by Rosie Blake
Smoothly stepping forward to take the bouquet from Amy, the strong scent of roses and sweet peas wafting round me, I saw him. He was standing at the end of the third pew back looking straight at me, his navy blue eyes trained on me as I bit my lip and tried to drag my eyes away and focus on the Order of Service in my other hand. I could feel the beats of my heart hammering through my chest and hoped he liked the way my hair was done, the dress. For the rest of the service I was aware of him, tantalisingly close but so far away, trying to detect his voice among the hymns and promises, eyes swivelling to him in the silent moments. Always his eyes flicked over to me too and I found myself glowing inside, desperate to see him, to feel his arms around me, to know things were going to be all right.
As he reached to smooth his hair I saw a flash of silver and knew, with a grin, that he was wearing the cufflinks I had left out for him. Reminding myself I shouldn’t get too excited, he might just be being friendly, I tried to keep my gaze neutral and not stare back at him too much. The service seemed to go on for ever and I was considering leaping over pews one and two to get to him. I needed to know. I needed to know now. Amy had chosen hymns with lots of verses and I started to pray the organist would play double tempo, get that beat going, get us out of there. I almost forgot to hand over the bouquet at the end and tripped down the aisle after Amy, clutching Will’s brother’s arm, craning my neck over my shoulder to see that Luke was watching me leave.
Loitering by the doors, holding out a basket of confetti for people to take, I could see him slowly moving towards me, in the shadows of the church interior. He was talking to some girl with an enormous peacock-style fascinator and had yet to notice me in the doorway. I practised my surprised-to-see-you-smile, which felt strained as the minutes ticked by and an older couple in front of him had paused to tell the vicar the sermon had been good. Yes, yes, it had been excellent, well done, I’m sure he knows, let’s keep this queue moving, people, some of us have lives to live and boyfriends to see. This was the moment. He emerged blinking into the sunshine and as he passed me he reached his hand into the basket.
‘Luke, hi,’ I said softly.
‘Lottie.’ His voice was loud as he spilled rose petals around my feet. ‘God, sorry.’
The queue was still moving and a bald man behind Luke was leaning his grubby paw into my basket. Luke seemed to be swept away in a tide of bodies and that had been our big reunion. My body wilted with the anticlimax.
I couldn’t fix it as the moment I was outside I had to become assistant to the photographer, ushering family members, flower girls and pageboys into the right place for some pictures outside the church. Every so often I caught Luke in a huddle of guests and almost tripped over the pageboy I was shepherding. He looked incredibly handsome in his tailored suit, neatly shaven, his eyes flashing as he turned to smile and caught my eye. Did he seem pleased to see me? Was that a smile of excitement? A pity smile for something he was going to do later? Dump me at a wedding? The tension was unbearable and I truly thought there couldn’t be another photo taken. When I finally looked up, the guests had all moved down the road to the reception and I was left carrying a single bay tree, being bundled into one of the usher’s cars.
The reception was held in a marquee on the edge of a lake and guests were milling in the sunshine, eating canapés and laughing as waiters topped up their glasses with champagne. Amy looked excited and radiant, greeting people with double kisses and generous hugs, leaning into her new husband Will looking every inch the happy bride. I felt tears well in my eye as I looked across at her.
‘Lottie!’ One of the ushers called out to me, I’d forgotten his name, he had a luxuriant ginger beard. ‘I need your bay tree,’ he said, and I walked across to deposit it in the marquee.
‘Lottie, I . . . ’ Luke had appeared behind me just as Luxuriant Ginger Beard was instructing me to talk to the band about their meal requirements and to triple-check they were on track for their first set. I could have tugged on those ginger hairs and yelled, ‘Nooooo, let me talk to this ravishing man in the tailored suit with the sexy smile’ but instead I nodded, desperate to ensure I was the best bridesmaid I could be: I needed to do that at the very least for my Amy.
‘Sorry, Luke, I promise we’ll catch up in a bit,’ I said, stepping away.
Luke nodded, waving me away with a hand. ‘Of course, go and sort them out. You look’ – I froze as he spoke – ‘amazing.’
