Max’s
Wedding
Chapter 42
‘Can I help you?’ Max turned round from looking at a wall full of wigs to find a petite woman with eyelashes the length of daddy-long-legs’ legs and backcombed hair. The waist-length ash-blonde ponytail of hair that draped over her shoulder was obviously false but was a fabulous colour match to the rest of her barnet. This was Angelique, the owner of Angel Hair – wig heaven – a tiny and exclusive shop on the Penistone–Holmfirth Road. Despite its remote location, apparently it had no shortage of clientele, including a few celebrity clients if the Chronicle was to be believed. Male and female. She did a cracking line in toupées as well as beehives.
‘I’m getting married soon,’ said Max. ‘And I want . . . need a hairpiece.’
‘Then you have come to the right place,’ said Angelique, sweeping her hand around her shop, which was floor to ceiling full of hair. Angelique had tiger-striped false talons and a gorgeous spray-painted mocha tan that made her blue eyes pop out. Max couldn’t wait to begin her transformation. She hoped her cocoa-coloured eyes shone as brightly against a backdrop of San Maurice spray tan.
‘What were you thinking?’ asked Angelique. ‘Something like this, maybe?’
She picked up a small round of hair and clipped it expertly on to Max’s head.
Max shook her head. ‘Too small,’ she said, while lasciviously eyeing up the long Rapunzel-like locks to her immediate left.
‘O-kay,’ said Angelique, taking down a tumble of dark hair and pinning it with expert ease on to the crown of Max’s head. It weighed a ton. Angelique reached for some big pins and began to pile up the hair into a huge tower. Then she reached for a sparkly tiara and slotted it into her hair creation.
‘You see, hair like this and you’ll look like a princess on your big day.’
Princess – magic word. It was as if Angelique could see right into Max’s head and tailor her sales banter accordingly.
Max stared back at the beginnings of a gypsy bride in the mirror. The glittery embellishment was far too small, though. It wouldn’t even show up on a gypsy girl’s radar. A wig of this magnitude needed a full Russian tsarina’s Swarovski-encrusted shebang. In her head Max added that tiara, glittery lips and massive eyelashes to her image in the mirror. She batted away the vision of Stuart wagging a warning finger at her.
Her hair was a gorgeous spire of fabulousness. The wig was taken off, bagged up and bought. Of course now she needed to go hunting for that blingy tiara. And she had allowed herself the full Saturday to go wedding shopping. Yet another item was added to her list of ‘boughts’ and another to the ‘to buys’.
Chapter 43
While Max was in Angel Hair, and from the sanctity of their study Stuart heard the key in the outside door, bang on time. If he was in, he always kept out of the way when Sheila came on Saturdays and Tuesdays because he felt guilty that they had a cleaner. He couldn’t lounge about while she busied around him; he would have felt uncomfortably indulgent. Instead he would bob his head out of the door to say a quick courteous hello and then pretend he was busy.
Although this time when he emerged to say his hello it wasn’t Sheila who was standing with her bucket full of cleaning items but a much younger woman.
‘Oh hello,’ he said, thrown a little. One, because it wasn’t Sheila, and two, because the short, slender woman with the swingy brown ponytail was vaguely familiar.
‘Hi,’ said the woman. ‘I’m Sheila’s daughter, Jenny. I’m covering for her as she’s pulled her back and can’t walk . . . Stuart?’
Then she smiled and he realized exactly who she was. ‘Jenny? Jenny Thompson?’ Smiling Jenny.
‘Stuart Taylor. Oh my God, how lovely to see you again. How many years has it been?’
Stuart smiled. ‘Oh too flaming many,’ he said. ‘Seventeen?’
‘It’s never that long since we left school, is it?’ Jenny started to tot up in her head and gasped. ‘My goodness, so it is. How scary is that!’
‘I didn’t know that Sheila was your mum. All the time she’s been working here, and I never knew.’
‘Well, Thompson’s a common name,’ said Jenny beaming that same smile she did at school. ‘Smiling Jenny’ she used to be called, and she was always wearing bright colours. The clothes had changed, seeing as she was in jeans and a black T-shirt with a cleaning tabard over it, but her smile was the same.
