Just In Case

by Chrissie Manby

  Chapter Ten

  On the other side of the Atlantic, Rosie was finding it surprisingly hard to enjoy herself at the first official event of Keira’s wedding – a late lunch party hosted by the bride’s godmother. The party was being held in a marquee on the edge of a vineyard. You can’t imagine a more beautiful setting. But Rosie might as well have been sitting in a bus station the way she felt in Clare’s stiff formal clothing. Though Ed’s fix, rolling the waistband of the skirt so that it wasn’t so long, looked pretty good considering, it wasn’t actually all that comfortable. The knotted shirt felt slightly too tight and the fabric sunflowers Ed made into a makeshift corsage were driving Rosie crazy. She could actually smell them and they had none of the charm of real blooms. They smelled of dust and long-shut up rooms. Of Miss Havisham, was the thought that suddenly popped into Rosie’s head.

  Thinking of her old friend and former flat-mate getting ready to walk up the aisle the following day, Rosie was surprised to feel a rather strong pang of sadness. Greeting her wedding guests in a neat yellow shift dress, Keira was a thousand years away from the girl Rosie had met in the corridor of their halls of residence on their first day at university ten years earlier. Back then, Rosie and Keira had immediately recognized each other as kindred spirits thanks to the way they were dressed. Rosie was wearing the tutu which she had packed for this weekend, intending to wear it to one of the wedding’s many component parties, to remind Keira of all the fun of their shared past. What had Keira been wearing that day? Rosie remembered it with a little smile. It was a pink fake fur jacket, which looked as though it had been stitched together from the remains of a massacre at a teddy bears’ picnic. That jacket had become Keira’s signature garment, just as Rosie’s signature was her frou-frou skirt. The best friends had adored dressing up together, telling themselves it was their duty to make the world a more colourful, quirky place. They once wore plastic wings and glittered deeley-boppers for a whole week.

  Everything had changed when they moved up to London. At one point they had both planned to be actresses, but after a long year of endless auditions that always ended in rejection followed by a disastrous and expensive trip to put on a mime show at the Edinburgh festival, Keira announced that she didn’t think she had the stamina for a career on the stage or in film. She got herself a job at an accountancy firm instead. She embarked upon endless exams and no longer had any time to play. Out went the outrageous wardrobe and in came the suits. The fake fur coat was cut up and made into cushions.

  At first Keira agonized over whether she had done the right thing – giving up on the dream she and Rosie shared so soon – but as she moved up the corporate ladder, while Rosie continued to chase those illusive roles, Keira admitted that she found her old precarious life – the one Rosie was still living - rather frightening. Boring as it might be, accountancy had its rewards. A regular pay-check. The ability to buy a place of her own. And a steady stream of very reliable men to date.

  Adrian was one of those reliable men. Keira met him on a course about VAT. The first time she met him, Rosie thought Adrian was a little bit dull but Keira fell head over heels in love with him and eventually Rosie was won over by Adrian’s obvious affection for her friend. Keira’s steady path was definitely the right one for her.

  Two years after Keira and Adrian’s first date, Rosie was delighted to hear that her best pal was getting married, but she had to admit she was a little surprised when Keira didn’t ask her to be a bridesmaid. Hadn’t that always been the plan? They would take it in turns to walk up the aisle behind each other. Keira had always threatened to dress Rosie in peach. Rosie always said she would be more than happy to wear peach, provided she could accessorise with green hair. But it wasn’t to be.

  ‘I’m only having little bridesmaids,’ Keira explained. ‘Just Adrian’s nieces. They’re four and six. They’re over the moon at the thought.’

  Fair enough. Rosie waited to be offered a role in the wedding service itself instead. Perhaps she could read a poem. Did Keira remember that poem Rosie had written about their crazy single days? Rosie could read that out. She’d cut the ‘f’ words, of course.

  ‘I don’t think we’re going to do readings,’ said Keira. ‘The service itself is so long, we’d end up being in the church all day.’

