by Sue Margolis
Soon the city gave way to glorious Yorkshire countryside. The rain had stopped and patches of denim blue were beginning to break through the February sky. She stuck Abba Gold in the cassette player and began singing along, belting out the lyrics for all she was worth.
The first time she sensed the car was losing power, she thought she was imagining it. When she looked at the speedo and realized she wasn’t, she started pressing down harder on the gas. The aged Golf merely shuddered and continued to slow down. She pressed the accelerator again. Then again. Nothing. Just before the car came to a complete stop, she managed to pull into a muddy recess next to a five-bar gate.
“Oh, terrific,” she muttered, bashing the steering wheel.
She reached under the dashboard and tugged the hood lever. Although her underhood skills were limited to filling the windscreen fluid dispenser, she felt she should take a look. An obvious bit of wiring may have come loose that she might just be able to shove back. She opened the car door. After the downpour, the road was awash with liquid mud. Tentatively, she lowered a pink suede sling-back. Then she reached across to the passenger seat and picked up her mobile. (Her dad was a brilliant mechanic. If she couldn’t find anything obviously wrong under the hood, she would phone him for advice.)
She got out of the car and stood surveying the narrow lane for muddy puddles, roadkill and anything else that could put her precious Manolos at risk. Looking back, she supposed she must have heard the cattle truck coming. But she’d clearly been too preoccupied with her road stakeout to notice. By the time she saw the truck bearing down on her, it was too late to get back in the car. She pinned herself to the side of the car, managing to drop her mobile in the process and watched in silent horror as it thundered by, spraying her jacket, skirt and shoes in thick, sand-colored mud. For a few moments she was too numb to move. All she could do was stand there, staring at her ruined clothes. Finally a single tear streaked her face. Like Max would want to ravage her now.
She bent down and picked up her phone. The back of the case was cracked and coming off. She tried turning it on. Nothing. “Marvelous. Now I can’t even phone the AA.”
Her only consolation was that Kettlesthwaite could be no more than a few hundred yards round the next bend. The last signpost had said it was half a mile off and that had been a fair way back. Since she couldn’t possibly turn up to the wedding covered in mud, she had no choice but to phone the AA from a phone box and get them to tow her back to London. She’d stop off en route to explain everything to Max. A second tear now followed the first. Of course he’d be dead sympathetic, but deep down he’d be thinking she had about as much point as an ejector seat in a helicopter. Then he’d dump her for Bloody Lorna.
She got back in the car, took off her hat and sat staring at it. Unless, of course, she did go to the wedding. Maybe there was a little boutique in the village where she could buy a new outfit. She laughed at her stupidity. Kettlesthwaite would possess nothing more than a pub and a manky general store selling Kraft cheese slices, Vicks and Instant Whip. Then again the place might be larger than she’d thought. It could well have a vaguely trendy clothes shop. Nothing designery maybe, but she was in no position to quibble. A high street label would be fine.
She picked up her bag and the Habitat table light she’d gotten Adam and Zoe as a wedding present. Then she locked the car and set off, a mud-splattered Audrey in search of an oasis in the style desert of rural England.
Apart from a motorbike roaring past, splashing her in even more mud, there was no traffic.
With its immaculately restored stone cottages scattered around a white chain railing-enclosed duck pond, Kettlesthwaite was a positively candy box English village. As she’d predicted, there was a general store and a pub. The church was at the far end. She could see the morning suits and big hats filing in. Even if she found something to wear—the chances of which were remote—there was no way she was going to make the service now.
Then she spotted it on the other side of the pond, a second tiny shop set back from the pub. After a few paces she was near enough to read the swirly gold lettering above the window. Refusing to be deterred by the fact that it said “Miss Nob,” she carried on walking. Miss Nob’s bow-fronted window frame was painted white and filled with small, square panes of glass. Some of these had bull’s-eyes. Any minute now, she expected to see the Bennet sisters come filing out, giggling and clutching new bonnet ribbons.
The closer she got, the harder she prayed there would be something vaguely suitable on Miss Nob’s racks. A French Connection jacket and trousers, maybe. A skirt and blouse would do. Anything. So long as the chest didn’t shout Giorgio or Tommy.
