As Dylan pulled out a chair for me and squeezed in really, really close beside me, I suddenly knew this Christmas was going to be a whole lot better than crystallised willows and sushi…
ALL NIGHT PARTY
I pencilled another black line round my eyes, aware of Mum looking at my 1980’s Goth-white face, black-spiked eyes, coal-black lips.
‘Who’ll be at this party?’ Mum was close to my dressing table.
I pulled strands of black hair towards my eyes. ‘Susie, Kim, Trisha – all the sixth form girls.’
‘And will there be boys?’
‘Dave and Mike and Tony…’
Don’t let her ask me, I prayed. Don’t let me have to lie.
I straightened the black net skirt that just skimmed the top of my thighs and fastened my clumpy boots. ‘It’s only a party, Mum. I’m seventeen. I can take care of myself.’
I loved her – and I hated lying to her.
‘And you won’t have to wait up because we’re staying at Paula’s afterwards. I’ll see you in the morning…’
‘Sally - he won’t be there, will he?’
‘Who?’
‘Alex,’ she spat the word. ‘Alex Boyd.’
I took a deep breath. ‘No, Alex won’t be there.’
That was true. Alex wouldn’t be at the party. Neither would I.
Mum’s lips were tight. ‘You know how we feel about him.’
Only too well…
‘He’s a really bad lot. The way he looks - and behaves. He’s a disgrace.’
I’d heard it all before. Alex was the pits; out of control; destined for a nasty end…
‘I must go now, we’re meeting at Denise’s at eight…’
‘Sally – you are staying at Paula’s after the party…?’
‘Yes – as usual… See you in the morning…’
I closed the door behind me and took deep breaths of the sultry evening air. Paula was my best friend and understood about Alex, and she lived in the middle of nowhere and wasn’t on the phone. It worked every time.
I hurried along our street, bubbles of anticipation fizzing inside.
I couldn’t wait to see Alex Boyd - with his long black hair and outrageous clothes. Alex Boyd, musician, free-spirit, and my lover.
‘You’re late,’ his beautiful face belied the harshness of his words. ‘I thought I’d been stood up.’
‘Never,’ I scrambled into Alex’s car. ‘Mum was heavy with the third degree.’
‘Again?’ Alex laughed. ‘I wonder why your parents hate me?’
‘Oh, I wonder!’ I giggled at his black clothes, Adam Ant make-up, and that wild, wild hair…
Then he pulled me into his arms and I melted with the love that only Alex could deliver.
We drove through the twilight, bodies close together, and talked and laughed. We shared the same happiness, shared the same pain.
‘You fixed it for tonight?’ Alex’s fingers squeezed mine.
‘As ever. I’m staying at Paula’s again…’
Alex ran his hand close to the hem of my net mini-skirt. ‘Paula’s a star.’
Alex could blow my mind with his music. Alex could take my body higher than the stars. Alex – my first and one and only love.
Twenty five years on. I’m sitting in our designer bedroom, surveying my reflection in the elegant mirror, aware of my husband pacing the floor.
I hate the lies – the deceit.
I apply a coat of mascara. I look okay for my age. No wrinkles, no trace of grey in my expensively-streaked hair.
‘Where are you going tonight, Sally?’ Tony watches my reflection. ‘Anywhere special?’
‘Just a girls’ night out,’ I fix my ear-rings.
‘And it’s just you and Susie and Kim and Trisha and Paula, is it?’ He sits on our vast white bed looking unhappy. ‘Just the girls?’
I feel sorry for him. I’ve never wanted to hurt him. I’ve been faithful to him for seventeen years.
‘Yes. Of course.’
Tony stands up, placing his hands on my shoulders. I try to remember not to wriggle away.
‘No husbands going tonight?’
‘No. It’s an all-girls night – lots of giggling memories of our misspent youth. Have you got those DVDs?’
Tony nods. He likes all-action blood-and-gore films. I don’t. He only watches them when I’m not at home.
‘Sally…’
I’ve reached the bedroom door. ‘Yes?’
‘That – Alex Boyd… He won’t be there, will he?’
