by Liz Eeles
She takes her eyes off the road and shoots me a quick glance. ‘He didn’t like the kettles and Edna being moved but he’ll get over it. It’s three years next week since his wife died so he’s a bit emotional at the moment.’
‘I didn’t mean for the changes in The Cosy Kettle to upset him. I’m very fond of Stanley – of all of you – but I’m running a business and setting out the café as my client wants.’
‘I get that and it looks good, all decked out in silver and white. It’s just quite different from what we’re used to. That’s all. It doesn’t feel like The Cosy Kettle any more. Anyway, enough about work stuff, tell me all about your fancy-free life and make me envious.’
Mary relaxes more with every mile we get farther from Honeyford, as we drive through tunnels of trees and past long wide valleys dotted with golden villages huddled around pale stone churches. We chat easily about where we grew up and Flora’s dishy boyfriend and what my life is like without children. I think I rather disappoint her with my boring tales of work and watching Love Island on the sofa with Zac.
‘Your housemate seems nice,’ she says, crunching down into third gear as we zoom around a corner. ‘He’s pretty cute.’
‘He’s a lovely man. Really kind and caring.’
‘And then there’s that handsome bloke you’re going out with after the party. You’re drowning in good-looking men, you lucky cow.’
She glances at me and grins and I have to laugh. ‘Logan is rather nice-looking.’
‘You think? My knees start knocking whenever I spot his rugged jawline across the café. Let’s just say that I definitely would. And he’ll be totally smitten when he sees your new look.’
‘I’m not changing how I dress just for him.’
‘I know. I saw your wish list – more assertive, more confident, yada yada. New, more flattering clothes will help with that. But, as an important side effect, they’ll also knock Logan’s socks off – and a lot more clothing besides.’ She gives a throaty chuckle and slams the car into fourth gear as I wish my new wardrobe would knock Zac’s socks off instead. But I’m not daft – it would take more than a new pair of trousers to compete with Jasmine’s many attributes.
Before long, we reach the outskirts of Oxford and drive along wide streets lined by large elegant houses. As we get closer to the centre, the roads narrow and the beautiful buildings become older. Oxford is wonderful, especially at this time of year when Christmas lights are strung along the streets. I love visiting but I’m out of sync with city life now and am always happy to get home to more peaceful Honeyford.
Mary eventually finds a parking space and the shopping spree begins. I say ‘spree’ but my financial situation means it’s more of a trip – a low-key budget trip to, as Mary describes it, ‘tart you up a bit’.
As the quest to look more like Jasmine begins, I get a sudden attack of nerves. Especially when I wave a few photos of Jasmine under Mary’s nose to give her an idea of the style I’m aiming for.
‘Is that your sister?’ asks Mary, her eyes opening wide in a familiar expression of disbelief. ‘She’s very… well… she’s…’
‘Not much like me?’
‘She’s definitely related,’ says Mary, squinting at the pictures. ‘I can see a likeness in the shape of your eyes and nose, and the way you both stand, but your colouring is so different. I presume from the colour of your eyebrows that your hair is naturally darker than hers?’
‘Yeah, mine’s a nondescript shade of mousey brown. Do you reckon I can look like Jasmine?’
Mary thinks for a moment. ‘I reckon you can borrow a little of her style and look like a brilliant version of you. Does that sound OK?’ She smiles when I nod. ‘Good. Now, brace yourself because this is going to be intense.’
She isn’t joking. Mary starts dragging me into shop after shop and thrusting clothes at me. With her encouragement, I buy a pair of smart but inexpensive trousers, a couple of thin jumpers (for layering, apparently), a pretty long-sleeved top with cut-out shoulders and tiny hummingbirds on it, and two cotton scarves, one in shades of green and blue, and the other a deep shade of burgundy. I also buy a pair of nude stiletto shoes that I’d never normally wear in a month of Sundays, but Jasmine would.
‘Are we done?’ I ask, ready to drop after taking my clothes on and off umpteen times in tiny changing cubicles.
