‘You’re looking good,’ said Mary the office manager, noting Ben’s new jacket. ‘Did Diana buy that for you?’
‘I chose it myself,’ said Ben.
‘Sure you did,’ Mary laughed.
Ben tried to focus on the original compliment. He was looking good. That was what he wanted to hear.
‘And how is your lovely fiancée? Still keeping you in line?’
His phone beeped. Diana had texted him.
Remember we’ve got to go to B&Q in the morning, she wrote. Don’t get too drunk.
Ben reached for another glass of the cheap bubbles and knocked it back. No sex and no booze? No way. She couldn’t tell him not to get drunk that night. It was his bloody office party.
‘Line up another one,’ Ben told the barman.
Lucy arrived about half an hour later than everyone else. The transformation from ‘Lucy by day’ to ‘Lucy by night’ was amazing. Obviously, Ben had previously noticed that his colleague had some pretty impressive charms, but he was used to seeing her in her work clothes. Even on the evening when they finally got it together, Lucy had been dressed in a dull grey suit, having come straight from the office. So though he had seen her in her underwear, he had never seen her in a dress. And certainly he would not have imagined, looking at the dowdy two-pieces she wore most weekdays, that she would ever own something quite as spectacular as the red velvet number she was wearing now.
‘Va-va-voom,’ muttered Tony, Ben’s boss. ‘That can’t be our Lucy. I didn’t know she had tits.’
Ben knew, of course, but now it was obvious to everyone that Lucy had a pair of breasts as big as two babies’ heads. Knockout?
‘She’ll give someone two black eyes before the evening’s out,’ said Tony.
Lucy’s figure was shown to absolute perfection by the dress, which was as heavily engineered as a suspension bridge. She paused at the doorway to the party and let her coat fall from her shoulders. She knew exactly how to make an entrance. Ben hadn’t known that about her.
The moment was slightly spoiled in that no one rushed forward to take Lucy’s coat. The boys were too awestruck, and the girls were too busy calculating how much Lucy must have spent on that evening’s ensemble and who exactly among their colleagues she was investing all that effort in. Ben didn’t dare go anywhere near her. Lucy hung her coat on the overloaded rack with everyone else’s.
She sashayed over to the bar. Ben watched her face. He didn’t think he had ever seen her wear that much make-up either. She had lined her eyes with heavy black kohl so that they brought to mind a 1950s starlet like Liz Taylor. Her lips glistened as though she had just licked them. Her hair was piled high on top of her head.
‘She looks like that one out of Mad Men,’ said Tony. ‘Those were the days, eh? Back then, you could ask your colleagues for a quickie without risking a lawsuit.’
Ben was just dumbstruck. As Lucy crossed the room, he was sure that she was making a beeline for him and his heart quickened accordingly, but instead she bypassed him and headed for Andy and Mary. Andy? What was she doing talking to that prat?
Lucy talked to Andy for a very long time that evening. Ben knew he had no right whatsoever to be jealous, but he still couldn’t stop himself stealing a glance in their direction from time to time, more and more frequently according to how much he drank, to see whether they were still locked in conversation over the chicken teriyaki. It went straight to Ben’s heart when he heard Lucy laugh loud and long at something Andy said. What exactly was it he’d told her? Andy wasn’t that funny. Lucy herself had told Ben she found Andy irritating. Now she was eating out of his hand.
At last, Andy excused himself to go to the men’s room and Ben dashed across to take his place. Not that he wanted Lucy to know that was what he was doing. He claimed that he was looking for a glass of water.
‘Are you having a good time?’ Ben asked.
‘Well, it’s not exactly Christmas at the Ritz. I feel a little overdressed, but yes, I suppose it’s not as bad as I expected.’
‘Andy seemed to be making you laugh. What’s funny?’
‘Why do you want to know? You’re not jealous, are you?’
Ben had been rumbled. ‘No.’
Lucy just smiled into her cocktail. God knows how she had managed to get an actual cocktail when everyone else was on cheap cava. She raised her glass to him.
