The Almost Wife: An absolutely gripping and emotional summer read Page 10

  While still just out of earshot, Jessie starts to rant for all she’s worth.

  ‘This bastard wedding, it’s taking over my life. How could I not realise what they’d all be wearing? Why the hell didn’t I just call Camilla? It’s a sodding hunt, I’m on a duke’s land. Of course it’s going to be formal. I am a total arse who deserves to be humiliated. But why does anyone get this dressed up to get covered in mud?’

  The atmosphere is one of a formal drinks party, and Jessie’s just walked in wearing a nasty nylon tracksuit while everyone else is in cocktail dress. She is dressed for a casual hack, not an exclusive invite-only hunt. Big bloody difference. Let’s just be grateful Camilla is not here to witness it too. All around her people are greeting each other officially with boisterous good mornings, between swigs of sherry and port from leather-bound hip flasks and nibbles of sticky sausages that are being passed between the riders. Except now they are all looking at her – thinking loud thoughts. Jessie is the unwanted focus of arched stares and shared whispers – from the very same people who in four months’ time will be enjoying a five course fine dining menu at her expense – OK, Camilla’s expense, but still.

  One not-quite-beautiful woman – all perfect skin, big white teeth and an air of superior refinement – locks eyes with Jessie and looks horrified, like someone just wafted a spritz of Britney Spears’ latest fragrance under her nose. Jessie knows they’ve never met before but this woman is so familiar… she knows that face, she’s sure of it, but where from? Her panicked brain can’t work quickly enough to make it a useful conversation starter.

  The woman is sitting astride an impeccably groomed horse with its mane and tail tightly plaited, but on sight of Jessie whirls the mare around, as if in protest. As her horse shifts position, Jessie can see the woman is talking to a confidently breeched and booted Adam, who looks like he’s stepped off the pages of a Jilly Cooper novel, a hotter version of Rupert Campbell-Black except that his mouth has dropped open and he’s starting to laugh in her direction.

  ‘I take it you never called Lady C, then?’ Adam throws an arm protectively around her. ‘Come on, we need to sort you out.’ Her gaff is rolling off him like the unimportant silliness it is, the cast-iron cloak of confidence he always wears protecting him from even the slightness hint of social embarrassment. But Jessie couldn’t possibly feel more the marked woman, her brain burning from the knowledge that she could so easily have saved herself from this if she’d just taken his advice in the first place and made the call. Now she’s shone an unwanted spotlight on herself and is praying that somewhere deep down inside, Adam’s not feeling the pinch of shame too. Although if he is, he’s doing a remarkable job of playing the crowd.

  ‘You are funny, Jessie! You can’t wear that hat or the hunt master will send you home. Take it off and I’ll get you another. And if you value your ear lobes, I’d lose the earrings too. Just wait here, I’ll go and get your horse.’

  The temptation to leg it is extreme, but the haughty woman who had been chatting to Adam is edging nearer, her horse taking neat little side steps, totally under the control of those superior shapely thighs.

  ‘You are aware you just ran through a freshly sown cornfield, I suppose? You’d better hope the duke didn’t see you.’

  ‘Oh, no, sorry. I was just trying not to be late.’ Everyone else has seen her, what difference would one more pair of scornful eyes make?

  ‘You must be Jessica,’ the woman looks down at her in every way imaginable from the lofty height of her shiny brown saddle, as if Jessie isn’t fit even to clean her boots. ‘I’m Annabel. I’m sure Adam will have mentioned me.’

  No actually, but Camilla has: you’re the maniac who has been in love with Adam since forever. Definitely not bridesmaid material.

  ‘Yes, hello.’

  ‘You obviously haven’t been on a hunt before.’ Her tight, thoroughly pleased with herself smile suggests she is not about to help Jessie navigate her way through it either.

  ‘No, but I’m so looking forward to it. Apparently I have one of Camilla’s finest white horses, one of her absolute favourites.’

  ‘It’ll be a grey,’ corrects Annabel. ‘There’s no such thing as a white horse.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, whatever colour it is let’s just hope it’s not spooked by all these dogs barking.’

