Four Weddings and a White Christmas

by Jenny Oliver

  Hannah held in a smile. ‘No. Have you?’

  He shook his head.

  They walked some more. He asked about her dresses. She told him about working for Emily.

  ‘Jesus, that’s amazing. God.’ He paused on the sidewalk. ‘We should celebrate,’ he said, and then grabbing her hand in his, pulled her into the nearest bar. A real hipster joint with records on the walls and cocktails in jam jars.

  Harry kept hold of her hand as he ordered two negronis and as Hannah watched him, felt the warmth of her hand in his, she wondered if coming in here was just an excuse not to go home. For this not to end.

  She wondered, if he asked, whether she would go back to his. It would be fun, she knew that. The feel of him holding her hand was enough to make her spine tingle. Anything more would sit in the treasure chest of her memory alongside the French holiday. But as she thought it, as she watched him reach over and pay the guy with the beard and man-bun behind the bar, watched his T-shirt pull up to reveal a sliver of tanned, olive skin, she realised that she wanted more than another memory. She had enough to make a memory already, a great one, just from their drinks in the bar. She didn’t want to cloud it with sex. She didn’t even want to cloud it with a kiss. Because it all came with the caveat that Harry would never change his life. And that made her worth less than she wanted to be worth in life.

  As he handed her a jam jar negroni, she realised that she’d never thought of it like that before. That pre-Jemima she’d never had the faintest idea of the lifetime intentions of the men she’d slept with. And she hadn’t really cared because she hadn’t known hers either. But now, with images in her mind of Matt’s face when Annie walked down the aisle and the tears in Wilf’s eyes when he hugged Holly at the hand-fasting ceremony, God even Jack giving into the idea of vintage glamour wedding for Emily – which clearly wasn’t his thing at all – she knew that she wouldn’t settle for anything less than everything.

  And even though her other hand was doing nothing, she let her right hand slip from Harry’s in order to take the drink.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Yeah, I’m just not sure.’ One of Emily’s sales team, Simon, sat back in his chair, tapping a Biro to his bottom lip.

  ‘It’s this bit.’ Emily’s assistant leant right over the boardroom table and used her forefinger to tap at an element of one of Hannah’s designs she wasn’t sure about.

  ‘I’m just wondering if it’s commercial enough?’ The PR executive flicked through the boards showcasing the twelve garment collection.

  They were sitting in the glossy offices of EHB, Emily’s company. One wall was just windows with a view down Oxford Street, the other was a giant poster of bright-tangerine lips reflected in a shattered mirror. Hannah had felt sick all morning in the lead-up to the meeting. She liked what she’d done but she knew it wasn’t quite right. Instinct told her she hadn’t quite nailed it – she didn’t need these guys beating the fact home. As they inspected and critiqued, she realised she was biting her fingernail and stopped, putting her hands in her lap.

  Emily was on her iPad at the end of the table, bashing out a quick email. She looked up. ‘I think we’re getting somewhere though. Don’t you think?’

  Simon tipped his head from side to side. Hannah knew he didn’t think she had the experience to pull this off, he’d said as much in the kitchen as they got coffee in the break. Sitting forward in his chair he tapped the table a couple of times with his pen before saying, ‘My concern is the negative effect on the brand equity. You have to get this right, Emily. I’ve said from the beginning that you need a bigger name designer.’

  Hannah contemplated the merits of stepping in and fighting her cause compared to staying silent. The sales guy didn’t look at her. Instinct told her to bite her tongue.

  Emily put the iPad down and clicked her fingers for the boards to be sent up the table. She stared at them for what seemed like hours. No one spoke. Simon tapped his Biro on the edge of his phone. The PR girl looked out the window. Hannah felt like the sound of her breathing was booming round the room.

  She watched Emily put the boards down and then turn and look out the window. It was raining. Grey clouds hanging low over the buildings like chimney smoke. Hannah imagined herself back in her old job. She saw Simon raise his brows as if expecting a decision and most likely one in his favour.

