We were out to win the money, but Mam was more interested in the raffle prizes that were up for grabs. I was under strict instruction not to come home without a meat tray.
“I’ll settle for a few pounds of sausages,” she called as I pulled the front door shut.
Winning a meat tray wasn’t a given, but the odds were good. Mr Cooper was a generous man, which was evident from the second we walked into the bingo hall. Cardboard lamb chops hung from the ceiling, and the huge cache of meat prizes were artfully displayed on bales of hay near the stage.
“Bleedin’ hellfire,” muttered Gill.
I thought the blow-up cow near the front door was a nice touch, but she saw fit to punch it as she passed.
“Give over!” Mr Taylor yelled from the far side of the hall. “Any more of that and you’re out!”
Gill must’ve really had her eye on the prize; she apologised and promised to behave.
We took our usual seats by the stage. Charlene spent the next few minutes getting her coloured markers in order and lining them up neatly on the table while Gill and I rifled through our bags looking for loose change.
When Mrs Shepherd wandered past flapping her raffle books in our faces, we snapped up as many as we could afford.
“We’re going to win big tonight, girls,” shrieked Charlene, neatening the tickets into a pile. “I’m feeling lucky.”
I felt lucky too. We were together, we had gallons of Green Totty cider hidden in our handbags and best of all, once the balls started dropping there would be no time for talking.
I didn’t know how I was going to break it to them that the wedding was off. Heck, I didn’t even know how I was going to tell Andrew.
Thankfully, it was a problem for another day. Mrs Shepherd took the mic and ordered everyone to sit. The hall suddenly became a flurry of activity as people rushed to their chairs, bingo dabbers at the ready.
Sharon Smedley wasn’t exactly rushing. She stalked past the back of our chairs at a snail’s pace. Never one to pass up an opportunity to rattle her cage, Gill piped up.
“Ace tracksuit, Shaz,” she taunted. “Are you flying solo tonight or is Mandy hiding somewhere under all that crushed velvet?”
“Mandy’s not here,” she sneered.
“Where is she?” asked Charlene. I swung my leg under the table, trying to silence her with a kick – but I missed and she kept talking. “No one misses Bingo Bonanza.”
Sharon’s snarky glare was reserved entirely for me. “I could lie and say she’s at home if you like,” she goaded. “Do you want me to lie, Fiona?”
Gill answered for me. “I want you to lie,” she snapped. “Preferably in front of oncoming traffic.”
The three of us dissolved into a fit of derisive giggles, which wound Sharon up to the point of detonation.
Thankfully Mrs Shepherd intervened, picking up the mic and yelling as if she needed the amplification. “You’re the last man standing, Sharon,” she barked. “Find a seat.”
A low rumbling of laughter filled the packed hall, but we didn’t even try to be discreet. We cackled like witches as Sharon skulked away, and when she parked her ample bum on her seat, Mrs Shepherd got the ball rolling by calling the first number. “Knock at the door, twenty-four.”
Some bloke from Yorkshire won the thousand quid. The locals were outraged, but we couldn’t have cared less. We were winners in our own right, which made for an interesting walk to the bus stop. I had two frozen chickens in my bag, Gill was cradling a leg of pork like a baby, and Charlene awkwardly held her package at arm’s length.
“What do you think it is?” she asked, waving it in Gill’s face.
The brown paper parcel was a mystery, but we knew it was meat; blood was leaking through the wrapping.
“Gross!” she yelled, whacking her hand away.
I laughed, partly because it was funny, and partly because I had a skinful of Green Totty. We all did, and were walking incredibly slowly because of it.
It was a little after ten when we finally made it to the bus stop, and after half an hour of waiting, it finally dawned on us that we’d missed the last bus.
Even after pooling our money, we were still a long way short of cab fare.
“We shouldn’t have spent it all on raffle tickets,” Charlene lamented.
Gill patted her lump of pork. “No regrets, girlies.”
“None,” I agreed with a tipsy giggle.