‘Bottoms up.’
‘Is that a mojito?’ Ben asked.
‘It’s a virgin mojito. I want to make sure I don’t do anything stupid. Again.’
They fell into silence.
Ben did not profess to understand women, but he was glad that Lucy at least had confounded his expectations in one good way: she had given him surprisingly little grief over his engagement. She’d simply started to avoid him except when work dictated they had to be in the same room. They’d become the equivalent of office best buddies during the project that led to their single night of passion. It had been harder to let go of that than it had been to pass up on the sex. He wondered if she felt the same way. Now he found himself pathetically grateful she even offered him the time of day. Was this the moment to try to build a new bridge?
‘I’m really grateful for how you handled the whole Diana thing,’ he said. ‘I don’t ever want it to be awkward. You know, us having to be in the same office.’
‘Trust me,’ said Lucy, ‘neither do I. But it’s not for long now, anyway.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was going to tell you all later in the month, but you might as well know now. I know you’ll keep it quiet.’
‘Of course,’ said Ben. ‘My lips are sealed.’ He at least owed Lucy that.
‘OK. I’m handing my notice in. I’m going freelance so I can concentrate on doing something I really love.’
Ben’s lie had come to pass. He was astonished. He’d always assumed Lucy was happy in her job.
‘What’s that, then?’ Ben asked. ‘This thing you love.’
‘I’ll tell you when I’m up and running,’ said Lucy. ‘No, strike that,’ she corrected herself. ‘I’ll show you when I’m up and running.’ She managed a saucy sort of smile. It was the smile that had convinced Ben he was in love with her during the months they had spent working late. That smile, and the idea that she might one day soon be using it on someone else, almost had Ben telling her that he wouldn’t marry Diana any more. But then he thought about the dirty bathroom and his father’s pronouncement that all women go off sex eventually so you might as well find yourself a wife who can cook and clean instead. And then there was the joint mortgage. It would cost him a fortune to get out of it.
‘Are you going to have a leaving party?’ Ben asked in an attempt to spin out the conversation.
‘I expect so,’ said Lucy. ‘I’ll see you there if you think you’ll be allowed to come.’
‘I wouldn’t miss it. You look amazing tonight,’ Ben said.
‘I know.’
‘Listen, Lucy, I am sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am for what happened between us. I promise you that when I went to bed with you, I was absolutely sure that I was going to leave Diana. It’s just . . . it’s just she’s a very vulnerable person.’
‘Vulnerable?’ Lucy snorted. ‘That’s funny. She’s vulnerable like a bloody snake. Please tell her thank you for the Christmas card.’
Ben was confused.
‘You mean you didn’t sign it? Great photo on the front, Ben. If you ever get made redundant, you could have a nice sideline in impersonating the future king.’
The penny dropped. Diana must have sent Lucy one of the custom-made cards she had promised his friends would never see.
‘You haven’t . . . ?’
‘Shown anyone? Of course not. It’s almost as embarrassing for me as it is for you, after all. But I really don’t want to get on the wrong side of your sweet and vulnerable fiancée again, so if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to cut short our intimate little conversation before someone think
s there’s a reason to gossip.’
Ben didn’t know where to put himself. After Lucy left him at the bar, he felt so conspicuously alone that he was almost grateful when Andy returned.
‘Where did she go?’ Andy asked.
‘Ladies’, I think,’ said Ben.
‘Man, she is looking hot tonight. I never would have thought she had it in her, but tonight she looks like that one out of Mad Men. Do you think I’m in with a chance?’
‘In your dreams,’ Ben replied.
He stalked to the hotel lobby and called a cab.
All the way home he was fuming. There were so many reasons to be angry with Diana. Firstly, she had promised that no one he knew would ever have sight of that stupid Christmas card. Secondly, she had sent a card to Lucy. God only knew what she had written inside it. Thirdly, Ben couldn’t even bring the subject up, since as far as Diana was concerned, Lucy should not actually have received the card, having already left the UK for Australia. Ben was so angry he could have thumped his way through the front door.