‘Almost,’ says Mary, who seems more alive than I’ve ever seen her. There’s a spring in her step and a fervent zeal in her eyes as she flicks through clothing on the shop rails and chooses suitable items for me to try on. ‘There’s just one more shop we need to visit.’
I troop out into the cold Oxford air and follow her as she marches along a narrow street and stops outside a shop that has two miniature Christmas trees flanking its doors. Oh dear. As soon as I glance in the window, I can tell this is the kind of shop I usually avoid.
Two female assistants by the till glance at me, unsmiling, as Mary and I go inside. They give my scruffy jeans a once-over and sniff, but cheer up when they spot all the bags that we’re carrying.
‘Why are we in here?’ I hiss at Mary, staring at the rows of dresses hanging on silver rails.
‘To get you a couple of dresses that you can wear to work.’
‘I don’t wear dresses like these to work. I don’t wear dresses at all. Well, only my wool dress which is pretty old.’
‘Exactly.’
She starts running her fingers across the thick cotton of a blue shift dress, while I sigh inwardly. These tailored dresses aren’t me at all. But maybe that’s the point when I’m supposed to be changing who I am. Old anxious Becca doesn’t wear pretty dresses to work, but new Becca who wants to be a little more like Jasmine does.
‘Try these,’ says Mary, thrusting four dresses at me. ‘They should fit OK and flatter your shape.’
This shop has a better class of changing room. There’s a thick velvet curtain rather than a thin wooden door, the floor is free of balled-up tissues, and the lighting is so flattering I don’t look in the mirror and wince. Actually, I don’t look bad at all in this light. I do a slow twirl and pout as if I’m a model.
I’ve been letting my hair grow recently and it now reaches my shoulders, with a natural wave near my ears. It’s still a vivid shade of blue, but the style is softer than usual.
‘How’s it going in there?’ calls Mary through the heavy curtain. ‘I suppose I had better get back to Kevin at some point. And I know it sounds ridiculous but I’m starting to miss Callum. He’s quite sweet when he falls asleep on my shoulder.’
‘Just coming,’ I say, peeling off my jeans and sweatshirt yet again and trying on the first dress which is scratchy on my skin and tight around my waist. It also has frills down the bodice. Frills! There is a limit to how far I’ll go to make my wish come true. I peel off the dress and try garment number two. It’s so fitted, I can hardly get it over my hips and I quickly decide that I look like a lumpy sack of potatoes in it. This is why I don’t wear dresses!
But the third dress I try on looks OK. It’s a simple short-sleeved ‘T’ shape with a self-tie belt in the same rich red fabric. The hem rests just above my knees.
‘Let’s have a look,’ declares Mary, sweeping back the curtain, impatiently. ‘Oh, my! You look lovely and very elegant in that. Team it with black tights and boots and you’ll be a knockout. What about the others?’
‘These two don’t fit properly but I’ll give the last dress a go.’
This one also looks rather nice when I’ve struggled into it. The black fabric fits tightly across my boobs and then it falls into a swirly full skirt that swishes when I move.
‘That one really suits you, too,’ says Mary, who’s standing watching me get changed with her hands on her hips.
‘I’m not sure it’s very practical for The Cosy Kettle.’
‘Shove an apron on top to protect it from coffee spills and it’ll be fine. It’s up to you, Becca, but you look great in those dresses. You look really di
fferent, which is what you wanted, isn’t it? What do you reckon?’
I reckon I don’t actually look very much like Jasmine. Our body shape is so different – she’s all bony and angular while I’m more round and squidgy. But I quite like the way the dresses make me feel. As though I’m someone else – someone professional, confident… and sophisticated. Someone who’s at home in the new-look Cosy Kettle.
‘I’ll take them!’ I declare. ‘How much are they, by the way?’ Oops, maybe that should have been my first question. I glance at the swinging price tags and swallow hard. ‘That’s quite a lot.’
‘What price can you put on making your wish come true?’
That’s a fair point. I fish my credit card out of my purse and try not to look intimidated as one of the snooty assistants wraps my purchases in tissue and puts them into a glossy branded bag.
The sun is starting to set as Mary drives us out of Oxford and slides behind the darkening hills as we get closer to Honeyford.