‘So, what’s happened to you since I saw you last?’ said Stuart, realizing that he was grinning as widely as Jenny was. ‘Are you still with Gav? Surely not, after all these years.’
Jenny and Gav were glued at the hip and had been since primary school.
‘Sadly not,’ said Jenny. ‘He was killed in a bike smash ten years ago.’
Stuart was genuinely shocked. ‘Oh Jenny, that’s awful. I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’
‘It didn’t make the newspaper at the time,’ said Jenny. ‘And his parents didn’t want any obituaries written. You’re not the first to say you never heard about it.’
Stuart was really cut up by the news. When they were kids, they all thought they were immortal.
‘That must have been terrible for you. And his family, of course.’
‘Yes, yes, it was,’ she replied quietly. ‘I thought we’d be together for ever. But . . . not to be.’ She raised her shoulders and dropped them. ‘Anyway, never mind about that, I hear you’re getting married soon. At least, Mum said that the people she worked for here were, so I’m presuming that’s you.’
‘Yep,’ nodded Stuart, but he didn’t want to talk about that. He wanted to find out about Jenny. The years between now and their schooldays melted away in an instant.
‘Did you and Gav get married, then? Before . . .’ He tailed off, not really knowing how to put it sensitively.
‘Naw,’ Jenny answered. ‘We were happy as we were, really. We lived together and probably would have got married one day, if we’d been lucky enough to have kids.’
‘Where are you living?’
‘Same street I grew up on,’ said Jenny. ‘Farthing Street. Although the kids are always painting out the “h” and the “s” – little buggers.’
They both chuckled then Jenny said, ‘Maybe if I’d been cleverer at school I could have had a posh job and bought a big house like this.’
‘Don’t be fooled,’ said Stuart. ‘All this comes from my partner.’
As soon as he said it, he felt embarrassed. As if he was poncing off Maxine.
But Jenny didn’t seem to notice. ‘I wish I’d been blessed in the brains department like Gillian Stephenson and Luke Appleby. Wonder what they’re up to these days. Running ICI, most like.’
‘I’m still best mates with Luke,’ said Stuart. ‘And he’s doing very well for himself.’
‘Oh that’s good,’ Jenny replied with a genuine smile. ‘He was a nice lad.’
‘He doesn’t know about Gavin either or he would have told me. He’ll be shocked as well.’
Jenny nodded. ‘Ah well, best get on.’ She picked up her cleaning stuff. ‘I’ve got to shoot off home quickly after this so I can let the neighbour’s dog out before I do my afternoon shift.’
‘Yes, of course, don’t let me get in your way. I’ll be in the study if you want me for anything.’
It didn’t sit easy with Stuart that he was flicking through eBay pages while Jenny was cleaning their three toilets. He could think of better ways for her to spend a Saturday morning. She probably thought he was doing executive things like stock-moving and share-dealing. If only she knew.
He was glad when she knocked on his door and said she had finished and was going home. He offered to give her a lift. She turned him down and he insisted. It wasn’t as if he had anything else to do. Maxine was out shopping and as usual he was waiting around for her to come home.
Stuart pulled into the huge estate, known locally as the Money Box because most of the streets were named after coins – Penny Road, Guinea Terrace, Tanner L
ane, Farthing Street, among others. Jenny’s was the middle one in a row of five terraced houses. The windows were sparkling clean and white lacy curtains hung at the windows, swooped up with ties at the sides.
‘Looks a nice house,’ said Stuart, meaning it.
‘Next to yours? You’re kidding,’ laughed Jenny. ‘Although mine is plenty big enough for me and Alan.’
‘Alan?’ asked Stuart. So she had found someone else after Gav, then.
‘Do you want to see him?’ said Jenny. ‘I love showing him off.’
Stuart followed her in through her front door. The whole downstairs was open-plan: a small square front room then a breakfast bar and beyond that a kitchen. It was fresh and light – and had such a cosy feeling he found himself sighing with delight. The sofa that sat in front of the fire was full of cushions and he just wanted to relax into it. It looked a hundred times more comfortable than the ‘stylish’ black-leather ones with the low backs that they had at home.
One of the furry grey cushions had ears. At first Stuart thought it was a toy, but then Jenny picked it up and placed it on his shoulder.
