Wedding Season

by Katie Fforde

  ‘Oh?' Again, Hugo's attention was total. This seemed to give Bron confidence.

  ‘Yes,' she explained. 'Lots of people think that hairdressing is only for people who couldn't do anything else. I could have done lots of things, but I wanted to do hairdressing. There's a lot more to it than people realise.’

  Bron picked up her glass and luckily the waitress arrived at that moment with a large plate of tortellini.

  ‘Ah, here's your food,' said Elsa to Hugo. 'Shall we look at the pudding menu, girls?'

  ‘Oh yes,' agreed Sarah. 'I always look at it. I don't often let myself have one, but I love to read about them.'

  ‘We could share one,' said Bron. 'What about chocolate tart with a trio of ice creams and fudge sauce?'

  ‘Oh yes,' said Elsa.

  ‘Why don't you have one each?' asked Hugo. 'If you like that sort of thing.'

  ‘Not nearly as much fun,' explained Sarah. 'And we'd be sick.'

  ‘And fat,' put in Bron. 'Men don't like sharing their food. Roger gets terribly annoyed if I pinch a chip or ask for a spoonful of pudding.'

  ‘He's probably an only child,' said Sarah.

  ‘Well, yes, he is,' said Bron. 'But so am I. I don't mind people sharing my meal. I think it's friendly.'

  ‘I'm an only child too,' said Elsa. 'I'm also pretty relaxed about food. Mind you, my dad has always stolen my chips. I got used to it very young.'

  ‘I'll order the pudding,' said Sarah. 'Hugo, is there anything you'd like?’

  He shook his head. 'I'm happy with this, thank you, but please feel free to share it if you want to.'

  ‘We wouldn't do that, Hugo,' said Bron. 'That would be very unfair.’

  They chatted easily for the rest of the evening, and Sarah finally relaxed. Hugo was good company and regaled them all with amusing anecdotes about some of the weddings he'd been to that Sarah hadn't organised. Finally, as the waitresses began stacking chairs, they felt they really should leave.

  Everyone squashed into Hugo's car, laughing and joking. Elsa and Bron got in the back before Sarah could nab a place there.

  ‘I hope you don't mind being a chauffeur, Hugo,' she said, suddenly feeling guilty for taking advantage of his good nature.

  ‘I don't mind,' said Hugo. 'I have been a chauffeur in my time.’

  As they drove in silence through the night she realised there was a lot about him she didn't know. Part of her yearned to find out more about him as a person, but she knew she mustn't do or say anything that might risk drifting away from their professional relationship. They'd managed to establish their old easy relationship – well, perhaps not entirely, but time would help that.

  When he'd dropped off the other girls, they had both given him a peck on the cheek when they said goodbye. Feeling horribly awkward about the whole thing she did the same, a quick rushed peck that was more like a stab, really.

  ‘Goodbye, Hugo, thank you very much for the lift.’

  ‘You are entirely welcome, Sarah,' he said.

  She walked up to the door of her building feeling wistful. He probably was as nice and as trustworthy as he seemed – he was certainly as sexy. It was a real shame she couldn't trust anybody.

  Chapter Twelve

  About ten days after their jolly evening at the wine bar, Elsa got out of bed and put the kettle on. This done, she went into her workroom while she was still bleary-eyed and sleepy, wearing the big sloppy T-shirt she'd slept in.

  One of the things she really liked about living on the premises was being able to go straight to work if she wanted to, even on a Sunday, without having to shower, or dress, or travel. She liked having her first-thing-in-the morning mind, as yet uncluttered by the daily grind, to apply to her creative process.

  Later, she might visit her parents, have lunch or tea or go for a walk. They never minded her being casual about these things – if they weren't in they weren't in. Now she had got a prom dress and a beaded corset off her hands, she had a slot to really think about Carrie Condy's wedding dress.

  She knew that Carrie Condy wanted everything about her wedding to be the same as Ashlyn's, but she also knew that even brides who weren't celebrities wanted to be uniquely beautiful on their wedding day. Another inconvenient fact was that she couldn't really make any proper plans, apart from drawings, without speaking to Carrie. She could produce fabric samples galore, but until Carrie made her choice, she couldn't do a thing. Sarah was going to ring her the moment she heard anything.