My heart skips a beat. I feel guilty – but not for long. I’ve learned to live with it.
‘Alex?’ I laugh. ‘Why ever would Alex be at a girly night?’
Tony shrugs. ‘I know you and he had a bit of a thing years ago…’
A bit of a thing?
My hand trembles on my car keys. ‘So?’
‘Well, nothing, but – he’s a bit of a – ‘
‘A bit of a what?’
Tony pulls a face. ‘I saw him yesterday and he looks like some old rock’n’roller. Leather jacket and tight black jeans – and earrings!’
‘Fancy…’
‘And he must be forty if he’s a day,’ Tony continues, turning the knife.
‘Forty three,’ I say quietly.
Alex Boyd, who left our sleepy town to have adventures. Alex, whose heart broke with mine when I’d chosen A-levels above the beaches of Thailand. Alex, my soul-mate, my first and my one and only love.
Alex who’d been back in town for three months…
‘Drive safely,’ Tony calls from the front door. ‘Don’t drink too much.’
I smile sadly at him. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not even going to attempt to drive home tonight. I’ll be staying over at Paula’s…’
BELLA AND THE BRIDE
Bella had always wanted to be a bridesmaid. All her friends had been bridesmaids, some more than once. It simply wasn’t fair.
‘We haven’t got any female relatives of marriageable age,’ her mum had said, more than once. ‘No cousins or aunties to ask you to be their bridesmaid.’
That, Bella thought, thinking of her elderly be-whiskered maiden aunts and her cousin Dawn who worked on an oil rig, was perfectly true – but it still didn’t stop her wanting.
‘My friends are always bridesmaids to their older sisters,’ she’d complained. ‘I don’t see why I can’t be.’
Her mum had sighed, more than once. ‘Because you’re an only child, Bella, dear. Do the maths.’
Why on earth, Bella had thought sadly, couldn’t her parents have produced a veritable Von Trappe family of big girls?
‘Some of my friends have been bridesmaids to their mum’s friends,’ she’d said. ‘Why can’t any of yours have me?’
‘Because,’ her mother had said, more than once, ‘all my friends are my age and already married.’
‘Mrs Webley isn’t.’
‘No, and Mrs Webley, once she recovers from her husband running off with the postman, will certainly not want to get married again. I’m afraid you’ll have to face it, Bella, dear – you’re never going to be a bridesmaid.’
Bella knew it was true and she wanted to cry.
It simply wasn’t fair.
Especially when every sparkling frosty winter, every glorious Easter and every sunny summer, yet another clutch of Bella’s friends posed and simpered and said they were going to be bridesmaids.
And they were.
Bella would stand at the Saturday church gates staring longingly at them wearing their fur and swansdown, or their sticky-out pink frocks, or swishy blue dresses, or slinky lilac gowns, all bedecked with lace and ribbons. Bella would look enviously at the twinkly tiaras and feathery fascinators and crystal coronets anchored into their hair. She would gaze greedily at the posies and baskets of rainbow hued flowers, as, once again, her friends swayed down the aisle behind yet another blushing bride.
Bella pretended not to care, but inside she cried.
B
ella had never wanted to be a bride. Being a bride simply didn’t feature in her fantasies. She had a feeling that, like her cousin Dawn, she may not be cut out for marriage, and it didn’t bother her one jot.
Being a bride, she thought, probably held all sorts of ongoing problems after the ceremony, notably having a man hanging around the house getting in the way, whereas being a bridesmaid was one brief glorious starburst of glamour that would last in the memory for ever…
When she and her mum went shopping on a Saturday, Bella took to lurking outside the bridal wear shop in town, drinking in the bridesmaid’s net and satin and silk and chiffon. The models in the window, their painted faces all stiff and haughty, seemed to sneer down at her. Even those snooty plaster models with their solid hair and plastic eyelashes got to wear pretty frocks and carry flowers.
It simply wasn’t fair.
‘This has been going on for far too long,’ Bella’s mum said one day when Bella had said, yet again, how sad it was that her one dream in life would never come true. ‘So, I’ve got a little idea.’
