by Lucy Dillon
She looked up from her ‘favour inspiration’ list. ‘Mum, don’t tell me – you’ve promised your whole class that they can be involved. That’s fine with me, honestly. You know, maybe you could get them to do a big dance with ribbons, like they did for the summer concert.’
‘Well, not exactly. It’s about . . .’
Lauren’s phone rang on the table in front of them and her eyes turned straight to it, her fingers already reaching out.
‘Mum, can I just answer this?’ she asked, already answering it. ‘Chris was going to get back to me about his numbers. Hello? Oh, hello, Irene.’
Bridget held her breath and tried not to think uncharitable thoughts.
‘Mmm,’ Lauren was saying. Her wide blue eyes were skating round the deli, trying to work out what to say. ‘Yes, we are in town.’
Bridget knew Lauren was incapable of telling fibs. It was one of her most endearing traits. She also knew what Irene’s questions would be on the other side of the conversation.
‘Um, with Mum . . .’ Lauren was saying now, her eyes falling on her mother. ‘Yes, we are on a dress mission, actually . . .’
Bridget shook her head, trying to communicate ‘this is us time!’ without looking insane or selfish. Lauren, understanding for once, pulled a face.
‘We’re just having lunch . . .’ Her voice changed and relaxed, obviously now off the hot topic of dresses. ‘Yes, the deli opposite the bus station, have you been?’ She rolled her eyes at her mother. ‘You’re where? You’re . . . Oh, yes, I can see you,’ finished Lauren dully, as a tall figure in a belted Burberry mackintosh started waving at them from outside the window.
‘Um, yes, course we can stay for another coffee,’ and put the phone down. ‘Sorry,’ she wailed to Bridget, ‘sorry, but what could I say? She was outside!’
‘It’s fine,’ said Bridget, putting on her best welcoming face, the one she dragged out on parents’ evenings.
Lauren rose to her feet as Irene wiggled her way between the chairs, and Bridget felt a mean-spirited disappointment, like when you finally settle down with a cup of tea and a good film, and your son rings from New Zealand for a chat.
‘Hello, girls!’ said Irene, arriving in a flurry of umbrella and coat and shopping bags. ‘I was in the area so I thought I’d just pop into Bridal Path to see if there was anything in there that might suit Lauren and here you both are! What a coincidence! Great minds think alike! A peppermint tea for me, please,’ she added over her shoulder to the hovering waitress. ‘Anything else for you two?’
‘Another cappuccino, please,’ said Bridget. ‘A strong one, if you could.’
‘And, um, a peppermint tea.’ Lauren looked a little shifty. ‘Irene suggested I go on a detox,’ she added.
‘Oh,’ said Bridget.
‘So how did you get on?’ Irene asked, settling herself down and moving their various half-finished plates out of her way. ‘Don’t mind me, carry on – I’m just going to have the tea.’
‘Oh, I think we’re just about done, aren’t we? We were in there most of the morning,’ said Bridget. ‘How many dresses did we look at, Lauren?’
‘Four.’
‘Just four?’
‘It felt like twenty-four!’ said Bridget, but Irene already had her notebook out, and was asking Lauren for the digital camera so she could see for herself.
She tutted as soon as she saw Bridget’s handiwork. ‘Oh, Lauren, why didn’t you get a picture of yourself with a veil in that first dress? That’s no use. We’ll have to go back.’
Bridget closed her eyes, counted to ten in her head, and told herself that Irene didn’t have a daughter, or indeed a husband, and that she should be more understanding about her interfering.
No, she corrected herself, not interfering, helping.
She opened her eyes to see Lauren’s white blonde fringe hanging in a perfect curl as she bent over the camera, and she could have slid back fifteen years, seeing Lauren in that same pose of concentration: doing her homework, reading her first books, colouring-in. It was selfish to be resentful of Irene. Share and share alike as she said to her little ones.
‘I meant to ask, Lauren,’ said Irene, as her tea arrived. ‘How did your first dancing class go?’
Lauren looked up and for a moment a shadow of a frown creased her forehead, then vanished. ‘It was OK. I mean, you don’t pick it up overnight, do you?’
