by Katie Fforde
‘Don't look so stricken,' said Sasha. 'I phoned him about putting an ad in the cricket programmes.'
‘That's right,' said Roger. 'Local advertising is very important to us. If we could get a sponsor for the kit..
‘Well, that's good,' said Bron, quietly but more firmly than usual. 'If your cricketing chums come to the salon, I won't have to cut their hair for free.'
‘Bron?' said Sasha teasingly. 'You're not moonlighting, are you?'
‘I cut Roger's mother's hair and any of the WAGs who do teas for me when I'm on the rota.' Sasha didn't know about Bron's recent spate of weddings; Bron really hoped Roger wouldn't say anything.
‘Why don't you tell her to book an appointment at the salon?' said Sasha, still smiling to imply she was joking, but there was the usual edge to her voice whenever she spoke to Bron. 'We haven't got so many customers that you can afford to give out freebies!’
Bron smiled back. She knew perfectly well that Sasha meant every word and, for once, she had the perfect answer. 'If Roger's mother came to the salon, she couldn't guarantee to get me. She might have to make do with one of the other stylists.' Bron made an I'm-a-ditzy-girl expression, but she meant what she'd said just as much as Sasha had.
‘Oh, Mum wouldn't mind who she had to do her hair,' said Roger, missing all the undertones. 'It doesn't matter to women of that age what they look like.’
Even Sasha seemed a bit horrified at this, although she had made that really ageing suggestion for Bron's client.
‘Well, you know what I mean,' he went on. 'A bit of a snip here and there, it can't matter who does it.'
‘So who cuts your hair, Roger?' asked Sasha.
'Bron,' he said, getting slightly pink.
‘I can tell. Come and see me next time you want it cut. I could do things with hair like that.' Sasha gave him a look that excluded everyone else present.
‘Oh, please do,' said Bron. 'There's a really tricky bit where he's going a bit thin. You might be able to do something clever to disguise it.’
Roger stared at her, his mouth slightly open.
‘Sorry,' went on Bron, her inner bitch still off the leash, 'didn't you know you were going a bit bald? It's perfectly normal, you know, as you get older.' Then, aware that she might have gone a bit too far in asserting herself, she said, 'I feel a bit hot. I'm just going into the garden for some air.’
No one in the group objected to her leaving, she realised as they made way for her. The back doors of the pub opened on to large gardens that led to a small stream. Bron abandoned her empty glass and walked out into the fresh air. Then, her heels piercing the grass with every step, she headed to where she could see willows weeping picturesquely into the water. She pulled her pashmina around her shoulders to help keep off the midges. Once she could stare into the water she would feel calmer.
She'd have to go back in eventually, she realised, but she really didn't want to. They weren't her sort of people, they were Roger's, and they made her feel like the child on the edge of the group in the playground. She was not exactly ostracised, but she wasn't included, either. And when did Roger get so friendly with Sasha? It wasn't that she felt jealous, but she was confused.
She wrapped her arms around her and rocked a little, trying to sort herself out in her mind.
The glow of a cigarette drew her attention to the group of trees nearby. She'd just taken in that she wasn't alone when the smoker spoke.
‘Sorry, did I startle you?' said a man's voice.
‘Er – no – not at all,' said Bron, taken aback.
‘I'm trying to give it up,' he said as he emerged. 'But it does have its advantages.’
He was tall and needed a haircut, thought Bron immediately and then realised he was familiar. But as she couldn't remember where or when she'd seen him, she didn't comment.
He seemed to be wearing working clothes. A shirt, pale with washing, was half tucked in to a pair of faded jeans that had rents below the knee. Not for fashion's sake, Bron guessed, but through wear.
‘Hang on – we've met before!’
Bron gave him a questioning look. 'Maybe..
‘Yes! Just before Ashlyn's wedding. You were leaving when I came to put Major back in the house.'
‘That's right.' Bron nodded slowly, remembering clearly now – she'd had to rush back for Roger, always Roger.
‘I hope you don't feel accosted.' He frowned slightly. 'Perhaps if I introduced myself – my name is James.'