What she found made her heart sink into her muddy Manolos, but didn’t even remotely surprise her. The mannequin in the window was wearing a Miss Marple tweed suit and matching trilby with two pheasant feathers sticking out. At her feet was a blue and mauve mohair shawl and a substantial tan leather handbag, its front flap embossed with the image of a shire horse and cart. Rebecca pushed the door anyway. It was locked. The handwritten postcard stuck behind the glass said: “Closed due to slipped disk.” Saddened as she was by Miss Nob’s incapacity, Rebecca couldn’t help feeling relieved.
There was nothing for it. She would go back to her original plan of phoning the AA and getting them to tow her back to London. As she couldn’t see a phone box, she headed for the general store.
The woman behind the counter was plump and bosomy—pushing seventy at a guess. Rebecca positioned herself next to a pyramid of El Paso refried beans, which were on special offer, and waited while the woman cut four slices of streaky bacon for a doddery old bloke in a cap. After the first two, she stopped to consult him about the thickness. He waved a frail hand in approval. She returned to the machine, her pink nylon overall making swishing sounds as she went. While she wrapped the bacon they chatted about the weather, her saying it had been so cold last night her teeth hadn’t stopped chattering.
“Which was a bit disconcerting, I can tell you,” she said, “seeing as they were sitting in a glass.” She roared. He smiled a frail smile to indicate he’d gotten the joke.
“OK, see ye Wednesday, Horace, petal,” she said, handing over the bacon. “Yer veal and ham should be in by then.”
“Ay, right you are, Val.”
Horace turned to go. Noticing Rebecca, he touched his cap by way of greeting and then tottered off.
“Sorry about that, petal,” Val said, turning to Rebecca. “Poor soul only buried his Thelma last week. Got took sudden. Kidney failure.”
“God,” Rebecca said, shaking her head, “losing a wife must be devastating when you’ve been together all those years.”
“Wife? Oh, no, Horace never married. Thelma was ’is whippet. Now then, what can I do you for?”
Rebecca was about to ask if she could use the phone, but Val, who had suddenly noticed her muddy clothes, came back before she’d even opened her mouth. “Eee, now then, petal. Whatever happened to you?”
Rebecca smiled sheepishly and explained.
“So you’ve nowt to wear for t’wedding? Be a shame to miss it after you’ve come all this way. And it’s going to be a belting do by all accounts.”
“Haven’t got much choice really. I can’t walk in looking like this.”
Val stood there, looking Rebecca up and down.
“You know our Cheryl’s about your size. Well, she was until she moved to Pudsey. Size eighteen she is now. Of course, I blame the water. They get different water down there. You see up here, we get north Yorkshire water. They get west Yorkshire water. Must make a difference. I’ve always said a change in water can play havoc with your system. Takes time to adjust.”
“How long’s she been there?”
“Our Cheryl? In Pudsey? Ooh, must be getting on for seventeen year.” She paused. “Anyway I’ve still got the dress she wore when she was maid of honor at my sister’s wedding in 1978. I’ve never been able to part with it. She looked like a duches
s in it. And what with it having a three-quarter sleeve it covered up nearly all of her psoriasis. Why don’t you come upstairs and take a look? There’s nowt wrong with it and it’s just your color.”
Rebecca made all the excuses she could think of not to try on our Cheryl’s ancient psoriasis-infested bridesmaid creation, but Val refused to take no for an answer. A few moments later, she was following her out through the back of the shop and upstairs.
Val’s bedroom consisted entirely of loud, clashing florals. The only relief was provided by a man’s maroon dressing gown that was hanging on the back of the door, suggesting there was a Mister Val.
Val opened the melamine wardrobe and pulled out a full-length, Empire-line dress in shiny nylon chiffon. In tangerine shiny nylon chiffon. With an equally tangerine rose at the cleavage.
“Now then, I know it seems a bit limp on the hanger, but don’t be put off. It looks better on.”
Better on what? Rebecca thought. On fire?