  ‘I’m not convinced,’ Emily said, looking back their way. ‘I’m not convinced by the designs but I’m also not convinced that it’s the wrong designer.’ She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘I know this is right. Hannah feels right. I can feel it here.’ She pointed her to stomach. ‘It’s in my gut – I hate that word but it’s the only way I can describe it. Simon, don’t roll your eyes. All I can say is that I’ve always acted on it and it’s got the business to this level. So…’ Emily sighed. ‘Hannah, take all the comments. Go back. We’ll meet again in a fortnight.’ Then she pushed her chair back, gathered up her iPad, keys, diary, phone and stalked out the boardroom. The sales guy exhaled loudly, shaking his head as he picked up his phone and walked out.

  The assistant accompanied Hannah all the way to the lobby, making polite small talk in the elevator, so it was a relief to be out the revolving doors, standing alone, even in the rain. Since New York every spare moment of Hannah’s life had been spent working on designs for Emily. Hours spent poring over reference books at the British Library and the V&A, researching the history of the EHB brand, booking appointments to view obscure archives and poring over images on the Internet, all the while sketching furiously as the clock ticked past midnight. All of that had culminated in an average collection, which even she wasn’t certain about and a melting pot of opinions from the team that left her completely at sea. Added to that, tomorrow was the last Saturday in September. Emily’s wedding. And Hannah still hadn’t sorted her outfit. Vintage Glamour? What would she wear?

  So instead of going home to work, she picked Jemima up from school and together they drove to a vintage shop under the railway arches in Vauxhall, London. Jemima was delighted that she was going to have her tea in the café next door to the shop and miss her bath because they’d be home too late, while Hannah was convincing herself that it might double as creative inspiration for the collection.

  The shop smelt musty, of old leather and lemon-scented polish. At the entrance there were mannequins dressed in flower-power flares and John Lennon glasses and cabinets filled with handbags, kid gloves and half-used perfumes from the fifties. Then, past the counter on the right there were rows and rows of vintage fashion. Big fur coats and long polyester dresses. Knackered old shoes and baskets of scarves. Hannah flicked through rails and rails, her mind distracted by the meeting, while the woman behind the counted cooed over Jemima, standing her on a chair and dressing her up to the nines. When Jemima called for Hannah to look, she was wearing a sequinned jumper over her T-shirt, a red sparkly tutu over her jeans and a sequinned beret with a bent ostrich feather on her head. Other customers clapped as Jemima did a little twirl on the chair and Hannah bought the lot. That was Jemima sorted without even trying. All Hannah could find were a couple of dubious-looking dresses that smelt a bit of mothballs.

  The terrible meeting at EHB aside, the added problem was that when it came to the wedding there was the pressure that Harry was going to be there.

  At the end of the evening in New York he had asked her if she wanted to come back to his. And when she’d shaken her head, saying she should probably get back to the house, he had smiled as if that was no problem, as if that was probably what he was expecting. But he had draped his arm over her shoulders as they had walked together back to Greenwich Village and at the door he had leant down and, while she had been wondering whether or not she would kiss him on the lips, he had tucked her hair behind her ear and kissed her on the cheek. He had smelt of fire and soap and the air had smelt of the end of summer.

  She had watched him jog down the steps, back away with a wave, and then walk off down the street, hi
s head down, his hands in his pockets. Comfortably alone again – as if his equilibrium had been restored.

  So while she’d shelved any notions of romance between the two of them, Hannah still wanted him to want her. She wanted him not to be able to walk away quite so easily.

  It was that, combined with the furious adrenaline still coursing through her from the meeting, that led to Hannah putting Jemima to bed and, instead of doing more work on Emily’s doomed collection, instead of making dinner for herself, she pulled her sewing machine out from under the bed and, with the help of the two horrible dresses she’d just bought and her bag of fabric off-cuts, she started to make herself the most phenomenal piece of vintage glamour her imagination could create.

  The moon shone white over the garden as the sound of the sewing machine rattled into the silent night. Hannah had sliced the first dress in half. It had started as a black crêpe affair from the forties, made to cover every inch of the body – from the long sleeves and the high neck, where the gathered material was clasped with a big diamanté brooch, to the long skirt that fell to the floor. It was shapeless and severe but the material was gorgeous. Hannah had slashed the high neckline to a deep V and then re-cut the top so it nipped in at the waist and fitted over her hips.