The prospect of walking home didn’t bother me. It was a fine night and I was with my best friends. As far as I was concerned life didn’t get much better, despite Charlene’s drunken rambling.
“What’s a male ballerina called?” she asked out of the blue. It wasn’t a trick question. The girl was deadly serious. “I’ve always wondered.”
“A ballerino,” replied Gill, hitching her pork higher on her hip.
After a long moment of thinking things through, Charlene accepted her answer. “I guess that makes sense.”
“Unlike you,” muttered Gill. “Yer dozy cow.”
I laughed until my sides ached, and it was the best kind of pain I’d ever felt. For a moment, I had no worries. I felt free, young and untroubled – and then we turned the corner.
I would’ve recognised Andrew’s trashy Cortina anywhere, but I wasn’t expecting to see it parked on Darnley Road. It was a long way from home, especially at eleven o’clock at night.
“Maybe it broke down,” suggested Charlene.
I was shaking my head before she’d finished the sentence. “If it breaks, he fixes it,” I told her. “The damn car just won’t die.”
“Fi, you should probably know something.” Gill’s grave tone sobered me up in an instant. Something terrible was on its way.
“What is it?”
“Mandy Brewer lives here.” She motioned with an upward nod. “They moved in a few weeks ago.”
I leaned to the side, checking out the modest terraced house behind her. Other than the blue front door, it was fairly nondescript, which was almost odd considering that the shenanigans taking place inside were probably extraordinary.
Strangely, I wasn’t feeling upset or angry so I don’t know what possessed me to yell Andrew’s name. After repeating the obnoxious shriek a few times, the upstairs window finally slid open. A light came on and my cad of a fiancé appeared, flustered and tangled up in the lace curtain. “Fi, it’s not what you think,” he blundered.
I was certain it was. He was dragging on his T-shirt as he spoke.
“So what is it, Andrew?” I threw my arms wide. “Tea and toast?”
The curtain shifted and he disappeared from view, probably looking to his mistress for answers. I was prepared to give them a minute to get their story straight. Whatever they came up with was bound to be good.
“We should go.” Charlene tugged on my sleeve. “Deal with it in the morning.”
I shrugged her off, mainly because her hands were covered in bloody meat juice. “No,” I grumbled. “I want to deal with it now.”
I had no clue how it was going to play out. I expected a rambling monologue laced with apologies, but when Andrew reappeared at the window, his expression confused me. He didn’t look contrite and remorseful – he looked determined.
“It’s over, Fiona,” he coolly stated. “The wedding is off.”
I was completely off the hook, which is exactly what I wanted. So why did I feel so blindsided by the announcement? I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Instead of cutting him down with a furious reply, I stood there, slack jawed and silent.
“Nothing is ever good enough for you,” he spat. “And I’ve flippin’ had enough.”
I couldn’t make sense of what was happening. Not only was Andrew unremorseful, he had the gall to be angry with me.
Gill was obviously struggling with the notion too. She took a few steps forward and yelled like only Gill could. “You’re the cheater, dickhead!” she reminded him. “You don’t get to be pissed.”
The loathing bet
ween my fiancé and best friend was mutual, and it had been that way since nursery school.
Charlene was a little more tolerant of him, but even she had a limit. “You’re a knob, Andrew!” Even her angry tone was sweet. “You’ll never do better than Fi!”
When he leaned out the window and replied with a middle finger, something inside me snapped. Andrew wasn’t the knob, I was. I’d hitched every hope and dream I’d had since childhood to his wagon – and his wagon was a 1974 Ford Cortina for crying out loud.
Rage was the prime emotion at that point. When I looked across at his pride and joy parked crookedly on the street I lost all control, reached into my bag and grabbed a frozen chicken.
“I hate you, Andrew Pidgeon,” I declared, raising it above my head. “And your stupid car!”
If that hateful outburst didn’t make my feelings known, my next move certainly did. I hurled the chicken as hard as I could, then took a step back and watched as it smashed through the windscreen of Andrew’s beloved car.
