White Wedding (31 page)

‘Oh that’s nice to know.’ Sheila picked up her bag and for the first time Stuart noticed the resemblance between mother and daughter. How could he have missed that wide arc of
a smile and the merry twinkle in her eyes?

‘I would have had another week off, but she’s busy today and I didn’t want to let you down.’

Busy doing what? He wanted to ask. And with whom?

Max emerged from the study. She had been in there for three hours already that morning.

‘Hi, Sheila, lovely to see you again. Are you better?’

‘Aye, I’m not bad,’ Sheila said, smiling Jenny’s smile.

‘Would you strip the sofa cushions and wash them, please?’

‘Course I will,’ replied Sheila, looking too chirpy for someone who was washing someone else’s upholstery on a Saturday morning.

‘Stuart, give me another half an hour and I’ll have finished,’ said Max, disappearing back to her desk. ‘We’ll go out for lunch.’

‘Yeah, whatever,’ said Stu to the closed door. He made himself a bacon butty and took the newspaper into the garden because he knew he was in for yet another lonely Saturday. Sure
enough, an hour later and Max was still only halfway through all the emails she needed to answer before the weekend was out.

Violet called in at Carousel before her wedding-dress fitting. She tried to fool herself by telling herself she wanted to see how the new flavour of ice cream she had made the
previous day had fared in the freezer – but she knew in her heart of hearts that she was going there in the hope of finding Pav. She felt her spirits soar upwards as if they were perched on
eagle’s wings to find his battered red van parked outside the shop.
This is a dangerous portal you are opening
,
Violet Flockton
, said some sensible part of her head. She chose
to ignore it as she locked her car and walked, with a quickened step, towards him.

The smile Pav gave her when she opened the door mirrored her own; deep and genuinely pleased to see the other.

‘I didn’t think you’d be here today,’ fibbed Violet. ‘I just popped by to check on something I made yesterday. Coffee?’

‘Yes, please, that would be good.’

While the kettle was boiling, she pulled the large tub of pastel mauve ice cream out of the freezer and stuck a spoon in it. Clotted cream and flowers – she’d sourced some tiny
edible petals and stirred them into the mix. It looked so pretty and she just hoped the taste matched.

‘Don’t suppose you fancy helping me out with something, Pav?’ she called. Pav looked up and stopped painting.

‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘Do you need me to lift something for you?’

‘No, I want you to taste some ice cream.’

Pav grinned. ‘This is a job I would very much like to help you with.’

‘Lovely.’ Violet brought out a large spoonful of ice cream. She intended to hand it over, but instead Pav opened his mouth. Violet carefully guided the spoon between his lips and
tried not to notice that his summer-blue eyes were full on her. Her hand was ever so slightly shaking as his lips closed round the spoon and she saw how soft they looked.

‘Mmm,’ he said, as she took away the spoon, ‘what flavour is it? No, let me guess. It’s like – a little scented.’

‘Flowers and clotted cream,’ said Violet, willing her cheeks not to colour.

‘It’s very nice,’ said Pav. ‘Very nice. I like that you test out your flavour on me. The ice cream in Poland is very . . . like water ice, not creamy like
yours.’

Pav downed tools while they drank coffee.

‘Do you miss home, Pav?’ asked Violet.

‘No. I like it better here, in Yorkshire.’

‘Do you have family over there?’

‘I have only one brother and he is in Barnsley with his wife. I followed him over here. My father died when I was just a baby and my mother died last year.’

‘That’s really sad, Pav. I’m sorry.’

‘It was sad,’ replied Pav. ‘She had a hard life and was only forty-six.’

It was no age at all, thought Violet. This she knew, because her dad was the same age when he passed away. And she still missed him every single day.

‘Were any of your family painters like you, Pav?’

Violet looked at the horses on the wall. The detail was incredible – it was more than she could ever have asked for.

‘No. No painters. Only me. I am the family freak,’ he grinned.

Violet thought she could have listened to Pav’s accent all day. Or all night.

‘You’re so talented,’ she said. She almost believed that if she reached out to touch it, the pole in the dapple-grey horse’s back would be cold, like metal.

‘I work slow, though, ah? It’s good that I can paint at night after I finish building,’ said Pav.

‘Aren’t you tired by that time?’

‘No, it’s how I relax,’ he said. ‘It is nice to be here doing this than in my brother’s house. His wife is . . . er . . .’

