The Mother-in-Law

by Sally Hepworth

  ‘Doesn’t she look beautiful?’ Rhonda prompts.

  Lucy is a pretty girl, certainly, but I’ve come to realise that one of the most interesting things about her is her unusual style—the clashing prints, the pops of colour, the sequins all over everything. Today, when she arrived at the bridal shop, she was wearing an enormous wide-brimmed straw hat and clogs. Clogs! It was a little over the top, if you ask me, but you can’t deny the girl made a statement. In this dress, however, she looks utterly forgettable. A classic generic bride.

  ‘Well, I think it’s—’

  ‘What do you think, Lucy?’ Peter says, emerging from behind his handkerchief. ‘Do you love it?’

  A cautious smile appears on Lucy’s face. ‘I do.’

  At this, Rhonda takes off for the back room, returning with a veil that she affixes to Lucy’s head, and a plastic bouquet of roses for her to hold. It is such a sales strategy I find myself glaring at her. Not that there’s anything wrong with making a sale, of course, one needs to earn a living. But this feels untoward somehow, coercive.

  Peter clears his throat. ‘Okay, Rhonda. What’s the damage?’

  Rhonda goes to her computer and taps away for an unreasonable amount of time. Apparently, at bridal stores, providing a price is incredibly complicated. I turn and pretend to look at satin-covered wedding shoes. Peter is paying for the dress as well as the wedding and has turned down every offer from us to pay half. Tom, predictably horrified, practically begged him to reconsider, until I convinced him Peter might find it insulting. Besides, Lucy and Ollie are planning a very low-key wedding, to my relief, so I’m confident that Peter should be able to stretch to cover it. That is, until I hear Rhonda whisper an amount that could purchase a brand new family car.

  The colour drains from Peter’s face.

  ‘Oh, God,’ Lucy says. ‘Really?’

  Rhonda nods earnestly. ‘Those are real Swarovski crystals. And it’s a ball gown, so there’s a lot of material.’

  ‘I’ll try something else,’ Lucy says immediately. ‘Something off the rack or a sample—’

  I pick up a wedding magazine and focus on it intently. This is why mothers-in-law aren’t invited to this sort of thing. Peter will feel incredibly awkward with me here to witness and will feel backed into a corner. If Tom was here, he’d be on his feet, holding out the black Amex, forcing Rhonda to take it. My style would be to suggest to Lucy that there must be a perfectly nice dress that isn’t the same price as a down payment on a house.

  I think of Amina, whom I visited in her home earlier today. She arrived from Sudan three months ago, pregnant with twins, with three more children under the age five. This morning I brought her a well-used double pram and she broke down in tears and asked Allah to bless me and my family. She was going to use it to push her youngest two kids to the supermarket, she said, because usually her two and three year olds had to walk and their little legs got terribly tired. Some days, she told me, it took them an hour to make the one kilometre walk.

  ‘This is the one you really want?’ Peter says.

  ‘Dad . . . are you sure? It’s a lot of money.’

  ‘I’ve only got one daughter,’ he says. ‘And you’re only a bride once.’

  ‘Will you be wanting the veil as well?’ Rhonda says, a vulture circling. ‘I just ask because this is the last one we have in stock. I can give you ten per cent off,’ she says, and begins tapping on her computer again. After a moment or two, she announces a price that makes my eyes water.

  ‘No, I don’t need the veil,’ Lucy says.

  ‘But it really does cap off the look, doesn’t it, Mum?’ Rhonda says, dragging me into her ugly plot. ‘And it’s a small price to pay when it comes to giving your daughter the perfect wedding, am I right?’

  Rhonda has taken on a new level of evil in my mind. Guilting a poor father into buying a veil he can ill afford. Encouraging me to join her side and gang up on the man. Insinuating that if he doesn’t buy the ludicrously overpriced piece of lace, it means he doesn’t love his daughter or want to give her the perfect wedding. If it were up to me, the woman would be taken out onto the street and horse-whipped.

  ‘Frankly, I don’t think anyone outside the royal family would consider that amount a small price to pay,’ I tell her. ‘It’s daylight robbery and you should be ashamed of yourself. I don’t know how you sleep at night.’

  Peter and Lucy turn to stare at me, and Rhonda adopts the sullen face of a teenager who feels like the world is against her and nothing—none of it—is her fault.

