by Unknown
I’m about to go as well because everyone else is deep in conversation with their mentors and I’m knackered. All this working a full day without little browsing breaks is exhausting. And, plus, when I get home I’ve got to write up a couple of blogs for Princess-on-a-Shoestring. I’m dying to talk about DIY manicures and nail art after I experimented at the weekend. As I get up to leave, I see Nick hovering in the doorway.
‘Nick,’ I call over to him. He looks nervous and agitated standing there, as if he doesn’t want to come into the room.
‘Ah, hi, Penny, I’m so glad you’re still here. I was rushing from work and I thought you might have gone already.’
‘You’re lucky, you just caught me.’
‘Great, do you want to grab a drink somewhere, have a quick chat?’
‘Sure, that would be great.’
To be honest, I’ve been surprised that Nick hasn’t called me before now to discuss me planning his wedding. He looked so shell-shocked when I saw him in the cafe that I thought either he’d talk Henri out of me planning their wedding, or he’d have called me for a chat. But at least we’re catching up before I meet Henri for our first official planning meeting for their rapidly approaching nuptials.
I wave at Mary and the others as I head out of the session and I follow Nick out of the community centre. We both instinctively walk over to the nearby pub. As I find a table in the corner, Nick goes off to buy drinks. He comes back a few minutes later with a round of Cokes.
‘So, Penny the wedding planner,’ he says, placing the drinks down. ‘What are the odds of that happening?’
‘I know. Small world, right?’
‘So how long have you been doing it?’
‘Well, I’m only a temporary wedding planner,’ I say sipping my drink. ‘I didn’t mean to plan any, but I have this blog and from that Lara asked, and then Henri was very insistent.’
‘Yes, I know just how insistent Henri can be. That’s why we’re planning the wedding so quickly.’
‘I always assumed you were married. I don’t know why,’ I say, shrugging.
‘To be honest, Henri and I practically are. We’ve been together a long time and we would have been married a couple of years ago if it hadn’t been for my little problem.’
I love the way that whenever one of us in the group is referring to our awful gambling habits, we use euphemisms like ‘little problem’ as if it was a lost wallet, rather than amassing a whole lot of debt and potentially ruining our and our families’ lives.
‘I wouldn’t marry Henri until I was sure that I was going to be able to give her the life she deserved rather than an unpredictable one that could have seen me lose the house or something awful.’
‘And now you’re sure?’
‘Yes, it’s been eighteen months since I gambled. Eighteen months since I told Henri the real truth for the procrastination of the engagement.’
‘Thank goodness Henri knows. I thought for a minute that it was going to be like me and my whole “don’t tell the groom” fiasco.’
Nick smiles and laughs a little, presumably at the memory of how I almost spectacularly ruined my wedding. I’ve got to the stage where I can laugh about it all, but only just.
‘Yes, Henri knows everything. She did leave me for a few weeks when she first found out, but she came back in the end, on the strict understanding that I was never to play the stock market again. One whiff of me getting a stock tip and she’ll be out the door.’
‘Well that’s great then, if she knows. There’ll be no sneaking around and everything’s out in the open—’
‘No, it’s not quite.’
My heart sinks. I can’t handle any more secrets. I’ve had to keep more than my life’s share of them. I hoped that if I gave Nick the green light to tell Henri about me, then everything would be out in the open.
‘It’s just that, Henri is mortified about my past debt and gambling. She’s told no one about it and I’ve been forbidden to tell anyone either. So she can’t know that you know.’
‘But surely if she realises how I know you, and that we’re part of the same programme it will—’
‘No, she can’t know. It would kill her. It’s bad enough that because we’re still paying off my debt that we’ve only got a really small budget for the wedding, she’d feel humiliated if she knew that you knew she was marrying a gambler.’
‘Even if I was one myself?’
‘Yes. Henri’s a complex woman, but she’s fiercely proud and cares far too much about what people might think. Her parents especially.’
I’m glad I’m learning about that particular personality trait now: I think it’s just made my job as wedding planner about ten times harder.
‘OK, I swear that I won’t tell Henri I know.’
‘Thanks, Penny. I really appreciate it. I am really pleased you’re on board, despite my initial reaction. When Henri gave me the ultimatum last month about the wedding, I was just so worried that she wouldn’t be able to cope with the budget.’
‘Ultimatum?’
I think I’ve missed something.
‘Didn’t Henri tell you? She told me that either I married her by the end of the year or else she was leaving.’
‘Wow.’
‘I couldn’t let her go, so I told her that I’d only managed to save ten thousand pounds.’
‘That’s still amazing seeing as you lost a lot.’
‘Penny, at one point I had a stock portfolio worth over £100,000.’
I practically spit the sip of Coke I’ve just taken back into the glass.
‘£100,000?’
‘Uh-huh. I couldn’t tell anyone in the group as I know it’s more money than most people would ever be able to save in a lifetime. But back in the day I had a lot of money.’
‘So Henri’s rock on her finger is real?’
‘As real as they come. I’m not even going to tell you how much that cost. Henri did offer to sell it to pay for the wedding, but I wouldn’t let her. She’s barely had anything nice for the last eighteen months, I couldn’t take that away from her too.’