‘I'm Bron. And no, it's all right. I don't feel accosted.' Bron wasn't quite sure how she felt. He seemed nice enough and friendly, and not at all threatening, not that Roger would come to her rescue if she needed him. She shivered.
He tipped his head on one side a fraction. 'Are you OK?’
Bron pulled her shawl about her more tightly, as if to protect herself from his questions. 'Fine.' She realised that she'd sounded strained and hoped he wouldn't notice.
‘It's all right, I'm not trying to pick you up. I just thought you seemed a bit… well, never mind.' He smiled again and she noticed he had a very nice smile. His face was brown and there was a fair bit of stubble going on round his jaw, but it was a kind face. 'Actually, you look great, but not happy.'
‘I said, I'm fine,' she repeated, with more conviction this time.
‘So what are you doing on your own out here? You're not having a cheeky fag, so what is it?’
Bron sighed. 'I just fancied some fresh air, that's all.’
James chuckled. 'I'm afraid these days the air can be fresher inside the building than it is in the garden. Although I swear I'm giving up.' This last comment was almost to himself.
‘It's quite hot in there,' said Bron.
‘But your friends will be wondering what's happened to you. In fact, even as we speak your girlfriends are deciding which one of them should come out and check on you.’
Bron sighed. 'No they're not. I'm not here with girlfriends, my partner's inside. He'll probably be wondering where I am.' She closed her eyes for a few seconds, wishing he wasn't – not so much so she could feel free to chat with this James person, but because they no longer made each other happy. Anyway, he probably hadn't even noticed she'd gone. He obviously preferred to spend time with people like Sasha rather than her.
‘On the other hand,' persisted James, 'if you're out here it's probably because you've had a row.'
‘No! Well, not really.'
‘Do you know, somehow, that seems sadder. All couples row from time to time, but for you to want to come out here on your own when you haven't rowed makes it more likely there's something else that's wrong. You seem so sad about it.’
Bron turned away from him a little. He was far too perceptive for comfort. She might not be happy with Roger – in fact she definitely wasn't – but she didn't want to discuss his shortcomings with a stranger.
‘Do I sound like a counsellor? Sorry! I just know that couples have ups and downs.’
James dropped his cigarette end and then stubbed it out with his boot. It was a tiny little roll-up, hardly a cigarette at all. The boot, however, was heavy and stained with soil. He picked up the remains and put it in a little tin. Bron wondered if he was in a relationship and if so whether he was speaking from experience.
‘It's perfectly natural,' she said, meaning to be consoling if he was sad.
‘Oh yes. As long as the good times outweigh the bad.' Bron realised then that the good times hadn't done this for a while. There were bad times and there were OK times.
That was all. She hoped things were better for him. 'I'm sorry to have intruded,' he said.
‘Oh you haven't – not really. It's nice to have someone to chat to.' She regretted these words the moment they were out. Now he would know exactly how barren her relationship with Roger had become and she really hadn't intended to broadcast this fact.
‘It's a shame you didn't go to the wedding.'
‘I know. It was really kind of Mrs Lennox-Featherstone to ask me, but I had to get
back.'
‘It was a very good do.' He smiled. 'Great food!'
‘So I heard. Elsa, the dressmaker, who ended up as one of the bridesmaids, told me all about it.’
He frowned. 'That's a bit odd, isn't it? Choosing your dressmaker to be your bridesmaid? Although if you really got on..
Bron chuckled as she tried to explain. 'It was a last-minute thing. The real bridesmaid dropped out and Elsa was made to stand in for her. She wasn't keen, I can tell you.’
James laughed. 'Well, she looked the part. Very pretty, I thought.'
‘Thank you! I mean, I think she looked pretty, but I'd done her hair for her so I can take some of the credit.’
‘So you're a hairdresser?’
Bron tried really hard not to get tense. 'Yes.'
‘Cool.’
Bron shot him a glance. Was he mocking her? It didn't really seem so but perhaps he was just hiding his feelings about it. 'I like it,' she said defiantly. And then her phone started to sing from her handbag.
‘Oh, excuse me. I'd better see who this is. Sarah!' she said a moment later. 'No, this is a perfect time to call.’