He struggled for a suitable word. He didn’t find it and had to paraphrase. ‘She would prefer it if I wasn’t around and the house was just for her and him.’

‘Oh that must be quite difficult,’ Violet sympathized.

‘Let’s just say that I am at my happiest working here on your horses. I am saving for my own place. Things will be different then.’

Pav’s lips curved into a smile as he put down his cup and moved back to the wall. The warmth of that smile soaked right through Violet to the core of her. Glyn had never made her feel as
if her knees might knock together. Not even in the beginning when she thought she loved him. It had never been love;she had worked that one out since. It had been a mix of gratitude, need, pity,
obligation – but not love. She was marrying a man she didn’t love. It was no wonder that she wasn’t excited one bit about the fact that she had a wedding-dress fitting in less
than half an hour.

Violet stood in the dress, holding out her arms so that Freya could check the fit.

‘It feels tight on me,’ Violet said.

‘It’s not tight,’ said Freya, pinching the spare material together so that Violet could see. It actually needed taking in because it was too loose, yet it felt tight. How
weird.

Violet stared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked beautiful and delicate in the ivory dress with the peach rosebuds round her neck. With her pale perfect skin and slender frame, she
resembled a china doll: a doll with a sad-painted face. And this doll was going to be taking vows to be married to Glyn in exactly seven weeks. She thought of Glyn’s face, rapturous with joy,
as the registrar said, ‘You may now kiss the bride.’ She thought of him leaning over, his lips covering hers, his tongue pushing into her mouth.

She staggered and Freya’s arms came out to steady her.

‘Are you all right?’ she said.

‘I think I need to sit down for a minute,’ said Violet, her head as light as a helium balloon. Freya guided her onto a chair before going to get her a glass of water. She placed it
in Violet’s hand and closed her fingers round it.

‘There, take some deep breaths then drink,’ said Freya.

Violet held the glass in one hand and pressed the other against her forehead.

‘Yes, sorry,’ she said. ‘There’s so much to arrange. So much to think about.’

‘Of course,’ said Freya. Her hand rubbed Violet’s arm, intending to soothe her. Oddly, it looked so much older than the rest of her. It was like Nan’s hand, with its
paper-thin skin.

Violet had the sudden impulse to throw her arms round Freya and sink her head into her neck and sob. She wanted to rip the dress off and run away. However much room there was in it, it felt
constricting and uncomfortable and symbolic of her life.

‘You know,’ began Freya softly, ‘if a wedding isn’t a dream one, it can only be a nightmare.’

Violet flicked her eyes up at the older woman. Was it so apparent that she was unhappy? Was it so obvious that her head was full of alarm bells clanging inside her?

Freya’s voice was as warm as a fireside and as Violet sat sipping her water, Freya remembered the young woman who had last worn the dress. She had the same frightened fawn-like eyes as
Violet;the same vibes of panic were radiating from her;the same knowledge was sitting in her heart that she was marrying the wrong man. As with that bride, Freya wanted to close her arms round
Violet and reassure her that everything was going to be all right. She wanted to tell her that if ever a dress would help her find her happy ending, it would be this one. But all she could do was
let it happen.

‘Ta da – behold Sunday lunch.’ Max announced, delivering two plates to the table with a smug flourish. Stuart smiled but it wasn’t a real Sunday lunch
in his book. A real Sunday lunch started with a raw chicken that was cooked slowly in an oven, pervading the house with roasting smells. It did not consist of a ready-cooked chicken from a
supermarket, foil-packed potatoes dauphinoise, tinned carrots and peas, pre-made gravy bought from a chiller cabinet and Aunt Bessie’s parsnips and Yorkshire puddings.

Still, it was better than the pasta or microwave meals that they used to have on Sundays because Max was invariably too busy catching up on paperwork to cobble up anything fancy. Stuart hated
cooking and rather than try to throw something together himself he would suggest they nip up to the local carvery. More often than not Max would say she was too busy or not hungry and ‘Why
don’t you just go to your mum’s while I finish what I have to do.’ So Stuart spent a lot of his Sundays enjoying his mum’s home-cooked fare wishing that Max could
metamorphose – just on one day of the week – into a woman who wanted to nourish him with Sunday roasts. A picture rose into his head of Jenny Thompson pulling a leg of lamb out of the
oven, pans bubbling on the hob, while he set the table for the two of them. Or maybe three or four of them. Two little children helping to put the knives and forks out. He would have bet his life
savings that Jenny wouldn’t have ever served tinned carrots – not even to Alan the rabbit.