I think back to the new season Miu Miu shoes, but I don’t say anything. Perhaps shoe-shopping secrets should stay amongst the girls.
‘That’s fair enough. But, don’t worry, £10,000 is totally doable for a wedding.’
‘I hope so. I really do.’
‘It will be fine,’ I say as reassuringly as I can. I can see that this is eating Nick up. ‘So, before I meet Henri at the weekend, is there anything else I should know?’
‘Just that her parents are sticklers for the finest things in life, so if you could manage to plan a wedding that looked like it cost a fortune, that would be ideal. But Henri said that’s what you specialise in. Weddings fit for a princess on a budget. And Henri is definitely a princess.’
I know I should be worried that Henri is being described as a princess, but really I’m just in awe of how much Nick’s face lights up whenever he talks about her. I hope that when Mark talks about me, he has the same sparkle and look of love in his eyes.
Thinking of Mark makes my heart pang and makes me want to get back home to him. It’s our one-year wedding anniversary next weekend and I can’t quite believe how quickly it has gone by.
‘Your wedding will be just lovely, Nick,’ I say with my mind firmly on mine rather than his. I’m lost in the memory of the waltzing around the floor with Mark during our first dance. At the end of the day, despite it sounding like the gorgonzola of clichés, your wedding is the happiest day of your life, no matter how it happens. I’m not saying we’ve not been happy since, as this year has been calm and lovely compared to last year. But I just had the best wedding day and would love to do it all over again.
‘I hope so. Henri deserves the best after what’s she’s had to put up with.’
I lean over to stroke Nick’s hand as he looks like he’s going to cry. I know that look, I’ve lived that look. It’s the look of someone carrying the knowledge that th
ey’ve caused their partner so much pain and hurt. And the worst thing with gambling is that you have nothing to show for it at the end.
‘It will be perfect. Weddings always are.’
*
By the time I make it back to my own cosy little terrace, and to my husband, I’m feeling the love big-time.
‘Hey, honey,’ I say as I come in to the kitchen and throw my arms around him like I’m a limpet.
‘Hey yourself,’ he says, kissing me.
‘I love you so much, you know that?’ I say, sighing.
‘I know. I love you too. Tough group session?’
‘Sort of,’ I answer. When Mark found out about my gambling, he made me promise that there would be no more secrets, and I’ve managed to be true to my word. I’ve even shown him most of my unauthorised shoe purchases. Yet I feel uneasy telling him about Nick. Our gamblers’ group is built on a special foundation of trust and anonymity and I feel that if I told Mark about who he was in connection to Henri, I’d be betraying Nick. It already feels wrong that Henri’s in the dark and it would be worse if Mark knew the secret too.
It’s not like I’m really lying to Mark, I’m just withholding information about a stranger he’s unlikely to meet. Also, he does understand about the confidentiality aspect involved in the group. Not to mention the fact that not only would Henri would be mortified that I knew, she’d also not be too impressed if I start blabbing it about.
‘Well, I’m cooking tonight, so put your feet up. Tell me about your day. How was work?’
I sigh even louder. Thinking about work is even more depressing than thinking about the gambling group.
‘It was OK,’ I say, realising that I’ve turned into Beth the teenager, maybe she’s rubbing off on me. ‘I’ve been having a look into army bootcamp away trips, and there are a few. They all seem like they’re in budget, unfortunately.’
‘That sounds great.’
‘Yeah, I guess so. It’s just that they all seem a little bit hardcore. I’m worried that the people who go on the trip are going to hate every minute of it.’
‘I doesn’t matter what they think though, does it? It matters about how well you plan it. You’re trying to impress Giles, not everyone else in the office.’
I guess Mark’s right, but it’s important to me that people like me. Mark’s got one of those analytical brains that thinks about everything in a business or career mode. But I’m more of a people person, which is a good thing seeing as I work in HR.
‘I suppose so,’ I say. ‘I watched some of the videos on YouTube, and it looks like they make you run around with big rucksacks on your back, crawling through pitch-black tunnels and wading through rivers and stuff. And you’re not wearing wetsuits or anything.’
I can only see the back of Mark as he’s chopping vegetables, but I can tell from his shaking shoulders that he’s laughing. ‘Don’t laugh, it’s not funny,’ I say sulkily.
‘I’m not laughing,’ he says in a squeaky voice.
‘I can see you are!’
Mark turns round and lets out the giant laugh that’s he’s clearly been holding in.
‘I’m sorry, it’s just that I’ve got visions of you looking like a giant snail with a rucksack on your back, trying to wade through water.’
‘Thanks, Mark. Way to be supportive.’
I turn my back to him and start flicking idly through Mark’s copy of the Financial Times which has been left on the kitchen table. If only it was something I was interested in reading. Why couldn’t Mark have low-brow reading tastes like his wife? Mark knows I hate the FT and that I won’t really be reading it.
He walks over and hugs me from behind.
‘It was just a funny little image, that’s all. It’s not going to be as bad as you imagine it will be. Just concentrate on organising the hell out of it. Make it all one big military operation and you’ll be fine.’
