by Fern Britton
Together they left the shed. It had been snowing and a small drift had built along the bottom edge of the door. Jesse struggled to push the door shut, leaning his full weight against it to fit the padlock in the hasp and lock it.
Finally it was done and, putting their arms around each other, they walked out of the yard, down the lane, past the church and on to their homes and their beds.
Watching them go, bivouacked between the hulls of two clinker boats, was Grant. He’d followed Loveday when she had slipped out of her house after Mickey had dropped her off. He had had ideas of his own about what he and she could get up to that night. When she’d headed towards the sheds it had seemed to him almost as if she wanted him to follow her. Then he’d seen that the door was already unlocked and that his shitty little brother, the golden son, was already there. He’d watched them then and he watched them now. This was a little treasure hoard that had fallen into his lap. He’d spend it wisely.
11
‘It’s still snowing.’ Jesse’s mother clattered the wooden curtain rings into each other as she ruthlessly ripped open his curtains. ‘Rise and shine, young man. You’re getting married today.’
Jesse clenched his eyes tightly as the blistering daylight lasered its way around his childhood bedroom.
‘There’s a cup of tea by your bed. By the smell in here you’ll need it. Your brother’s fault, I suppose.’
The memory of Loveday’s softly yielding body erupted in his mind. What had Grant got to do with last night?
‘Why ever did you both stay out so late?’ He could picture his mother standing with her hands on her hips, frowning down at him. He gingerly lifted one eyelid and saw that he was right. ‘You’re a bloody idiot, Jesse. You’ll look terrible in the photos, and what’s Greer and your new in-laws going to think about a groom stinking of booze?’ Jan sat down on the edge of the bed and the bounce made him feel sick. She put a cool hand on his forehead. ‘You need a fry-up and some aspirin and you’ll be fine.’ She stood up, and again the movement of the mattress brought on nausea. ‘This is the most important day of your life, Jesse, and I’m not going to let you let yourself down. Get showered and I’ll put some sausages on.’
*
Greer sat up in her four-poster bed and looked around her beautiful bedroom. This was the last morning she’d ever wake up as a single woman. She closed her eyes and imagined, for the millionth time, the look on Jesse’s face as he turned from the altar and watched her walking up the aisle, towards him. She was going to be the most beautiful bride Cornwall had ever seen. She looked to her left, at the oyster satin bag draped on a softly padded and pearl-beaded hanger on the door of her French armoire. Inside was the perfect dress. Not the flouncy meringue so many of her friends had chosen for their weddings. Hers was a chic column of finest silk satin, cut on the bias so that it fell narrowly at her ankles and then puddled into the perfect train. She sighed with pleasure and wriggled back under her lavender-scented sheets. It was only seven thirty and she had plenty of time to enjoy the most special day of her life.
There was a soft knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ she called.
Her mother nudged the door open with an elbow and came in carrying a breakfast tray with orange juice, coffee and a croissant. She’d put confetti on the tray.
As soon as she saw Greer, tears sprang from her eyes. ‘Oh, my darling daughter. I can’t believe this is your wedding day.’ She put the tray on the blanket box at the foot of the bed and helped Greer to sit up whilst plumping her pillows for her. ‘Comfortable?’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
With the tray settled securely on Greer’s lap, her mother went to the window. ‘There’s a little bit of magic to add to the day, my darling.’ She pulled the cord and the curtains swept open, like in an Odeon cinema, to reveal the scene behind. Greer was expecting to see the familiar view of Trevay and its harbour, with maybe a wedding helicopter on the front lawn. But it was better than that. Trevay had transformed itself into a snow-covered fairy kingdom.
‘I ordered it, just for you,’ said her mother.
*
Mickey Chandler had been up with the lark and was polishing his best brown shoes on the kitchen table.
‘How’s your speech?’ asked his mother. She skirted awkwardly round his pulled-out chair as she negotiated the small room from larder to oven.
‘I think it’s all right.’ He spat on a toecap and rubbed vigorously with a balding yellow duster.
‘What does Loveday think?’
‘She laughed in all the right places.’
Mrs Chandler cracked an egg into her gnarled frying pan. ‘Well, that’s a good sign, innit? Two eggs or three?’