  ‘There aren’t any dogs here I’m afraid, just hounds, and they’re crying, not barking.’

  At this moment Jessie can think of no greater joy than seeing vile Annabel’s horse rear up unexpectedly, sending her over the side like a sack of potatoes into the mud beneath her. Snooty cow. And here comes another – a broad battle-axe of a woman with a mountainous cleavage, thighs like a couple of hams and more than a hint of moustache, who truthfully should not be wearing something as snug as breeches. The hunt for bridesmaids has well and truly stalled.

  ‘Your cap, please,’ she motions to Jessie.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your cap.’

  ‘Er….’ She looks at Annabel, searching for an explanation that she’s clearly determined to make her wait for, enjoying this little moment of suffering before finally adding:

  ‘She means your payment, Jessie. As you’re obviously not a member of the hunt you need to pay a day rate to ride on the duke’s land.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t bring any money with me. If you don’t mind waiting a moment, I’m sure Adam will have some on him. Look, here he comes now.’

  Horace is magnificent with sharp patterns clipped into the hair around his legs and stomach, his mane plaited into tight, neat knots running the length of his neck, each foot covered in a sturdy black bootie. He’s nailed the dress code. Full peacockery and full marks to Horace. He’s spotlessly clean and impeccably well behaved, until he sees Jessie, at which point he starts trying to back away, retreating towards the horse box he just came from, drawing yet more attention Jessie’s way. Hacked off that this morning is already not the romantic outing she imagined and furious that Annabel is so obviously enjoying having the upper hand on her, Jessie is keen to remind her that it is she, not Annabel, who is about to marry into this family.

  ‘Oh my goodness, he’s so adorable. Perhaps I need to find a role for him at the wedding!’ she goads. ‘And how lovely of Camilla to put red ribbons in his tail for me.’

  ‘Oh Jessie, the ribbon is there to signify to others that your horse kicks. It’s not a good thing. Kicking another horse or rider is bad enough but kicking a hound is the worst thing you can do. I suggest you stay well back in the field because if that happens you’re likely to be sent home.’

  ‘Jessie, here’s your horse – and I’ve put some rocket fuel in the stirrup cup if you need it,’ says Adam. ‘Meet darling Tilly, a dear friend of mine who is going to ride with you.’

  ‘You mean you’re not?’

  ‘No, I’m a whippers-in today which means I will be up front with the hunt master, in charge of the hounds. That stout-looking chap over there is the field master, he’s in change of the mounted field – that’s you, Jessie. Just do whatever he tells you to and you’ll be fine. Tilly will look after you .’

  And with that Adam is off, Annabel at his side, disappearing across the mist-covered countryside like something out of Pride and bloody Prejudice, while Jessie is left behind with Tilly, her nanny for the day, and three small children on toy ponies – all of them looking considerably more competent than her.

  Jessie barely has time to slide her feet securely into the stirrups before a horn is sounded, long and clear, and they are off, thundering through the great English countryside, Jessie not knowing it yet, but about to give her thighs the workout of their life. Staying on the horse is her one and only objective – that and not killing Camilla’s beloved Horace – which means jumping all the fences, hedges and gates en route is out of the question. So she is bringing up the very rear, miles back from Adam and Annabel and having to search out gates, endlessly dismounting and mounting to get through them all – she ma
y as well be at an entirely different event for how included she feels.

  They say each time you fall off a horse, you become a better rider, in which case, shortly after setting off Jessie should by rights be the proud owner of a couple of Olympic gold medals. But then it’s hard to concentrate when you also have a million wedding thoughts galloping through your head.

  I wonder if that vicar has caved yet? He’d better have, because I’m not walking up an orange aisle carpet, end of story.

  The air is knocked forcibly out of Jessie countless times today. She’s been bucked off, hurled off the back, dumped on her face, landed on, trampled, skewered on trees and somersaulted into ditches as the beast between her thighs does everything other than what she is screaming at it.