Chapter Fourteen
‘Carrie's in town.° This was the message that Sarah had passed on to Bron and Elsa via a few frantic phone calls. They were all going up on the train to London to meet her, quite early, in part so Elsa could go to a fabric shop. Bron was coming along for moral support and Sarah was going to try and persuade Carrie to use her. Not only would it make the whole adventure more fun, and put good work Bron's way, it would mean whoever did Carrie's hair would not be swooping in at the last minute, not yet a member of what was becoming known between them as the Wedding Team.
Sarah had put off calling Hugo to confirm that Carrie wanted to see his work and what time they were all due to meet at the hotel. If only she could be normal with him. It was all very well her wanting to keep their relationship professional – but could she be? Maybe she'd be lucky and get his answering machine.
But Hugo had answered right away – sounding as if he'd just got out of bed and Sarah panicked briefly in case she'd woken him up. But then she reminded herself that not only did he have come-to-bed eyes, but he had a been-in-bed voice too, unfortunately for her peace of mind.
‘Sarah,' he drawled. 'What can I do for you?’
When Sarah said 'What can I do for you?' she sounded brisk and businesslike. When Hugo said it he sounded as if he was offering sophisticated sexual techniques, possibly involving chocolate.
‘Sorry to ring on a Sunday night, Hugo,' she said, 'but I just want to make arrangements for our meeting with Carrie tomorrow. Have you any thoughts? We're meeting her at four.'
‘I can't make four, I'm afraid, but I could do six?'
‘I'm not sure that would fit in. I mean, I'd have to ring Mandy and see-'
‘Don't worry. Mandy and I are old friends. I'll ring her.' Well, this was one less thing for her to do, at least. 'Great. So, did you manage to find a venue?' Sarah strained to make this sound like a casual request. She really didn't want him to know how hard she'd been working to sort this problem for herself and failing miserably.
‘Ah – little hitch there, I'm afraid.’
A squeak of anguish escaped her but she managed not to reproach him for raising her hopes – just. 'Oh, fine. I'll find one myself. You don't need to worry about it,' she said, with more confidence than she felt.
‘Oh, I've found a venue and you'll love it. Not absolutely what anyone's expecting but really amazing. There's just a little matter of whether or not it's licensed for weddings.’
‘That's very tantalising.' She tried to sound cheery, as if this news weren't tearing her in all directions: first hope, then despair. Ending up relatively cool was difficult. 'Where is it? If it's in the far north, I can't have it. My sister's getting married on the same day. I'll have to box and cox.’
‘What?'
‘I'll have to run between weddings. I can't let my sister down and Carrie is my most prestigious client to date.' Sarah paused, aware that if she went on talking about it, the impossibility of the situation might make her cry.
‘Ah.’
Back under control, she said, 'So where might this perfect-yet-flawed church be?'
‘If it comes off it's in Herefordshire. I don't want to tell you more in case it doesn't.’
Herefordshire was at least in the same quarter of England, which was hopeful. 'Nothing more you can tell me? I'd quite like something to tell her. Or you haven't got pictures of it by any chance, have you?
‘Sorry, not of this venue, I'm afraid. I'm going to be showing her a range of my work but I'm avoiding churches and things because the place I have in mind is really a bit different and until I'm sure-’
Sarah interrupted him. 'You do know she wants traditional? Just like Ashlyn?'
‘People don't always know what they want until they see it. Trust me, Sarah.’
She sighed. She knew this was true but suspected Carrie might be different. She was a top Hollywood A-lister; compromise wouldn't be part of her life. 'You don't have to find the venue for me, Hugo.'
‘I did offer.'
‘I know, but it's my job. It's up to me to do it.'
‘Don't sound so downhearted, Sarah,' said Hugo. 'It will all work out. Things always do.’
Sarah hadn't realised her feelings were so apparent. Why didn't Hugo understand the urgency of the matter? Why was he so wretchedly laid-back all the time? 'Not weddings, Hugo. There are TV programmes based almost entirely on videos of wedding disasters; that's why people employ me, so they don't have to sell their horror stories to claw back some of the cost of their fiasco.’
Hugo was silent for a few moments. 'Why don't I come over and take you out for a late drink? You sound as if you need cheering up.’
