by Laura Kemp
Hearing her mother bellow her approval at the assistant’s suggestion in her telephone voice, Kate mouthed a thank you to the heavens – this would buy her some more time before she fell under her critical eye, which could singe her wings with a glance.
Her eyes glazed, unable to avoid the temptation of going back in time; Kate remembered once that her feathers had been full and glorious, flying her high into the sky. Not knowing any different, she had been ferried from school to clubs, tutors and music lessons, subscribing to the belief it would all be worth it in the end. And it was, for a few wonderful years, when her A* A Levels earned her a place at Oxford to read maths. There she had her first metamorphosis from Katherine, the ugly braced duckling, to Kat, with bold beautiful brains, who tasted fun for the first time in parties, girlfriends and blokes. Still in love with learning though, still able to balance her studies with her social life, she buckled down to score a first which led to a fast-tracked job in the City. She’d take six months off to travel then throw herself into her career, a decision supported by the banking giant which had taken her on. It would be good for her to get it out of her system, they said.
But in spite of all of that, it apparently wasn’t enough to win her her freedom. Her mother had raged at her stupidity. She hadn’t pushed her and made all those sacrifices for Katherine to go off on a jolly. She was a woman, she wasn’t from a public school – she needed to work twice as hard as the entitled ones. But Kat insisted, her confidence still brimming. She could have it all and she would.
Kate’s heartbeat raced with excitement at the recollection of all the possibilities she’d once contemplated and then, inevitably, it began to canter: she should’ve known it would be futile to revisit half the story. She pushed her palms into her eye sockets to try to make the other half go away, but her recklessness of the past thundered around her. The ensuing collapse, a protracted and painful domino run, had demolished her mind, body and spirit.
The walls of the cubicle began to contract as her breathing quickened.
Had she been allowed to deal with it her own way, to delve for the independence and self-belief she’d once had, things might have turned out differently. But Mum had swept in with gritted teeth and bright lipstick to take charge: damage-limitation, she’d called it. The career and prospects had disappeared overnight. And now here she was once again, being supervised.
Think positive, she commanded herself now, leaving sweaty palm marks on the mirror. Reframe your thoughts with positivity, citing the words she’d learned from all the secret self-help books she’d devoured.
Her job, which Dad had arranged in whispers through his chartered surveying contacts, had steered her towards safety. It had been his last real input in her life: once they had shared a bond so strong, he would put her to bed when he came in from work, cut her fingernails and brush her wet hair. When she was ill, he would sit with her and chat, but on her recovery he had pulled away so painfully: mother had laid the blame for her downfall at his feet, his mollycoddling had never done her any good. Now he took a back-seat in her life, making small talk at mealtimes then withdrawing to his study.
Mother insisted on saying Kate was ‘in property’, but life as an estate agent suited Kate. She’d quickly found her feet and performed negotiations and valuations with ease. It was also a joy to spend time away from the emotional vacuum of the family home and have it confirmed that not everyone kept house in such a controlled, static way. Her soul sang when she walked into a property with chipped staircases, bumpy walls and cluttered hallways because it reflected how she felt inside.
And it was the reason she was standing here. Feeling calmer, Kate saw her face relax as she thought of Jack, her hulking wholesome man bear who was so good and patient and understanding. The total opposite of the chinless wonders her university friends fell in love with, he wore a smile, blobs of paint on his biceps and sawdust in his messy blond curls thanks to his job as a period house restoration craftsman.
Kate pulled the bodice up over her chest and imagined Jack’s reaction if this was the dress? It wouldn’t be suitable if he had it his way – they were both in agreement about what they wanted: to tie the knot on Brighton’s beautiful bandstand, where Jack had proposed on a weekend away, with just their flatulent Golden Retriever Boris.
But he’d given up trying to persuade her to follow her heart. The consequences of disobeying Mum were too exhausting to contemplate. She might be a capable thirty-year-old everywhere else but when her Mum was involved she forever felt like a child.