But when he got in, Diana was acting especially sweet. She was dressed in her pink pyjamas and wearing a pair of huge, fluffy slippers in the shape of white bunnies on her feet. She threw her arms round Ben’s neck.
‘Have you missed me?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ he said automatically.
‘Was anybody interesting there?’ she probed.
‘Nobody interesting,’ he lied.
Not even the fluffy slippers could keep Ben from noticing the murderous grand inquisitor in Diana’s eyes.
‘I cannot wait for Christmas,’ said Diana in a little-girl voice as she snuggled into bed beside him. ‘It’s our last Christmas before we get married. Have you got me a very big present?’
Chapter Thirty-One
Melanie Harris would be using the Christmas holiday as a time for stock-taking. Bride on Time always saw a bit of a rush in the new year, as those lucky girls who’d found an engagement ring under the Christmas tree started their mad, gleeful dash to the altar. And like most retail businesses, Melanie thought it was a good idea to have a January sale, offering the least tattered of the sample dresses at incredible knock-down prices, sometimes as much as 80 per cent off the retail price.
The January sale always gave Melanie a warm glow. During the two weeks when she offered her bridal bargains, Melanie met a very different set of would-be brides to the ones she met throughout the rest of the year. These were brides who couldn’t otherwise afford Melanie’s services. More often than not, they were far nicer women than the ones who could.
Melanie wondered if it was her imagination or had the brides she’d dressed over the past few years really become much more demanding. Spoiled.
There were definitely some brides she warmed to more than others. It was quite an effort making sure that she was polite and professional even when she wanted to slap some girl for being such a brat. Diana Ashcroft was a brat. If it was possible to be a brat at twenty-nine.
Seven bridesmaids! Still that didn’t beat Melanie’s record. She’d once dressed a bride who had eight bridesmaids, five of whom were her daughters. The bride also had a son, who, at thirteen years old, was understandably resistant to being dressed as Little Lord Fauntleroy. Melanie remembered the poor lad well. She had met him three times when he was dragged along to dress fittings with his Russian-doll sisters. Melanie tried to persuade the bride that a ring-bearer as well as eight bridesmaids might be overkill, but the bride was insistent that her son should play a proper part. That was how the poor sod ended up attending his mother’s second wedding dressed as a chimney sweep.
‘Sweeps are supposed to bring luck,’ said the bride.
Her son clearly didn’t think he was the lucky one.
From time to time Melanie found herself being invited to her brides’ weddings. Each time she acted flattered, though she knew that for the most part they wanted her there because they didn’t trust their mothers or bridesmaids to know how to lace up a tricky bodice or loop up a long train for the first dance. After seven years of wasted Saturdays, Melanie made a policy decision that she wouldn’t attend any weddings except those of people she knew outside work. Too much drama. And then there was the fact that Melanie no longer felt quite so optimistic about marriage herself.
She just sold dresses, she said to Heidi and Sarah sometimes. She didn’t sell dreams. She certainly couldn’t make dreams come true.
If it were possible for dreams to come true, Melanie would not be spending Christmas Day on her own, but that, as usual, was the plan. Since her last Christmas with Keith, back in 1996, there had been more than a few lonely Christmases for Melanie Harris. To start with, she had spent her newly single Christmases with her parents, flying back to the coop at the age of thirty-seven, but that was depressing. They weren’t like the Christmases of her childhood. In many ways, a Christmas alone was preferable to a Christmas spent watching the Queen’s Speech with her mother while her father snored by the fire. She always seemed to get into a fight with her mother by teatime.
The first Christmas alone was the worst, but only for the first hour or so, when Melanie woke up on Christmas morning and her loneliness seemed like a physical ache in her chest. The trick was to remember that it was just a day. It lasted twenty-four hours, like any other day. When you thought about it like that, it wasn’t so hard to endure. Now she looked forward to a couple of days of peace and quiet away from Bride on Time almost as much as she had looked forward to her first married Christmas with Keith.
