by Liz Eeles
‘It’s manic, the fryer keeps going on the blink and I’m going to tell Roger he owes me double-time for coming in on my day off.’
‘Good luck with that,’ murmurs Kayla, glancing at her boss, who’s scolding an emmet for resting his feet on a chair. He spots Dan talking to us and gestures for him to get back into the kitchen.
‘Unbe-feckin-lievable after I’ve done him a favour!’
Dan stalks off in a fug of sweaty pique while Storm gets stuck into her chips and I take a mouthful of crab salad. Ugh, Dan hasn’t washed the lettuce too well and it’s gritty. I start forlornly pushing the salad around my plate with a fork.
‘Look at the three of us!’ Kayla leans back in her chair and stretches her arms out wide. ‘Here we are in one of the most beautiful places in the world – Cornwall, that is, not the pub – on a gloriously sunny day. But I’m hideously overworked’ – she says that last bit extra loudly for Roger’s benefit– ‘you, Storm, are miserable ’cos your holiday’s off for some strange reason I haven’t got to the bottom of and you, Annabella, are worried sick about money and property. Come on, live a little. I mean, you’re getting married to a lovely man. He’s not my type – far too glowery. But you make a lovely couple. We so need to cheer ourselves up.’
She drums her fingers on the table and then her face breaks into a huge grin. ‘I know exactly what’ll do the trick. We can go wedding dress shopping on Saturday afternoon. There’s that new shop in Trecaldwith that’s down near the bank.’
‘That sounds lovely, Kayla, but being worried sick about money means I can’t buy wedding dresses from posh, expensive shops.’
‘We don’t have to buy them, silly. Just try loads on, have a giggle and get some ideas for when we hit the high street, which had better be soon ’cos you’re getting married in just over a month. And Storm can try on some bridesmaids’ dresses.’
Storm pauses with a chip halfway from plate to mouth. ‘You’ve gotta be kidding, right? There’s no way I’m dressing up in some sugar-pink frilly thing with bows or I might do a Serena and refuse to be a bridesmaid at all.’
I can imagine Storm in a sugar-pink frilly thing with bows. She’d look rather lovely, with her scowl. Like the grumpy, foul-mouthed princess of South Cornwall.
‘You’d better come with us on Saturday and try some dresses on then so you can point us away from the frilly pink meringues,’ says Kayla, giving me a wink. ‘We could always have lunch afterwards at KFC.’
‘Hhmm.’ Storm is more interested now there’s the possibility of a Bargain Bucket. ‘I suppose I could come, seeing as I’ve already arranged with Jennifer to have this Saturday off. Talking of which’ – she glances at her boss, who’s listening attentively to her former lover – ‘that is so lame.’
‘What is?’
‘Old people getting it on when it’s far too late and they should know better. You and Josh are bad enough kissing all over the place.’
She wrinkles her nose and contemplates a better world where no one over the age of thirty is allowed any physical contact on pain of public humiliation. What a miserable world that would be.
The scrum at the bar has thinned out and Roger ambles over with a grubby cloth that he’s using to mop his brow.
‘Phew, that was a busy half hour. The trouble with coach parties is they all pitch up at the same time and expect immediate service. They were heading for Land’s End but the driver got lost. I mean, all you have to do is head for the end of Cornwall. How hard can that be?’
He huffs and puffs and wipes the sweaty cloth across our table while I wince. Roger isn’t the hottest on hygiene. His kitchen’s not too bad and the pub is dust-free but his personal hygiene leaves a lot to be desired. His belly is busting out of his beer-spattered T-shirt, and greying bristles are sprouting from his chin. I give a little sniff. Yep. Roger definitely has a whiff of chip fat about him.
‘What’s the score with those two, Rog?’ asks Kayla.
‘Monsieur Bouton is someone from her past.’ Roger sighs and stuffs the cloth into his trouser pocket.
‘Really? I can’t imagine Jennifer with a racy past. Are you sure?’
‘I asked her when she was buying their drinks. She said she knows him from her time in Paris, when she was studying music at that fancy-arse place. Then she told me to stop being so nosey which is rich coming from her.’
He gestures for me to shuffle along the window seat and wallops his backside down next to me. ‘Do you think she’ll go back with him?’