‘Thanks,’ I mumbled, aware Luxuriant Ginger Beard was watching our exchange. I felt a blush move from my chest to my face.
After the band were sorted, Amy asked me to join her in the ladies’ loos. ‘A catch-up,’ I giggled, enjoying the feel of her tucking her arm in mine as we sloped off.
‘No, I am desperate for a pee and this dress is so complicated you are going to have to sort me out.’
‘Ah,’ I said, giggling as we stumbled up the Portaloo steps, a strong smell of lavender and bleach assaulting our nostrils.
We didn’t really fit in the cubicle and various female guests joined in at one point, deciding on pulling at various ribbons and buttons. Finally Amy was released and redressed and I was dabbing at my face trying to tone down the flush, combing at my fringe. My hair was up in a loose chignon and my eyes were made up in soft pastel shades.
Amy gave me a quick hug, meeting my eyes in the mirror. ‘You look stunning, Lottie, and thank you, you’re being completely brilliant.’
I gave her a grin, reaching up to squeeze her wrist. ‘I’m so happy for you, Amy. You’re going to have the best night.’
‘Have you seen the drummer?’ one of Amy’s guests called from the closed cubicle.
Amy frowned. ‘Not yet.’
The guest emerged, an athletic woman in a hot pink fascinator who I recognised from the hen do as being head of PE. ‘Well, let’s just say Will should be relieved you already made vows to him. Fiiiiit.’
As we exited the loo, Amy veered away, determined to go and see ‘her drummer’. I watched her great-aunt moving in an unsteady line beside the lake. ‘Might go and rescue your relative,’ I said, darting off to steer the woman back to the safety of the crowds and the canapés.
‘You’re a lovely girl,’ the aunt said, patting me on the arm. ‘Have you seen the band? There’s a man holding two sticks who is devilishly attractive.’
Finally a dinner bell was rung by an enthusiastic pageboy and guests started moving into the marquee, the guitarist in the band strumming a gentle melody as everyone took their seats. Moving around the edge I felt a hand on my arm and, turning, sucked in my breath to see Luke standing in front of me. He drew me to one side and I let myself follow him, hoping there wasn’t another job I needed to do or another relative in need of rescue.
‘Finally,’ he laughed. He seemed a little on edge, one hand straightening the collar of his shirt.
‘God, I’m sorry, being a bridesmaid is effort,’ I said, feeling myself desperate to lean into him, to feel close to him. I hadn’t touched him, not properly, for weeks.
‘Thank you for your letter.’ He launched into it immediately. ‘And the cufflinks, they’re great, I was thinking—’
I bit my lip, not wanting to risk spoiling anything.
‘—well, I was hoping we could talk about me moving back in.’
‘Oh my God, yes, yes, yes please, I have hated you not being there,’ I burst out. ‘I’ve missed you so much. And I’m so bloody sorry for being such a cow. I’m going to work on that, on the not being a bitch to you, I promise.’ My voice was loud and a couple at a nearby table had peered round to see where the profanities were coming from but I didn’t care. I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed him until he’d left. The flat just didn’t seem right without him. I didn’t care about what people thought or said, I just wanted him to come home.
He was grinning, relaxed again, no more fidgeting. ‘Thank God for that. I’ve been getting a really bad back on Adam’s sofa. And he just doesn’t make sweet love like you do.’
>
I made a face and Luke burst out laughing.
‘Right,’ he said, taking both of my hands, ‘let’s go and have the best night.’ Pulling me towards him he bent down and kissed me. I felt my stomach plummet.
We broke away and I wasn’t able to answer for a moment, the relief so enormous. He was back, he was coming home, he still loved me, I hadn’t stuffed up the best thing that had ever happened to me. ‘Definitely,’ I said, reaching to kiss him again.
He grinned and pressed me back to arm’s length. ‘Also, have you seen the drummer?’
I nodded.
‘Yeah,’ Luke said. ‘You’re not allowed to hang out with the band any more.’
