by Laura Kemp
‘Good. Now let it out. Whatever it is that’s bugging you.’
With her eyes focused on her hands – she dare not look up because she might burst out laughing – she thought of her earlier frustration and anger and incredibly, her fingers responded with a heavy slap. Beat after beat after beat, like a metronome, her brain worked out the challenge of coordination and finally her hands expressed her hurt. But not for long because she lost her concentration. Yet she had an inkling that Pierre had been right about its feel-good factor.
‘It’s ridiculous, Pierre. Nice ridiculous, I mean,’ she said, looking up at him as he awaited her verdict. ‘Where did you get this from? It looks exotic.’
‘It’s West African. A djembé, which means “gathering in peace”. The top, that’s goat skin.’
‘Wow, you’ve travelled then?’
‘What? No. Just here and France, really. My ex gave it to me. She got it from a charity shop two doors down. Thought I’d like it, which I did. I keep it in work for when I need to think. If someone’s complained about my cheese. It helps.’
Vee laughed. ‘You’re a one-off, do you know that?’
‘That’s what she said. In fact, that’s what lots of them have said. Why do people always say that?’ He looked quizzically at Vee, as if he expected her to come up with the answer.
She shrugged. ‘Because you’re an individual. You do things your way, I s’pose. Like, you could be anywhere in the world, what with all your connections with your parents and stuff, your schooling. But you’ve chosen to be here, in Wales, in this little town. You stand out.’
‘Yes, that’s the trouble.’ His shoulders dropped and a slab of sadness landed on his chops.
‘What do you mean? You’re great!’ She said it with feeling because he was. He treated her with respect, he accepted her imperfect slapdash ways because he saw she meant well and he was interesting. Not to mention extraordinarily handsome.
‘My relationships. Doomed. Always.’
‘But what is there not to love?’ she asked, suddenly realizing she sounded a bit fan girly. ‘As in, you’re fab. And good-looking. Not that I… you know… have noticed.’ She gave him a sheepish smile, but he tutted at her.
‘Not you as well?’ he groaned. ‘Everyone says that. At first. How handsome I am. But then when they get to know me they say they just want to be friends.’
‘Oh, it must be awful being so attractive,’ she said, heavy with sarcasm. ‘Such a disappointment on the inside.’
‘But that’s just it! They are drawn to my looks, which for the record I have nothing to do with, it’s not my fault. Then my personality can’t live up to them. People seem to think I’m some kind of Heathcliff, so when I talk about the cheeses of the future they find me dull. It’s a dagger to the heart.’
‘Why don't you speak French to them? That'd do for me, it's very sexy.'
‘It makes matters worse. They expect more… ‘down there’,’ he said, gesticulating to his privates.
Vee stifled a laugh.
‘No. I left all that to my bastard of a brother. He plays ‘ze French man wiz his baguette’. I feel British. Apart from when it comes to cheese.’
His explanation struck a chord with Vee: for hadn't she yearned for excitement because her brother was so conventional?
‘You just haven’t met the one yet. That’s all. You will. Defo.’
‘I don’t think so. I’m thirty-nine. Everyone thinks there must be something wrong with me to be alone at this age.’
‘Well, at least there’s always the chance you could have kids, like, forever. Women like me, single and thirty, we’re the ones who have a deadline. Think about that, eh? By the time I’ve met someone and there’s the build-up and the getting to know them and meeting the parents then the proposal and the moving in… well, it could take years and it’ll be too late. You guys don’t have any of that pressure. That’s why men run a mile from my age group – they think we’re all bunny boilers with baby brains. Why not go for a younger model and enjoy their pert bodies and fresh skin? That’s what my ex did.’
‘The rascal,’ he boomed.
‘Yep. I was all ready for him to propose then he dumped me for a younger woman. And I bet he’s eating banana pancakes off her belly button as we speak.’
‘Oh dear, I was supposed to be making you feel better. And now both of us are in the doldrums,’ he said.
‘It’s me, it is. I’m sorry.’