‘What, to France?’ Kayla laughs. ‘Why on earth would she? They’re only talking and it’s not like they were lovers or anything.’
She glances at me and starts bouncing up and down. ‘Ooh, they were! OMG! Go, Jennifer!’
Damn my stupid face which is hopeless at keeping secrets. Storm does a mock retch and goes back to her tweeting.
‘Shush, Kayla. It’s Jennifer’s business so let’s leave it that way. And you’re leaping ahead, Roger. They’re only catching up.’
‘You’re right,’ he says firmly. ‘Jennifer would never desert Salt Bay and give up all that this village has to offer.’
Kayla stretches her arms above her head and yawns. ‘Nah, of course not. She’d never leave behind an empty bed and early morning starts in a village that smells of fish for a posh house with Monsieur Smoothy Chops in the chic French capital.’
She giggles and nicks a chip from Storm’s plate but Roger’s beefy shoulders slump.
‘Huh! What’s so special about Paris?’
‘The Louvre,’ says Kayla helpfully. ‘And the Seine. And the Eiffel Tower and Montmartre. Plus brilliant food – better than Dan can manage.’ She prods my limp lettuce which is definitely gritty.
‘There’s no way sensible Jennifer will run off with that smarmy French bloke who’s not so hot compared to Cornish men. What’s he got that I haven’t?’ asks Roger rather unwisely, puffing out his chest.
‘Nothing, apart from a sense of humour, Gallic good looks and a thirty-two-inch waist,’ sniggers Kayla but she stops when I kick her again under the table. Roger blusters and grumps his way through life but right now he looks vulnerable and upset. He stares at the floor and breathes out heavily.
‘Just joking, mate,’ says Kayla. ‘You’re not bad for a Cornish bloke in his sixties.’
‘Fifties,’ mutters Roger.
‘Yeah, that’s what I meant. Fifties.’ Kayla winces at me and shrugs.
‘Would you be upset if Jennifer did leave?’ I ask Roger gently.
‘I dunno. Probably. Yeah. I’ve never thought of it before because I reckoned she’d always be around. But me and Jennifer go way back, and the place wouldn’t be the same without her.’
‘I’m sure you’re leaping to all sorts of wrong conclusions. And whatever may or may not have happened between them in the past, Jennifer’s not the type of woman to go ga-ga over an old suitor.’
As I finish speaking, Jennifer lets out a high-pitched tinkly laugh that carries across the pub. I’ve never heard her do tinkly before and it’s slightly disturbing. Roger closes his eyes and sighs. ‘I have a bad feeling about this.’
Twenty-Two
The wedding shop in Trecaldwith is nothing like the flash bridal stores I’ve walked past in London. Their chic, minimalist shop fronts showcase sleek oyster dresses scattered with tasteful Swarovski crystals glinting under discreet lighting. Buy me, look gorgeous on your big day and live happily ever after, they scream. Quietly.
In contrast, the shop window of Wendy’s Wowzer Weddings is crammed with frothy, chalk-white creations. Huge rhinestones are catching the sun and blinding passers-by. Ruffles and frills are vying for attention in a riot of satin and lace.
‘There is no way on earth I’m going in there,’ says Storm, folding her arms across her Killers T-shirt. She glances around anxiously in case anyone she knows has spotted her within spitting distance of the naffest shop in the world.
‘No probs. We can choose you something. Maybe th
at one.’ Kayla points at a pale peach bridesmaid dress in the window, which is uber ruffled around the neck and waist and has fat, puffed sleeves edged with lace.
Storm blanches, shoves the shop door open and hurtles inside.
‘Nice one,’ murmurs Emily, who’s almost beside herself with excitement about our pre-wedding try-on session. Even though I’ve warned her that we won’t be buying anything today.
‘Reverse psychology.’ Kayla taps her head and purses her lips because she thinks it makes her look wise. ‘Works every damn time.’
When we follow Storm into the store, a tall woman in an emerald green trouser suit rushes over. The chunky metal necklace she’s wearing bangs up and down with every step.
‘Come in, and welcome,’ she gushes. ‘My name is Maria and I’m at your service today. Which one of you lovely ladies is the blushing bride-to-be?’