‘It’s not as easy as it looks, now, is it?’ Irene looked almost pleased. ‘Wasn’t I right to get you started early?’
‘Yeah . . .’ said Lauren doubtfully. ‘I suppose I thought we’d just, you know, do it, like they do on telly.’
‘What did you learn?’
‘We sort of walked up and down together, learning not to tread on each other’s feet, then we did a really basic rock’n’roll thing. The sort you do at a wedding when you can’t dance.’ Lauren rolled her eyes. ‘We couldn’t even get that right. My feet were so sore afterwards. I’m taking plasters with me next time.’
‘It was a very good start,’ interjected Bridget. ‘They did very well, considering.’
Irene tutted sympathetically. ‘Well, if you need some extra practice, Lauren, maybe we can get you some private lessons.’
‘It’s not me that needs practice, it’s Chris!’ Lauren objected.
Irene’s smile turned somewhat tight-lipped.
‘Seriously,’ Lauren insisted. ‘Your son doesn’t know his left foot from his right. He nearly pulled my arm out of its socket when he went to spin me round.’ She sipped her tea forlornly. ‘I had no idea he was such a malco.’
‘I can’t believe that!’ replied Irene. ‘Christopher’s an athlete, and he passed his driving test first time.’
‘That doesn’t mean he can steer me,’ said Lauren. ‘You try getting your feet out of the way of his size elevens.’
‘Oh, your dad was like that to begin with – it’ll come.’ Bridget’s eyes moved quickly from Lauren, who suddenly looked quite deflated, to Irene, whose smooth neck had turned a bright shade of pink. ‘I thought you were picking it up very quickly, Laurie!’
‘Would you like me to come along and watch?’ suggested Irene, ignoring her. ‘Maybe I could video it, and you could see where you’re going wrong later. It might help.’
‘The only thing that’s going to help is if you write Left and Right on Chris’s shoes,’ said Lauren. ‘I’m telling you, it’s not me.’
Irene laughed, but in a slightly grim manner. ‘Oh, Lauren, I’m sure you’re over-reacting. His father was an excellent dancer, and I remember when—’
‘Have you ever danced with Chris?’ demanded Lauren.
Irene hesitated. ‘Well, not recently, no.’
‘It’s still early days! Plenty of time to go,’ said Bridget, reaching for the pudding menu. ‘Now, someone at school was telling me they do a very wicked homemade tiramisu here. Anyone want to share one with me?’
But Irene’s face was suffused with nostalgic tenderness. ‘I only wish Ron and I had the opportunity to do a lovely first dance,’ she went on, wistfully. ‘It would have been a very special moment to treasure.’
Bridget exchanged a look over the menu with Lauren, and was irritated to see her expression softening in sympathy, right on cue. Irene’s wedding and what she would have done differently was a pretty inescapable part of Lauren’s own preparations.
Bridget just hoped it wasn’t going to be the deciding factor in everything.
Back at Bridal Path, Yvette pulled out eight more enormous dresses for Lauren to try on, and with Irene firmly in charge of the camera, Bridget was reduced to writing notes for each one, in as much detail as she could manage, not being equipped with the strange wedding-dress vocabulary that flowed from Irene and Lauren’s mouths.
‘Fingertip or blusher?’ Irene asked Lauren, fiddling with her veil.
‘Or cathedral length?’ suggested Yvette.
From somewhere underneath the mass of net, Lauren said, ‘Or what about all t
hree?’
Bridget wrote, ‘large skirt, sparkly top, might get dirty if it rains outside the church’. Then she remembered that the thorny matter of the venue was still under discussion, and crossed it out, in case Lauren thought she was being pointed.
She watched Yvette and Irene fussing around Lauren’s skirt as she turned absent-mindedly and caught the train on a chair, nearly tipping it over. It wasn’t so much that she and Frank were church-goers, but at least a church wedding would tie it all down to something – something that actually had some meaning, rather than this parade of save-the-day cards and gift lists and how many flowergirls was too many. There was something about this wedding that reminded her of the parties Lauren used to have when she was at school – the endless inviting and uninviting, and debates about the birthday cake . . .
‘How much is this one, Yvette?’ Irene called out.
‘Two thousand seven hundred. But it’s all hand-sewn and really, you can tell, can’t you?’