Mickey thought for a moment. ‘Three. I’ll need something to drink on later. Is there any bacon?’
‘Of course. Can’t ’ave egg without it.’
‘Cheers, Ma.’ He leant back in his chair and puckered his lips for a kiss. She wiped her eggy fingers on her apron and obliged. ‘You’re a good lad.’
Mr Chandler ducked his head as he came through the low doorway from upstairs. ‘Mornin’, son. ’Ow’s the best man today?’
‘Bit nervous,’ said Mickey as he picked up his second shoe and spat on that one as well.
‘Nervous? What the ’ell have you got to be nervous for? ’Tis bleddy Jesse who should be nervous. Marrying that girl and that family. His dad has sold him down the river.’
Mrs Chandler clunked two old blue and white china plates down in front of Mickey and her husband. ‘Now stop saying stuff like that. Jesse ain’t no fool and he knows which side his bread is buttered. He’ll be a very wealthy man. Two eggs or three?’
‘Three.’ Mr Chandler gave Mickey an astute look. ‘You got the better girl and no mistake, son. I’d have Loveday Carter over Greer Clovelly any day.’
*
Loveday looked in her dressing-table mirror and groaned. On the side of her face, in the dip between her nose and her cheeks, was the largest spot she’d ever had. There was no head yet but it was hot and hard and she knew that as soon as she entered the church it would force its way to the surface of her skin in all its pus and glory, ready to take centre stage in the photographs. Greer would be furious.
‘Fuck.’ She put her head in her hands. It was the least of her problems. Greer was going to be furious anyway. As soon as Jesse told her what happened last night, there would be no photographs.
The memory of Jesse’s loving words washed away the horror of the spot and filled her with a dreadful happiness. Greer and Mickey would be hurt, that was only to be expected, but they’d come round in time, hopefully. They were old friends. They would understand that it would have been a big mistake for Jesse and Greer to marry. It was always going to be Jesse and Loveday.
She looked at her bedside clock. She wondered if Jesse was awake yet. Had he been able to sleep? She’d slept for no more than a couple of hours. The combination of whisky and wonderment had kept her thoughts racing. She hoped he’d still be sleeping. He needed all the sleep he could get. Today of all days. He’d have to go round to see Greer. Explain before it got too late to let the guests know there wasn’t going to be a wedding. Then he’d phone her; or maybe come and see her. Either way, she couldn’t wait to be with him again.
*
‘Whatever did you get Jesse drunk for?’ Jan looked at her elder son with frustration and latent anger. ‘You knew he had to get home early and get some sleep. Where did you two go?’
Grant looked at Jesse sitting at the other end of the table. He didn’t look good. Grant had heard him throwing up under the sound of the running shower. Jesse had thought no one would hear him if he kept the shower running, but Grant had heard him. Grant knew all Jesse’s sordid little secrets.
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, Mum. Jesse left the Hind before I did.’
Jesse looked up from his dry toast and Grant was pleased to see panic in his eyes. ‘Where did you get to, little brother?’
Jesse
looked at his mother and then pleadingly back at Grant, who toyed with him like a cat with a vole. ‘Shall I tell our mummy what you were up to last night?’
If it were possible, Jesse grew a shade paler. His mind was in overdrive. Grant couldn’t know that he had been at the sheds with Loveday. Could he? No. It wasn’t possible. His hungover brain tried to think of an answer that would satisfy his mother’s curiosity. ‘I … I was wi—’
‘It’s all right, little bro.’ Grant spoke over him. ‘I’ll explain.’ Grant turned to his mother. ‘He was up the sheds, drinking Dad’s whisky with …’ Grant threw a glance at Jesse’s petrified face. ‘… With me. I’m sorry. I led him astray. I confess.’
Jan folded her arms and looked at her two sons as if they were no more than eight year-olds. ‘I knew it. You’re a pair of idiots. Grant, I can understand, but you, Jesse, I thought you had more sense. Neither of you have the brains you were born with … Where’re you off to, Jesse Behenna?’ Jesse felt the room reeling, the rancid whisky making its way up his throat. He dashed for the bathroom and made it just in time.