‘Yuk,’ mutters Storm.
‘That’ll be me. We’re just having a look at dresses today, if that’s all right. We won’t necessarily be buying.’
Kayla rolls her eyes at my honesty, but it doesn’t seem right to raise Maria’s hopes of commission.
If she’s disappointed, Maria doesn’t show it. ‘Of course.’ She smiles. ‘You need to choose carefully for the most important day of your life and it’s a decision that can’t be rushed. When exactly is the Big Day?’
‘September the 22nd,’ says Kayla, running her fingers across a veil that’s thickly encrusted with crystals.
‘September the 22nd this year? And you haven’t got your dress yet? Gosh, you’re leaving it rather late. Unless the wedding is rather… spontaneous.’
Her eyes, topped by a bright slick of pearly green eyeshadow, travel down my body and come to rest on my stomach.
‘She’s not up the duff. Just getting on a bit,’ declares Storm, who’s standing right in the middle of the store as though she’s scared that the dresses will contaminate her.
‘And are you a bridesmaid, dear? I’m sure we can find a dress that will make you feel like a million dollars,’ says Maria, blissfully unaware of the massive and, quite frankly, dangerous challenge she’s taking on. ‘What colour are you thinking of?’
‘Black,’ says Storm with a scowl.
Maria doesn’t miss a beat. ‘We don’t have much demand for black, however we do have midnight blue for the more, um, assertive bridesmaid. Why don’t you all take a look around while I have a word with the lady who’s just come in.’
She scuttles off gratefully to talk to her new customer while Kayla, Emily and I start working our way through the rails of dresses lined up along the walls of Wendy’s wowzer establishment.
There are some simpler, sleeker designs if you delve beneath the froth and Kayla soon pulls out a beautiful, understated dress in off-white silk that’s cut on the bias.
‘Try this one, Annie. It’ll really suit you.’ She presses it into my hands and shoves me towards the changing room. ‘Maria won’t mind, will you, Maria.’
The large carpeted changing room has a button-back pink chair in one corner and a floor to ceiling mirror on one wall. Ugh, if there’s one thing I hate in well-lit changing rooms it’s a floor to ceiling mirror that shows every bump and bulge.
‘Strip down to your underwear,’ orders Maria, who appears to have followed me in.
Carefully avoiding my undies-clad reflection, I stand obediently while Maria manoeuvres metres of soft silk over my head. The dress drapes down and settles across my stomach and hips.
It’s more off-the-shoulder than I’d realised but breath catches in my throat when I risk looking in the mirror. The dress is absolutely gorgeous and Kayla’s right, it does suit me. I can imagine myself in this swooshing down the aisle towards my lovely Josh in his dark suit waiting for me at the altar. He’d be so proud of me in this fabulous dress.
‘Lovely, darling,’ says Maria, opening the door of the changing room and propelling me into the shop.
Emily stops running her fingers over a satin dress in sugar-plum pink and her mouth drops open. ‘Wow, you look well lush in that.’
‘You look gorgeous, mate,’ says Kayla. ‘Ooh, I think I’m coming over all tearful. What do you reckon, Storm?’
She ferrets about in her handbag for a tissue as Storm gives me a cursory glance.
‘Yeah, not bad. How much is it?’
Ah yes, in all the excitement that’s the most important thing I haven’t checked out. Maria turns over the tag that’s hanging from the back of the dress and squints at it underneath her gold-framed glasses.
‘This one is £950 but I can give you a five per cent discount.’
Eek! Even with the discount, that’s around £900 that needs to go towards keeping Tregavara House afloat.
‘Crikey, that’s a bit steep,’ says Kayla.
Maria’s scarlet lips draw into a tight pout. ‘It’s a very reasonable price for a dress of this exquisite quality. We do have a slightly less expensive range over here for the bride on a budget.’
She points at a rail dripping with frothy creations. The more ruffles, the cheaper the dress, apparently.
‘You could treat yourself, Annie.’ Kayla walks around me slowly with her hands on her hips. ‘Maybe you could put it on your credit card?’
But my credit card is already maxed out with boring day-to-day stuff and I can’t justify spending so much money on a dress I’ll wear once. Even if that once is my wedding. I run my hand along the smooth silk before heading for the budget section. It’s either that or I will be wearing a bin bag to go up the aisle.
