by Liz Eeles
’You’re obviously Annie. I can tell from your resemblance to Storm and the gorgeous dress, of course. Is it vintage? You look absolutely wonderful. Congratulations.’
Her long, blood-red nails tickle my skin when she shakes my hand. My nails were like that once, when I lived in London and regularly visited the nail bar at Westfield shopping centre. Now they’re short and practical though Emily insisted on painting them pearly-pink last night.
‘Thank you so much for coming to my wedding.’
Amanda gives a tinkly laugh. ’Thank you for inviting us and I’m so sorry for turning up unannounced – and late.’
When she does an ‘eek’ face, her muscles hardly move. Her forehead is suspiciously unlined and the skin around her eyes is taut and smooth.
’I didn’t think you were coming,’ says Storm.
’Neither did I because Cornwall is such a long way from London. But then I realised we could combine the wedding with a few days in Padstow. Simon’s boss has a bolthole near Rick Stein’s seafood restaurant and said we could borrow it. It’s not ideal, actually – full of antiques so a bit of a nightmare with Poppy and Eugenie but they’re being very good.’ She smiles at the girls, who are sheltering behind her as though they’ve never met people like Salt Bay villagers before. ’But our trip gave me a chance to nip across to see you being a bridesmaid. Doesn’t she look lovely, girls?’
Poppy and Eugenie nod and eye their half-sister warily.
’Simon didn’t come with you then, Amanda?’
’No, I’m afraid he had some urgent business to attend to. He was very disappointed because he’d have loved to see his step-daughter. You don’t mind, do you, Storm?’
Storm gives the slightest of eye rolls as she shrugs. ‘It’s fine. Are you coming to the reception?’
’Gosh, no. I’ve already gatecrashed Annie’s wedding and wouldn’t dream of imposing any further.’
’It’s really not a problem,’ I tell her. ‘I’m sure we can make room for you and the girls. We’re holding the reception in our garden and it’s pretty informal.’
Amanda glances at the wellies peeping out from under my skirt and gives a puzzled smile. She’s not the sort of woman to wear wellies to a wedding and especially not her own.
‘I can’t stay long but maybe we could come back for an hour or so. It would be lovely to spend some time with my daughter when she’s looking so gorgeous.’ She puts one arm around Storm’s shoulders and uses her other hand to pull her phone from her tiny, shiny handbag. ’Talking of which, I must get a photo or Simon will never believe me. He’s only ever seen Storm in jeans and Doc Martens.’
Storm stands awkwardly, one foot crossed in front of the other, while her mother snaps away.
’Smile, darling,’ commands Amanda, taking another half dozen pictures. ’You look so much prettier when you’re smiling.’
’Can you take one with Annie?’ Storm beckons me over, puts her arm tightly around my waist and leans against me. Amanda takes another gazillion photos but suddenly glances past us and lowers her phone.
‘Balls!’ mutters Storm.
Barry is striding over to us, ponytail undone and hair blowing around his shoulders. He looks pretty rock-star cool actually with his suit on and huge mirrored shades covering half his face.
’Amanda.’
Barry nods at his ex-wife, who’s fished her own sunglasses out of her bag and put them on.
’Barry.’ She pushes her girls forward. ’I don’t think you’ve met my daughters, Poppy and Eugenie. Girls, this is Storm’s father.’
The girls stare open-mouthed at the strange man in front of them while Barry and Amanda eyeball each other from behind their sunglasses – Amanda’s designed by Prada in Milan, Barry’s bought from Superdrug in Kettering.
’Hello, girls,’ says Barry, ruffling their hair. ‘I don’t think you’ve ever met my daughter, Annie, either.’
’From what I’ve heard, it’s not that long since you met her,’ snipes Amanda, but she clamps her lips tight when Storm groans.
Barry pulls back his hair that’s being whipped by the wind. ‘Simon not here then?’
’Working!’ says Amanda, sharply.
’Of course he is. I know it’s the weekend but I’m only taking a quick break from work myself.’
’Still busy in a band then?’ Amanda’s face looks weird. I think she’s trying to wrinkle her nose but nothing’s moving.