  She wasted a few moments thinking about Ashlyn's wedding and her role in it. Had she secretly enjoyed being part of the action in a beautiful dress? Or was she really and truly happier in her usual black? On balance she felt she was a backroom girl at heart. She was the one who made things happen for other people, rather like Bron was. Let the limelight be for others.

  Maybe she was just too scared to come out from behind her black clothes, her tape measure and her pins? Although she had enjoyed actually wearing the dress, there was no denying that. And it had been good research, knowing what they felt like to wear for a whole evening.

  Now she got out her original Englishwoman's Domestic Magazine that dated from Victorian times and had beautifully produced prints. Her mother had tracked down this volume when Elsa first declared she wanted to be a dressmaker and it had been one of her favourite sources of information ever since. So many copies of these books had been broken up for the fashion plates, but hers was complete and she loved it.

  She had sheets of grey sugar paper already torn into large rectangles and her old box of pastels near by. She had already studied a pile of magazines so she knew what Carrie looked like and her general style. Picking up a crayon at random, she began to draw.

  She discarded the first few drafts without even looking at them, but eventually an idea began to form in her mind. She didn't know if Carrie had artificially enhanced breasts or not, but if she had, it was important, Elsa felt, to avoid any styles that might make this too apparent.

  Usually with clients, there'd be a meeting when Elsa would talk about fabrics, details, their favourite flowers, favourite paintings, films, costume dramas – anything that would indicate what dream the bride-to-be had in mind for herself. Every girl wanted to be a princess on her weddingday – or if she didn't, she didn't come to Elsa for her wedding dress.

  But with Carrie it was different – a great deal more difficult. There'd be no time for a cosy, girly session in Elsa's workshop, when Elsa turned up the heat, produced tea and chocolate biscuits and the bride could take off her clothes and start dressing up.

  Because of Carrie's busy schedule, Elsa would have to have lots of drawings and fabric samples to send her, so her client could at least reject the ones she didn't like. Sarah had hinted that Elsa might have to visit Carrie wherever she happened to be in the world if she wanted to guarantee a decision from her. Sarah was only too aware that time was short, and under two months to make a gown as elaborate as Ashlyn's was putting a lot of pressure on Elsa – she had other projects on, after all. Still, Elsa liked a challenge as much as Sarah did and she felt reasonably confident that she could get it done in the time, provided nothing untoward happened.

  She finished her third design – her favourite so far, one that managed to be sexy and yet demure enough for a bride. Elsa felt that no bride should expose too much flesh if she was getting married in a church and was adept at creating dresses with sleeves and backs that detached, so the bride could display all the St Tropez or fake-bake she wanted to at the reception. She was drawing arrows and details of how this happened on the sketch when her mobile rang.

  She was startled. She was so involved in her drawing that she could hardly remember what that funny little noise indicated. The phone had stopped tinkling by the time she retrieved it from her bag. She checked to see who had called her and it was a strange number. She frowned. Not Sarah then. She went back to her drawing, noting as she did so that her T-shirt was covered in smudges from her pastels. And it was nearly ten o'clock
– far too late to be wandering about without knickers, even for a Sunday. She stretched and filled the kettle again before going into the tiny bathroom.

  The phone rang again when she had just poured boiling water on a tea bag, still wearing her towel. She nearly ignored it but in case her parents had fallen down a crevasse and needed her to call the emergency services, she answered it.

  ‘Is that Elsa?' said a voice she recognised but couldn't put a name to. 'It's Laurence. Remember? From Ashlyn's wedding?’

  She jumped. When Mrs Lennox-Featherstone had said he wanted her number she hadn't thought he'd actually ring her.

  ‘Oh, yes,' she said carefully. If his sister or his niece wanted a wedding dress it would have to be for next year now.

  ‘I wondered if we could meet for a drink or something sometime.'

  ‘Oh.' Elsa wasn't used to being asked out – not by men anyway – and she presumed this was a date. The last time she'd gone out with a man he'd been the son of friends of her parents. Both sets of parents were worrying about their single children and tried to match them up. It hadn't been a success. But Laurence had been nice – kind and funny. Perhaps he was just being friendly.