  But strangest of all was Keira’s insistence that she could organize her own hen party. And that it would be low-key. Back in the mists of time, when the two friends discussed how they might say goodbye to the single life, Keira and Rosie had agreed that you had to go out with a bang. It was important. Nothing less than a week in Ibiza, clubbing every night and spending every day recovering by the pool would do. They were the ultimate party girls and their respective hen nights would have to be the ultimate parties.

  In the event, Keira chose to celebrate her upcoming marriage with a simple dinner in the Italian restaurant around the corner from the neat little house she and Adrian had recently moved into. There was to be no clubbing. No male strippers. There wasn’t even that much booze. Everyone seemed to be driving or pregnant or trying to get pregnant, except for Rosie. She had a bottle of red to herself and ended up trying to persuade the waiter to go dancing.

  At least Ed was still on for clubbing, even if the kind of clubs he took Rosie to were not likely to throw up the Prince Charming Rosie was looking for. And that was how Rosie had come to be at this wedding in Tuscany with Ed as her plus one, when all around her, the friends she had known for so long came two by two. As she stood at the edge of the marquee where lunch would be served, wearing her sister’s black suit and some artificial flowers, Rosie felt out of place in more ways than the obvious one.

  As if he could read her mind, Ed reached to squeeze Rosie’s hand. A tear leaked from the corner of her eye.

  ‘It’s the dust on this stupid sunflowers,’ Rosie lied.

  Luckily Ed seemed to take Rosie’s excuse at face value. In any case, if he had pressed her for the real reason, she wasn’t entirely sure she would be able to articulate it. It felt to Rosie as though the tears she was trying not to cry at Keira’s pre-wedding lunch party belonged to a very old sadness indeed. A sadness that had nothing to do with not being the one getting married.

  Chapter Eleven

  Apart from Clare, there was only one employee at the Cyber Intel Solutions conference who was not dressed in tasteful neutrals. Her name was Holly Rylance.

  Clare had met California girl Holly at a number of these company-wide events. Holly was personal assistant to Jim Overbrook, the CEO and as such she had a great deal of input into the way the events were run. It was up to her to do the seating plans for all the meals that would take place over the conference weekend and as a result, though she was technically a lowly assistant who had left high school at sixteen, Holly actually wielded more power than just about anybody at that conference, no matter how many degrees or grand job titles they had. Holly had the power to make or break careers according to who got the seat next to Jim Overbrook on ‘gala night’, the last night of the conference, which was celebrated with a fabulous dinner. Anyone who wanted to get ahead made sure to be in Holly Rylance’s favour.

  Oh, the gala night! Clare had been looking forward to that evening all year. She had packed an extremely special outfit. It was a fabulous black silk-jersey column dress by Donna Karan. She had paid a small fortune for it. Even heavily discounted on TheOutnet.com, the dress had cost as much as a week in the Caribbean. And now it was in Tuscany. Clare groaned with frustration when she thought about it. Her special dress, chosen specifically to impress Jim Overbrook, and Rosie was probably wearing it right then. She was probably dancing like a dervish in some Italian field, with a glass of wine in her hand, which she would be spilling all over the frock. The thought made Clare want to cry.

  Holly caught up with Clare in the lobby.

  ‘It’s Clare, isn’t it? How are you?’

  Clare was pleased that Holly remembered her. But then Clare considered that her ridiculous o
utfit must have made her unforgettable. She was sure she was the subject of every delegate’s gossip.

  Clare shook Holly’s hand and went through the usual pleasantries. She was so pleased to be in the States again. The hotel was great. The weather was wonderful (not that she would get to see any of it, over the next three days of speeches and seminars). And wasn’t it good news that the company’s sales figures were looking so healthy at such a difficult time for the global economy? Cyber Intel Solutions was really bucking the worldwide recessionary trend...

  Holly listened to Clare’s little speech with a gentle smile on her face.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The company is doing brilliantly and we’re all very grateful for that. But how about you?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you. What’s going on in Clare’s world? How are things outside the office? You seem a little… er, on edge, perhaps?’