’Barry’s doing really well,’ butts in Storm. ‘His band’s touring all over the place. They were in Wales last week.’
’Wales? Heavens! You’ve really hit the big time at last, then, Barry.’ If Amanda’s eyebrow could move, she’d be raising it.
‘Yeah, he’s doing really well,’ protests Storm but Barry places his hand on her shoulder.
‘It doesn’t matter, love. Leave it.’
I feel a sudden rush of affection for this odd little man who only pitched up in my life eleven months ago. How on earth did he and Amanda ever get it on? I can’t help it. I’m imagining them kissing and cuddling and, ooh, I really don’t want to go down that road. But they seem the most unlikely couple ever. Was Amanda ever a rock chick? She certainly isn’t now. She’s moved on, but Barry hasn’t.
’My dad’s doing brilliantly with his band and has been absolutely wonderful since we met. I don’t know how we’d manage without him.’
I’m not quite sure why I said that because it’s not strictly true. Barry drove me demented when he first arrived in Salt Bay with Storm in tow. But now’s not the time for honesty; not when his ex-wife is being sneery.
‘Thanks, babe. That means a lot,’ says Barry, lifting up his sunglasses and giving me a wink.
Storm’s mouth twitches into a half-smile and she lets Tom lead her away for yet another photo of my unusual bridesmaids against the magnificent backdrop of the roiling Atlantic.
Ten minutes later and we’re all pretty much photo’d out but Tom is still angling for a group shot of everyone.
‘Please all group together,’ he shouts while Emily tries to round up stragglers spread out across the clifftop. It takes ages but at last everyone’s huddled together facing the windswept cemetery where generations of Trebarwiths are buried. Everyone except Toby, who’s hanging back.
He hasn’t been mingling with the other guests and loneliness is coming off him in waves. Usually he’s full of swagger but today he’s muted as though someone’s flicked his off switch.
Peter shuffles along from Jennifer, whose hat is trying to have his eye out, and holds out his hand. ‘There’s room here for you, Toby. Though you might not fancy getting too close to the cliff edge after your heroic climb.’
My heart sinks. In all the fuss of almost hurtling off the cliff and getting married, I totally forgot to ask Peter to keep the rescue quiet.
‘Heroic climb by Toby? Why don’t I know about this?’ Jennifer’s almost twitching with agitation at being out of the loop.
‘Toby climbed the cliff without a rope to rescue his daughter and Annie,’ says Peter. ‘One of the bravest things I’ve ever seen.’
‘Or most foolhardy,’ insists Jennifer as my guests cluster round Toby asking him how he managed the climb without breaking his neck.
‘Will you please all stop moving and get in place for a photo,’ yells poor frustrated Tom, but no one’s listening.
Thirty-Three
‘Mind the dog poo!’ says Maureen, steering me to one side and manoeuvring me through the garden gate at Tregavara House. My skirt brushes against the gate posts as I feel my way forward with Maureen hanging onto my arm.
She insisted I close my eyes when we reached the house so there’s no risk of me getting an early glimpse of what’s been organised for our reception.
‘Keep them closed,’ she orders, leading me through the front garden and around the side of the building. The grass feels springy under my feet and I can smell honeysuckle mingling with the fresh tang of the sea.
We stop, and M
aureen lets go of my arm. ‘Here we are. Open your eyes!’
The scene in front of me takes my breath away. It’s glorious. Trestle tables are groaning under the weight of Cornish pasties, sausage rolls, bowls of brightly coloured salads and platters of cooked meats. Behind them are towering stands of iced cupcakes and, at the very back, a fabulous three-tiered wedding cake that’s dripping with strawberries.
‘It’s chocolate sponge with chocolate chips and chocolate buttercream,’ says Maureen, laughing at my delight when I spot her creation. ‘Jennifer told me how much you’re addicted to the stuff.’
Oops, my daily Twix fix has not gone unnoticed.
Our guests are already seated on a variety of chairs – from dining room chairs and fold-up wooden seats to white plastic chairs plundered from villagers’ gardens. Cream paper cloths have been Sellotaped to the tables and there are balloons and tiny vases of flowers everywhere. A white canopy has been erected over the top table in case of rain, soft music is wafting from a CD player, and dozens of glasses from the pub are lined up and sparkling in the sunshine.