*
What the hell was he going to do? He rinsed his face and cleaned his teeth, then began the arduous task of shaving. His hands weren’t his own. They belonged to someone who had the shakes. He nicked the bit of skin under his nose and it started to bleed and sting. He tore off a bit of loo paper and, spitting on it, stuck it on the cut. Greer wouldn’t like that. She wanted him tall and strong and handsome. No blemishes or shaving nicks. He’d have to tell her. He’d phone her now. He heard the front door open and his auntie Gwen’s voice calling out to his mum. The phone was there. By the front door. Everyone would hear him tell Greer that he was very sorry but he wasn’t marrying her after all. He couldn’t ring her. He’d have to walk up the hill and tell her. Like a man. In front of her mum and dad. How do you say something like that? ‘I’m so sorry, Mr and Mrs Clovelly, but I can’t marry Greer. I slept with Loveday last night. Up at the sheds.’
That was the truth, but he couldn’t put it like that. How about, ‘Greer, you’re a wonderful girl and I’ve always liked you, but I can’t marry you because I don’t love you.’
Her father would punch him. That would hurt. He rinsed the shaving foam from his face and patted his cheeks dry. Using the mirror, he peeled off the drying loo paper and found the cut had stopped bleeding. He splashed a good deal of Paco Rabanne aftershave on his palms and slapped it on his face. The stinging made his bloodshot eyes water even more.
In his pain he heard the front door open once more and his mother call up the stairs. ‘Jesse. Your best man’s here. I’m sending him up to get you ready.’
*
Loveday looked at the now-redundant but still horrible, orange bridesmaid dress hanging on the back of her bedroom door. Why had she told Greer she liked it? Why had Greer chosen it for her? It hid every good feature of hers; made Loveday feel utterly frumpy and unsexy. She still hadn’t been allowed to see The Wedding Dress. That was Top Secret. Loveday had more than a suspicion that it was nothing like the marmalade horror. But, she realised suddenly, she wasn’t going to have to wear it after all. When she married Jesse, she’d make Greer wear a horrible dress. She laughed at the thought, then checked her bedside clock again. She’d hear from Jesse soon. He’d come round to get her after he had explained everything to Greer and her family. Perhaps they would go away for a few days until the dust settled. That would probably be best.
She heard a heavy knock on the front door. This was him, it was Jesse! She ran out of her room, taking the stairs on the narrow staircase two at a time. Her mother got there a split second ahead of her and opened the door, revealing Greer’s father. She stood a little way behind her mother. Mr Clovelly had obviously come to tell them the wedding was off. But he looked quite relaxed about it. He was kissing Loveday’s mum and smiling.
He saw Loveday, breathless and expectant and said, ‘Morning, Loveday. You look as excited as Greer! She’s so thrilled with this snow. Are you ready? I’ll take you up the hill in the BMW. Apparently the hairdresser is stuck over at St Agnes, but her mother’s boyfriend has a Land Rover so he’ll get her over here as soon as he’s done the milking.’ Loveday stood stock-still, barely able to take all this in. Where was Jesse? Why was everything still going ahead? Surely he’d say something before it was too late?
‘Come on then, Loveday,’ chided her mother. ‘Get your dress bag and shoes. And don’t forget the silk poinsettia for your hair.’
*
Mickey was preening himself in the mirrored wardrobe door of Jesse’s room. ‘I look all right in this, don’t I? Loveday won’t be able to keep her hands off me.’
Jesse was fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. His heart was beating way too fast and his breathing was more like a pant. Mickey turned away from his own reflection to look at Jesse. ‘You’m real nervous, eh, boy? You shouldn’t have had a skinful with Grant last night. Bad move.’
‘I’m not doing this right.’ Jesse looked at Mickey, trying to find the words. ‘I am not doing the right thing.’
‘I tell ’e you’re not. You’re doing those buttons up all wrong. Let me do them for you.’ Jesse stood shaky but compliant as Mickey did up his shirt buttons, fixed his collar, got him into his pinstriped trousers and pinned the cravat. ‘We’ll put our tailcoats on at the church. Don’t want to crease them.’