Gill was the first to speak. “Bloody hell, Fiona,” she muttered. “You’ve really done it this time.”
Even in my cider haze, I knew I’d crossed the line. I also knew I’d gone too far to back down so I continued with the false bravado. “Hopefully it’ll teach him a lesson,” I replied, dusting my hands together.
“Well it taught me a lesson,” said Charlene, still gripping her mystery meat for grim death. “Who knew chickens could fly?”
There wasn’t time to enjoy the joke because Andrew disappeared from the window. We could still hear him though, screaming obscenities and calling me names as he made his way downstairs.
We listened to the furious tirade until the front door swung open, and then we did what any self-respecting young hoodlums would do.
We kicked off our shoes and legged it.
The playground at the nursery school on Grove Road was no place for three young women in the dead of night, but that’s where we ended up.
I dropped my bag and shoes in the sand, and headed straight for the swing. “Someone give me a push,” I called.
My two friends wandered over, both looking knackered and breathless. “You don’t need a push,” panted Gill. “You need an alibi.”
Gill was the authority when it came to deviant acts. She’d been in enough scrapes of her own to know that trashing someone’s car could end in a whole world of trouble, but I wasn’t bothered in the least.
“He won’t do anything about it.” I kick-started the swing, slowly gaining height by swinging my legs. “Andrew’s the one in the wrong, not me.”
Charlene sat down on the end of the slide. “You poor thing,” she said sadly. “You must be devastated.”
When the swing glided forward I threw my head back, enjoying the cool breeze on my face. I felt far from devastated. The night was quiet, the stars were bright, and all I felt was free.
“I’m really not,” I replied. “I feel wonderful.”
Gill didn’t seem to be listening. “We won’t tell anyone what happened,” she offered. “No one needs to know.”
I dug my feet into the sand, bringing the swing to an abrupt halt. “Tell everyone. I don’t care.”
Finally giving up on her attempt at saving the mystery meat package from harm, Charlene unceremoniously dumped it in the sand. “I thought you loved him.”
“I thought I did too,” I replied. “But I know now that I don’t.”
“Because he’s a cheater?”
“No,” interjected Gill. “Because he’s a dickhead.”
Even after all that had happened, I couldn’t bring myself to agree with her. He was spineless and weak, but I was too.
“We just want different things.”
I wanted toe-curling passion and love and children. He wanted Mandy Brewer.
Charlene stood up and brushed herself off. “I think you’re in denial, Fi,” she said matter-of-factly. “Getting married was your dream, and it’s just disappeared in a puff of smoke and chicken. You won’t know what to do with yourself now.”
It was a perfect time to confess that I’d been wanting to call it off for days, but I didn’t. I was too focused on Charlene’s concern that my life was all but over.
“Do you really think I’m that one track?” I asked, slightly miffed.
She shrugged but didn’t speak, paving the way for Gill to put her two cents in. “You don’t talk about much else these days, Fi.”
The sprint to the playground must’ve sobered me up. When I leapt off the swing, I managed to land on my feet. “Maybe it’s time to reinvent myself then.”
“Well, you went ginger,” Gill reminded me. “That didn’t work out so well.”
Charlene dropped her head, directing her laugh at the sand. My baleful glare only lasted until Gill cracked, and two seconds later we were all in a fit of hysterics.
I was sure the worst was over, but when I arrived home to find Mam waiting for me at the foot of the stairs, I knew it wasn’t. Her expression was doleful, and in that instant, I knew the bad news had beaten me home.
“Alright, Mam?” I asked.
“Mrs Roberts has been on the phone,” she said flatly. “She said my daughter was out raising hell on Darnley Road.”
“Nosy old cow,” I muttered under my breath.
Mam jumped to her feet quicker than I thought possible. “You know the neighbours are vigilant,” she snapped.
“Not always, Mam,” I said bravely. “No one called to tell you that Andrew was shagging Mandy Brewer.”