  I need ‘wow’ moments everywhere the guests go, different coloured flowers in every space, 3,500 cut white roses dotted along the front lawn, creating the illusion of a field of wildflowers. Every imaginable shade of pink at the reception. Giant fluffy clouds of pink hydrangeas on top of crystal candelabras. A double height flower wall behind the top table, framing every picture of me, the new Mrs Coleridge. Bloody Annabel… where have I seen her before?

  If this is Camilla’s finest horse, then dear God let Jessie never meet the worst one. Even kind Tilly who has spent the past three hours ineffectually shouting Hands down, grip the saddle and tighten your bloody reigns! is exasperated by it all, to the total glee of their over-privileged mini companions.

  I must get Willow Manor to cordon off the village, no one wants a coach load of Japanese tourists photo-bombing their big day. Campaign to the local parish council, get every resident to agree. Offer a hefty donation to the village hall.

  That Jessie hasn’t broken any bones is nothing short of a miracle, but her now thoroughly pissed-off body is a bruised shade of purple all over.

  I’ll need extra rooms for the dress handler, the fine jewellery security guard and my hair and make-up teams. Confirm numbers for the guests’ welcome bags. Organic goodies from Soho Farmhouse and Daylesford and a treatment at Willow Manor Spa should do it.

  Any cheerful ignorance Jessie may have felt at the beginning of the day has been replaced by wild fury and the depressing realisation that she needs to step away from her addiction to Vogue and get on board with the Horse & Hounds scattered all over the house. Magazines, that’s it! She’s seen Annabel in a magazine, she’s sure of it now.

  The guest’s bespoke caricatures! Deadline looming. Must liaise with illustrator a.s.a.p. – and tell him to take at least ten years off Camilla, that should please her.

  By the end of the hunt a battered and bruised Jessie has at least made one crucial decision. Annabel can bugger right off if she thinks she’s getting a good table at the wedding. Then it comes to her. Yes! The magazine she’s been poring over for months – Brides. How could she forget that smug face smarming out at her from those glossy pages? Annabel’s the bloody editor’s PA and was plastered all over last month’s issue, writing some bollocks about powder blue being the new blush. And what’s more, Adam has promised her exclusive coverage of their wedding, apparently earning her major brownie points with the boss.

  Well, that’s a wedding she’ll now be observing from the very back of the room, perhaps on a table with Jessie’s own family. If Annabel enjoys watching people who are clearly out of their comfort zone squirm their way through the proceedings, let’s see how she copes with that!

  * * *

  ‘Good grief, what on earth has happened to you?’ asks Helen, as Jessie undresses in The White Gallery fitting room, revealing the full extent of the scrapes and bruises lining her bashed-up little body.

  Jessie considers lying her way out of this one – car accident (too dramatic, even for her), ski incident (we’re out of season, Helen may know that), over-exuberant sex session (poor Helen, no).

  ‘They hate me, Helen.’

  There is little point pretending she doesn’t care. The defeated dip of her mouth and the sadness swimming around her eyes gives Jessie away anyway.

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘Adam’s friends and family, every last one of them and there isn’t a thing I can do about it.’

  10

  Helen

  A text from Betsy always brightens Helen’s day – unless it’s like this one, showing a picture of her boyfriend Jacob’s latest attempt to write something that might help to pay the bills one day.

  ‘What d’you think Mum?’ It’s the question she always dreads being asked because the honest answer is not a lot. But how can she tell her that when Betsy herself is trying so hard to be supportive? Exactly the sort of support Helen would want her to be shown if the tables were turned. But they’re not and Helen’s job is to worry about her daughter, not long-term layabout Jacob, whom the jury is still very much out on.

  Helen doesn’t have long, Jessie Jones is already undressing in the fitting room and as she’s trying to tap out an appropriate response with her too-slow fingers, a second text pings through.

  And I’m really sorry to ask Mum but do you think you might be able to stretch to another mini loan again this month please? Just until Jacob gets something published – I just know he will, soon.

