‘Only if you mean it.’ JoJo smiled.
‘I do mean it,’ he’d replied. ‘You’re amazing. I’ll never forget you, JoJo Brown.’
And I will never forget you, she’d thought. Or last night. And then she’d smiled at him again, crossed the bedroom floor and quietly let herself out.
She’d laughed in satisfyingly mysterious fashion when Wendy had asked her where she’d been and what she’d been up to. She’d laughed when the all the women, including Tamsin, had quizzed her at breakfast.
‘I had a magnificent one-night stand,’ was all she would say. She wanted to keep all the delicious, delectable details to herself. How he looked, how he felt, how good it was to touch and be touched after all this time.
‘JoJo!’
‘Come on, spill! We want all the details!’
‘It sounds wonderful.’
‘Tell us something!’
‘No,’ she had said. ‘This is mine and mine alone, for now.’
She thought the same as she stood outside her shop and looked at the beautiful dresses in the window. She would tell her friends all the juicy details at some point in the future, she knew she would, but for now last night was all hers.
‘Hello, JoJo, are you coming in?’
It was Tinks, in her smart navy shift dress and heels, standing in the doorway.
‘Hi, Tinks. Yes, I’m coming in. Hey, did that platinum and mother-of-pearl tiara get sold?’
It had gone, from the display.
‘Yes, it did. I hope you don’t mind that I replaced it with the diamanté choker – I thought it looked nice with the Grecian dress.’
‘Yes, it does. Really nice. And no, of course I don’t mind.’
Tinks looked mildly surprised and stepped back so that JoJo could enter the shop. It looked beautiful; she’d missed it. She looked around admiring everything: the rails of exquisite, hand-sewn dresses lined up for excited brides to leaf through; the glass display cabinet – a treasure chest of twinkling jewellery and tiaras and tiny crowns; the sweep of white, heavy velvet curtains that led to the sumptuous, mirrored changing room. This was all hers. She’d built this from scratch, on her own. And it had been an amazing experience. It had all been worth every hour’s lost sleep, every sacrifice, every lonely night spent sitting on the floor sewing at the end of Constance’s bed, while she slept. But perhaps JoJo had room for something else in her life now. Perhaps this wasn’t all there was.
‘I’m not staying long,’ JoJo said, with a smile. ‘I’m on my way home.’
‘Sure,’ said Tinks. ‘And then you’ll be in later this afternoon?’
‘No,’ said JoJo. ‘I think I’ll take the rest of the day off.’
‘Oh!’ said Tinks, looking taken aback. ‘Well, would you like to have a look at the books? We did pretty well at the weekend.’ She moved towards the desk at the back of the shop, but JoJo stopped her.
‘No, it’s all right,’ she said. ‘I don’t need to look at them. I’m sure they’re great. See you in the morning, Tinks.’
And she astonished both herself and Tinks by walking out of the shop without a backwards glance. Work could wait a day; it certainly got enough attention from her. From now on, she was going to pay a little more attention to herself.
JoJo set off down the road, feeling a lightness in her heart she hadn’t experienced for a long while. She’d tell her sister she could go home and then she’d spend a lovely day doing nothing with Constance – mother and daughter. She’d pick up some doughnuts from the bakery on the corner and take them home for her. She may even treat herself to a slice of cheesecake and perhaps a magazine, from the newsagent’s next door. Maybe they could go to the park; Constance would like that.
As she walked, a man – suited and booted, older yet still handsome, in that dapper older gentleman way – was coming in the opposite direction.
‘Good morning,’ he said.
‘Morning,’ replied JoJo, rewarding his courtesy with a beaming smile and noting his surprise at her response. He had a little badge on his lapel: ‘Robinson & Scott’. It was the auction house, four doors up from her shop. He must have walked past her thousands of times on this street and she may have even replied to his ‘Good morning’ before, but she realised she’d never really noticed him. She’d never really noticed any men, not for a long time, and a big grin spread onto her face as she headed towards Maida Vale.