Laughing, he moved inside the marquee with me, one arm around my waist. Amy, preparing to enter the marquee with Will further down, looked across at me, grinning as she saw us together. I couldn’t stop the massive smile splitting my face.
‘Love you,’ she mouthed.
‘Me too,’ I mouthed back. Feeling Luke’s hand on my back as he guided me to our table I thought my heart would burst. I would not mess this up a second time.
Chapter 30
Love is the absolute frickin’ best
GEORGE, 87
Luke moving back in was a wonderful blur. It felt like the first few weeks of living together, spending evenings laughing and talking, making dinner on alternate nights and remembering all the things we loved about each other. I had stopped sniping, stopped bringing home the stress from my day, was careful not to let any frustration out on him.
Keeping a diary had helped; telling my head of chambers I wouldn’t be applying for silk until I felt ready had also been pain-free. Swapping stupid WhatsApp messages with Amy and spending time with Grandad again had also made me feel so much better.
I loved being in on the great app secret too. Arjun and Geoffrey had been working with Luke and his agency on LOOP – an app for the over-70s to combat loneliness. It contained local information on all events targeted to the older crowd. It mentioned dance classes, art lessons, charity walks and more. Groups were encouraged to add their own events to the app and Facebook group and it had really looked to be taking off already with bingo evenings, golf days, coffee mornings happening in different parts of London. Luke was really excited about the growth.
He had left that morning to add some finishing touches to the scheme and I had run to the window in mock-distress, palms flat on the glass as he walked down the street laughing back up at me. Glowing like an idiot I collapsed on the sofa smiling, a languid Saturday stretching ahead: no work – the new rule.
Moments later the buzzer went and I pressed the intercom button. Familiar voices on the stairs made me open the flat door to see Margaret and Paula struggling up clutching two large bags, Howard waving from the window of his car before speeding away.
‘Oh, hi.’
They were grinning. ‘Surprise.’
‘We’re here,’ Paula stated as if I’d been expecting them. She strode straight past me, commenting on the décor as she arrived inside.
‘Mint green . . . and I like the stripped-back floorboards . . . the light is good . . . we should set up in here.’
Margaret followed her, allowing me to take the bags she was carrying from her. I frowned as I shut the door.
Both women were now fussing about in the living room, clearing a chair, setting the bags down on a table.
‘OK, OK, what is going on?’
Margaret turned around. ‘Well,’ she announced, a gleeful smile on her face, ‘we’re here to give you a wonderful makeover.’
‘We’re going to make you into a vintage siren!’ Paula said.
I stared down at my cotton harem pants and T-shirt.
‘Yes, we have a lot of work to do,’ Paula said, her glossy lips in a disapproving line.
‘Right, take a seat, take a seat,’ Margaret said, patting the back of the chair.
‘But . . . what’s the occasion?’
‘Oh, that’s all to come,’ Paula cackled. ‘All to come. Now come here, I’ll heat the rollers.’
‘Let me at least make you a tea or a coffee,’ I protested, feeling strangely nervous.
‘We’ll do that, we’ll do that, you just sit down,’ Margaret said, sounding positively bossy. ‘The flat looks great, Lottie,’ she tinkled and I blushed, remembering the state of the place the last time she had dropped by.
‘Thanks,’ I said, feeling a rush of affection for the two women and a flicker of excitement to see what they had brought along.
Margaret guided me over to a chair she’d placed in the middle of the room. Paula was bending over, trousers straining at the seams as she plugged something into the socket. She had started to hum, ‘Stop! In The Name Of Love.’
Margaret was now removing various bottles, brushes and pots from one of the bags on the table, as Paula moved towards me holding a paddle hairbrush.
‘Right,’ she said, lifting a chunk of my hair and letting it fall, ‘let’s see what we can do with this.’
‘I haven’t washed it yet,’ I said, my own hand raised to the nape of my neck.
‘That will work well, actually. Better for what we have planned to style hair a day or so after washing.’
I felt the flutter of nerves at the same moment that Margaret asked, ‘What can I get you, Lottie? We’ve got champagne.’
‘Champagne?’ I said, eyes widening.