‘Wow. I’m speechless. I don’t know what to say.’ I swing round to Josh, who was led into the back garden just behind me.
‘It’s wonderful,’ he splutters, as lost for words as I am.
‘Can we eat now?’ yells Roger, who’s sitting as far away from Jennifer and Jacques as possible.
I was thinking we’d do speeches first – from Josh, Ollie and Barry, who’ll probably take the opportunity to sing his wedding song. But who cares? There are no rules at our wedding – all that matters is that Josh and I are celebrating with people we care about in a house that we love. What a wonderful way to say goodbye to my beloved Salt Bay.
When I give Roger the nod, people fall on the spread like vultures and forego the seats to sit on the grass with their picnics. There’s a glimpse of blue sea around the corner of Tregavara House and I can hear the whoosh of waves on wet sand. The cliffs behind me are casting shadows and seagulls are swooping overhead. It’s an eclectic reception that wouldn’t pass muster with my sophisticated London friends. But I wouldn’t swap it for anything – not even a swanky do at The Ritz.
I wish Maura had been able to come – she’s so heavily pregnant now she has to pee every two minutes and couldn’t face a car or train journey. But Lesley and Gayle are here from work and Pippa and Charlie with adorable baby Henry, whose fists are the size of walnuts.
Amanda and her children have helped themselves to plates of food and are sitting with Storm near the azaleas that Alice planted after Tregavara House was flooded and the garden was swamped.
Amanda catches my eye a few times and comes over while I’m on my second dessert. My appetite disappeared just before the wedding but now it’s back with a vengeance and Mary’s home-made profiteroles are so good.
‘The girls and I will have to head off in a minute or Simon will be wondering where we are, but could I have a quick word first?’
‘Of course.’ My dress rustles when I get to my feet and is definitely more snug in the waist area following my post-nuptial pig-out. Holding in my stomach, I swoosh my way to the sitting room and close the door behind me and Amanda.
She stands by the window, tapping her fingernails on the stone sill. ‘Thank you so much for inviting me to your wedding and I wish you and your handsome new husband every happiness.’
Which is very nice and all that but nothing she couldn’t have said to me in the garden. As I suspected, Amanda isn’t finished. She clears her throat.
‘You think I’m a terrible mother, don’t you?’
Whoah! That came out of nowhere. When I don’t respond, she ploughs on.
‘I couldn’t stay with Barry. You’ve seen what he’s like – a nice enough man but a total dreamer. It was exciting at first when we were going from gig to gig and always on the brink of the big time. But after a few years it was just tedious and then I met Simon and he offered something different – stability and more than a hand-to-mouth existence. I wanted a change and I needed a change, but I didn’t realise that I would have to change quite so much.’
She stares at the brightly coloured boats marooned on sand by the low tide before turning back to me.
‘Simon didn’t see Storm as part of the package. She could be prickly and difficult even back then. I could have insisted she came with me, I suppose, but I was desperate for a different life, and then there was Barry. He was devastated when I told him I was leaving and begged me not to take Storm away from him too. So I walked away from both of them and I’m not proud of it but I still think it was the right thing to do.’
She leans against the wall, ready for condemnation but I had quite enough of being judged as a child. There were always people who thought they knew best and looked down on me for being a council house kid with a ‘mental’ mother.
I give a small sigh. ‘I think you did what you thought was best at the time. But I know Storm misses you.’
Amanda nibbles her plump bottom lip. ‘She’s not the easiest of daughters which is possibly mostly my fault, but I miss her too.’
‘Then maybe you shouldn’t cancel her visits at the last minute because your au pair has come home unexpectedly.’ I say it gently, but it sounds like the accusation it is.
‘Fair enough. Simon thought it would be too much having Storm and Pia in the house together, but I should have insisted. I will insist in future.’ She gazes into the distance for a moment, lost in thought, and then shakes her head. ‘But you must get back to your reception. I’m sorry to drag you away but I didn’t know when I might next have the chance to speak to you and say thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘For letting Storm be your bridesmaid. For giving her a home. For loving her and being like a mother to her when I can’t be.’