‘Oh, you can,’ agreed Lauren, with a huge sigh.
Bridget wrote £2700 next to the crossed-out bit, and before she knew it, she’d added an !!. Guiltily, she crossed that out too, but it looked awful. Mean, and she wasn’t mean at all. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do to make Lauren’s wedding day as wonderful as Lauren wanted.
The crossings out loomed accusingly up at her.
Then she ripped out the page altogether, stuffed it in her bag, and started again.
6
Katie’s week passed in an interminable series of meetings and site visits, and though she and Ross tried to follow the advice Peter had given them – talk more, explain problems, be reasonable – it didn’t seem to be making much difference.
Trying to be nice didn’t change anything. It just made the pair of them crabby about having to try to be nice. They were still far too close to each other, and far too tired to make any space.
And now, Katie thought, on her way home on Wednesday night, I’ve got to haul myself round this stupid ballroom-dancing class again.
‘I’m home!’ she called, hanging her car keys on the hook by the kitchen door. She checked her watch: twenty past seven. The class was at quarter to eight, so she didn’t really have time to get changed out of her office suit or grab much to eat, but as long as Ross had sorted something out for the kids’ supper, the leftovers would fill a hole until they got back.
Katie wasn’t sure she could face an hour of Angelica’s pointed remarks on an empty stomach. What she really needed was a glass of wine. Or two.
Her eye skated around the kitchen, took in the unwashed spaghetti hoop pan on the hob, and the crumbs on the work surface, then fell on the wine rack, where a lone bottle remained from Friday night. Beanie babies were stuffed in the other holes. Her hand reached out, then she stopped it. She needed her wits about her.
Where is everyone? she wondered. It wasn’t as if everyone usually ran to the door when she got in but some acknowledgement would be nice.
‘Hello?’ she called again, but there was no response as she made her way into the sitting room, where she could hear music.
Ross was lying on the sofa, with Jack draped sleepily over his stomach, and Hannah curled into the crook of his arm, transfixed by the flashing images on the television. Ross was also transfixed by what Katie recognised as a ballroom-dancing DVD, his bare foot bouncing up and down to the music while terracotta-tanned couples spun around the dancefloor. They made a perfect picture of family bliss.
Apart from the fact that around him piles of unironed laundry were stacked precariously near half-empty cereal bowls and crumpled dollops of abandoned clothing. The Hoover was exactly where she’d left it that morning, and there were still sticky marks on the mirror from where Hannah had kissed herself while eating a jam sandwich.
Katie felt her blood pressure rise again.
Well, at least Jack was in his pyjamas already, and she could put him to bed for once, she told herself, but that didn’t damp down her irritation.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked, in as neutral a tone as she could manage, not wanting to yell in front of Hannah.
‘Mummy’s home!’ exclaimed Ross in a stage whisper, pointing downwards at Jack. ‘Shh!’
‘Why isn’t Jack in bed yet?’ she asked, in the same tight voice.
‘He wanted to watch the dancing,’ said Hannah. There was glitter on her face and she was wearing her pink elasticated ballet tutu over a swimsuit and tights.
‘Well, you’d both better get ready for bed, because we’re going out and Gemma’s going to be here in a minute. You like Gemma,’ she went on, as Hannah’s expression turned mutinous, her pink lip sticking out. ‘She reads to you, doesn’t she?’
‘Ah,’ said Ross. ‘Change of plan with Gemma. She’s split up with her boyfriend and can’t babysit tonight.’
‘What? At ten quid an hour? Can’t she just come over here and be miserable?’
Ross gave her a meaningful look. ‘I think she’s . . . already getting some counselling with her friend Tia Maria. And Bailey. If you know what I mean . . .’
Katie rolled her eyes. ‘Give me the phone. She’s got responsibilities!’
‘Don’t be stupid, Katie. You want her looking after the kids in that kind of state? Anyway,’ he went on, ‘I rang Jo and she says she’ll sort something out. Hey?’ he said, cuddling Hannah a bit nearer. ‘You’re happy to have Jo babysit instead of Gemma, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah! Jo!’ Hannah’s face lit up, and Katie felt a twinge of resentment at her sudden mood upswing.