‘It’s early, but there is nothing nicer. Or I can make you a Bucks Fizz.’
Paula started brushing my hair. ‘Top us up, Mags.’
Moments later I was holding a chilled glass of champagne as Paula detangled and fussed over my hair. Margaret was spending an age selecting just the right products. She had already chopped up two slices of cucumber and placed them over my eyes. ‘It reduces bags – not that you have any,’ she added quickly, ‘but it should really help brighten your face.’
Paula was playing sixties numbers through her iPhone and I could feel my shoulders relaxing, the tension in my back easing as the two women fussed around me.
The next moment my feet were being lifted and dropped into a warm, bubbled footbath.
‘Ooh,’ I squealed, dislodging one of the cucumbers.
‘Relax,’ said Margaret as she placed a fresh one back over the eye. ‘I’ve got a lovely nail polish that will look perfect on your toenails.’
‘I dread to think what my toenails look like,’ I murmured, wiggling my toes in the water, feeling the jet streams massage and pummel my skin. This was officially awesome.
One foot towel-dried and propped up on a cushion and Margaret set to work removing old polish and layering on the new colour – the softest pale pink, like the inside of a shell. Paula was placing heated rollers in my hair and I was sipping at champagne, listening to Motown classics and their conversation, which had flitted from the flower arrangements at Dorothy’s funeral (‘arranged by someone completely colour-blind, and she would never have wanted lilies, she was allergic’), to the new Pilates instructor who had started at the club (‘he doesn’t have a trustworthy face, I miss Kelvin’), to their friend’s niece who was expecting twins (‘she’s as large as a house and she’s only 18 weeks, we’re going to buy her one of those bands for her stomach’) to some strange behaviour among some of the men.
‘I saw Arjun and Geoffrey looking very shady in the Four Bells, meeting a young girl with red hair.’ I was too busy enjoying Margaret’s foot massage, barely listening, to explain much.
Once my nails were done, the cucumbers removed and my hair curled into rollers, Paula swivelled me towards the natural light of the window.
‘Right,’ she said, eyes slanting as she roved over my face. I was suddenly conscious of my tired eyes and washed-out skin, wishing I had got more than six hours’ sleep again last night. ‘Let’s start with some concealer to correct your skin colour and then we can put a foundation on top of that.’
‘Sounds good,’ I said, clearing my throat nervously as she continued t
o stare at me.
Margaret was topping up my champagne glass.
Paula spent an age carefully applying layer after layer, blowing on a powder brush, sweeping bronzer along my cheekbones, curling my eyelashes, applying the finest brown eyeliner and lastly drawing on lip liner and a bright scarlet lipstick.
‘Press this,’ she said, offering me a tissue for my mouth.
‘Can I look?’ I asked, feeling my stomach leaping, wanting to know what my face looked like.
‘After Margaret’s pinned your hair.’
Margaret approached with a cardboard strip of kirby grips, the paddle brush and a determined gleam in her eye.
‘You’re gorgeous,’ she exclaimed, removing the rollers with gentle cool hands.
She twisted and pulled on strands of hair, winding them into curls and securing them in place. Fussing, she removed one or two before beginning the process again. Paula was sitting opposite me, champagne glass in hand, telling me about Arnold from her aqua aerobics class who had appeared in the ladies’ changing room, blaming his dementia.
‘I’m nearly done, Paula, time to get the dress.’
Dress?
My eyes rounded once more as Paula reached behind and unzipped a clothing bag. ‘Close your eyes and no peeking.’
I stood up, following her instructions, stepping into a pool of material before I felt the dress move over my body, arms inside, buttons being fastened at the back. For a moment I was enfolded in a familiar scent of mint and then it passed just as quickly.
‘You can open your eyes,’ Paula said, as I felt both women move away.
I found them standing in front of me, heads tilted as they stared at me: silent.
‘What?’ I said, feeling a little paranoid, one hand to my hair.
‘Turn around and see.’ Margaret had carried through the full-length mirror that usually stood in our bedroom.
I had turned and blinked and exclaimed, ‘I can’t . . . ’ A hand went up to my mouth.