  ‘And one other thing,’ I say, since I have everyone’s attention. ‘As I’ve pointed out several times, I’m not Lucy’s mother.’ I fold my hands in my lap. ‘I’m her mother-in-law.’

  5

  LUCY

  The present . . .

  ‘Would anyone like tea?’ I ask.

  No one responds but I head to the kitchen anyway to put the kettle on. My thoughts skitter about. Diana is dead. Intellectually I understand this, but somehow it doesn’t feel true. This peculiar, anesthetised feeling is familiar, it reminds me of the days following my own mother’s death, when I walked around oblivious to the day of the week, the time of day. It wasn’t until days later that the pain hit, fast and hard, as if it had been loaded into a slingshot and fired at me. It was during my mother’s funeral that I finally broke under the weight of it, sobbing so hysterically my poor father had no idea what to do.

  I slide the mugs off a high shelf and line them up on the counter. The sky beyond the window is black. Patrick, Nettie and Ollie are in the living room, spread across furniture, staring out in different directions. I get the feeling that Patrick and Nettie would like to leave but they feel they shouldn’t, as though it might be considered dismissive to Diana. This is, after all, a time for family to be together.

  Simon and Stella left over an hour ago, leaving behind two shiny business cards and a sober atmosphere. Since then Nettie appears to have rethought her initial embrace with Ollie and has perched herself as far away from him as possible whilst still remaining in the same room. Patrick sits right beside her, patting her leg, sincere but unemotional. Tears stream from Nettie, filling and falling without much apparent effort on her part.

  Ollie is surprisingly dry-eyed, and seems to be an impossible combination of bewildered and irritated, alternately shaking his head no, then nodding it yes, whatever that is supposed to mean. Peculiarly, it’s exactly how I feel. No, Diana can’t be dead, followed by, Yes, she is and it isn’t the worst thing in the world. After all, I’ve never made a secret of my dislike for Diana. Our relationship was volatile. It was even, at one point, violent. I wonder if the police will discover this while they are investigating Diana’s death.

  As I get down my ‘visitor tea’ (I’m getting the feeling that Nettie might do well with chamomile), I can’t help but think of the day Tom died. We’d all been called away from home and work midmorning to say our goodbyes, but by midnight he was still hanging on. It wasn’t the first time we’d got the call. We’d given our teary farewells twice before, only to have Tom battle on, but this time, the doctors told us, was it. Apparently.

  After twenty-four hours, as Tom continued to hang in there, Ollie asked the nurse if there was something she could give Tom to ‘end his suffering’. When the nurse explained that there wasn’t anything, and that it could take as much as a few days before Tom died, Ollie reached for a cushion and announced that he’d like ‘a few minutes alone with Dad’.

  Everyone had become slightly feverish with exhausted hilarity—even Diana amazingly, smiled as she explained to the nurse that, obviously, her son was joking. But there are no jokes to be had today. Everything is utterly sombre.

  I take the tea into the living room and hold out a mug to Nettie, but she doesn’t seem to notice. After a second, Patrick takes it and sets it on the coffee table.

  ‘I guess it’s too early to talk about the funeral,’ I say. It is too soon, but I can’t bear the silence any longer a
nd what else are we supposed to talk about? Nettie stares at the blank television screen. Ollie looks at his shoes.

  Only Patrick looks at me, shrugs slightly. ‘Depends when we get the body, I suppose,’ he says.

  Nettie visibly stiffens.

  I sit on the arm of the sofa, next to Ollie. ‘When will that be?’

  ‘They still have to do the autopsy,’ Patrick says. ‘That’ll take time.’

  ‘But . . . why are they doing an autopsy?’ Nettie asks. She glances around the room, half-dazed, like she’s just woken up.

  ‘The police said they are treating it as a homicide,’ Ollie explains.

  Nettie’s eyes widen. Everyone seems to have forgotten that we’re not supposed to be making eye contact and we all look intently at each other.

  ‘They said they have to treat it as a homicide,’ Patrick says, ‘they don’t actually think it was one. It sounded pretty clear-cut to me. The letter, the . . . materials.’

  ‘What kind of materials are they talking about, do you think?’ Ollie says. His face is the image of bafflement. ‘A rope? A gun?’

  ‘Ollie!’ I say.