I twist round in the passenger seat towards her. ‘Thank you so much, Mary, for giving up your day to help me with my shopping. I really appreciate it.’
‘Ah, it’s nothing. It was good to have an excuse to escape domestic bliss for a while. I’m just sorry we didn’t get anything suitable for the party itself. That pink top I made you try on in the second shop we went to looked nice.’
‘Yeah, it wasn’t quite me, though, with all the bows and the ruffles. I looked like one of the raspberry meringues we sell in the café. I can always wear the black dress to the party. That’ll be fine.’
‘I guess so. And I’ll definitely do your make-up on party day to make you look extra special. I’m pretty good with a make-up brush though I hardly wear any these days. There doesn’t seem much point when I’m home all the time. I really love Callum and I’m glad I had him but my life’s very different these days.’ She sighs and glances across the valley at the darkening sky and the deepening shadows. ‘Anyway, I can vicariously enjoy your reinvention and your lascivious love life with gorgeous Logan. What more do I need?’ She nods as we drive past the sign that bids us Welcome to the ancient Cotswold market town of Honeyford. ‘Here we are. Home again!’
I step into the cottage and pile my shopping bags on the floor. Good grief, I can’t believe I let Mary persuade me to buy so much. I’ll still be paying off my credit card next Christmas.
‘Zac, are you in?’ I shout, but the cottage is cold and empty. Maybe he’s out with Jasmine, or perhaps she’s given him the brush-off and he’s drowning his sorrows with friends somewhere. I don’t suppose he’d drown them with me because the whole sleeping with my sister thing is just too awkward.
I haul my shopping bags up the stairs and stop at Zac’s open bedroom door. With a quick glance over my shoulder, in case he might magically appear, I drop my bags, go into his room and sit on the bed, just where Jasmine sat when she called in before their date.
She’s right. It is very macho in here. There are no frills and flounces and hardly anything on display, apart from a large Bluetooth speaker. Zac loves turning his music up loud and playing air guitar, when he thinks I’m not looking. His dark hair flops over his eyes as he moves in time to the beat, like the bass player in an indie band who all the shy goth girls lust over.
The last time I spotted him air-strumming, I joined in too and we headbanged our way around the sitting room. I smile at the memory. That was the weekend before we walked to the wishing well and I made my Christmas wish. Lots of things have changed since then and I’ve made a lot of progress – the ticks on my wish list are totting up. But not all of the changes are what I expected. Don’t people say, be careful what you wish for?
I gather up my shopping bags, go into my bedroom and hang my new clothes in my wardrobe.
Eighteen
The Christmas party is in three days’ time and it’s all systems go in The Cosy Kettle. The tree has been moved into the corner where the book club used to sit, so there’s more space for people to mingle, and I’ve added a few more tasteful decorations to the room. One of them – a large perforated silver star – is lit from behind and casts tiny pinpricks of light onto the wall.
The place looks amazing and yet… it doesn’t feel like The Cosy Kettle. Stanley was right when he said the cosiness had gone and several regular customers have grumbled about it over the last couple of days. My café looks like Christmas as imagined by someone who’s trying to keep up with the upmarket Joneses – everything is carefully placed and over-thought. But it’s what Logan wants, and he’s the client.
I switch off the lights and close the café door behind me. I’m definitely feeling less at home here but haven’t had a chance to speak to Zac about it. We’re like ships that pass in the night at the moment. I’ve spent the last couple of evenings here, catching up on party paperwork, and Zac has been out at Christmas dos with friends. I miss him and his chats. Even the banter over breakfast has dried up and I miss his insults that used to make me laugh. I guess realising you’re in love with your best friend shifts the relationship in subtle ways that can’t be prevented.
‘Are you off?’ calls Flora, who’s working late tonight. ‘Good. You deserve a break after all your hard work. I hope you’ve got a lovely relaxing evening planned.’
‘Millicent is picking me up in ten minutes and taking me to have my hair done, ahead of the party.’
‘Oh gosh. Not terribly relaxing then.’ Flora laughs and balances another book on top of her display of novels set in the Cotswolds. ‘Good luck, and I look forward to seeing the new you tomorrow.’