A tinkle at the front announced the arrival of a customer. Pierre jumped up and hugged his drum as he peered out to see who it was.
His cheeks turned pink as he announced it was the electrician. ‘I’m having terrible trouble with my… er… meat slicer. The switch has gone, unfortunately.’ It was quite incredible how dodgy his electrics were proving to be.
Then she saw a light bulb flash in his eyes and he came over to her.
‘I’ve got it! You and me, we’re going to host a singles cheese and wine evening. We’ll do it for lonely hearts and minds. That’s what we’re going to do. And you’re in charge of it! Although, I’ll have to clear it with HR first, obviously. Right, must attend to my slicer.’
Vee was left staring at his back then the wall then at her palms which covered her face: bless him and all that shite about small pleasures, but he was off his rocker and it was going to be a disaster. Just like everything else.
Chapter Fourteen
K
Cardiff City Centre
Shoe shopping. Kate just didn’t get it.
Whilst the thrill of searching for a new pair sent most women into raptures, she found it too close to public soul-searching.
For every time she braved a rack of heels and flats, she felt the pressure of having to face up to who she was and where she was going wrong. Consequently, she’d developed a survival technique: whatever M&S had in dark mid-heel courts did for work, then decent wellies and trainers or beige imitation Birkenstocks were suitable the rest of the time.
Today though was wedding shoes day so she had no choice but to throw herself into the path of danger – she could hardly wear her Hunters down the aisle. Well, she could if it was up to her but even she drew the line at that.
As she entered the department store’s tasteful shoe boutique, she felt momentarily dazed and wobbly as if she was a newborn foal in stilettos. Luckily, with it being a Monday morning, there were very few people to witness her wobble. Spotlights directed her eyes to shelf after shelf of glamorous styles as though she was viewing works of art. A quick scan revealed Vee was yet to arrive: if she was going to be found out as an amateur then she needed to have Vee by her side. She found a corner couch and bowed her head, pretending to check her phone so she didn’t have to make eye contact with any assistants.
As a child, Mum had always picked for her: Clarks with ‘extra square’. Oblivious to the concept of thinking for herself, she’d continued going for the safe option as a teenager when all the other girls were doing their best Sugababes impression in strappy Faith and Dolcis heels. At uni, she had the chance to begin to wonder what she liked out of the multitude of looks which were happening around her. Definitely not the clunky Timberlands of Girls Aloud and Britney, which would’ve made her skinny legs look like golf clubs. Neither Carrie Bradshaw’s ostentatious skyscrapers, owing to her height, nor the cowboy boots of the football Wags that required pink hot pants to carry off. Instead, she’d veered towards a relaxed but personal style, teaming Converse with a prom dress or wedged trainers with jeans. She figured she’d have plenty of time for career heels when she went to the City. Then it all went wrong when she got back from travelling.
Looking back, how didn’t her family see that she was heading for a breakdown by her choice of footwear? Who in their right mind went out in the rain and severe gales in studded dominatrix ankle-breakers or went to the shop in slippers?
The ensuing tumble to her knees had forever left its mark: scarred, she had placed practicality above all else. So she could
run if she had to. But practical wouldn’t work for a wedding. That's why she'd asked Vee to come: she'd judge it right. Her mother would’ve insisted on ladylike – which given her past she was anything but. Charlie had a thing for sparkly stuff and Kate wanted nothing to do with diamanté.
Just then, a pair of cherry-red polka dot low-wedge sandals containing shiny yellow toenails appeared by her side. The clash of colours, which shouldn’t work but did, could only belong to Vee.
‘Ready?’ Vee said with a playful grimace as if they were about to parachute out of a plane.
‘No,’ Kate said, smiling, grateful to her for understanding that this was going to be traumatic. ‘Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone they’re for the wedding. They’ll make me feel inadequate for not bringing a swatch of material from my dress.’
‘Good idea,’ Vee said, answering in a similarly low voice, ‘we don’t want to blow our cover. Have you brought the balaclavas? I thought we could crawl around on our knees. Secure the perimeters. Release the hostages. Then grab a coffee.’