She was a fantastic, terrible cliché, she thought. She was a brilliant cliché! She’d had an awakening! Last night that gorgeous young man who told her she was beautiful and the best fun to be with, who said she was amazing and one of the sexiest women he’d ever met, had awakened something in her! And now, miracle of miracles, she was noticing men again. Next thing she knew, she thought, smiling to herself, she’d be dating again . . . which wasn’t such a terrible thought, actually. She could maybe date again. OK, she wasn’t going to go skipping merrily onto Tinder as soon as Constance had gone to bed tonight, right clicking – or whatever it was – like a fiend, and she certainly wouldn’t be donning black cocktail dresses and a whiff of desperation and heading to clubs in the hope of being chatted up by men in suits, but she could be open and receptive to the idea of being with a man again. Being with a man could be nice.
Well, well, well, she thought. This was a whole new day for her.
And with that thought, JoJo, the walking cliché, strode happily off down the street to her waiting daughter.
Chapter Eighteen
Sal
‘So, I’m pregnant.’
It hadn’t gone exactly to plan. When Sal had arrived back at the New Grey Goose, Niall had been prepping vegetables, just as she had imagined. He’d looked gorgeous, just as she had predicted. And he’d even been wearing his Guns n’ Roses t-shirt, as she had foretold. But that was where the resemblance to her almost cinematic secret-revealing scenario ended. As soon as he saw her, he’d laid down his knife, wiped his hands on his apron and had come over to give Sal the most amazing, heart-stopping kiss, followed by a saucy grin and an intense look, right in the eyes, that went on for ages and turned into a long, slow wink that told her he couldn’t wait to get her upstairs to take off exactly where they’d left off. It was all so perfect and he was all so perfect she simply didn’t have the courage to tell him the momentous news which might ruin everything – probably would ruin everything. How could he whisk her upstairs for an afternoon of delight when they had a baby between them? How could they carry on as before when something so huge, so life-changing had happened? She had simply not been brave enough to tell him, not yet. She wanted to carry on as before as before had been amazing – when they had nothing between them except lust and heady, wonderful passion.
They carried on for three whole more days in blissful, oblivious heaven before she told him. He told her again how he was a little bit in love with her – in fact, this time he said he was ‘falling’ in love with her, which thrilled and terrified her considering the news she was keeping quiet (no way was she mentioning at this moment in time that she loved him – no way!) And she was telling him now, in true coward’s style, as she was about to head off early to Norfolk for Wendy’s wedding (because it wouldn’t give him much chance to say anything) that she was pregnant. Reveal and run, that was her plan. Hope for a favourable response and then leg it.
It was Friday morning. All the bridesmaids were going up to Sumberley Hall today, to help Wendy get ready for the wedding. Niall was out the back, rolling huge barrels of artisan beer up the path from where the delivery lorry had left them, and swearing his head off because ‘that little git from Churchill’s’ hadn’t brought them in himself as per ‘agreement with the bloody brewery’ and it shouldn’t be ‘his bloody department!’ Sal was perched against one of the waiting barrels, her overnight bag at her feet, watching Niall’s biceps rippling and straining as he rolled and hefted the barrels. It was a very pleasant sight on a sunny summer’s day, despite the fact butter
flies were performing le Cirque de Soleil in her stomach and she was nervous as all hell.
‘How long are you going to be doing that for?’ she asked.
‘A while, as you can see.’ He grimaced. ‘Why?’
‘I need to talk to you.’
‘So talk to me,’ he said, steeling himself to roll another barrel up the path.
Please let him be pleased, Sal thought. Or not too horrified, at least. Please let him send me delighted and surprised texts all the way to Norwich telling me how not horrified he is . . .
‘I was hoping the setting would be more conducive,’ she commented with a droll smile. At the back of a pub with some enormous barrels of beer and a lot of swearing was hardly something out of Mills & Boon, was it? But she had put it off until this long, she had chosen this moment, and she’d better get on with it. Niall had been invited to the wedding by Wendy, last minute (he was following Sal up tomorrow, in his ancient Mini), and Sal was worried that if she still hadn’t told him, one of her friends would inadvertently let the cat out of the bag, plus he would certainly notice her not drinking, which would be most unusual at such an occasion. At the pub this week she’d pretended to have the odd drink, for show (quite ridiculous were her attempts not to seem pregnant, really), and had chucked them down the sink when no one was looking.