Ordinarily, use of that kind of language would’ve come with the threat of a slap, but my mother didn’t say a word. Instead, she began fussing with the curlers in her hair as if she was passing time until I spoke again.
“Just so we’re clear,” I muttered, manoeuvring past her to get to the stairs. “The wedding is off.”
“Don’t be so hasty,” she urged, grabbing my elbow. “Cooler heads will prevail in the morning. Just weather the storm.”
Her archaic advice was maddening, but not unexpected. The older I got, the clearer it became that my father had deserted us of his own volition. God knows my mother wouldn’t have kicked him out. She would’ve turned a blind eye and ignored his affair with the Gloucester Arms barmaid because in her mind, that’s what a good wife does.
“Andrew ended it, Mam.” I shrugged my arm free. “There is no storm to weather.”
Too exasperated to continue the conversation, I stomped up the stairs. When I reached the landing, Mam called up to me. “Well, what are you going to do now, Fiona?”
My reply came at warp speed. “I’m going to stop wasting my time with idiots and find the boy who loves me.”
Tonight I lost my fiancé, and not even the sight of my wedding dress hanging on the back of my bedroom door makes me feel sad about it.
It’s a pretty dress, but not the one I dreamed about. I don’t want plastic pearls and cheap lace. I want dupioni silk and diamantes.
Perhaps that’s why I’m not sad.
Andrew Pidgeon is plastic pearls and cheap lace.
Book of the week: Sky High Lovers
Honeymoon Fund: £65.00
Chapter Twelve
The next few days were terrible for my mother. It was left to her to notify the guests that the wedding was off, and she did it with the cool disposition of a funeral director.
When one of my aunts dared to ask for details, Mam shot her down in flames. “The girl came to her senses,” she snapped. “And that’s all I’m going to say on the matter.”
I flinched as she slammed the phone down, but Mam remained steadfast. “No one asked questions when her Ruby took off with that Tony fella from the key cutters,” she said.
“That’s because Toni was a girl, Mam,” I reminded her. “Everyone was too confused to ask questions.”
I’d always considered the reason behind my cousin’s broken engagement fascinating, but my mother was far too old-school to talk about it.
“The
whole world’s gone bleedin’ mad.” She snatched her address book off the table and marched out of the room, leaving me chuckling to myself.
I hadn’t seen or heard from Andrew since the chicken debacle. I once thought I heard his car passing along our street, but when I peeked out the window, I realised the high pitched engine noise was coming from Mr Kershaw’s lawnmower.
Sooner or later, he was going to have to deal with me. I didn’t expect an apology, and I certainly didn’t want him back. But what I did want was the Duran Duran record I’d left at his house.
My mother was appalled. “For goodness sake, girl,” she growled. “Have some dignity. If you start badgering him he’s going to think you want him back.”
“My dignity is perfectly intact, Mam,” I insisted. “And I’ll make it perfectly clear to Andrew that I want Simon Le Bon, not him.”
Confidence was at an all-time high as I rapped on Andrew’s door. I was wearing my best dress, my makeup was dead perfect, and after spending the night before locked in the bathroom with a box of L’Oréal, my hair was now a lovely shade of brown called Royal Suede.
The plan was simple; ask for my record, wish him well and get the hell out of there.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t that easy. When his front door opened, my steely resolve went out the window. To make matters worse, time hadn’t healed any of Andrew’s wounds. He was just as hostile as the last time I saw him. “What do you want, Fi?” he grumbled.
“I just want to talk.”
After a long moment of deliberation, he opened the door wide and ushered me inside. “Five minutes,” he permitted. “I’ve got stuff to do.”
“By stuff, you mean Mandy?”
We were not off to a good start. My big, rejected mouth was getting the better of me and I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to reign it in.
“There’s no point even talking about this,” he said dully. “I’ve made my choice.”
“Your choice?” I kept my tone calm by biting the side of my cheek. “Why is it your choice?”
Silk Queen Page 5