“Wow, it’s lovely,” Rebecca said, fingering the nylon and assuming full-on gush mode, “but I’m not sure it’s quite me.”
“’Course it is, petal. Come on, take your things off and try it on.”
Rebecca went to wash the mud off her hands. When she came back, Val had disappeared and the dress was on the bed. She began taking off her clothes. A few moments later there was a tap at the door.
“Coo-ee, you decent?”
“Just about,” Rebecca said, sliding her arms into the sleeves.
“Oh, my word,” Val said, zipping Rebecca up the back. “Now then, don’t you look grand. Fits like a glove. I think I got the beer stain off the front.” She examined the skirt and confirmed that she had. Then, taking Rebecca by the hand, she led her to the full-length mirror.
“Now then, petal. What do you think?”
“Omigod,” Rebecca blurted, her face etched in pain.
“See, I said you’d be amazed at how fabulous you’d look.”
“Yeah, fabulously orangina,” Rebecca muttered under her breath. She was just about to reach for the zipper when a thought occurred to her. OK, the dress was cheap, nasty and positively hideous, but at the same time she had to admit there was something distinctly retro about it. It screamed platforms, Abba and flicky hair. And vintage was very in at the moment. She reached inside her bra cups and hoisted up her bosom. It did give her a wonderful cleavage. And the skirt was long enough to hide her muddy shoes. Maybe, just maybe, she could get away with it. She did a half twirl and then another.
“All right,” Rebecca said. “I’ll give it a go.”
They both agreed that since the mud looked like it contained a fair amount of oil, Rebecca’s suit was beyond saving. Val said she’d toss it. Rebecca promised to dry-clean the dress and send it back the following week.
It turned out Zoe’s parents’ house was only a few hundred yards from the church.
“It’s set back in its own grounds,” Val said. “You can’t miss it. Huge marquee thing in the garden.”
With a hug from Val and wrapped in a white crocheted shawl she’d managed to dig out, Rebecca set off for a second time.
“Oh, my God,” Guy Debonnaire bellowed, waving his champagne flute. “Look, everyone, the divine Miss Fine has come as a tangerine.”
A dozen or so people turned to look at her, but it felt like hundreds. She hadn’t felt this embarrassed since she was eighteen and did her first postcoital pussy fart. She might have known Guy would be there. Zoe said she was inviting practically everybody from the Tribune.
“And what have you come as, Guy?” a woman’s voice piped up from the crowd. Whomever it was had clearly spotted Guy’s emerald brocade jacket with flared cuffs. “A gay leprechaun?”
Everybody hooted, which made Rebecca feel much better. Then they turned back to their conversation and champagne.
A moment later, Guy came lurching across. “Sorry, Becks. I didn’t mean it. Honest. Please forgive me. I only said it because you won’t go out with me. Come on, have dinner with me. Please. You know you want to.”
“Sorry, Guy,” she said, her eyes darting round for Max, “I’m actually seeing somebody at the moment.”
“Ah, yes, I’ve heard all about you and the illustrious Mr. Stoddart. The last time I saw him he was standing by the bar, talking to some people from the Tribune.”
She thanked him and began easing her way through the crowd. It was then that she spotted Bloody Lorna, standing a couple of feet away, chatting with another group. Rebecca had no idea what Lorna was doing at the wedding. Of all the people she didn’t want to see her in the tangerine dress, Lorna had to be on top of the list. She stared into the distance, determined not to make eye contact.
“Rebecca, hi! Lovely to see you. Mind you, it would be hard to miss you in that absolutely glorious color.”
Lorna was wearing a stunning black suit with magenta buttons and matching turned-back cuffs. On her head was a black and magenta feathery creation, which on anybody else would have looked comical, but on her looked so Kate Moss.
“Hello, Lorna,” Rebecca said, greeting the woman as if she were a recurring bout of cystitis. “Not at Chequers this weekend, then?”
“No, Tony and Cherie are at Balmoral,” Lorna said, coming over to air-kiss her. At one point their cheeks collided. Lorna’s cheekbones were protruding and sharp. Rebecca felt like she was being air-kissed by Yorick.