  Nettie has gone so pale she looks like she might faint. Somewhere in the next room, Ollie’s phone begins to ring. Eamon, Ollie’s business partner, would be the only one to call this late. I’m relieved when Ollie makes no move to answer it.

  ‘If they think it could be a homicide,’ Nettie says, her eyes searching, ‘will they be questioning people? Investigating?’

  Patrick looks at his lap. ‘I guess they’ll have to.’

  ‘But who would they investigate?’ Ollie says. ‘Who’d want to kill Mum?’

  It’s a slow process, but one by one, Patrick, Ollie and Nettie all turn to look at me. I drop my gaze and stare into my tea.

  6

  LUCY

  The past . . .

  ‘I don’t have something borrowed,’ I say to Claire, my matron of honour. She sits in the armchair in my Dad’s bedroom with her three-year-old daughter, Millie, in her lap. Millie is going to be a flower girl at the wedding, a role that delighted her until about two minutes ago when she realised she’d have to have her hair brushed. Now Claire grips Millie between her knees as she drags the brush through her curls, but Millie is twisting and wriggling like someone being tickled with a thousand feathers.

  ‘Leave her,’ I say, watching them in the reflection of the mirror. ‘Her hair is fine the way it is.’

  ‘How do you not have something borrowed?’ Claire exclaims, releasing Millie from her thigh-grip and putting down the brush. ‘It’s your wedding day. Speaking of which, are you having any Runaway Bride feels? Will I need to winch this window open and saddle up a horse so you can make a run for it, Julia Roberts style?’

  ‘No chance of that,’ I say, fanning my dress out around me.

  ‘Are you sure? I could have a mare waiting in case you want to make a quick getaway. From your mother-in-law, perhaps?’

  I check my teeth for lipstick. Fire engine red is a risqué colour for one’s wedding day, but I think I can get away with it. ‘Maybe keep the car running just in case.’

  My friends and I have unpacked my relationship with Diana at length, from her calling me fine, to insisting she wasn’t my mother while bridal-dress shopping, to intimating that the wedding dress I selected was frivolous and over the top. Admittedly, she had a point about the dress. I knew I’d gotten carried away with the moment, but it’s a rare bride who couldn’t say the same. And at least I was big enough to admit it! After Diana’s outburst at the bridal store, I convinced Dad—much to the sales woman’s horror—that I needed time to think about the dress. It had taken a few days, but I’d realised Diana was right, it was ludicrously overpriced—daylight robbery even, just as she’d said. And a few days later, while looking at my parents’ wedding album, I noticed how beautiful Mum’s dress was. I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t thought of it. I’d always loved wearing Mum’s clothes. Barely was there a day when I wasn’t wearing a coat or a scarf or a piece of jewellery from her collection. Having something of hers wrapped around me made me feel close to her, and on days when I really missed her, I wore multiple items of Mum’s.

  I take a few steps back from the mirror and look at my reflection. Mum’s dress is my something old. A 1970s ivory silk dress with a high neckline, long sleeves and an empire waist, with covered buttons travelling from the left shoulder to just under the chin. When I asked Dad about it, he produced the dress from the attic, lovingly wrapped in acid-free tissue paper over thirty years earlier. There were a few yellow stains, but they were on the waistline and were hidden by the wide, mint green sash I’d added. My pillbox bridal hat with birdcage veil, which I did purchase from the bridal store, is my something new. My sapphire earrings that Ollie gave me for my birthday are my something blue.

  ‘Right then,’ Claire says. ‘Something borrowed.’ She points to the diamond studs in her ears. ‘How about my earrings?’

  ‘But the sapphires in my earrings are my something blue.’

  ‘My shoes?’

  Claire’s feet are a size and a half larger than mine. Also, her shoes are pink, the same colour as her dress.

  ‘My lipstick? My hair brooch?’ Claire tries, but she’s stabbing in the dark now. I’ve already had my makeup done. My hair is out, in a loose wave, soon to be topped with my hat and veil. Millie, who is jumping on Dad’s bed now, will wear a flower crown, as will Claire.

  There is a gentle tap at the door. ‘Come in, Dad,’ I call.

  Despite my telling Dad repeatedly that it is not bad luck for him to see me before the wedding, he has covered his eyes every time we’ve crossed paths this morning. I wait for his bearded face to appear around the corner, eyes closed, but the door remains closed.

