by Helen Slavin
“He’s a good man, Anna. I like him,” she said.
3
Antique Lace
Anna had not really dreamed of a wedding, ever. She had no tightly held beliefs about the colour or style of her dress, or whether transport should be by limousine or horse and carriage. Not so, the Atwoods Senior.
“Of course you’ll be married in church. Your father has already spoken to the Rector about it. I’m sure you can find time to attend for three Sundays for the banns.”
“At St Werburgh’s? Up in Old Town?” Calum already knew the answer. His parents were regular worshippers at the old Castlebury church. Mrs Atwood drew a breath, her face pinched.
“Heavens, Calum, it’s only three Sundays.”
“And it’s only in Castlebury, son,” his father intoned.
Calum gritted his teeth.
“If it’s going to be church, then tradition states it should be Woodcastle at St Bridget Kingham. That’s Anna’s parish,” he said. His mother stiffened and cast a small and peevish glance at Anna.
“Do you ever go to church?” Her tone suggested she knew the answer.
“No.” Anna felt like a schoolgirl on a hairy assembly-hall mat.
“There you have it then.” Mrs Atwood was triumphant.
“It’s all been arranged,” Mr Atwood chimed in. “Pending a visit, of course, so that you can liaise with the Rector on the dates available.”
Mrs Atwood stilled and calmed, and Mr Atwood cleared his throat. Calum sat forward.
“We’ve already spoken to the vicar at St Bridget’s. She’s moving pari…”
Calum’s mother stiffened again. The movement was beginning to remind Anna of a meerkat at the zoo.
“She?” Calum’s mother’s mouth pinched hard at the word.
“Yes, Kaylie. Kaylie is moving to a new parish in Castlebury, and she’d be very happy for our wedding to be her last service in Woodcastle.”
Calum’s mother was speechless. She exchanged a look of pure fury with his father, who returned it with a matching one of his own, before they both glared at the happy couple.
“Shall we discuss the reception venue?” Calum’s mother snapped the words like twigs.
“The golf club have—” Mr Atwood began, pulling a small marketing brochure from his pocket.
“Oh,” Calum said, “great. You can have a round of golf after you’ve eaten.”
Anna’s foot squeezed against Calum’s. Beneath the table his hand reached for hers.
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Calum.” His father put on his reading glasses and glared over the top of them at Anna. “The golf club is the perfect venue. Kiki is holding several dates for us in September… pending, of course, your meet and greet with Canon Richard at St Werburgh’s.”
Calum squeezed Anna’s hand a little bit tighter.
“We’re getting married in April, during the Easter break at school,” he said. “We already told you that.”
His father glared over the top of his glasses.
“The golf club can only hold the September dates. September is when your wedding will take place.” He tapped at the brochure and then pushed it across the table, as if it might be a deed to a gold mine. “You have to be flexible.”
Calum squeezed Anna’s hand so tightly the bones crunched.
“We are flexible. The wedding is going to be either the 20th or the 27th of April depending on which date Tim and Pru have free at the Angel’s Table.”
There was a grunt of disapproval from Mrs Atwood.
“The Angel’s Table? But of course.” Mrs Atwood raised her eyes at Mr Atwood, who took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Good God.” His voice was harsh and weary. “Calum, this is your wedding, not a salvage mission for your friends’ failing business.”
Anna, tired of letting Calum take all the blows, sat forward with him.
“It is the perfect setting. The Angel’s Table has views right across Woodcastle. The food is wonderful there, all locally sourced…”
Mrs Atwood let out a sneering snort that was rather more snotty than she intended, so she had to reach for her crumpled hanky.
“What’s wrong with that?” Anna asked and felt Calum squeeze her hand again in support.
“Oh, come on. Locally sourced? Organic? All marketing hype to keep the prices high.”
Anna felt a little black pebble settle in her throat. It was cold and smooth and dense.