This big wedding was subtitled She Cocked Up Her Career But She’s Not Going To Die Alone – unlike some of her mother’s friends’ daughters who had everything but a man, which she spitefully considered the ultimate flop. That was how Mum had rewritten Kate’s life. Once it had been about breaking through the glass ceiling with rock-hard manicured fingernails but Kate’s downfall meant Mum had had to change the script.
Marriage and homemaking would do now – it had been good enough for me, her mother had said, adding in her charity work to show her ‘goodness’. ‘Husbands require support, just as I have done for your father.’ She made that clear when Kate introduced her to Jack for the first time, months into their relationship so she was sure he wouldn’t run a mile when he met her Machiavellian mother. On that day, Mum had practically begged Jack to marry Kate on the spot. ‘She’s only ever wanted a family,’ she’d said as Kate choked back tears. That was when she could still cry.
And so, having found herself a respectable husband-to-be – second best to a good career for herself but it would do – she was permitted to pursue her little life. Mother at least had Charlie’s GP career to brag about.
In a warped way, this was exactly how Kate needed it to be to survive: if she stayed low on the radar then she could be happy with Jack.
But in her mother’s company, the straitjacket remained. It was just something she had to live with. Which was why she was here trying on her eighth wedding dress.
Taking a deep breath, she threaded her arms through cap sleeves and called: ‘I just need to be done up at the back.’
The petite rosebud of an assistant passed noiselessly through the curtain. Kate gave an inner groan at the gentle way she did up the tiny line of buttons; she was going to be no match for her mother.
The dress wasn’t immediately Kate's first choice but it was certainly better than the other intricately over-boned strapless lot which her mother had picked but dismissed on the grounds of them showing up Kate's physical short-comings such as her ‘boyish hips’ and ‘flat chest’. She liked its sheer lace scooped neckline because it didn’t make her feel exposed. Below the bodice, a long tie began at her hips and then fell to the floor with the body of the gown in a picture of understated elegance. She felt like a flapper girl from the 1920s: a simple corsage on her wrist would finish it off.
Making sure to blur out the onlookers, Kate could just about imagine herself walking up the aisle to meet Jack in this. It was as close as she would get to her dream gown of simplicity.
Her mirage was disturbed then by the metal screech of eyelets against pole as her mother tugged back the curtain.
‘Let’s see you, then,’ she ordered.
Kate turned her body round, her head trailing behind, bracing herself for the sharp intake of breath, narrowed eyes and pursing of lips.
Let this be over, I just want to go back home on my day off and make supper, Kate thought, although she made sure she presented a serene bridal face.
‘Hmm, do you think it’s got enough presence, you know, to make it stand out amongst all the guests? Because we’ve got an awful lot of people coming.’
The question wasn’t directed at Kate: for she wouldn’t be asked what she thought. That was irrelevant. Kate couldn’t care less about the numbers coming anyway – very few of them mattered to her, being mostly her parents’ friends. She was more affected by those not coming: namely Vicky.
Growing up, they had always promis
ed they’d be one another’s bridesmaids and even though it had been years since they’d been mates, it still played on Kate’s mind that her oldest friend wouldn’t be there. It wasn’t as though she’d ever found a replacement for her either. Not that she’d known that when she’d deleted every one of Vicky’s emails, which had begun as chatty updates on her travels after Kat had returned, then had become awkward pleas of ‘is this the right address?’ and ‘if you’re getting these, please answer me’ before they eventually stopped when Vicky had informed her she’d come home.
Where would she be now? Just thirty, she’d undoubtedly be married with kids, three or four, because she had a way with them. With a pang that she’d never made it to be bridesmaid after all, Kat recalled how Vicky had given out pens to the street children in South America, and made them laugh even though she didn’t speak Spanish. The last day she’d seen her, Vicky had said she wanted to volunteer to teach English at a kids’ charity in Cambodia. The way she’d blossomed on their travels, wide-eyed with excitement, quickened by the size of the world when Kate had been overwhelmed. How many times had she wanted to find her, say sorry, start over: she would do anything to put things straight. But Kate had been such a liability, Vicky would never want to see her again and that was without knowing what Kate had done when she’d returned home from backpacking.