‘If only it was that easy,’ Kate smirked.
‘Well, I’m excited even if you’re not. I love shoe shopping. See these?’ she said, tilting her foot coquettishly. ‘A fiver in the charity shop. The one next door-but-one to the deli. The women who live round there are so posh, they are, that they chuck out things that are virtually brand new.’
‘It helps that you have average-sized feet,’ Kate said, looking down at her own pair of size eight baguettes. ‘Mine are enormous and the choice is a bit more limited.’
‘Drag queens manage!’
‘Believe it or not, but I don’t think six-inch sequinned shoes are my style.’
‘You surprise me,’ Vee laughed. ‘So are we looking in the bridal area then?’
‘No. I don’t want anything ivory, cream or white. Or heels or flats or twinkly bits or ribbons either.’ She held up her hands to illustrate she wanted no drama.
‘Right, well, let’s go and have a look for some unicorn hooves then, shall we?’
Kate took the point that she was chasing the impossible and agreed to start looking.
As they began to wander, Kate watched Vee display the attributes of a seasoned shopper by picking up and examining shoes as she went. Kate could only cross her arms and recoil at the sight of spindly spikes, perky peep-toes, fat platforms and bejewelled straps. And why, she thought, did they give shoes names? They were patronizing ones too, such as Tiffany, Cinderella and Tutu, trying to tap into every grown woman’s inner little girl. As if a pair of shoes would deliver your dreams. Well, it just turned Kate off.
They mooched in silence until they’d done a circuit of the shop floor.
‘Seen anything you like?’ Vee asked brightly.
Kate shook her head tightly.
‘Maybe you could try some on? They might look different when you’re wearing them.’
Vee’s tone had changed: she was doing the maternal thing, as if Kate was a toddler refusing to taste something new. She felt embarrassed, curling up to defend herself from any interrogation.
‘I’m so sorry, Vee. I just haven’t seen anything. I wish I had then we could just go.’
‘It might help if you know what you’re looking for,’ Vee added gingerly.
‘That’s just it,’ Kate sighed. ‘I’m so confused. The bridal mags, which I’ve tried hard to avoid but Mum keeps shoving in my face, are all about “this season’s must-have look”, which apparently is all Poldark ruffles and buckles. I wouldn’t, even if Aidan Turner was the groom.’
‘Oh forget all that nonsense, it’s about what you want.’ Vee nodded encouragingly: from her point of view this was an accepted given. But Kate may as well have been offered the control panel to a space rocket.
‘Me?’ she said, incredulously. This wedding was to be endured not enjoyed.
This time Vee made the disbelieving noises. ‘Yes. It’s your day. No one else’s.’
Kate rolled her eyes. That was exactly what it wasn’t.
‘What’s your dress like then?’ Vee asked, trying another tack, bless her.
It was hard to remember actually. ‘Sort of plain. Long.’
‘Let’s see a picture of it then. You’ve got one on your phone, haven’t you?’ Vee asked in such a way that inferred that that’s what normal brides-to-be would have on their photo roll. But she only had shots of Jack, Boris, Griff and views of the countryside.
Kate shook her head and began to feel ashamed at coming across as so uncooperative. She wasn’t doing it deliberately. This was as hopeless and embarrassing as she’d feared it would be.
‘Shall we just go? Get a coffee and I’ll look online?’
Vee searched her face and took a breath.
‘Look, I shouldn’t say this because, you know, we’re not long friends again…’ She waited to see if she was on safe ground.
Kate nodded slightly to show she could take whatever was coming. She had thick enough skin these days, so what did it matter if Vee was going to tell her she was a nightmare? It’s not like she didn’t know it already.
‘…but I’m wondering if you are okay with this wedding. Like, I’d say that to anyone, I’m not trying to upset you or make waves… It’s just that this is going to be a day you look back on forever. You need to be sure you’re doing the right thing.’
Her friend’s eyes burrowed into hers, trying to work out if she had hit home.