“Unlike the food and drink offered at the golf club, of course. Do you know where they source their meat and game? Their vegetables?” Mrs Atwood continued. Anna’s voice curved and clung to the black pebble inside her, taking on its dark coolness. “And their pricing is so competitive.”
“Reputable dealers. Proper businesses,” Mr Atwood countered with no real conviction.
“The Angel’s Table is at Kingham Tower Gardens, and you can’t rival it for privacy and beauty. You cannot compare the view from their restaurant and terrace to the view of the industrial estate from the Mallory Room at the golf club.”
Calum stifled a laugh.
“I suppose we ought to be grateful you’re not offering to cater it yourself. Or host it in that bloody wood.” Mrs Atwood’s laugh was ugly and snide. She shared a look with her husband, who gave a smug nod. From upstairs a door slammed hard, and there was a distant sound of breakage. Mrs Atwood was alert.
“Did you shut the loo window, Bill?” she accused. The disturbance gave Anna and Calum the chance to take their leave.
* * *
“They don’t like me much,” Anna said as Calum drove them back through the edges of Castlebury. The winking lights of Woodcastle had never seemed so welcoming.
“They don’t like me either, if that’s any consolation,” Calum said. Anna smiled and looked out of the window.
“Can’t we just have a handfasting?” She turned to him at the traffic lights on Long Gate Street. “You know, just me and you and a Druid or someone out on Horse Hill?”
“We could have my parents as a human sacrifice. Offer them up to the Gods.” Calum grinned, taking his hands from the wheel in a raised, offering gesture.
“I think the Gods might send them back.”
They let out sad, tired little laughs before the lights changed, and they moved off, and the dream of handfasting was left at the roadside.
* * *
Fights and scuffles were lost and won over the weeks that followed. The date was set for April and the venue, The Angel’s Table, booked. The guest list lengthened and shortened as the Atwoods fought for the inclusion of long-lost cousins and aged aunts.
“It’s like the UN,” Calum sighed. “Only with more wars.”
* * *
“You haven’t got a dress,” Charlie reminded Anna as the three Way sisters met at Half-Built House. They tended to congregate in the kitchen of their mother’s new build, as if the rest of the place might be out of bounds, as if they themselves might be breaking and entering. Charlie included her mother in that.
“What? No dress?” Vanessa was suddenly attentive. “I thought you’d picked out and paid for a…”
Anna shook her head.
“Right. We all need to go shopping.” Vanessa pulled a face. “I haven’t got anything to wear yet either.”
“Lab coat and a head lamp?” Charlie suggested.
“Biohazard suit,” Emz chipped in.
“It’d protect you from the Atwoods,” Anna said with a wry smile.
* * *
The Ways, mother and daughters, did not go shopping very often, neither together nor individually. If it wasn’t a fleece, jeans, or chequerboard chef’s trousers, they were not interested — or comfortable.
In order to appease the in-laws and attempt to make fashion decisions instead of disasters, the Ways had invited Calum’s older sister, Catriona, along for the expedition.
Castlebury’s main shopping centre had been largely demolished and altered from a mix of Victorian and post
-war architecture into a new shopping destination, The District, which boasted several high-end wedding shops.
Where the Ways were shopping amateurs, Catriona Atwood was a fashionista. She had a map of the shopping area with colour-coded stickers dotted across it. This map was spread across a table in the new coffee shop, Roasted, and Catriona had been talking them through the day’s itinerary.
“…and once we’ve touched all the bases in The District, then we can move on towards Old Town before we have lunch.”
“Do we have infantry on the ground?” Charlie asked over a mocha. Catriona was unamused.
“You’ve left it late…” She looked at Anna. “If you’d gone with the September date we wouldn’t be in this much trouble.”
“It’s a dress,” Charlie persisted. “How much trouble can it be?”
* * *
The bridesmaids’ dresses were first on Catriona’s agenda. Emz said nothing at all about the lilac toga-style dress she was assigned.
“Perfect. Very elegant.” Catriona purred over her choices. Charlie was less accommodating.