Sal took a deep breath. ‘So, I’m pregnant.’
‘You’re what?’ Niall halted on the path and the barrel he was struggling with rolled back onto his foot. ‘Fuck! Ow! Jeeesus!’
‘Shit! Are you OK?’ Sal got up and ran over to him.
‘Yeah, yeah! I’m fine,’ he said, grabbing at his toes as though to check they were all there. ‘I’ll live. Did you just say you were pregnant?’
‘Yes.’ She couldn’t help it; the biggest grin crept onto her face and stayed there. How could it not? She was so bloody happy. But was he? Was he happy? Her eyes combed his lovely face for a reaction. Oh. He didn’t look happy. He looked shocked.
Niall sat down on the barrel, rubbing his temples with his fingers. ‘You’re pregnant.’
‘Yes, I am, Niall. I’m pregnant.’
He sighed. ‘How did this happen, Sal?’
‘Well,’ said Sal, slowly, ‘a man and woman lie down together and the man puts his . . .’
‘I know all that,’ said Niall impatiently and Sal was worried. OK, she was being facetious, but he didn’t need to look quite so cross; his brow was all knotted and the temple-rubbing was becoming fast and furious. This was not looking that good. ‘How did this happen to us? We’ve been careful, haven’t we? I’ve always had my supplies.’ He patted his back pocket with an uncertain grin.
‘Not that first time,’ said Sal. She attempted to shake her head in sorrowful fashion but didn’t quite succeed. She wasn’t sorrowful – terrified, yes, sorrowful, no. That grin she had on her face was going nowhere, despite Niall’s lack of any emotion whatsoever. She couldn’t read his face at all. Well, she could, but she didn’t like what it said. It said he was grumpy and a bit pissed off. ‘Don’t you remember? The whisky night? I guess we just forgot, or we were too drunk, and too in lust, whatever. Ha ha.’ Her laugh was hollow but it willed him to join in.
He didn’t join in.
‘Right.’ His face was now as set as stone; there was still no smile and certainly no flicker of delight. This was not going the way it should, thought Sal, beginning to panic. Where was the hugging and the kissing? The ‘A baby! An actual baby!’ and the ‘Hallelujah, I’m going to be a father!’?
Where was the ‘I love you, Sal, and we’re going to make this work’?
He actually looked angry, she realised, which was rather unfair, really, as it takes two to tango and it should take two to take responsibility for an unwrapped condom. Oh dear. This was bad, really bad.
‘Don’t you want children?’ she asked quietly. She sat down on the barrel next to him.
‘I don’t know . . . yes . . . maybe.’ He ran his hand through his hair. It was in that cute Mohican again today. She’d imagined running her hands through it too, after she’d told him her incredible news. She’d hoped to, anyway. ‘I’m just so bloody shocked, Sal! We’ve only been together two months.’
‘A great two months,’ added Sal.
‘Yes,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘A great two months. Look, I need to think about this.’ He got up from the barrel. He looked down to the road. ‘I’m going to go and have a think.’
‘What? Where?’ She got up too.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I just need to think. Sorry.’ And he walked away. Just like that. He actually walked away, down the path and onto the road, where he turned right and disappeared.
‘What about the barrels?’ Sal shouted after him.
‘Call Churchill’s and get that bastard delivery driver to come back!’ shouted Niall, from the distance, and then there was silence. He was gone.
That’s it, thought Sal, as she slumped back onto the barrel. That’s it. And there it was. There was his flaw.
Niall was a runner.
So much for her telling her secret and fleeing; he had beaten her to it. So much for any glimmer of delight from him; there was none. There was nothing for her to do now except pick up her overnight bag and head to the bus stop.
She had a wedding to get to.
Chapter Nineteen
Rose
As wedding mornings went, it couldn’t have been more perfect. There was always a gamble with the British weather, even in the summer. Especially in the summer, thought Rose, as she gazed out of the pretty sash window which overlooked Sumberley Hall’s gorgeous walled garden and the series of tree-lined paths which led, beyond, to the tiny chapel where Wendy and Frederick would be married. You never quite knew what you were going to get. A week that started dry and bright with soft, scudding clouds and thirty-degree temperatures could easily end in black clouds, freezing temperatures and gale force winds. A day which you began in dazzling sunshine could finish in torrential rain and a big jumper.