  Holly asked her questions in such a gentle, caring manner that Clare felt tears spring to her eyes. She couldn’t stop them. She wiped her face on Rosie’s angora sleeve, which absolutely reeked of Diorissimo. All of Rosie’s clothes reeked of Diorissimo.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Clare sniffed. ‘It’s just that…’

  ‘Ssssh. It’s ok…’

  Without drawing any unnecessary attention, Holly put her hand on Clare’s elbow and swiftly guided her away from the crowd in the lobby. They went outside, into a little atrium that would have been full of smokers, had it not been the case that Jim Overbrook was rabidly anti-smoking and everyone at the conference was pretending they hated it too.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Holly asked. ‘What’s happened? You can tell me.’

  The seriousness of Holly’s expression suggested she thought there might have been a death in Clare’s family. Clare sank down onto a stone bench and snorted loudly into her hands. Holly sat beside her and offered Clare a Kleenex.

  ‘I got my sister’s suitcase,’ Clare managed to say at last.

  ‘Hang on a second. You got your sister’s suitcase?’ Holly was understandably confused. ‘And that’s making you cry because?’

  Clare picked up a handful of skirt.

  ‘This,’ was all she said.

  ‘Is that your sister’s dress? I like it,’ said Holly, who was planning to wear something similar herself the following day.

  ‘I had to make a speech to the whole conference dressed like I should be on a beach in Hawaii. I looked like an idiot.’

  ‘I didn’t notice you looking like an idiot,’ said Holly. ‘You’re imagining things.’

  ‘I’m not. Everyone I’ve spoken to today has made some sort of snide remark about the way I’m dressed.’

  ‘You look perfectly fine. The colour really suits you.’

  ‘But I don’t look like me. This ridiculous dress isn’t work appropriate. Unless you work as a fortune teller.’

  Holly couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘And this is what you’ve got to wear all week? Your sister’s clothes are all like this?’

  Clare nodded. ‘This is the most conservative thing she has! Everything else is much much more colourful. And her shoes are ridiculous. Nothing lower than a three inch heel. Wedges. Silver sandals. The kind of things that strippers wear.’

  ‘I think I like your sister’s style,’ said Holly.

  Clare bit her lip as she reminded herself that, like Rosie, Holly was never seen in flat shoes. The last thing she needed was to put her foot in it with Jim Overbrook’s second in command by implying Holly’s style wasn’t classy.

  ‘It’s not that…’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Holly interrupted Clare before she could dig herself into a hole. ‘I understand that the way your sister and I like to dress isn’t to everybody’s taste and I get that you’re feeling uncomfortable, but it seems to me that you could be pulling it off a lot more effectively than you are. How about I come up to your room and have a look at what you’ve got. See what I can do?’

  Clare was astonished.

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘Yes. There is literally nothing I like more than playing dress-up. Come on. I’m excited to see what else your sister packed for you. Let’s see if we can make the most of it.’

  Up in Clare’s bedroom, Holly fell upon the contents of Rosie’s suitcase in delight. As she pulled out the maxi skirts and colourful scarfs that had made Clare feel so anxious and tearful, she actually ‘ooed’ and ‘aaahed’.

  ‘I love this!’ she said, holding Rosie’s pink gypsy top against herself. ‘It’s so seventies Stevie Nicks. Where did she find it? I need your sister to take me shopping next time I’m in the UK.’

  ‘My sister does not need to do any more shopping,’ said Clare.

  Next Holly admired Rosie’s shoes, which Clare had arranged in a neat line in front of the wardrobe in a desperate attempt to make them look less outrageous.

  ‘Oh, these are just darling,’ Holly said, cradling the silver sandals. ‘And these.’ She picked up the gold leather mules. ‘I’m in love. They haven’t even been worn!’

  ‘Nor will they be,’ said Clare. ‘I can’t even look at them without feeling weak in the ankles. I can’t walk in high heels.’

  ‘It takes some practice,’ Holly conceded. ‘But if you’re ever going to learn, this is the perfect place. You don’t have to walk far. Everywhere is carpeted.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Your legs would look magnificent…’

  ‘My legs look fine as they are.’

  ‘Every girl can use a little help.’