  He pressed on. 'So, would that be possible? Do you think?'

  ‘Er – yes.' A bit late, Elsa remembered her social skills. 'I don't see why not. When did you have in mind?'

  ‘What about this evening? It is very short notice, I know, but it's Sunday and there's nothing on television.' She could hear the chuckle in his voice. 'The programme about cars is having a break.’

  This made her laugh and remember their banter at the wedding. 'You mean if you could watch grown men behaving like teenagers you would?' she asked, feigning indignation. 'As you can't you're asking me for a drink?' He wasn't the only one who liked that programme, although she wasn't going to say so.

  He laughed too. 'Exactly. How about it? I have a favour I want to ask and I'd rather do it in person.'

  ‘When you've dulled my senses with strong drink?’

  ‘You're reading my mind.’

  Elsa giggled. Yes, she had enjoyed the wedding, but mostly because Laurence had been so nice to her and fun to be with. 'Well, if you need a dress for someone, unless it's for next year, there's no chance.'

  ‘This is nothing to do with dresses,' said Laurence, trying to sound offended and not quite making it, 'or at least, only indirectly.'

  ‘OK then,' said Elsa, after a moment's teetering indecision. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as her mother would say. 'I'll meet you for a drink. What time?' He was silent for a bit and then said, 'Could it be earlyish?'

  ‘Yes. Why do you ask?'

  ‘Because if we meet early, we can make it dinner if we like each other.'

  ‘I see where you're going with this. But supposing one of us likes the other and the other doesn't.' Elsa didn't often get an opportunity to tease like this and she found she enjoyed it.

  ‘That doesn't make any sense,' said Laurence firmly.

  ‘It makes perfect sense,' insisted Elsa. 'Supposing one of us was really bored. How would they get up and say, "So sorry, got to go," if the other person was having a brilliant time and had already decided it might be dinner?'

  ‘Tell you what,' said Laurence after a moment's unravelling, 'let's be bold and make it dinner. If we're miserable, we can skip pudding and coffee.’

  Elsa smiled and shook her head. 'OK. I'll be bold. Where would you like us to meet?'

  ‘I'll pick you up from your flat then you don't have to worry about your car.' He paused. 'If you don't want to be driven home by me you can always take a taxi.'

  ‘Now you're reading my mind,' said Elsa, although she was fairly sure that she wouldn't mind Laurence driving her home. After all, he didn't drink and she knew he was a good driver.

  ‘So what's your address?’

  Elsa considered a moment. 'Actually, could you pick me up from my parents' house? I usually go over there on Sundays.' She didn't want him coming to her workroom just yet. She liked to know people quite well before she let them go there.

  ‘Oh. Is that so they can check me over before I take their daughter away in my antique sports car?’

  Why hadn't she anticipated he'd think this? 'No! I'm nearly thirty, you don't have to convince my father of your good intentions.' Elsa laughed, amused by this idea.

  ‘I wouldn't be worried about that,' said Laurence, 'but I am glad of an opportunity to check out what your mother looks like.'

  ‘Why?' Elsa was baffled.

  ‘Because all women end up looking like their mothers.'

  ‘It's only dinner, Laurence,' she explained patiently, smiling to herself. 'Even if we have pudding and coffee, it's not going to take that long.’

  Elsa could hear the laugh in Laurence's voice. 'Give me the address. I'll pick you up at eight.’

  Her mother was lying on the sofa with her feet on the arm when Elsa called round. Elsa'd worked all day and, having nothing much to eat at her house, wanted a snack to keep her going before Laurence picked her up. She didn't want to drink on a completely empty stomach and her mother's fridge would have something she could raid. She went into the sitting room first. 'Hi, Mum. Cup of tea?'

  ‘Glass of wine. Your father walked the legs off me.'

  ‘It's good for you. You don't get enough exercise,' said Elsa's father from behind the newspaper. 'I'd like a glass of wine too. There's a bottle open.’

  Elsa brought her parents their wine and some pistachio nuts in a wooden dish and then said, 'Can I make myself a snack? I've got a date tonight.’

  Her mother's legs shot off the arm of the sofa and she sat upright. 'Nice.’