As for Mikey, when she thought of him she felt the bile rising. She was facing an impossible dilemma: if she could go back and undo her wrongs then she would deny part of her very self. That’s why she could never work this through, that’s why she didn’t discuss it with Jack. He didn’t know all of it – if he did it might ruin everything.
‘Kate looks stunning, Mrs. Lloyd,’ the assistant said. ‘Absolutely breathtaking.’ Her tone was warm but authoritative: Kate had got her all wrong, she clearly did have her mother’s number.
Kate shot her a grateful smile.
‘Such a pity she’s not in white…’ As if ivory meant Kate was a fallen woman!
‘Perhaps a veil would elevate it…’ the assistant suggested prettily, skillfully diverting her mother’s attention.
Yes! That would be brilliant – she’d have something to hide behind. What’s more, Kate had been praying, Anything But a Tiara.
The lady got onto her tiptoes to arrange a headdress of embroidered tulle around her shoulders and Kate felt a swell of happiness: it was perfect, just like Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak.
‘Oh, yes,’ Mum said, clasping her hands together, ‘that really does make a difference. It would be lovely to have some sort of detail on there. Swarovski crystals, that sort of thing.’
In one tiny act of rebellion, Kate would make sure it had nothing of the sort.
‘Right. Good,’ Mother said, beginning to prepare for her exit. It was always the same routine: find handbag, reapply lipstick, pat hairdo and then look around for someone to put on her coat, who was usually Dad. But the assistant played along, probably wanting to get rid of her as much as Kate did.
‘She might need some padding around the breasts,’ Mother trilled. ‘And don’t let her change her mind!’
Then she bent in to air-kiss Kate and announced she had to go.
‘My grandson needs picking up from school,’ her mother said, throwing the words happily into the air like confetti. But in the chill of the gust which whistled through the open door, they turned to hail and stung Kate’s heart.
Chapter Four
V
Roath, Cardiff
‘We’re just going to take the dog for a walk, Victoria, if you’d like to come?’
Her groggy flat-lining daze of despair interrupted, Vee turned her head towards Mum, who stood at the mouth of her bedroom zipping up her purple fleece. Her smile was as warm as a cup of tea, her kind, forgiving eyes lined like a well-worn sofa.
Another piece of what little was left of Vee’s heart shattered onto the carpet beside her where she was hugging her knees against her old single bed.
The invitation was loaded with concern: it said, ‘a bit of fresh air would do you some good, you’ve hardly left your room since you’ve been here, you’ve picked at your food, you haven’t had a shower and me and your Dad, we’re worried.’
Already suffocating from Jez’s cruelty, Vee felt an avalanche of guilt at causing them such anguish. She was thirty years old, a grown woman; she should be the one looking after them, not the other way round.
But if she was dissected at this very moment, they’d find she was one hundred per cent No Use To Anybody, a composite of devastation, grief, self-loathing, failure and fear. And they’d find no evidence of water because she’d cried it all out.
Her eyes felt tight and swollen, her lips pulsed and her nose was blocked from three days of sorrow.
On the long nauseous coach journey home, Vee had watched her phone illuminating with her parents’ calls. Their first message just past Crawley had been a joint chorus of ‘happy birthday to you’. Then they’d followed that up at Swindon with ‘expect you’re having a fablas time… too busy to talk to your Mum and Dad! You go for it, love!’ and then on the Severn Bridge ‘Still trying to get hold of you!’. By the time she got to Cardiff, only three people had texted her happy birthday – her brother Gav, a waitress at work who was also trying to find out where the hell she was and Jemima, Jez’s best mate’s wife, who said she was ‘really sorry, sweetheart’. What a way to learn the sum of her life’s work so far: losing touch with everyone she’d cared for and throwing her need to belong at a circle who didn’t give a shit.
Even her parents weren’t there when she’d let herself in, they were on a ‘date night’ at the cinema. So she’d sat beaten and numb in the darkness of their new side return extension until Mum and Dad came in and told her she’d given them the fright of their lives.