‘He’s housetrained so don’t worry,’ she said. ‘This is Alan. He’s a British Giant Rabbit.’
‘Oh my,’ chuckled Stuart. ‘He weighs a ton.’
‘Scratch his ears, he likes that,’ said Jenny proudly. ‘He’s such a tart. He’ll go to anyone who’ll give him some attention.’
Stuart gave a mock-scream as he felt the rabbit prodding his ear with his twitching nose.
‘He likes to smell ears,’ laughed Jenny. ‘He’s a bit weird.’ She took the weighty Alan from Stuart and put him back on his cushion. ‘He watches Emmerdale, can you believe? Wherever he is when the music comes on, he runs to sit on the sofa and take his place next to me. I bet he thinks it’s about carrot farms.’
Stuart smiled. ‘He’s great. I can see your tap is on, by the way.’
‘Oh it’s always on the dribble. I can’t turn it off properly,’ said Jenny. ‘I should really get a plumber in to sort it.’
‘Here, let me have a look at it,’ said Stuart.
‘No, don’t worry . . .’ Jenny protested but Stuart was already walking over to check it out.
‘Have you got an adjustable wrench, by any chance?’
Jenny reached under the sink and pulled out a tin of tools. ‘Is there one in there?’ she asked.
‘Perfect,’ said Stuart, picking out what he needed. He had the dripping tap mended in a jiffy.
‘Aw, thanks ever so much for that. It was driving me mad,’ said Jenny, foraging in her handbag. ‘What do I owe you?’
‘Jenny Thompson, don’t you insult me,’ returned Stuart fiercely.
‘Okay,’ said Jenny, snapping shut her purse. ‘Thank you.’
If she’d offered him a cup of tea, he knew he wouldn’t have refused it. He didn’t put her on the spot, though, and wait to be asked, but he thought he could have stayed in that little house all afternoon catching up with Jenny Thompson. As he walked back to his car, Stuart felt his chest puff up with the pride of being needed. Yes, that was it. For a few minutes he was needed. He had forgotten what that felt like living with the super-competent Max.
Chapter 44
Later that day, as they leaned on the bar in the Lamp, Luke picked his moment.
‘What are you going to be wearing – to get married in?’
Stuart spluttered into his pint. ‘What sort of a question is that for a red-blooded male to ask? Man-up, you big girl.’
‘I’m asking because I want to know what I need to wear,’ replied Luke. ‘I’m going to look a bit stupid wearing a Hugo Boss suit if you’re wearing jeans.’
‘I can’t wear jeans now we’re getting married in church, can I?’ said Stuart. He didn’t want to talk weddings – especially not tonight.
‘Well? Are you wearing a suit or what?’
‘I’ll have to, won’t I?’ huffed Stuart.
‘Buy a new suit for your wedding,’ pressed Luke.
‘I don’t want to buy a new one. I’ve got a couple of work suits and a black one for funerals. One of those will have to do.’
‘You can’t wear a funeral suit for your wedding,’ Luke scoffed.
‘It’s just a black suit. It doesn’t have “For Funerals” embroidered on it.’
‘You can afford a new one,’ said Luke, wishing that Max had never asked him to interfere. Stuart could be really hard work when he dug his heels in.
‘It’s a waste of money for one day.’
‘I would have lent you one of mine but that wouldn’t really be much help.’
‘If you’d had the decency to stop growing when you were seventeen it might have,’ said Stuart.
As boys they had been of a very similar build, if not colouring. Stuart had brown eyes and mid-brown hair;Luke’s hair was very dark but his eyes were light grey – the exact same colour his hair would turn in his early twenties, in fact. By seventeen they were both six foot tall; by twenty-one Luke had added another five inches to that and bulked up in the gym. They now had very different physiques.
‘Well, let’s hire some suits, instead,’ Luke suggested.
Stuart stared into his pint. ‘Whatever. What-fucking-ever.’
‘What’s up with you?’ said Luke, raising his eyebrows at Stuart’s rare profanity.
‘Sorry, mate,’ said Stuart, puffing the air out of his cheeks. He took another sip of beer. ‘I saw Jenny Thompson today. Do you remember her?’