“We look like extras from the porn version of Gladiator,” she growled. Emz stifled a laugh, and the two sisters high-fived each other.
“Then try the lemon ones on.” Catriona was not to be swayed. The lemon ones were worse.
“Calippo anyone?” Charlie sneered, and then, with a glance at Anna’s face, she backed down and lemon was decided upon.
* * *
They were all weary by the time Catriona had walked them over to Rook Road in Old Town. The Georgian buildings here housed some of the most exclusive shops in town: copper baths, first editions, kitchen gadgets for people who never cooked, and, at last, the chic paleness of Tabitha Wisdom — Couture.
This was the queen of all wedding shops and, for the Ways, shopping there was like shopping in a silk and satin snowstorm, the bugle beads, seed pearls, and silver wire like shards of ice, glints of frost.
Catriona was on first-name terms with Tabitha, who had clothed all her friends for various social events. It seemed that Anna’s career as a chef had inspired many of the choices of gown on offer: cupcake, meringue, zabaglione, soufflé. These were just some of the words that came into Charlie’s head as they sat in impossibly white antique chairs and watched their sister parade in and out of the changing room. Emz withdrew, sitting with her chin on her hands and saying nothing. Vanessa was stern and silent. Charlie decided that someone had to stick up for Anna, particularly because Anna wasn’t sticking up for herself.
“Does it have to be white?” Charlie’s voice was loud against the soft beige, white and gold furnishings of the boutique.
“No, of course not,” Tabitha beamed. “It could be ivory or clotted cream, whisper white, blush ivory…” She began to scroll through a hefty cube of lustrous fabrics. Charlie shook her head.
“No, I mean, can’t it be another colour. Blue… or green maybe?”
There were sighs and pinched faces. Emz sat up.
“Green is lovely. Anna suits green.”
“It isn’t done. You don’t wear green for a wedding. Married in green… ashamed to be seen.”
“Or is it just that you don’t have any green fabrics?” Charlie cast a look at the thick wedges of fabric samples and their vanilla paleness. Tabitha stole a glance at Catriona, which declared the battle lines for this small war, and, before Charlie could say anything more, Anna showed a sudden animated interest in the wad of fabrics.
“There are a lot of choices.” She was diplomatic. There were, as far as Charlie could see, no choices. Tabitha’s bright customer-service charm was starting to tarnish a little, and she pounced on a particular sample before Anna could turn any more leaves.
“That one… now that one is a tussah silk, very beautiful.” She was determined, Charlie could see. “Midge, can you bring out the Phaedra in the latte tussah?”
Like a French aristo, Anna was once more escorted into the changing room.
Catriona loved it. Charlie thought coffee milkshake and was pained by Anna’s expression. Coffee milkshake, Charlie yelled in her head. She glanced at their mother, who said nothing, and at Emz, who sank deeper into her chair, her hand clamping over her mouth.
“…this colour is perfect for your complexion.”
“We have several veils for the Phaedra. My favourite is this… it’s antique lace.” The sheer fabric being lifted from a box of tissue was woven at the edges with intricate lace. “This is Victorian witchcraft lace.” Tabitha waved the veil in the air, and, as it landed on Anna’s head and draped over her shoulders, it resembled a tattered swan’s wing. It was the first item they had seen all day that qualified as a thing of beauty. The second the fabric touched her sister, Charlie felt odd, too hot, and, for a moment, rather queasy. Emz seemed to shuffle tighter and glanced wide-eyed at Charlie. Anna looked like a parchment ghost, brittle.
“I’m not sure,” Anna spoke up, her mouth a shadow beneath the veil. Tabitha moved to twitch the veil, and Charlie felt the slick queasiness in her stomach once more. Emz reached for the complimentary glass of water and sipped.
“It is exquisite,” Catriona sighed, looking teary. “Oh my God, Anna, it is to die for… it’s… oh, Anna.”
“I’m still not sure.” Anna sounded sharper, more insistent.
“It’s because you’re not used to dressing up,” Catriona persuaded. “Seriously, you have to have this dress. This is The Dress, hands down.”
