ve got here at last. I must say we’ve all been getting quite worried about you.’

  It was Tina. If the hat was alarming, the rest of the outfit was positively bowel-chilling: a skin-tight lime green brocade dress with a plunging neckline revealing a good deal of mottled cleavage, topped by a skimpy gold lamé bolero. Anna didn’t dare to check out the shoes. She was digging her nails into her palms in an effort not to break into hysterical laughter as it was, and backless gold mules with six-inch cobra-skin heels set off with rhinestone ankle chains were definitely more than she could cope with right now. Tina was looking her up and down critically. ‘That’s a very strange shade of blue. Puts me in mind of the mould you get on cheese. So what would you call that, then? Diesel?’

  ‘Delphinium. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better go in. I wanted to say hello to Sam, before … before …’ Her throat closed. Smiling blindly, she shook her arm free and entered the church.

  Anna had expected St Aloysius to be all gold, incense and elaborately carved masonry, with stained glass windows of unbearably worthy saints and plastic lilies and ferns in every lace-doilied niche. She was utterly unprepared for the scene that met her eyes. The church was a cool haven, with pale flagstones and elegant columns soaring to a high, vaulted stone roof. The windows were simple arches of clear amber glass. Bowls of white roses and lily of the valley had been placed here and there, and tiers of white candles graced the steps to the altar, where a plain gold crucifix shone. The pews were packed; the organ was playing her favourite Bach prelude.

  Her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Welcome to our little church.’

  The voice was low and unctuous. An elderly priest, silver haired and stooping, was regarding her thoughtfully. What was the form here? Was she supposed to bow? Kiss his ring?

  ‘Father O’Malley. Delighted to meet you.’

  He held out his hand, and Anna found herself quite liking him until she noticed his eyes fix unwaveringly on her bosom as he took her hand in his and held it a little too long. Mercifully Jezza, one of the ushers, and one of Sam’s oldest friends (they’d gone snowboarding together last winter; the photos had nearly given Anna a heart attack), stepped forward at that moment, grinning. ‘Hi, Anna. How’s it going?’

  Disengaging herself from Father O’Malley, she turned. ‘Jez, lovely to see you’

  ‘Big day, no?’

  ‘It certainly is.’ Tears started to well. Oh, for God’s sake. She must pull herself together. He handed her an Order of Service, gave a little bow. ‘This way, Mrs Hardy. Looking stunning, if I may say so! Let me show you to your pew.’

  He led her down the central aisle. Anna was an only child, and her parents had died within six months of each other five years ago, but a surprising number of her more distant relatives had made the journey, booking accommodation at various hotels in Fergustown. There was Grandma Taylor, and Aunt Gwen, perusing a prayer book disapprovingly. And that looked like Barbara in the angora beret and looking fidgety – Anna hoped she wouldn’t light up in church.

  She smiled as she passed, looking forward to seeing them all later, as the usher came to a stop. He was about to show her to her place when she caught sight of a handsome young man in immaculate morning dress, his grey and silver tie perfectly knotted, his matching cummerbund testament to a faultless sense of style, his face grave. Beside him sat another young man. Wasn’t that JT, Sam’s friend from Oxford? But JT was Sam’s best man. Which could only mean … she looked at the handsome young man again, and realised it was Sam.

  She turned to the usher. ‘Excuse me, I think I’ll just … if you don’t mind … have a quick …’

  ‘Of course.’ Smiling, he stepped aside. Anna approached her son hesitantly. ‘Darling …?’

  ‘Mum.’ Sam rose to his feet; she would never forget the look of relief on his face.

  Anna embraced him, willing herself not to cry. As they hugged, over his immaculately tailored shoulder, she caught sight of Advancing Years Action Man, in a white satin suit, black silk shirt and salmon-pink bow tie, swaggering down the aisle towards them. A vision in skin-tight rainbow silk trotted a few paces behind, trying to keep up. She stiffened.

  Sam followed her gaze. ‘Mum? Is that …?’

  Managing a smile, she nodded, kissed him lightly on the cheek, and gave him a little push in Tony’s direction. Sam squared his shoulders and approached his father, holding out his hand.

  Anna busied herself with the Order of Service for a few moments. When she looked up again, Sam and Tony were beaming at each other, hands pumping frantically. Resentment washed over her for a fraction of a second, to be followed an instant later by relief so great her hands shook. It was going to be all right.

  Relief was followed by gratitude – to who or what, she neither knew nor cared. Fortunately it was entirely appropriate that her face should be wreathed in smiles; the thing was to suppress the snort of laughter that threatened to burst forth every time she caught sight of the white satin get-up. She risked a glance at Sam but his attention was now focused on the vision in rainbow silk who had finally caught up with her escort and was clinging onto his arm, puffing prettily and batting eyelashes so thick with mascara Anna wondered how she could see out of them.

  ‘I’d like you to meet Tara-Louise, sport.’ He goosed Tara-Louise’s bottom, beaming proudly. ‘My fiancée.’

  Sam’s eyes widened. ‘Your …?’
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  Anna reflected that the last time she’d seen her son look that surprised was when he was seven and she’d given herself blonde highlights on the spur of the moment one winter afternoon when he was at school. Surprise on that occasion had been followed by howls of outrage; this morning it was supplanted by a deep blush as Sam, keenly aware of the risk to his physical equanimity an embrace would almost certainly engender since the rainbow silk left nothing to the imagination, gave Tara-Louise a manly handshake, too.

  ‘So,’ Tony surveyed the little group with a pleased smile. ‘Here we all are, then. Beaut.’

  Anna was racking her brains to think of a suitable reply when she was saved by a dramatic increase in the buzz of conversation among the congregation. There was a swish of expensive fabrics as women swivelled round, a muffled clatter as prayer books were knocked off pews. The organ fell silent, followed a moment later by a flurry of activity at the church door.

  ‘Bloody hell, it’s the bride!’ An usher seized Tony and Tara-Louise by the arm and propelled them into the pew behind Sam and JT. As the organ struck up the first chords of the Wedding March, the usher, panicking, thrust Anna into position on Tony’s other side, then moved discreetly to a side aisle, congratulating himself on his managerial abilities and hoping nobody would notice him texting Tokyo during the service about some shares he was thinking of offloading.

  Anna sat down, her back ramrod straight, looking directly ahead and gripping her bag so tightly the clasp bit into her flesh. The golden cross gleamed back at her from the altar, reflecting the deep golds and burnt oranges of the candles’ steadily burning flames in the depths of its burnished metal. She found the sight oddly comforting, and she’d composed herself to the point where she thought she could just about cope with things when she felt a sharp jab in her ribs. She risked a glance at Tony; he was staring towards the back of the church. He smirked at her. ‘Hey, nice sheila.’

  Anna was about to tell him that Sam’s intended’s name was Lucy, when she realised ‘sheila’ was yet another of Tony’s Aussie-slang affectations. Gritting her teeth, she smiled cheerfully. The best way of dealing with it (though not the preferred method, which would have been to hit him sharply over the head with a blunt object) was to do what she used to do with Sam when he was a small boy and tried to annoy her by tipping his dinner over his head when it wasn’t to his liking: viz, totally ignore it. As Mendelssohn rang gloriously through the church, the congregation rose as one to their feet. Anna rose with them.