‘Course I remember her,’ said Luke. ‘Smiling Jenny? That’s a blast from the past. Where did you meet her?’
‘She was cleaning our three bogs.’
‘Eh?’
‘Our cleaner is off with a poorly back. So her daughter turned up to cover her shift and that daughter happened to be Jenny.’
‘Small world,’ whistled Luke. ‘How’s she doing?’
‘Did you know Gav White was killed on his bike ten years ago?’
‘Bloody hell, no, I didn’t.’ Luke was rocked by that news. Gav was always so full of beans. Solid as a barn door and bike-crazy. ‘Were he and Jenny still courting when it happened?’
‘Yes, living together. No kids, though. Shame, isn’t it?’
‘God, yeah,’ said Luke, shaking his head. Twenty-three was no age to die. ‘You’ve got to enjoy it while you can is the lesson there, I think.’
‘Yeah,’ said Stuart. ‘Isn’t it just?’
‘Next Saturday, we’ll check out some hire suits. Oh hang on, that’s your birthday.’
‘It’s fine. I won’t be doing anything special. Max will probably be working,’ Stuart grumbled.
‘Okay. Next Saturday afternoon it is, then.’
‘If I must,’ said Stu, though suits were way down on the list of things agitating his brain. He didn’t admit to his oldest friend that Jenny Thompson was top.
Chapter 45
‘Oh my GOD, you’re back!’ Faye shrieked at the door when she opened it to find Bel on the step. ‘Come in, come in.’ Her arms were flapping like windmills because her immediate instinct was to throw them round her stepdaughter, but she didn’t because Bel didn’t do hugs with her. Only at birthdays and Christmas.
Trevor appeared from behind her and Bel walked straight into his outstretched arms.
‘Oh love, we were so worried. Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ said Bel, savouring the warmth of her dad. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s okay, don’t you worry,’ said Faye, speaking for Trevor. ‘We’re both just glad you’re home and safe.’
‘Have you heard from Richard?’ asked Trevor.
‘Yes. He texted and left a lot of messages. He wants to talk to me.’
‘I’ll bet he bloody does,’ growled Trevor. ‘No one knows where he’s hiding. Or Shaden. I wouldn’t be surprised if—’
‘Trevor,’ warned Faye. She knew him well enough to know how all his sentences ended. Implying that Shaden and Richard were together w
asn’t what Bel needed to hear.
‘Sorry, love. No doubt they’ll both crawl out from under their stones soon enough,’ huffed Trevor, giving his daughter another squeeze.
‘Would you like some tea?’ asked Faye. ‘Shall I make us all a big pot of tea? The kettle’s just boiled.’
‘Please,’ said Bel. Faye strutted off in her feathery heeled mules. Bel didn’t think anyone but the Bosomworth sisters wore those any more.
‘Come and sit down,’ said Trevor, pulling her by the hand into the lounge. ‘Where have you been?’
‘I went up to Haworth.’
‘Where did you stay?’
‘The cottages,’ said Bel.
‘The Bronte cottages?’ asked Trevor.
‘Yes, Dad. The Bronte cottages.’
‘How did you get in?’
‘I’ve had a set of keys for them for ages. I hoped you wouldn’t remember that.’
‘I didn’t remember,’ said Trevor. ‘But I rang Emily just in case. It’s being rented out to a man—’
‘I know. I told him not to tell you where I was.’
‘Oh you silly girl,’ said Trevor. He was wearing a woolly cardigan, a real Dad knit. Bel suddenly felt like a little girl again. She plonked herself down on their lovely big sofa and nestled into the cushions.
‘What you have to remember, Trevor, is that Bel had to deal with things in her own way,’ said Faye, returning with the pot of tea on a tray and a plate of biscuits. Then she added hurriedly, ‘At least I hope I’m right in that.’
Bel spotted the worry in Faye’s voice that she had said the wrong thing. Bel knew she made Faye feel on edge, even after all these years. How awful was that really?
‘Yep, in a nutshell, Faye. You know what I’m like. Headstrong to the last,’ said Bel to her and Faye smiled. Bel noticed, probably for the first time, how much her small kindnesses meant to her stepmother.
White Wedding Page 18