The morning of Saturday the twenty-ninth of July dawned bright and clear and the forecast promised it would be an absolute scorcher of a day, all day. The bridal party had woken early and breakfasted on the terrace of Sumberley Hall, to the birds singing and a gentle breeze. They’d taken a short stroll around the grounds in the sunshine, admiring the gardens and the neat cobbled paths they’d been exploring since yesterday and gasped in delight once again at the beauty of the tiny chapel. As eleven o’clock chimed on the grandfather clock in the corner of the Bridal Suite on the top floor of one of Norfolk’s finest stately homes, the sun was streaming through the window and softly illuminating Wendy and her four bridesmaids, who were busy getting ready for the biggest day of her life.
Rose had a just-topped-up glass of champagne in her hand and the sun glinted off it, sending dancing beams of light round the room.
‘You look absolutely beautiful, Wendy,’ she said, turning from the window.
Wendy was standing in the middle of the room on a gold and pink Persian rug and holding her champagne aloft as though she were making a silent toast to the universe. She looked incredible in her pure white, silk empire line dress with the lace, capped sleeves and the ever-so-subtle beading which swirled across the bodice and was sprinkled, like the smattering of tiny, pearlescent raindrops, beautifully down the skirt of the dress. Her flame-red curls were tumbled on top of her head and held in place with tiny mother-of-pearl pins; a delicate tiara, sparkling in the sunshine, nestled on her crown. She looked incredible, and incredibly happy. Perhaps she was toasting the universe, thought Rose, and thanking it for this wonderful day, arrived at last.
‘Thank you, Rose,’ replied Wendy, her face glowing, her peachy-rose make-up subtle and perfect. ‘If there was ever a moment for scrubbing up, then this is it! You don’t look so bad yourself, all of you.’
Three bridesmaids formed a glamorous trio against the prettily dishevelled background
of a room scattered with shoeboxes and tissue paper and cellophane and hair products and make-up brushes and silky, un-needed pashminas. They were in pale coral, floaty dresses in organza – several sheer layers falling from a nipped-in waist – and delicate gold, strappy sandals. Rose, at the window, grinned and adjusted her sash at the waistband. Sal, sitting on the bed, looked up from checking her phone and winked at Wendy. Tamsin, perched on a plush, quilted armchair and fastening a bracelet to her left wrist, looked around at everyone and smiled.
‘Thank you,’ they all said.
‘It helps to have a bride with great taste,’ added Sal, putting her phone back in her bag. ‘No bridesmaid-ery polyester horrors or Scouse brows here!’ She was remarkably chipper this morning, thought Rose, considering how upset she’d been yesterday, but she also knew Sal was a woman capable of putting on the bravest of brave faces when required.
Wendy laughed. ‘I’m happy you’re happy with your dresses,’ she said, ‘and I love JoJo’s eleventh hour additions to them.’
JoJo, the fourth bridesmaid, was currently under Wendy’s dress, half a dozen pins in her mouth.
‘Well,’ JoJo gargled, between the pins, and poking her head out from under the silky contours of the dress, ‘it wouldn’t be your wedding without a decent pop of colour.’
The three bridesmaids not currently under someone’s skirt all admired each other. Last night, when they’d arrived at Sumberley Hall with their outfits and all their bags and ‘gubbins’ (as Sal liked to call it), JoJo had handed them each a narrow, pure silk sash to add around the waistband of their dresses: Rose’s raspberry red, Sal’s emerald green, JoJo’s bright yellow and Tamsin’s teal.
‘As requested by the bride,’ JoJo had said, as Wendy beamed.
‘Yes.’ Wendy had nodded. ‘I’m doing the big, conservative white wedding for Frederick’s family – you know if I had my way it would be a multicoloured bonanza, probably with a circus theme—’ she had looked uncertainly at Tamsin, but Tamsin had just smiled and nodded at her encouragingly ‘—but now I know Frederick won’t mind in the slightest, I feel I should have a few touches of me.’
Four Bridesmaids and a White Wedding: the laugh-out-loud romantic comedy of the year! Page 23