Bella sighed. Her mum was always having little ideas. Most of them didn’t work. Like the time she’d gone to evening classes about “How to Live a Calmer Life” and come home and painted the living room purple with a black ceiling “for karma” and they all fell over each other in the gloom and it took ages to get the walls back to magnolia, and they’d had to leave the ceiling black.
. Or the time mum had thought growing her own veg would help with the family budget and they’d lived on tough swedes for months because the slugs got everything else. Or that awful holiday-on-a-budget that her mum had sworn would give them sun, sea and sand in spades, or -
Her mum had interrupted these thoughts. ‘Why don’t we advertise?’
Bella blinked. ‘Advertise?’
‘You. As a bridesmaid. There must be brides who don’t have anyone to ask. Stands to reason, Bella. You’ve always wanted to be a bridesmaid with no bride. Law of averages says there must be a bride out there without someone to be an attendant. I’ll put something in the local paper.’
Bella had sighed a bit more – she’d known it had been foolish in the extreme to think this idea of her mum’s would be any better than the others – but she’d nodded. She loved her mum very much and didn’t want to upset her. Not after the living room and the veg and that awful budget holiday when they’d all spent their days in a rain-swept bus shelter and their nights crammed in one scary room of a boarding house that made the Bates Motel look cosy.
The advert ran for three weeks without a peep in reply.
Bella really hadn’t expected anything else. She was used to disappointments. This was nothing new.
Then Jessica phoned.
Bella’s mum took the call and was nearly beside herself.
‘She’s coming round this evening, Bella. She’s seen the ad and she’s getting married in two months and she thinks you sound perfect.’
Bella could hardly contain her excitement. At last! At long, long last!
Then she stopped skipping round the living room.
What if Jessica didn’t like her…? What if she wasn’t pretty enough? What if Jessica was looking for a little dainty bridesmaid who’d wear white ankle socks and a Bo-Peep bonnet? What if Jessica was only joking and didn’t turn up at all?
Jessica turned up on the dot. She looked, Bella thought, like the bride of her dreams – young and pretty and blonde – and was very friendly.
Jessica drank Bella’s mum’s too-strong tea and didn’t wince at the black ceiling. Nor did she wince at Bella.
‘I haven’t got any family,’ Jessica smiled bravely through the tea. ‘My fiancé’s side are all boys, and my friends are all married and tied up with babies, and while they’ll be fine in the congregation, they couldn’t manage to calm my nerves or help me get dressed or hold my bouquet. Do you think you’d be okay with doing that, Bella?’
And Bella, wanting to turn cartwheels, had nodded breathlessly and assured Jessica that she’d be more than okay with it, and that she’d be the perfect bridesmaid.
‘Right,’ Jessica had refused a refill of the tea and stood up. ‘We’ll need to sort out your frock fittings as soon as possible. I’m having a peaches and cream theme – I hope you’ll like that.’
Peaches and cream! Perfect! Bella nodded delightedly and clasped her hands in glee. Peaches and cream – net and lace – ribbons and frou-frous… It was everything she’d ever wanted.
And so, two months later, Bella’s bridesmaid dream came true. It was simply the best day of her life.
She’d spent the warm and sunny morning in Jessica’s house, primping and preening and helping Jessica into her gorgeous swathe of cream satin, and secured her frothy veil with a tiara of peach rosebuds.
Then she and Jessica had admired the reflection in the mirror and they’d both cried with happiness and Jessica had had to do her mascara all over again.
Bella’s heart was dancing a fandango as she fastened her own long flowing peach satin frock, and swished her layers of cream net petticoats. Such a glorious dress. Such beautiful flowers. It was all her dreams come true.
She’d never been happier.
‘You look lovely,’ she’d said to Jessica.
‘So do you,’ Jessica had kissed her cheek. ‘You’ve been wonderful, Bella. You’ve been the perfect bridesmaid. No nerves, no panic, you’ve kept me calm. I’m so glad I chose you.’
And Bella had sniffed back tears and thought how proud her mum would be when she saw her at the church.
And she was.
As was the whole village who had turned out to see Bella. They were gathered outside the church gates and they all clapped when Bella glided from the limousine.