  Helen has seen for herself how good they are together, like two giddy teenagers, united in their love of life. She’s seen how much her daughter laughs – big raucous belly-wobblers – when he’s around and how her stories have been peppered with mentions of the man sharing her life – and her bank balance – for four years now. But those laughs aren’t paying the mortgage, Betsy’s constant overtime at the recruitment agency is. She resolves to have a proper chat with Betsy as soon as she can, but for now a simple of course I can is all she has time for before she rejoins Jessie.

  And my goodness, what a sight awaits her. Helen is discreetly scanning Jessie’s near-naked body. Everything from her neck down looks painful. There is an angry bruise the colour of an over-ripe plum spreading across her left hip, forcing the poor girl to shift her weight awkwardly on to her right leg, then an even bigger one running the length of her lower right arm. Helen notices the palms of Jessie’s hands are blistered and stripped of skin but injuries aside, Helen can also see she is just about ready to crack and yes, the tears are coming now, between wails of ‘They hate me!’ and ‘I’ll never be good enough!’ Jessie’s first appointment ended with her face buried in a box of Kleenex, so upset she couldn’t even try on the dresses Helen had prepared for her. Now it looks like the second one is starting that way too.

  ‘I seriously doubt they hate you, whatever makes you think that?’ Helen has got to get through to this girl somehow.

  ‘I’m not one of them, Helen. I didn’t go to boarding school, I don’t have a trust fund, my parents don’t own land and clearly I did not spend my childhood weekends competing in gymkhanas. This isn’t my world, Helen, I just happened to fall in love with a man who lives in it. I’m killing myself to make this wedding perfect in every way for a bunch of people I doubt will ever accept me. The harder I try, the worse it is.’

  This is not an unfamiliar story to Helen. Countless brides before this one have stood in her fitting room, unloading their tear ducts with tales of unwelcoming relatives, family politics and jealous friends. Maybe it’s something about the anonymity of the setting, the fact these women are passing through on their way to somewhere more exciting. They can unload on Helen knowing that in a few short months she will be gone from their lives, bearing no witness to the secrets told. Her advice will have been dispensed and they will be relegated to the arch lever file under the till. If they send a thank-you card, as so many do, they are remembered each morning when Helen glances up at the notice board in the kitchen where they’re all pinned. But otherwise they are gone, along with the confidences they have shared.

  Standing here now, looking at Jessie, Helen knows what is unusual are the lengths this girl is going to, to win everyone over. She looks like she should be in a doctor’s surgery, not a bridal fitting
room.

  ‘It shouldn’t be like this, Helen. I should be happier than ever, trying on my wedding gowns, surrounded by new friends, laughing, not blubbing all over you for the second time. You must think I’m a lunatic.’

  ‘What I’m actually wondering is if you are simply trying too hard?’ ventures Helen. ‘Adam loves you. He’s asked you to marry him. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘No! Are you even married Helen? Do you have any idea how much I am dealing with?’

  Now it’s Helen’s turn to wince. ‘I was married for a very long time, thirty-five years, actually.’ Her head dips slightly, cutting off any invitation to question her further on the subject.

  ‘Oh, right, well then you must have some idea of the nightmare involved in managing your husband’s family?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’ Jessie’s experience is so at odds with Helen’s own feelings, it’s opening up an emotional void between the two women that Helen is keen to close up. ‘Which dress would you like to try on first? Shall we go straight for the Herrera?’

  Jessie nods vacantly as Helen lifts the gown from its hanger, whooshing it out so that the light as air tulle skirt spreads beautifully across the carpeted floor in front of them. Helen can feel Jessie staring at her, apparently more interested in what she has to say than the exquisite dress she is about to step in to. But then perhaps a bit of a talking to is exactly what this girl needs.

  ‘Think of this as the opening ceremony, Jessie, to a much more strenuous lifelong event, marriage, one that requires a very different set of skills to planning a wedding.’ She’s holding Jessie by the hand, steadying her, as she steps into the full skirt. ‘Instead of focusing on every little detail, in my experience you have to do the exact opposite. You have to let go.’ Helen’s wriggling the dress up Jessie’s body now, bringing the expertly boned lace embroidered bodice up to sit perfectly at Jessie’s waist.