Her face collapses in grief and she turns away when the door is flung open.
‘There you are,’ says Storm, bowling in with a paper plate of crisps in her hand. ‘Barry reckons he’s going to make a speech and you need to tell him not to ’cos he’ll just make a total tit of himself.’ She glances between me and her mother. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Everything’s fine.’ Amanda has regained her composure and steps forward. ‘I was just wishing Annie all the best because the girls and I have to leave in a minute.’
‘Yeah, I thought you’d soon be off.’
‘We have to go but before I do let’s sort out when you can visit us for a few days. Perhaps at half term? There’s a punk exhibition at the V&A that Simon’s not keen on going to but I thought maybe you could come with me?’
‘Sounds interesting,’ says Storm slowly. ‘But won’t your au pair be around?’
‘I’m sure she can sort out a put-you-up in the girls’ room for a few nights.’
‘Simon won’t approve.’
‘Probably not but he’ll have to put up with it for once. And before I leave I also want to tell you how proud I am of you.’
‘Because I’m finally wearing a dress and looking’ – Storm puts the next word in ironic air quotes – ‘pretty?’
‘No, because you’re doing well at school and holding down a Saturday job and making a wonderful new life here in Salt Bay. Though, I must admit, it is good to see you out of those damned Doc Martens.’
Storm’s face breaks into a slow smile. ‘Yeah, well I might not stay in Salt Bay forever.’
‘I don’t suppose you will. I expect you’ll go on to even bigger and better things.’
Storm walks forward as though she might hug her mother but side-steps her when Barry barges in.
‘I wondered where you’d all gone. You’re not in here slagging me off, are you?’
He eyes me suspiciously, but I shake my head and laugh. ‘There’s been no slagging off, Barry, and I hear you’re about to make a speech.’
‘That is so lame,’ says Storm with a dramatic sigh. ‘Come on then. Let’s get it over with.’
‘You can stay in he
re if you don’t want to hear it.’
‘Nope. You’re marginally less likely to say something horribly embarrassing about me if I’m actually listening so I have no choice.’
After they’ve all trooped out, I gather up my skirt in both hands and rush upstairs for a quick loo break. Though doing anything too quickly in metres of silk is impossible unless you want to risk tripping or ripping the fabric or accidentally weeing on your wedding dress.
But if I don’t soon get back to the garden, they’ll be starting the speeches without me. Dress intact, I scurry downstairs and fling open the kitchen door but my way into the garden is blocked by Roger and Jacques, who appear to be squaring up around the kitchen table. Damn! I so should have used the front door.
‘Are you two coming into the garden for the speeches?’
‘We’ve got to sort this out first,’ scowls Roger, who’s looking dapper in a black suit and crisp white shirt with only minimal food staining.
Jacques groans. ‘Sort out what exactly? Why have you trapped me in this room? Congratulations, by the way, Annie, on your marriage. I wish you and Josh much happiness.’
‘Thank you. Roger, can you tell me why you’ve trapped Jacques in the kitchen on my wedding day?’
I say those last three words extra loudly in the hope they’ll shame Roger into not being such an idiot. But they fall on deaf ears.
‘I want to know his intentions regarding Jennifer.’
‘Really, Roger?’ I position myself directly in Roger’s eyeline so he gets the full effect of the fabulous dress I’m wearing. ‘You choose today of all days to have it out with Jacques?’
‘Sorry, Annie, but this has been building up and has to be said. I need a word with you, Jacques, about how you’re treating Jennifer, who’s a very good friend of mine.’
‘Not that it’s any of your business but I’ve invited Jenny to live in Paris so she can pursue the singing career she deserves.’
‘To live with you?’ says Roger, his body language screaming defeat. ‘Like your sexual plaything?’
Among the terms I never thought I’d hear Roger utter, ‘sexual plaything’ is way up there. And now my mind is filled with images of Jennifer in basque and fishnets, stretched out languorously on a chaise longue while she waits for Jacques to service her. And while I’ve nothing against older women getting their rocks off, it’s not what you want to be picturing on your wedding day.