Since then, she’d either been in bed or slumped on the sofa – new from Next apparently – with daytime telly on a high definition drip. She hadn’t watched this much in years because they hadn’t had what Jez called a ‘brain rot box’ in their flat. He’d been wrong about it rotting her mind - he'd been the one to do that. Every few hours, tea and cake or squash and sandwiches would appear on the bedside or nest of tables. She’d had a bit, to show she was so grateful, but every mouthful was a battle.
From the landing, Dad popped his head round the door and gave her a wink. ‘Oh, love,’ he said, his face crumpled with compassion, ‘Arthur is desperate for you to come.’ Arthur the Cocker Spaniel didn’t look very desperate. He was more interested in sniffing his own backside. ‘It’s stopped raining and I’ll treat you to tea and cake. That right, Bun?’
Mum rubbed his arm, acknowledging his lovely gentle nature, which only made Vee feel even more tragic. ‘Fancy it?’ she said, going through her pockets for gloves. ‘We’re going to Castell Coch.’
The fairy-tale Gothic castle just outside of Cardiff where Gav had got married five years ago. Where Vee had adored the horse and carriage and six bridesmaids: it wasn’t what she’d have chosen, but she understood it had been her sister-in-law Claire’s dream. Jez, of course, had called it hackneyed. In a stripy crusty jumper, looking every bit a cliché himself, she could see now.
Vee didn’t want to be reminded of that. She shook her head: it was the only part of her body she could move. She couldn’t face getting changed out of her T-shirt and leggings, brushing her hair or cleaning her teeth.
‘Okay, love, we’ll try again tomorrow. Just maybe instead have a nice bath then, perhaps?’
Vee did a half-hearted nod which said ‘yeah, I won’t but thanks for the suggestion.’
‘Right, we won’t be long. Fish and chips for tea tonight!’ Dad said, rubbing his hands, trying to make everything all right as was his way.
Their unconditional love was overwhelming: it kept coming even though she’d been largely absent from their lives for eight-and-a-bit years. During her travels, she’d rung once a week and sent postcards. Then when she was in Brighton, she’d kept up the
phone calls, popping home for a quick weekend here and there, for Christmas or when she had to come back, like for Nanna Tupperware’s funeral. She’d hated leaving Brighton because it was the centre of the world as far as she was concerned. Mum and Dad’s was just drab and quiet by comparison. Losing touch with Kat and Mikey meant she didn’t know anyone local anymore anyway. There was also the fear of missing out on something when she was away – it was hard enough to keep track of the latest thing even when she was there! It didn’t matter anyway, Mum and Dad had religiously visited her twice a year, rejecting her offer of a sofa bed, preferring to stay in a posh seafront hotel, which suited Vee. Mum would treat her to afternoon tea and one night her and Jez would go to their hotel for dinner. And then they’d go back home and would slip to the back of her mind, until the next visit
As the front door slammed, Vee felt ashamed at how self-centred she’d been. How violently desperate to keep up with Jez that she’d stayed by his side, no matter what. Mum and Dad had never said she’d neglected them: they were really busy people. Always had been, ever since they’d retired a few years ago: Dad had gone early from the bank because he’d invested wisely and Mum followed suit from her part-time receptionist’s job at the dentist’s. Not that Vee had a clue what they did most of the time apart from, probably, Dad’s golf and Mum’s coffee mornings.
It was just another failing of hers that had come to light in this seventy-two-hour period of self-assassination which would wake her at 5 a.m. and remind her she had nothing to show for her life.
At that time of day all there was to do was run through every sign that things had been going wrong with Jez. There was nothing massive, no one indication. Apart from what she’d spent years trying to deny: they were from different worlds, she didn’t belong in his. How had she made it last so long?
The rage she felt at all of that wasted time. Marriage and motherhood had been imminent with him, or so she’d thought: now she was years away from it, if ever. Then there was the sense of loss: not just his physical presence in bed but the glow of knowing she had someone there who’d worry if she’d gone missing. It was the little things: he’d make enough granola for both of them and always buy her vegan Percy Pigs if he stopped at the mini M&S on his way home.