  Elsa was not deceived. Every fibre of her mother's being was concentrated on not getting over-excited, or being too curious, or making it plain that this was an unusual occurrence. Her daughter wasn't remotely fooled. 'Mm,' said Elsa. 'Actually, maybe I'll have a glass of wine too.’

  Before she left the room to fetch it, she saw her mother's lips clamp down on her anxieties about drinking and driving. Elsa smiled to herself in the kitchen; her mother was going to love Laurence. She made a quick sandwich and took it with a glass of wine through to her parents. Her mother was desperate for her to find a boyfriend and equally desperate for Elsa not to know this, but, sadly, Elsa was too good at reading her mother's body language to be in any doubt on the matter.

  Elsa perched on the now vacant sofa arm. 'Yes. Actually it's the man I met at Ashlyn's wedding.'

  ‘The man you danced with, who had the Morgan?' Elsa nodded. 'You did file every detail, didn't you?’

  Her mother made a dismissive gesture. 'Well, you don't go to so many posh weddings, do you? I'm bound to remember.'

  ‘Anyway, he's picking me up at eight.'

  ‘Eight! That's less than an hour! I'd better tidy up and put something decent on. And what are you going to wear?'

  ‘It's all right, don't panic, not this. I've brought something to change into.'

  ‘Let me see.’

  Elsa produced the rucksack with her change of clothes folded neatly in it. 'Hm,' said her mother, no longer so neutral.

  ‘I don't suppose there's any danger of getting any supper, is there?' said Elsa's father, unaware of the sartorial discussion, still struggling with the crossword.

  ‘There are some nice sausages if you peel the potatoes,' said Elsa's mother, taking out the T-shirt that her daughter thought quite smart enough for a casual date, even a first one.

  ‘I suppose you want me to cook them, too?'

  ‘That's right,' said both of his womenfolk in unison. 'Seriously, darling, have you really not got anything that isn't black?' said Elsa's mother.

  ‘This is a lovely T-shirt. Quite new. There's nothing wrong with it.' She remembered that Ashlyn's mother had told her she shouldn't wear black and wondered if she was right. She had also told her she was going to make her get her colours done – but with luck she'd forgotten all about it. She was a very busy woman.


  ‘Really, darling.. Elsa's mother began, and then stopped herself. 'OK, well, have a look at my jewellery and see if you can find something to jolly it up with but…' She paused, determined to be as encouraging as possible. 'I'm loving that fringe!’

  Elsa made a face at her mother's slang, as she was supposed to, and then her mother said, 'Right, I'm going to hoover.'

  ‘It's Sunday evening, Mum!'

  ‘But there are people coming!'

  ‘Only one and he won't cross the threshold,' said Elsa to her mother's departing back. 'If I'd known it would cause all this fuss, he could have picked me up from mine.’

  In spite of a natural desire to ignore her mother's advice, Elsa ran her fingers over the array of necklaces and beads that hung from a rack by her dressing table. Her mother loved big, ethnic, statement accessories, dating back, she insisted, to days when she made her own decorations with melon seeds dyed with cochineal and earrings with beads from her own mother's hoard.

  Elsa took a moment to fluff up the fringe and realised she loved it too. Then she held up one necklace after another until she found a simple pendant on a cord. It was turquoise and silver and went with a pair of earrings that Elsa had. It wasn't exactly making a big statement about her artistic tastes, but it looked pleasant enough. She didn't show herself to her mother until five to eight, so her mother couldn't sigh, and almost audibly wish that her daughter let herself go a bit more.

  Laurence arrived promptly at eight. Elsa opened the door and almost didn't recognise him. The last time she'd seen him he'd been wearing a morning suit. Now he had on a casual shirt tucked loosely into jeans. He kissed her cheek.

  ‘I'm so glad you didn't dress up,' he said, 'I thought I'd take you to a place I know with a garden. Great food, too.' As Elsa had dressed up, her smile wasn't all that warm. She noticed her mother hovering in the hallway. 'This is my mother. Mum, this is Laurence.'

  ‘Hello, Mrs Ashcombe, lovely to meet you,' said Laurence, 'and I'm Gentle.'

  ‘Glad to hear it,' said Mrs Ashcombe, her eyebrows raised.