‘I do love him,’ Kate blurted out, defensively, not sure what Vee was getting at.
‘I know! That’s not what I meant. I’m talking about the details. Are they what you want?’
The thump of the question hit her right in the throat.
Neither Mum nor Dad had ever suggested it was ‘her’ day – they’d insisted on paying and so they, or rather Mum, had had the last word, choosing a smart Cardiff hotel’s ‘Orchid Package’, with chair covers and choice of colour bow and ambient lighting to match the theme. Jack had tried to challenge the booking, but when he’d put it that they wanted somewhere more intimate, Mum did her passive-aggressive act: crying that she’d only wanted the best for her daughter. With fresh regret, she remembered how she’d taken her mother’s side to shut down the discussion: she’d learned long ago that a peaceful life meant giving in.
Kate stared at the shelves of shoes and saw nothing but herself shuffling up the aisle of some converted conference room looking down at the carpeted floor rather than at her wonderful husband-in-waiting. They’d wanted to do it by themselves: she’d imagined herself in something floaty, the hem tickled by a sea breeze, with the taste of salt on her lips. Free.
Yet that delusion now choked her: there was no prospect of changing things. Mum would go ballistic. She wouldn’t dig in her heels – she’d bury them in concrete. It would be like trying to get an oil tanker to do a handbrake turn. There would be recriminations, accusations, blame and guilt along the lines of ‘do you know how much this has cost?’, ‘after everything we've done for you,’ and ‘what will everyone think?’ Kate gulped, feeling the despair all over again, of being controlled by a mother who was so hard to love. Who was so easy to hate.
‘The thing is, Vee, and I mean this in the nicest way, but you’ve only just come into this situation. This is my mother we’re dealing with. She’s had it planned forever.’
Vee bit her lip. Then she spoke. ‘Yes, of course. You’re doing what you think’s right. I shouldn’t have said anything.’ Vee coughed as if to fill in the awkwardness. ‘Just going to the loo, be back in a sec.’
It took a moment for Kate to realize that Vee’s retreat hadn’t solved anything and didn’t make her feel any better. It felt depressingly familiar. And then it came to her: with horror, Kate was reminded of herself in her mother’s company. Silenced and shut down. The thought of it made her stomach twist. Here she was on the brink of a new chapter in her life, having made up with Vee and about to be married, and she was still too scared to confront things. After that scene at Mum�
�s on Sunday too. Thanks to Charlie, Kate had realized she needed to start being honest: hadn’t she said as much to her mum that day?
The tangle of her secret had been threatening to suffocate her, but Charlie had shown her the way to hack it down: to own it, declare it and therein find freedom.
Coming to, she felt her face wet with tears.
Anger swept through her, then sadness: of being in this position again. Of believing things were improving only to be proved wrong. Her eyesight glazed, she felt Vee’s arm around her and movement. A blur of lights and counters, smells and voices.
Then they were in the sunshine, passing people and buses, stopping only when they came to the sweet scent of grass. She breathed in and felt her lungs expand with the wide open space before her. They were in the grounds of Cardiff Castle, where ancient trees gave refuge from the city centre hustle and bustle.
Slowly returning to normal, she looked at Vee, who passed her a bottle of water without passing comment or pushing her to explain herself.
Then the words began to pour.
‘It’s my mother. The “keeping things together”. The brave face. The lies.’
Vee was deep in concentration, her eyelashes blinking as if she was beckoning Kate’s words, as if to say ‘you’re safe here’.
‘I’ve had enough.’
This isn’t the time nor the place, her mother’s voice said in her head, but when and where was? Here, now, it felt right. The truth wasn’t bubbling up as she’d thought it would; instead it was flowing around her body, calmly, cooling her, soothing her.
‘I had a breakdown shortly after I came back from Thailand. I remember the flight home, thinking I was ready to start work in the City, so relieved to be going back to normality. The excitement, the relief, they came over me like a huge tide.’
Kate felt a shiver, like a muscle memory. Vee’s face was etched with concern.