  ‘Dad? You can come in.’

  ‘Lucy? It’s Diana Goodwin.’

  Claire and I lock eyes. Silent horror travels between us. Diana is at the door. What on earth is she doing here?

  ‘Hello, Diana,’ I say tremulously. I wonder why there isn’t a rule forbidding the mother-in-law from seeing the bride on the day of the wedding. ‘Would you . . . would you like to come in?’

  There is a short pause, and then the door handle twists. Diana’s face appears in the opening. ‘I’m sorry to show up like this. I just have something to give you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  I open the door further and Diana casts a brisk smile at Claire and a slightly less brisk smile at Millie, who practically pauses mid-bounce on Dad’s bed. She stares at Diana. I get the feeling she is as terrified as I am.

  ‘I’ll give you a minute,’ Claire says, gathering up Millie and scurrying out the door. Diana waits for them to leave and then enters the room fully.

  ‘You look lovely,’ I say.

  ‘Thank you. So do you.’

  It isn’t lip service, I’ve actually never seen Diana look so lovely. She’s wearing a navy linen shell top with a soft blue A-line floor-length skirt. She is wearing makeup—pink lips and smoky eyes—and she smells like a bouquet of fresh-cut flowers. I suddenly get a glimpse of Diana as a young woman, a beautiful young woman, and I understand why Tom always looks so pleased with himself around her.

  ‘Thank you,’ Diana says. ‘I called your father this morning to see if there was anything I could do and he told me you didn’t have something borrowed.’ Diana reaches into her clutch, pulling out a navy leather jewellery box, trimmed with gold. ‘I wore this on my wedding day.’ She opens the box and produces a silver necklace with a small, flat, twisted pendant. ‘It’s a Celtic knot. It represents strength. If it doesn’t go with your dress you could perhaps hide it underneath the bodice.’

  ‘I love it,’ I say immediately. ‘And I’m not hiding it anywhere. I’ll wear it around my neck where everyone can see it.’

  Diana looks as pleased as anyone can look. She comes around behind me and I lift my hair for her to fasten it. When she’s done, she gestures to my hat and veil. ‘Do you need help with th
is?’

  ‘That . . . would be wonderful.’

  Diana is tall, nearly a full head taller than me, and as she fastens the hat at my temple I can see her eyes. They are narrow with concentration as she fusses around, fixing the birdcage veil around my face and then smoothing the dress out around me. Of course I think of my mother. If she were here, she would have been the one fastening my necklace and smoothing my dress. A lump forms in my throat.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say turning and wrapping my arms around her. She stiffens slightly, neither returning my hug nor pulling away, but I hang on all the same. She is thin and knobbly and it feels like I’m embracing a sack full of coat hangers.

  After a moment, I untangle myself.

  ‘Right,’ Diana says, clearing her throat. ‘I’d better get back to Ollie.’

  And that appears to be that. I try not to focus on the fact that the hug wasn’t really returned. After all, she showed up! She brought me a beautiful, meaningful piece of jewellery that she herself wore on her wedding day. We’ve made progress. And I am going to celebrate it.

  Diana makes it to the door before she stops suddenly, pivots back. ‘Oh, er . . . Lucy?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That necklace is your something borrowed.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. I glance at it in the mirror again, marvelling at how perfect it is. It is actually hard to believe I almost didn’t wear it.

  ‘Good,’ she says, ‘because borrowed means you have to give it back.’

  A long silence.

  ‘I understand that,’ I say slowly, and Diana gives a little nod and lets herself out of the room.

  ‘The girls will want champagne,’ Eamon tells the waitress in the black pants and crisp white shirt. ‘If there’s one thing I know about girls, it’s that they always want champagne.’

  Eamon’s wife, Julia, nods enthusiastically. She calls over the waitress and selects a bottle of Dom Pérignon.

  ‘Lovely choice,’ the waitress says.

  The blood drains from Ollie’s face. Even before we arrived, he was nervous about how much this meal was going to cost (meals with Eamon were never cheap), but when we arrived at Arabella’s and saw the white tablecloths and the menu with no prices, I could see he was panicking. Now Dom Pérignon. It’s a choice made even more frustrating by the fact that I’m eight weeks pregnant, thus neither able to drink it nor disclose that I’m not drinking it, which means leaving a very expensive glass of champagne undrunk at the end of the night.