  She paused to tie her hair back with an off-cut, then took her scissors to the sleeves and, after a rummage through her mountain of scraps, replaced them with strips of delicate beaded fringing she unpicked from an old fabric in the pile.

  When she took a moment to glance up, the time on the clock caught her by surprise and she wondered whether to stop and go to bed, but she was really enjoying herself. It had been ages since she’d made anything solely to please herself, without someone else’s specification, hopes and dreams, tied up in the design, and she was loving it. It made her realise that in her work for EHB she was stumped every time she sat down to draw by the money and luxury, by the second-guessing and expectation of what Emily had in mind.

  She picked up the other dress from the floor. A forest-green satin nightie with monstrous big lilies embroidered over the top half. Severing it in two and discarding the lilies, she sewed the dark-green satin to the black crêpe to add a skirt that cascaded to the ground like water. Where the two fabrics joined, just below the hips, she fringed it with another strip of the long clear glass beads.

  It was three in the morning by the time she’d finished. All she wanted to do was go to bed, her eyes stung and her shoulders ached. But the finished dress was so exciting, so beautiful, so exactly what she wanted it to look like, that she couldn’t resist just slipping it on. Couldn’t resist feeling the satin as it slid over her skin, the tightness of the crêpe as she zipped the top up and, as she swished to the mirror, hearing the satisfying clacking of the beaded fringing.

  It was magnificent. It was like something out the pages of Gatsby. It had vintage glamour written all over it. It had Hannah written all over it. And, while she knew Harry would never change his mind about his future, and there could never be anything between them, it was the kind of dress that might just make a miracle happen.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘He’s not coming?’

  Emily shook her head.

  Hannah took a breath in through her nose and exhaled to make herself calm, to press down the disappointment. Then she took Emily’s hands in hers and said, ‘You look amazing. Like a movie star.’ She stood back a fraction to take in Emily’s slinky white satin column dress with its plunging neckline, shoestring straps and the delicate overlay like a spider’s web dotted with diamonds and tiny pearls sparkling like raindrops. ‘When I saw you my breath actually caught. I’m so happy for you.’

  Emily waved the words away as if it was all lies. Then she squeezed the hand she was still holding and said, ‘I only found out he wasn’t coming today, otherwise I would have told you.’

  ‘Honestly, Emily, it totally doesn’t matter. This is your wedding day, you don’t have to worry about whether Harry turns up or not.’

  ‘I know,’ she sighed. ‘But I so wanted him to be here. I wanted him to see you looking so ravishing. This dress…’ Emily reached down and stroked the long glass fringing. ‘It looks like it cost a fortune. Stunning. Oh stupid Harry. Stupid, stupid Harry.’

  ‘Em, honestly, it’s nothing. There’s nothing between us anyway. He’s just a friend.’

  ‘Don’t give me that. I saw your face when we were leaving the restaurant. I saw it, Hannah, you can’t lie.’

  Hannah looked away.

  They were standing on the front lawn of Montmorency Manor, Emily’s home on Cherry Pie Island. The whole wedding party had walked there together from the riverbank where they had earlier watched a blessing take place on Jack’s boat. Emily and Jack had stood on the prow with the celebrant, having got married officially that morning at Chelsea Town Hall in secret, only Holly and Wilf there as witnesses. Since she had previously been burnt by a much-publicised jilting at the altar, Emily had been keen, she joked to the crowd gathered around the boat, to keep the actual vows for this one low key.

  Hannah had smiled along with the rest of the guests but had felt a stab of sympathy. The relief that had radiated from Emily, that it had all gone ahead as planned, was almost tangible. The thing about trust, Hannah had realised, was that no amount of money could buy it back.

  ‘Harry would have liked it as well, you know, all the stealth wedding stuff, wouldn’t he?’ Emily said.

  ‘Yeah I suppose so,’ Hannah nodded, not wanting to talk about Harry any more, thinking how she was going to tell Jemima, who’d been storing up things to tell him for weeks, that he wasn’t coming.

  ‘Oh definitely. You know I’ve never seen him with anyone, Hannah. Or not anyone serious. I could hardly believe it when he jacked in his shift for you in New York. I don’t know why he’s not here, Hannah, but I feel like given half the chance he would have been, especially with you dressed like that.’