Mark’s nuzzling my neck and he’s making it impossible to stay cross at him.
‘It’s not going to work,’ I say, trying to keep the sulk in my voice. Only he’s now nibbling my ear and planting kisses down the back of my neck, just where I like them. And his hands are starting to run down my sides and, uh-oh, I’m in trouble.
‘How about we go upstairs and try some baby-making?’
‘What about dinner?’ I say, knowing full well that I couldn’t give a stuff about it, especially when Mark is running his fingers up and down my thighs. And, besides, we are supposed to be trying for a baby and we haven’t for a couple of weeks.
‘It’ll keep.’
Mark stands up and pulls me up towards him. He kisses me with such intensity that my knees almost buckle from swooning. This baby-making isn’t so bad after all. So it’s taking us a little longer than we hoped it would; we’ve been trying for nearly seven months. But we might as well make the most of this sexy time while we still can. After all, from what I hear from my best friend Lou, when you have a newborn, the closest you get to getting down and dirty is clearing up pooey nappies and sick.
I follow Mark up to the bedroom, too weak-willed to be mad at him for long.
chapter six
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Tags: flowers, bargain.
It’s Saturday today, the day you’re supposed to do the following things: lie in, treat yourself to a greasy fry-up, and generally mooch around the house in a hungover state. I can’t honestly remember the last time I did that. Instead, I was up at stupid o’clock this morning, off to the museum where I volunteer at a Saturday club, and now I’m en route to meet with Henri.
Henri’s dog-sitting the beloved family dog, Archie, at her mum’s house, so I’m meeting her there. With only a two-week window in July when her sister is over from Oz (which is two months away), we’ve got to get cracking on finding a venue. I’m just hoping that Henri and Nick have sat down and worked out their little differences with regards to what they’re looking for in a wedding day. But, having seen how infatuated Nick was with Henri when he was talking, I get the impression that it won’t really matter what he actually wants as he’d bend over backwards to please her.
‘In point two miles turn right,’ says the automated Sat Nav voice. Her voice grates on me. When she talks to Mark, I get a little bit jealous of her seductive tones, but after playing about with downloadable voices and driving around with Yoda from Star Wars, I realised she was the lesser of many evils. ‘Turn right, you must,’ got old very quickly, let me tell you.
I hope I’m going the right way; all I had from Henri was the house number and postcode. I didn’t really think to ask for the whole address or to look where it said it was on the Sat Nav. I just plonked it in and drove off from the museum, worried that I had left it a bit late as I’d stayed for tea and biscuits with the other volunteers.
I go round a big bend and I’m wondering where the Sat Nav is expecting me to turn right into, when I spot a tiny turning. It’s a narrow road with cars on the street and only just enough room for my little car to squeeze down. I’m scrunching my eyes up in concentration, fearful that I’m going to meet a car along the way.
After holding my breath for what seemed like far too long, I end up by a cricket green and, before long, I arrive at my destination just opposite a duck pond. As I parallel park, I take in my surroundings and realise that I’m in White Hartnell, a quintessentially quaint British village.
I look at the row of little houses that face the green, and as I’m trying to work out which is the one I want, I spot Henri walkin
g down the path of one of the houses.
‘You made it,’ says Henri, opening the little gate at the end of the garden.
The garden has neatly pruned rose bushes and a tree covered in blossoming pink flowers. The house itself looks like it is early twentieth century and it has a lovely homely cottage feel to it.
‘I was beginning to wonder if I’d gone the right way,’ I say, looking around me. ‘This place is gorgeous.’
‘I know, isn’t it? My mum bought it after the divorce from my dad. It was a bit of a wreck inside, but she’s managed to do a lot to it. I thought as it was such a nice day, we’d have tea in the garden while we talk.’
‘That sounds lovely.’
I follow Henri along the side of the house and to the back garden. It’s even more beautiful than the front. Her mum clearly has green fingers, or she pays someone who has, because everything is immaculate. The grass looks like it’s been trimmed with scissors and a ruler, the beds are full to the brim with flowers the whole spectrum of the rainbow, and there’s not a weed in sight. It’s just how I’d love my garden to be. My garden is currently a rectangular patch of grass with small patio. No hint of anything in bloom unless it’s a weed, and even that’s an effort for Mark to maintain. The only garden I look after is my lady garden, and believe me that’s more than enough work to keep tidy.
Henri disappears into the house and I take a seat on one of the over-stuffed and inviting sun loungers. I close my eyes and feel the surprisingly hot sun warm my face. But, before long, it starts to rain. I can feel it all over my leg. That’s weird, why is it only raining on my leg? I open my eyes and practically leap out of the lounger in shock. There, in front of me, is Beethoven, as in the dog out of the movie – not the long-dead composer.
‘Ah, get off! Get off!’ I shout. The dog has clearly taken my surprise at seeing him as an instruction to clamber up onto the lounger and no matter what I say to him, the dog just thinks I’m being loving and licks me more. That’s lovely. Dog spit removing my tinted moisturiser. Fabulous.