How naughty it had felt to tell both sets of parents that they would be having their first married Christmas alone together in their half-furnished marital home. Other newly married couples they knew had tossed coins to see who would be the ‘lucky one’, whose family they would visit on the day itself. Keith and Melanie circumvented that dubious contest. They were delighted at the thought of a Christmas spent exactly as they pleased.
The day started wonderfully well. Keith made Buck’s Fizz, the very height of sophistication for 1980s Southampton. They opened their presents. Having both come from families where only the children were allowed to open Christmas presents before lunch, they revelled in the wickedness of opening their gifts to each other in bed. Melanie had bought Keith a radio. Keith had bought her a pair of pearl earrings from Argos. Melanie adored them and put them on at once.
However, Christmas lunch was an absolute disaster. Though Melanie had watched her mother cook a turkey every Christmas for twenty-one years, her own first attempt at the most important roast of the year was barely edible. She had underestimated how long it would take to defrost the damn thing and even after two hours in the oven, it still came out pink and cold in the middle. Melanie blamed Keith. If he hadn’t insisted on buying the biggest turkey he could find, despite the fact that they were only two, she might have had a fighting chance.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he tried to reassure her. ‘The legs will be OK.’
The vegetables were equally awful. Though Melanie did everything she thought she had seen Cynthia do, the parsnips came out soggy. The roast potatoes, too, wouldn’t seem to go crisp. Meanwhile, the Brussels sprouts were hard enough to be classified as dangerous weapons. The gravy, which Melanie tried to make from a proper recipe, using the juices from the undercooked turkey, ended up less a sauce than a series of dubious-looking blobs in mucus. Food poisoning in suspension. Melanie started to cry when Keith said that he would rather have Bisto in any case.
‘You think I’m useless,’ she said.
‘I don’t,’ he promised. ‘I really don’t.’
‘Oh, yes, you do.’
Melanie got her chance to laugh when Keith set fire to his new tie (a gift from his parents) while trying to ignite the Christmas pudding.
‘It’s not funny!’ Keith bellowed from the kitchen as he soaked his ruined tie in the sink.
‘For God’s sake, Keith, you were supposed to be lighting a pudding, not a barbecue.’
�
�I could have burned to death!’ Keith shouted. ‘Still, it’s better than dying of food poisoning, I suppose.’
Keith’s attempt at humour went unappreciated and the newlyweds didn’t talk to each other for most of the afternoon.
As was becoming usual in their fledgling marriage, it was Keith who broke the ice during the playing of the national anthem after the Queen’s Speech. He was standing up for ‘God Save the Queen’, a habit instilled in him by his dad. Melanie was lounging on the sofa.
‘Do you think the queen wears a paper hat for her Christmas dinner,’ Keith asked, ‘or do you think she lets the rest of the family try on some of her real crowns?’
‘Are you talking to me?’
‘No, I’m talking to the bloody draught excluder. Who do you think I’m talking to?’
‘I didn’t think you were talking to me.’
‘What do you mean? You’re the one’s been giving me radio silence since lunchtime, Melanie Harris.’
‘This is the worst Christmas you’ve ever had. Admit it. I bet you wish you’d gone to your mum’s.’
‘No,’ said Keith, sitting down beside her. ‘I only ever wanted to be here on my own with you.’
‘But the dinner was terrible, wasn’t it? I made a mess of the turkey. The sprouts were just awful.’
‘And I nearly set fire to the house. But it doesn’t matter,’ said Keith. ‘It really doesn’t. We’ve got the rest of our lives to practise.’
Keith and Melanie spent what was left of the day cuddled up on the sofa. They watched footage of the royal family going to church at Sandringham on the news. By that time, the nation knew that the Princess of Wales was pregnant with her first child. She looked radiant as she greeted well-wishers on her way into the Christmas service. Melanie could not have been more delighted if she had been able to announce a pregnancy of her own. That would come soon, Keith assured her. It was just a matter of time.
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