Fifteen minutes later and there’s still no sign of Millicent. She said she’d pick me up near the Pheasant and Fox, which is kind of her, but she’s late, and it’s snowing again. Thick fat flakes are drifting down from the dark grey sky. They dance in the street lamp’s yellow light, before settling on the pavement. The ground is wet so the snow isn’t sticking yet, but the old tiled roofs of Honeyford’s shops and cottages are dusted in white.
I check my watch again and wrap my thick woolly scarf more tightly around my neck. It’s all very well wearing dresses – I’ve got the new red one on today – but tights don’t keep my legs as warm as my jeans do. I stamp my feet and start walking up and down to ward off the cold.
The town looks chocolate-box pretty tonight, with Christmas lights strung across the narrow street and light spilling from the pub’s windows. And it’s peaceful. There’s a low thrum of traffic from the High Street nearby and snatches of conversation as people walk past. But compared to the city, Honeyford has a laid-back vibe which is good for my mental health. It’s been months since I experienced the crushing, I’m about to die terror of a panic attack.
I pull out my phone to see if Millicent has cancelled because of the weather. It’s very kind of her to help me but I’m kind of dreading spending time alone with her. She’s so spikey, she makes me nervous. I’ve just started checking my text messages when a gleaming huge black Audi with tinted windows pulls up beside me. The window glides down.
‘Don’t stand there like a lummock,’ barks Millicent, leaning across from the driver’s side. ‘Get in!’
I slide into the passenger seat and Millicent accelerates towards the High Street. Inside and out, her car looks as though it’s just been driven away from the showroom. Zac’s car is littered with sweet wrappers and smells like a hospital, thanks to the muscle rub he uses after going to the gym. Millicent’s is pristinely clean and there’s a strong leather smell overlaid with lemon. A citrus air freshener is swinging back and forth from the rear-view mirror.
‘Right,’ says Millicent, pulling out in front of a Mini. ‘Are you ready to have your hair sorted out? It’ll make such a difference to your overall appearance, and your confidence, I dare say.’
‘I’m looking forward to it and thank you for arranging things. Um, where exactly are we going?’
‘To see my hairdresser,’ says Millicent, driving out of Honeyford and into the darkness of
the countryside. Snow is still coming down and she puts the windscreen wipers on full speed.
‘I thought you went to the hairdresser on the other side of town.’
‘The Krafty Kuts salon?’ Millicent sniffs. ‘I don’t think so. I couldn’t possibly frequent a business that can’t spell its own name correctly. I have a top-notch hairdresser who comes to my house every week.’
‘So, is that where we’re going now? To your house?’
‘We are.’ She shakes her head as I grip the sides of my seat when she takes a bend in the road rather quickly. ‘This car has four-wheel drive, Becca. You’re totally safe with me.’
She’s probably right but I’m still relieved when I spot the lights of Little Besbridge and she stamps on her brakes as we drive into the tiny village that attracts tourists like bees to a honeypot. Time has stood still in Little Besbridge. Thatched cottages cluster around a village pond to my right, and a stream, edged with trees, snakes its way along the side of the narrow road.
Millicent drives past the green and turns in to a gravel driveway just before the village ends. I crane my neck for my first look at Millicent’s house which I’ve heard so much about, and I’m not disappointed. Flora says the house is a new-build, but it looks old with its Cotswold stone walls and white pillars flanking the grey front door.
Millicent stops quickly outside the door, sliding gently on the gravel, and waits for me to get out of the car before fishing in her handbag for her front door key.
‘No one else is home,’ she tells me, fitting the key into the lock. ‘So Caroline can work her magic on you in peace.’
She flings open the door and we step into a beautiful square hallway with paintings of Cotswolds landscapes on the walls. Millicent turns off the beeping burglar alarm and leads me up thickly carpeted stairs onto a wide, square landing. So this is how the other half lives! There’s a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, suspended over the drop to the hallway below, and a huge potted palm, that’s taller than me, in the corner next to an enormous sash window that shows inky darkness outside.