As Bella, in a blissful trance and feeling like a fairy doll, floated down the aisle behind Jessica, Bella’s mum dabbed her eyes with her hankie and smiled.
Bella, just a few months shy of her fiftieth birthday, was a beautiful bridesmaid at last.
BIKER BOY
Nothing had gone right since Dudley was made redundant. Oh, it wasn’t his fault, poor love, but coming out of the blue as it had, it really knocked us for six.
Of course, I still had my little job at the supermarket, but belt-tightening had become an art form in our house, let me tell you. If I was on Mastermind, I could sweep the board on recipes with cheap cuts and how to live on baked beans for a month.
And Dudley had gone right into himself if you get my drift. Too young for any retirement benefits, he’d lost all his oomph and sat around all day just watching the telly - and really, who could blame him?
Oh, he’d applied for every job going but they all said the same thing: poor Dudley was too old to be first choice for any of our local employers. And don’t tell me about non-age discrimination – it doesn’t exist round here. No-one was looking for someone of Dudley’s age despite his experience. We’d tried ‘em all. No, they’d still rather employ school-leavers who don’t know anything and train them up, paying them peanuts. Not fair to the kids – and especially not fair to people like my Dudley who’d worked hard for forty-odd years and still had loads to offer.
I said all this every morning to our beloved cat, Mrs Muffin, just to get it off my chest, as I struggled into my tabard for yet another exciting eight hours on the Big Sava check-outs. Mrs Muffin, it must be said, hadn’t suffered at all since Dudley’s redundancy. We might well have had to curtail all extravagances – but Mrs Muffin still got her top of the range special favourite cat food and her little treats and chicken breast in gravy of a Sunday.
As always, Mrs Muffin, an autocratic tortoiseshell prima donna, nodded in agreement at the unfair treatment of the less-than-young in this youth-obsessed society, then head-butted my tabard and sashayed off to curl up on Dudley’s lap to watch daytime telly.
I’d kiss them both goodbye and set off on my trusty rusty bicycle for the delights of Big Sava.
Dudley and I hadn’t been blessed with kiddies
, but Mrs Muffin more than compensated. She’d turned up on our doorstep - a mangy scrap of fur with attitude – a couple of years earlier and had soon taken over our lives. Sometimes I knew that it was only having Mrs Muffin to talk to all day that kept my Dudley sane.
So, about three months after Dudley’s redundancy, as I was zapping things I couldn’t afford in a month of Sundays through my till, Skinny Sam, who works in the office and collects the floats and rattles a big bunch of keys at us like Mrs Danvers and who we refer to as Posh in private, leaned across and raked her acrylic talons through my small change.
‘So sorry to hear about your problems, Mandy,’ she gushed in my ear. ‘As if you didn’t have enough on your plate.’
I winced. Sam’s scent of choice is so pungent it would floor armies.
‘Problems?’ I tried not to inhale.
‘Mmm,’ Sam bared her perfect dentistry at me. ‘We’ve all been talking about it in the office. I mean, it was bad enough having your poor Dud out of work – ‘
‘Dudley,’ I said firmly. ‘His name’s Dudley.’
‘Whatever – anyway, they say it never rains but it pours…’ Sam pouted her chemically-enhanced lips and started to move away to the next check-out. ‘I think you’re ever so brave…’
Ignoring the queue of customers gibbering at my check-out I caught hold of Sam’s skeletal arm. ‘Sorry? What are you talking about?’
‘Oh…’ Sam fluttered her batwing eyelashes and moved slinkily away, ‘don’t say you don’t know? Oh, me and my mouth – just forget I said anything…’
It was only a rather large pensioner with a basket full of best-before-yesterday special offers looming over my conveyor belt in a threatening manner that prevented me abandoning my check-out and running after Skinny Sam, yelling banshee-like curses.
In fact I had to wait another hour until my coffee break to discover exactly what hot topic was whizzing around Big Sava’s rest room. As if I didn’t know…
‘…. I feel sorry for poor Mandy…’
‘….laughing stock…’
‘…bad enough Dud losing his job – now he’s lost his marbles…’
Happy Ever After Page 3