He lifted up the uncorked bottle of white wine and held it over Max’s glass.

‘Ooh none for me,’ she stopped him quickly.

‘Why?’ he said, eyebrows sinking crossly in the middle. He knew what was coming.

‘I might take a look at some figures later on so I want to keep a clear head.’

Stuart banged the wine bottle down on the table.

‘Oh for God’s sake, Max. Can’t you give it a rest for one day?’

That was the meal ruined.

‘I’m talking about only half an hour. An hour – tops,’ said Max. ‘I have a video conference with the Americans tomorrow about—’

‘Oh yes, “the Americans”,’ he sniped. ‘I suppose you’ll have to go over there as well and so I’ll see even less of you than I do already, if that is
possible.’

‘Oh Stuart, don’t be like that. It’s a massive opportunity for me. I have to be up to speed on everything.’

Stuart picked up his fork and stabbed it into a slice of potato. He didn’t like potatoes in sauce. What was wrong with simple mash? ‘I hate you working weekends.’

‘The hours come with the job,’ said Max.

‘Then get another job.’

Max gave a gaspy laugh. ‘Another job? I don’t want another job. I love what I do.’

‘I hate your job,’ grumbled Stuart.

‘And I hate yours,’ Max stabbed a carrot with venom.

Stuart’s head jerked up.

‘What’s up with my job?’

Max dropped her head. ‘Just leave it, Stuart. Let’s not argue.’

‘No, come on, I want to know what’s so bad about my job.’

Max didn’t reply. She chewed on the carrot and kept her head down.

‘Let me answer the question for you, then, shall I?’ Stuart persisted. ‘It’s a shit job with a shit wage.’

Max shook her head and tried to remain calm so this didn’t blow up. ‘I never said that, Stuart.’

‘But it’s what you think. Go on, be honest.’

So Max was honest.

‘If you must know, I think you’re underestimating yourself.’

‘No, I am NOT,’ Stuart threw back. Max’s eyebrows rose. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard him raise his voice to her at this level. ‘I like my
job. At least I did before you pressured me into applying for a promotion. Now I don’t like it as much, so I can guarantee you I won’t be going any further up the bastard
scale.’

‘You’ve been there nearly eighteen years. You could have been running that place by now if you’d wanted to,’ snapped Max.

‘Precisely. “If I’d wanted to” – but I don’t want to. I don’t want to be stuck in an office from six in the morning until nine at night. I’ve got
better things to do with my life than work myself into the ground. And what if we decide we want kids?’

Max looked at him, stunned.

‘You are joking? I’ve never wanted kids. Neither have you.’

‘What if you change your mind?’

‘I won’t,’ said Max, definitely.

‘What if I do?’

The question hung in the air like poison. Max gulped and said almost breathlessly, ‘Have you?’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘But I’m not as against the idea as I used to be.’

‘Boy,’ Max answered that breathlessly, as if winded.

‘And I want a dog or a cat,’ Stuart blurted out.

Max’s eyes widened as if she was viewing an alien being rather than her very-long-term boyfriend. Where was he vomiting all this up from?

‘I tell you, Max, if you’re insistent on working all the frigging hours God sends, and then some more, I’m not rattling round in this dump by myself any longer.’

‘Dump?’ Max released a dry laugh. If there was one noun that didn’t fit with the house they lived in, it was ‘dump’.

‘It is to me,’ railed Stuart. ‘I hate this bloody house. It’s always freezing.’

‘That’s a lie,’ parried Max. ‘But if you’re cold why don’t you turn up the damned heating?’

‘I have,’ said Stuart. ‘And it still doesn’t alter anything.’

Max shook her head. She didn’t know what he was talking about. But whatever it was, it ran deeper than a central-heating issue. It was as if he was a dormant volcano that had suddenly
started to grumble after a hundred years.

‘Stuart, what’s up, love?’ she asked softly.

Stuart stared across the table at the woman he had been in love with since he was sixteen. They’d had so much in common then. They spent their Sundays sitting on swings in the park talking
for hours, or at her parents’ house listening to music, playing Monopoly, watching TV. He’d had plans then too. To buy a little cosy terraced house near his parents and do it all up,
spend weekends by the seaside in a bed and breakfast and go for walks on the beach, get a dog. They weren’t great big plans like Max’s but they were
his
plans, and he
hadn’t realized any of them. Max’s bigger wants had outshone his at every turn. And it was ultimately his fault because he had let that happen.