  Hannah caught a glimpse of her reflection in the big windows of the house. All that work and he didn’t even turn up, it mocked. ‘Oh it doesn’t matter,’ she said, breezily.

  ‘Yes that’s the attitude. Sod him.’ Emily laughed then said, ‘And are you OK about yesterday? About the meeting? I do honestly think it’s nearly there.’

  Hannah cut her off. ‘Emily, it’s your wedding day. Don’t think about work. I’m fine. I expected it. It’s good. Good for me.’

  Emily narrowed her eyes and examined her, almost to check she wasn’t lying. Hannah smiled. ‘Go. Go and enjoy your wedding. Stop worrying about other people.’

  ‘OK. Right. Yes. I have to go and be fabulous, bride’s prerogative. You do look sensational, Hannah darling, and he really doesn’t know what he’s missing. What a fool,’ Emily said, giving her a hug. Then she whispered, ‘Keep your chin up, darling,’ in Hannah’s ear before giving her a quick kiss on the cheek and disappearing off into the crowd.

  Hannah stayed where she was and looked out at the grounds of the manor. Jemima was bouncing away on the inflatable castle next to a row of Montmorency cherry trees all bedecked with gold streamers raining down from the branches. A huge marquee had been erected at the back of the house where waiters were making the finishing touches for a sit-down dinner. Huge gold candelabras stood at intervals along long white tables, with candles ready to be lit. Next to them stood big white flower arrangements like pompoms bursting from their vases. Hundreds of white and gold balloons filled the ceiling, their metallic strings dangling in the air, catching and reflecting the light in sparks. At the entrance to the marquee were two giant swans, made completely from roses, that stood tall on silver plinths. Outside there was a champagne fountain, a martini bar and big chesterfield sofas dotted about for lounging. Hannah walked over to get a drink and go and watch Jemima as she bounced.

  As she chatted and laughed, listened to the band, got dragged by Jemima to look at the swimming pool which had been filled with glitter and sparkled like gold algae, Hannah wanted so much to be h
aving an amazing time. And she was. It was over-the-top, lavish, extravagant glamour. There was even a Cirque du Soleil-style performance on the lawn to the light of a giant bonfire. But she had expected Harry.

  Much as she hated to admit it, she had been looking forward to seeing him more than coming to the wedding itself.

  Jemima held out hope till the bitter end. ‘He’ll be here, Mummy,’ she said at regular intervals, as if expecting the hero to swoop in at the last minute and save the day. ‘I think he’ll be here.’ But then Hannah’s mum came to pick her up and take her home and, of course, Harry hadn’t arrived.

  So Hannah made herself forget about him and enjoy the dinner and the speeches and the witty banter over coffees and gold-leafed chocolate truffles.

  And it was actually working, she had relaxed, she was having a wonderful evening.

  Then Harry turned up.

  It was Emily who saw him first. Hannah was in conversation with a very nice environmental scientist to her left when a truffle hit her on the shoulder and bounced to the floor. ‘Ow.’ She glanced around to see where it had come from and noticed Emily making big eyes at her from the top table and nodding towards the door.

  Hannah turned and looked and there was Harry, standing at the entrance of the marquee, next to one of the giant swans, wearing a grey T-shirt under a tux jacket and tatty old blue jeans. He’d clearly pilfered a white rose from one of the big displays at the gates and it was drooping sadly down his lapel, too big a flower for a buttonhole. His hair was dishevelled, there was a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his jaw and what looked like a bottle of vodka hooked between his first and forefinger.

  She frowned as he swaggered in, tripping occasionally. Seeing someone he knew – a stunning-looking blonde who tipped her head back for a kiss – he paused for an upside-down half-lips, half-cheek kiss and then carried on his snaking journey towards the bride.

  Hannah’s dress felt immediately stuffy and overly elegant. The environmental scientist had started up their conversation again but she could barely listen, her eyes following Harry as he swayed his way to the top table. Once there he lifted the vodka bottle, clinked it with Emily’s champagne flute that sat on the table in front of her and said, ‘Sorry I’m late. Have I missed anything?’