“This is Rebecca Fine, everybody. She works for the Vanguard—as their toe cleavage correspondent.”
Rebecca wondered how much champagne Lorna had put away, since she was being even more bitchy than usual.
There was a round of polite, rather awkward smiles. Then some guy appeared whom everybody seemed to know apart from Rebecca. While the kissing and handshaking was going on, she slipped away.
She spotted Max standing at the bar with three blokes in morning suits. She recognized one as Ben, Adam’s best man.
“Hiya,” she called out, waving. Max broke away from the group and came toward her.
“Rebecca, I was worried about you. What happened? Why are you so late?”
She said it was a long story and she’d tell him after she’d had a drink.
Then he noticed what she was wearing.
“Wow,” he said, clearly taken aback, “great dress.”
“You hate it, don’t you?”
“No …” She could see he was fighting not to laugh.
“Yes, you do. You’re laughing.”
“No, I’m not. Honest.” He coughed a couple of times. “I love it. It’s, erm, very …”
“Orange?”
“Well, yes, I would have to agree it is just a tad orange. But I was going to say it’s very different from your usual style. But different is good. That’s the problem with the world today. Not enough diversity. Dead boring.”
“Liar,” she said, smiling. “Look, I know the dress is vile, but it was either this or not come.”
“How d’you mean?”
As she told him about the breakdown, the cattle truck and Val, he finally burst out laughing.
“I suppose it is pretty funny,” she said, “but it wasn’t at the time.”
He stroked her cheek.
“Oh, by the way,” she said, trying to sound not in the least put out, “I just bumped into Lorna. I didn’t know she was going to be here.”
“No, nor did I until yesterday. Turns out she’s Zoe’s cousin.”
“Oh, right.”
“Anyway, the dress looks brilliant,” he said. “You look fantastic. Now come here and give me a proper kiss. I’ve really missed you.”
“So, how’s the story going?” she said as they pulled away.
“I’ll tell you about it in a minute. Look, do you mind if I abandon you for a bit? Something really important’s just come up and I have to make a couple of phone calls. You grab a drink and mingle. I’ll come and find you. It won’t take long. Promise.”
“Make sure it doesn’t,” she grinned, runnin
g her hand over his behind before he disappeared.
Rebecca took a glass of champagne from the bar and looked round for Zoe, the bride, to wish her congratulations. Rebecca adored Zoe. She was one of the sweetest, most positive and jolly people Rebecca knew. The only problem was she’d been cursed with a size eighteen body and tits to match. Until a few months ago, the whole world had been convinced she would never find a bloke. Then Adam joined the Tribune. He was pushing forty and a bit of a porker himself (hence his nickname, Fat Boy Fat). The two of them hit it off immediately, having discovered a mutual love of haiku and barbecued food. Six weeks later the wedding had been booked.
After a few minutes, Rebecca decided to go upstairs to the bathroom to check her makeup. She was standing at the basin rinsing foundation off her fingers when Zoe came sailing in. Her floaty dress was gathered tight under her bust. On her head she was wearing a garland of fresh gypsophila and ivy. Rebecca could just hear Guy Debonnaire saying something cutting like: “Ooh, darling, don’t tell me—Weight Watchers is putting on A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
The two of them exchanged excited kisses and hugs and Rebecca told Zoe how wonderful she looked.
“Yes, but look at you,” Zoe came back. “That dress is just so seventies. You are clever. I wish I was brave enough to do something like that.”
Deciding Zoe probably didn’t have the time or the inclination on her wedding day to listen to the cattle truck tale, Rebecca smiled and accepted the compliment.
They walked downstairs together.
“Oh,” Zoe said, “I must introduce you to my cousin Lorna. You know, Lorna Findlay from Channel 6 News. I know how much you’re trying to break into investigative stuff. She’d be a brilliant contact.”
“Actually, we know each other—through Max Stoddart at the Vanguard. They’re working on a story together. In fact he and I have just started seeing …”
She realized Zoe wasn’t listening. She’d stopped outside the drawing room and was peering in.
“Between you and me,” Zoe whispered, “I think it’s probably a bit more than a story they’re working on.”