Maria is very patient but trying on a costly, to-die-for dress before heading for the bargain rail was such a mistake – it’s like swapping a sexy weekend with Aidan Turner in a five-star hotel for a snog behind the bike sheds with the local letch. The cheaper dresses just don’t measure up and after a while I give up and climb back into my jeans.
Emily and Kayla have better luck with a floor-length green dress which makes Kayla’s red hair look amazing. But Storm steadfastly refuses to try on anything, claiming she’ll look ‘like, totally sad.’ Eventually, with the help of some KFC bribery, I persuade her to try on a simple blue dress that cinches at the waist and falls in soft waves to the ground.
‘You look fabulous,’ breathes Emily when my sister stomps out of the changing room. And she does, even when she hitches up the dress to reveal her Doc Martens underneath. But she refuses to let me take a photo on my phone to show Barry.
‘No way,’ she hisses, heading back to the changing room at full speed. ‘Barry would put it on Twitter and if it went viral I’d have to stay in until I died of old age.’
So, with our heads full of ideas but not enough money to make them happen, we leave Maria with no shopping bags and feeling rather glum.
I’ve never hankered after beautiful things – money was tight growing up so I quickly learned there was no point asking for the latest must-have toys or trainers. And since starting work I’ve hardly ever shelled out on costly shoes and clothes or expensive face creams. Clarks, Primark and Superdrug are my stores of choice.
But I’d love to look good on my special day and I’m not sure a bin bag is going to cut it.
We’re heading for KFC because a promise is a promise when Tom lollops into sight ahead of us. His stride falters when he spots Emily but then he walks resolutely towards us.
‘Hello, everyone.’ It’s hard to see his face because his long, dark fringe is swinging in front of it like a shield.
‘Hey, Tom. Are you here on your own?’ asks Kayla.
‘Nope, I’m here with my mum who’s gone into the fishmonger’s,’ he mumbles. ‘Hi there, Emily.’
‘Hey, Tom.’ Emily smiles but continues fiddling with her phone which has just beeped with a message. It’s always a novelty when we’re away from black-hole Tregavara House and texts pile in thick and fast.
‘We’ve been trying on wedding and bridesmaid dresses, preparing for the big day,’ says Kayla.
�
�That’s nice. I bet you all looked really nice.’
And he stares at Emily with such longing, I want to give him a hug. Unrequited love can be an absolute bugger.
When Emily carries on staring at her phone, Tom starts fidgeting from foot to foot and pulls at the rapidly descending waistband of his baggy jeans. ‘I’d better go back and collect Mum then. See you at choir, Emily.’
When Emily nods absentmindedly, I could shake her.
Storm watches Tom slouch off into the distance with a thoughtful look on her face. ‘You do know that he’s kinda mad for you, don’t you, Em? You can be a bit of an airhead about stuff like that.’
‘He’s just a friend,’ asserts Emily, shoving her phone into the pocket of her cardigan.
‘Believe me, he’d like to be more than that, mate,’ says Kayla.
‘Do you think? It doesn’t matter even if he would because I’m off all men.’
‘What, forever?’ snorts Storm.
‘Maybe. They’re too much trouble.’
‘Not all men are like Jay,’ I tell her. ‘Tom is kind and gentle and he’s nice looking. Not as boy-bandy as Jay but he’s sweet.’
Storm nods. ‘Yeah, he’s pretty fit if you’re into that nerdy emo “kiss me or I’ll cry” look.’
‘He looks all right but I don’t care. Men just aren’t worth the effort,’ says Emily with a toss of the head as though she’s worked her way through a battalion’s worth of scoundrels. ‘Though I appreciate that I might change my mind one day, when I get as old as Annie.’
Nice!
‘Well, I think you’re doing the right thing,’ says Storm.
‘Do you?’ Emily glows at Storm’s approval.
‘Yeah, I admire you for sticking to your feminist principles.’
Being a feminist didn’t mean crying off all men the last time I checked but what the hell. There’s no way I’m arguing the specifics of feminism with a stroppy teenager so I make do with an eye-roll at Kayla, who giggles and leads the way towards our lunch.