‘Well, that’s nice of her,’ she said, gruffly. ‘She and Greg were meant to be coming with us to dancing this week. I don’t suppose she fancies babysitting the laundry basket as well, does she?’ As she spoke, she started to stuff crumpled pillowcases and socks back into the laundry bag. ‘This place looks more and more like a bloody jumble sale every day. Don’t you see all this stuff lying around? Honestly, Jo’s going to think we’ve been burgled.’
‘Oh, yeah, sorry.’ Ross looked around, as if noticing it all for the first time. ‘I meant to do that while these two were having their nap, but we . . . got distracted.’
‘We watched the DVD!’ announced Hannah. ‘I did the foxes trot with Daddy!’
‘I wanted to show them what we were learning at dancing class,’ Ross explained. ‘Obviously, we concentrated on the twirling and the swinging.’
Katie lifted a pile of unmatched socks off an armchair, to reveal a crumby plate of toast crusts.
I just want to sit down, she thought wearily. Is this why my dad was so tetchy when he came home from work? Is it so much to ask?
But even though she hated herself, it still came out. ‘All day?’
Hannah gave her mother a clear-eyed glare. ‘Why don’t you have a sparkly dress like the ladies, Mummy?’
‘Because,’ said Katie, piling up plates and cups with quick, cross, clunking motions.
‘Because what? I’ve got a special dress for my dancing.’
God, first Angelica, and now Hannah, thought Katie, feeling got at. It wasn’t as if they were going to the classes for fun – and it definitely didn’t warrant new clothes.
‘Mummy?’ Hannah went on. ‘Why don’t you have a sparkly dress? Mummy? You never wear pretty dresses. Mummy?’
‘Hannah,’ snapped Katie, ‘that’s enough!’
Hannah put her hands on her hips, and opened her mouth to talk back, but Katie glared back harder.
‘I’ll pop Jack in his bed,’ said Ross, getting to his feet with Jack still cradled in his arms. ‘He’s about ready for it. Come on, Hannah, you can take your bowl through to the kitchen for me, can’t you?’
Katie felt a terrible yearning inside for Jack, who was nuzzling into Ross’s shoulder like a sleepy puppy, his eyelids twitching as he dozed. While she was at work, she could somehow switch off the part of her brain that missed him, but now she was home, the need to hold him, and smell his downy head was so powerful it actually
hurt. Without realising she stretched out her hands, wanting to feel his soft weight against her chest. He was almost too heavy to carry around now, but she loved the feel of him in her arms.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘Let me. Please? I’d love to put him to bed.’
‘But you’re in a rush,’ countered Ross, turning his shoulder. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘Not that much of a rush,’ Katie pleaded. Jack’s dark hair was growing so quickly. She hadn’t noticed how long it had got at the back, curling in silky brown waves. ‘Come on, Ross. You know how much I love putting him to bed! I haven’t seen him all day!’
He rolled his eyes downwards and she realised too late that Hannah was listening in, taking their struggle over Jack personally, from the hurt scowl on her face.
‘You spoil everything,’ she said, with a rising note of pre-tantrum fury. ‘We were having a lovely time till you came home. I hate you.’
Katie’s jaw dropped, and a sudden pain, sharp and dull at the same time, spread through her chest.
‘Now, Hannah!’ Ross raised a warning finger.
‘I hate her,’ yelled Hannah and turned on her heel and ran out of the room.
Katie looked at him. It was easier to be mad with Ross than it was to deal with the shock in her heart. ‘Is that all you can say? Hannah?’
‘What do you expect me to do?’ he demanded, nodding towards the sleeping toddler in his arms.
Still in his arms, she noted. What was she meant to do? Prise Jack away?
‘I expect you to . . . To . . .’ She ran out of words, unable to bear the distress in her own voice. Katie swallowed. She knew what she should be doing – hadn’t she spent both pregnancies reading child-behaviour manuals? – but seeing Hannah look at her like that, with actual resentment that she’d come home, wiped every rational thought from her mind. All she was left with was the bitter sense that it was her fault.
‘What am I supposed to do?’ repeated Ross. ‘If she’s pissed off that you’ve come home late, then whose fault is that? What do you expect me to do? You’re her mother.’