  ‘Then you wear them,’ Clare suggested.

  ‘If only they were my size, I would.’ Holly’s feet were tiny. She was only five feet two inches tall. ‘I’m too small…’

  ‘That’s why you can get away with heels,’ Clare told her. ‘If I wear heels, I look like a man wearing drag.’

  ‘I assure you, you won’t. Look, if you’re going to do this, you have to do it with conviction. There’s no point putting on one of your sister’s beautiful dresses and accessorizing it with your orthopedic flats.’

  ‘They’re not orthopedic! They’re Prada.’

  ‘Whatever. They look way too comfortable. You’ve got to go the whole hog. And not just in what you’re wearing. Your head doesn’t look right. That’s the real problem.’

  ‘My head? You mean my hair?’

  ‘Yeah. Your hair for sure. It’s much too neat. But it’s more than that. When you’re wearing one of your plain black suits, the way you do your hair and make-up is just right. Severe bangs. A splash of colour on your lips. But this look needs something softer. Sit down over here.’

  Clare sat down at the dressing table. Holly stood behind her.

  ‘Do you mind if I mess things up a little?’ Holly asked.

  Clare shrugged. ‘As far as I’m concerned, everything is already completely messed up.’

  Holly laughed as she set to work. She dipped into her handbag for her cosmetics case. The first thing she pulled out was a bright coral pink lip-gloss.

  By the time Holly had finished with her, Clare certainly looked different but she still wasn’t entirely convinced. She still looked as though she was playing dress up.

  ‘You have to wear the shoes,’ said Holly. ‘They’ll give you a whole other way of moving.’

  ‘How can I look girly and still be professional?’

  ‘I know you’ll manage,’ said Holly. ‘You can wear anything if you’ve got the right attitude.’

  Chapter Twelve

  If Clare felt exposed and too much the centre of attention in Rosie’s clothes, then Rosie felt the exact opposite wearing Clare’s neat suit in Tuscany.

  As the wedding guests milled around in the vineyard, drinking prosecco and catching up with old friends, a specially hired photographer was taking photographs. Normally, Rosie was delighted to be part of any picture, even muscling her way in where she wasn’t strictly supposed to be, but that morning she found herself slinking to the back and dodging the ubiquitous camera. She
felt really strange. It was as though she would rather be back home in England. Was the drabness of Clare’s wardrobe sucking the joy right out of her?

  Even two glasses of Prosecco in quick succession didn’t help. When Rosie went back to the wine table for a third, she found that the drinks had already been cleared away, so she asked Ed for a swig from his glass. There was more wine, thank goodness, in the marquee. Rosie found the table at which she would be sitting and went ahead and helped herself to a big glass of white, pouring the wine right to the rim. She ignored the raised eyebrows of someone she had met at Keira’s hen party. She was one of Keira’s new friends. A woman who, in Rosie’s opinion, was prematurely old with her house ‘between the commons’ (Wandsworth and Clapham) and her endless tales of trying for a baby. Rosie told herself the woman was just jealous because she couldn’t have a bit glass of Pinot Grigio herself. Rosie took a provocative swig. And another.

  After a while, Ed sat down next to Rosie and prised the glass from her hand.

  ‘Save some for the meal,’ he said. ‘I think that one bottle is supposed to do all of us. How are you getting on? Having fun?’

  ‘I look completely terrible in this outfit. Everyone has been staring.’

  ‘No, they haven’t,’ Ed assured her. ‘You look fine.’

  ‘Everyone keeps asking if I’m a waitress.’

  ‘They’ll soon get bored of that.’

  Ed took a real sunflower from the display on the table and said, ‘Stick this behind your ear. That’s better. Almost Dolce and Gabbana.’

  With the real flower in her hair, Rosie dumped the dusty fake silk corsage under the table.

  ‘Seriously,’ Ed insisted. ‘You look great. You, my dear, could wear a sack and still be better-looking than every other woman at this party.’

  Rosie was grateful for her friend’s encouragement but it wasn’t really working. She longed for her case full of maxi-dresses and her impractical but oh-so-sexy shoes.