Just for a second she allowed herself to consider it. The idea of drinking brandy, albeit only as friends now, with Hugo took her right back to Ashlyn's wedding. It had been lovely – too lovely. 'Thank you so much but I've got to be up at dawn and I've loads still to organise.’
After they had disconnected, she allowed herself two minutes' reminiscence about Ashlyn's wedding and then carried on with her phone calls. She must be very careful where Hugo was concerned. She'd made it clear there could be nothing between them, so perhaps she was being unfair to think he'd even dare risk asking her again, even if a part, a very tiny part, of her half wished he would. She really couldn't afford to be distracted. She had to focus on the job in hand. Her reputation depended on it.
*
Bron arrived on the platform just as the train pulled in. She had several carrier bags with her and gave the impression of a schoolgirl going on an outing.
‘So sorry,' she gasped to Sarah. 'I thought I had loads of time but then I couldn't find a parking space, and then one machine was out of order and I had to run all the way to the other one, and then back to the car.. In spite of her difficulties, she seemed very excited. 'It's so brilliant of you to swing it for me to come!'
‘It's all right!' said Sarah, returning Bron's spontaneous hug. 'I've got our tickets. Quick, Elsa, bag that table.’
They organised themselves and eventually collapsed into their seats, all of them relaxing now they were actually on the train.
Bron got out one of her carrier bags. 'I know it's silly but I brought little bottles of champagne to drink. To get us in the mood!'
‘Oh, Bron, what fun!' said Elsa, glancing at Sarah, wondering how she'd react to this.
‘And things to eat.' A small pink cool bag came out of the carrier. 'And this!'
‘This' was a copy of Celeb magazine. On the cover was Carrie Condy, news of her approaching wedding advertised all over the front.
‘Give me that!' said Sarah. 'Mandy said something about them being interested. It would be amazing publicity for us all if they covered it.'
‘Of course they'll cover it!' Bron was passing out straws to go in the champagne bottles. Then she opened the cool bag. T
here were little smoked-salmon canapes and quails' eggs.
‘I've only just had breakfast,' said Elsa, nevertheless taking a roll of salmon filled with cream cheese.
‘So you managed to get away OK?' Elsa asked Bron as she eased the cork out of her little bottle.
‘Mm, yes, at last! Work wasn't hard, Mondays are quite slow and I'm owed loads of holiday. Roger was a bit harder to get round.’
Having taken Sarah's call in the pub garden the previous night, she had immediately made preparations. While actually at the pub she had asked Sasha for the day off. She had shrugged and said, 'Suit yourself.' Once she was home she had peeled some potatoes for Roger's supper the next night. The last thing she had wanted to do was to stand in her spindly heels at the sink, in her pretty dress. But Roger had told her early on in their relationship that he was a 'potato man'. Rice and pasta were a poor substitute, in his opinion. However, he wasn't much good at peeling them. If she didn't want a row, she must make things as easy as possible for him.
Having peeled them she cut them into chips, the squared-off, chunky way he liked them. When he got home from work he could cook these in the deep-fat fryer that had been their present from his parents. Bron hardly ever used it. Then she'd rummaged and found a couple of steaks she'd had in the freezer for a while and took them both out. He wouldn't need two but she could turn the other into a stir-fry the next day. She didn't actually go as far as cutting a tomato in half for him, but she considered it.
When she'd got his dinner ready as far as she possibly could, she went upstairs, showered and then put on the sexy and extremely uncomfortable underwear he had bought her last Christmas, because he liked to see her in it. When he came up to bed she was sitting up, perfumed, lightly made-up and adorned by black and red nylon, prepared to ask if it was all right if she went to London to see a client. Although Carrie Condy was only a potential client as yet, she didn't tell him that. When he heard the name he was impressed. He didn't want to show this, obviously, but Bron could tell. Later she wondered if she'd really needed the underwear to get round him. As she shuffled off to her side of the bed, now back in her own comfy cotton PJs, as near to the edge as she could get, she looked back over the day. The party had been grim. When she got back in from outside she'd been feeling more positive about herself, but the others had managed to wear away this spurt of confidence. No one had actually been rude, but she was firmly kept in her place as Roger's totty, without an identity of her own.