Jan came in with two mugs of tea. ‘Don’t you boys look smart?’ She gave each of them a once-over, straightening their cravats. ‘You’re as white as a ghost still, Jesse. Get this tea down you. Mickey, you look after him at the altar and make sure he don’t faint.’
‘I need to speak to Greer,’ said Jesse. ‘I must go and see her.’
His mother laughed. ‘You’ll be seeing plenty of her after the wedding. You’ll see her every day for the rest of your life.’
Jesse was desperate, his voice catching. ‘I have things I need to talk to her about. It’ll be too late if I don’t go now.’
‘You’re staying here, even if I have to get Grant to hold you down.’ His mother took his hand. ‘’Tis nerves, that’s all.’ She turned to Mickey. ‘Come on, Best Man. What does it say in the book about nervous grooms?’
Before Mickey could think of an answer, the bedroom door was thrown open and Grant stood in the doorway in full uniform. He saluted the groom and said: ‘Escort Party for Mr Jesse Behenna ready and waiting. It is the brother of the groom’s duty to get a hair of the dog down his neck before he bottles it. And a Marine always does his duty.’
The little party of Grant, Mickey and Jesse prepared to leave the house. Mickey and Jesse had their tailcoats safely in protective bags to put on at the last minute. A light flurry of snow danced through the air; Jesse reached for his parka. The scent of Loveday clung to it and he immediately visualised her lying on it as he made love to her. It took all his willpower not to bury his face in it and drink her in once more. Then he saw it. On the lining by the fishtail back was the unmistakable stain of their passion, and it was red with blood.
12
Greer looked wonderful. Her hair had grown in the last six months and was styled into a glossy 1920s bob. Her make-up was natural and glowing, her dress exquisite. Her high pert bust, nipped-in waist and slender bottom were celebrated and worshipped by it. Greer was a vision of serenity and fulfilment.
Loveday, on the other hand, was not. She was having her hair pulled and backcombed by the hairdresser’s sister who had come to lend a hand, seeing as the snow had made them almost two hours late. The blowdry had left Loveday’s face scarlet. Her make-up lay thick on her young skin and she could feel her spot fighting vigorously to break its way through the crowd of concealer, foundation and powder. She felt sick, hungover and horribly emotional. Where was Jesse? Tears threatened yet again and she reached forward to grab a tissue from the box in front her.
‘Feeling sweaty, are you?’ asked the hated hairdresser, yanking the hair on the back of her neck and pinning to her he
ad, with unnecessary ferocity, the ghastly silk poinsettia.
A tear fled down Loveday’s face and she mopped it quickly with the tissue. ‘No.’
‘You’re feeling very hot. Crying always gets me hot too.’
‘I’m not crying.’
‘Are you crying, Loveday?’ asked Greer, looking like a cool breeze in front of her French cheval mirror.
‘No.’
‘Ah, Loveday, you’re such a softie. It is emotional watching your best friend get married to the boy of her dreams, but don’t cry off all that make-up. You’ll have that spot popping up again.’
‘I’m not crying.’ Loveday brushed the vestige of another tear away.
‘I know what will make you smile. Look at this.’
Loveday watched in the mirror’s reflection as Greer opened a satin drawstring bag and took out a delicate garter made of gauze and swan’s-down with tiny glittering crystals. The two hairdressers gasped in wonder, their mouths forming perfect Os.
‘That’s beautiful, that is,’ said the older one. ‘Put it on.’
Loveday watched as Greer shucked off her bridal slippers and pointed one perfect ballerina foot inside the garter. Then her slender, manicured fingers teased it up over her calf and her knee. Finally it whispered to a halt and lay perfectly in the middle of her slender thigh. It clung just below the lacy top of her sheer ivory stockings.
‘My God, that’ll drive Jesse Behenna mad,’ screeched the hairdresser, grinning.
Greer let the satin folds of her dress fall perfectly back to the floor and smiled a secretive smile.
Loveday was being given the last squirt of hairspray and looked at herself in the mirror. Her natural curls had been tortured into a regiment of ringlets. Her young, open face was now made hard with darkened eyebrows and peach lipstick. Her throat and chest were covered in nerve-induced red blotches and the hated dress was digging into her. Where on earth was Jesse? Why hadn’t he come?
*