Charlie felt the queasiness subside, only to be replaced by a prickly cold feeling at the nape of her neck. Emz sipped more water.
“If you’re not sure, Anna…” Vanessa stepped in at last, shifting forwards in her chair, as if ready to leave. “Then we should go away, have a coffee and some cake, and consider.” She did not look at Catriona or Tabitha, both currently trying to stare her down. Instead, she kept her gaze steady and fixed on Anna. “It has to be right for you.”
Catriona was stiff with pique.
“It is right. For Christ’s sake, she looks like a goddess in it.” Catriona glared at them all. “I know my stuff here.” She stood her fashion ground.
“How much is it?” Anna asked. Catriona looked outraged.
“That doesn’t matter. This is THE dress. You have to have it. Trust me.”
Emz downed the last of the water and refilled it, the water-cooler glooping in fear. Charlie felt the cold prickling sensation intensify.
“Are you paying for the dress, Catriona?” Anna asked coolly. “Is this going to be your wedding present to me?”
Charlie wanted to tear the dress from Anna. The cold tone of her voice was freaking her out, and that lace looked stained or something, a bit brownish and grubby.
“No... well, no, of course not.” Catriona squirmed, embarrassed. Anna turned her lacy stare on Tabitha.
“How much is the Phaedra dress in latte-coloured tussah silk, Ms Wisdom?”
Tabitha Wisdom did not pause to think.
“The dress is £6,500 and the veil is £2,300. It’s antique, you see.” There was a silence, and a sharp breeze blew at the shop door, rattling the glass, as Anna removed the veil. As she did so, Charlie felt better; the prickling feeling ceased.
“So, if my maths doesn’t desert me, we’re talking a budget of £8,800 just for the dress?”
Tabitha made a carefree shrugging gesture. “Yes. And of course there is the matter of shoes and adjustments for alterations, etc.”
“Etcetera,” Anna said.
Vanessa sat further forward, looking like she was about to leap for the door.
“Do you like the dress, Anna?” she asked. “That’s the only real question.”
“I do not.” Anna’s hand let the veil fall back into its box. “I think I look like a coffee milkshake.”
Charlie felt tears prickle in her eyes at this comment. Emz struggled to stifle a relieved and conspiratorial squeak. Tabitha Wisdom was unfazed.
“I do have another in a—”
“No. Thank you.” Anna stepped toward the changing room. Catriona was quick to jump in.
“You’re making a mistake,” she said, her face an angry rising tide of blush.
“Oh? Why’s that, Catriona? Are you on commission?” Anna said coolly and turned back from the changing room door. The swift way that Tabitha Wisdom moved to busy herself with the veil and the box and the door to the atelier at the rear told a tale.
“You wanted my advice,” Catriona persisted, until stared down by a three-pronged icy look from Vanessa, Charlie and Emz.
* * *
Half an hour found them back in the shopping centre, where Anna headed into Milsom’s bridal department. She chose three dresses from the racks.
“Pick one,” she told Catriona. Charlie bristled at this, but Vanessa put a hand on her arm to stop her protesting.
“What?” Catriona was awkward in their company now, waiting for an opportunity to make her escape.
“Pick one.”
Catriona chose the middle one, a rather frothy, crinoline style with sheer sleeves.
“This one.”
They all stood like sullen schoolgirls as Anna headed to the till. Ten minutes later Catriona took a faked phone call and headed off to “meet friends”.
* * *
Back at their mother’s house no one said anything much over a fish and chip supper picked up en route through Woodcastle.
“Why’d you do that?” Charlie asked at last, as Vanessa handed round salt and vinegar.
“Do what?” Anna picked at a bit of batter and crunched it.
“Let Catriona choose the dress in the end. Why not choose for yourself?”
Vanessa put down her fork.
“We can take it back you know, Anna, she doesn’t have to know,” she said.
Anna laughed.
“I think she might notice on the actual wedding day.”
