The Almost Wife: An absolutely gripping and emotional summer read Page 14

  Jessie’s dad, Graham, is on the sofa, glued to Ice Road Truckers blaring out of a huge widescreen TV that’s dwarfing its orange pine stand. He’s barely acknowledged Jessie’s arrival home, not a man for kisses and hugs. Always supportive but never demonstrative, he is the product of his own cold father, choosing not to squeeze his children like other more obviously affectionate dads might have done. But he shows his feelings in other ways. Of his three children, it is always Jessie he gravitates towards. Not marking her out for more love, but preferring her conversation, her sharper mind, her ambition. Since he’s retired from his caretaker job at the local primary school after twenty-five years’ unbroken service scrubbing crayon off walls, mopping the stinking toilets and polishing the parquet corridors, Jessie can see he has shrunk – in size and personality. He’s eclipsed now by a wife who has more get up and go, and who appointed herself his new headmistress the day he picked up his final pay cheque.

  ‘OK, here we go.’ Margaret places a tray filled with mismatched mugs of weak tea and the digestive tower onto the small coffee table, pushing to one side a wicker basket of pot pourri that lost its scent years ago. Pointless decoration and ornaments – they are everywhere in this house, thinks Jessie. The ship in a bottle bought on a trip to the Cornwall coast; the row of mass-produced miniature country cottages that Margaret has collected from one of her magazine subscriptions and – most annoying of all – a light-up nativity scene that for some reason was never put away after Christmas one year. There is nothing of any value. No future family heirlooms, just clutter that, bafflingly, her parents feel attached to.

  ‘Come on, then. How are the wedding plans going, Jessica?’ Margaret’s face is alight with excitement.

  ‘Good! Actually, Mum, I know you wanted to come dress shopping but I’m afraid I’ve already chosen my three gowns. I just knew what I wanted and got on with it.’ Jessie might be dressing this up as a casual information drop but she knows the spike of disappointment her mum will now be feeling. Despite Margaret’s very best efforts not to look deflated, she recoils slightly then tries to hide her feelings by handing out the teas as Jessie scrabbles to think of something to say that will make it up to her, some substitute that isn’t dress shopping. Her eyes are glued to her mum, watching for a sign she’s going to make more of this, then feeling ten times worse when she doesn’t. With a quick bat of her hand Margaret decides not to make a fuss, not wanting to cause Jessie the same hurt she is feeling.

  ‘Sorry! Did I hear that right? You need three dresses?’ Claire is hauling herself forward in the armchair, interest piqued.

  ‘Yes, Claire. One for the rehearsal dinner, one for—’

  ‘The what?’ As someone unlikely ever to turn the head of the opposite sex, let alone marry it, Claire is already struggling to grasp very basic wedding concepts.

  ‘It’s the dinner for close family and friends the night before the wedding.’ Jessie scans the room to see if the assumption she’s dreading will be made.

  ‘Cool, another free dinner then. We’re all coming, right? Where will it be?’

  Of course they would assume it included them. Under normal circumstances the bride’s family would absolutely attend. But these aren’t normal circumstances, these are not normal people…

  ‘It’s at Adam’s parents’ estate in the country.’

  ‘Finally, we get to meet Mr La-di-da’s posho parents then.’ If Claire’s mocking tone is designed to irritate Jessie, then it’s working.

  ‘If you mean Camilla and Henry, then yes, they will be hosting the evening for us.’

  ‘How lovely of them but we must contribute something, mustn’t we, Graham? What shall I do, my haddock pâté with some lovely homemade onion chutney? Or that chocolate and caramel traybake I tried last week. Everyone loved that.’

  ‘No, Mum, that really won’t be necessary. Camilla will have it all covered.’

  ‘I’m sure she will, but Adam’s parents are paying for just about everything else on the day. Anyway, it’s bad manners to turn up empty-handed. By the way, your dad and I really want to contribute towards your dress. Dresses, I should say.’

  God, it is almost laughable. Jessie has kept the full extent of her new wealth relatively secret from her family, which was surprisingly easy, degrees of wealth being an irrelevance in this house. Their understanding of how Adam’s family live is so slight that the questioning she expected just never came, they never made it beyond the incredulity that they have someone who cooks for them. So Jessie decided they didn’t need to know that the Cheltenham house is valued at £3.5 million, the staff bill every month is in excess of £4,000, or that the contents of her wardrobe is insured for £750,000. Her mum has never had her nails professionally manicured in her life so she won’t understand why last week Jessie paid seventy-two pounds for a lipstick (she only registered the cost at all because she was paying in cash, normally she wouldn’t even bother to ask) and her family certainly doesn’t need to know her three wedding looks are costing well over £50,000. Any contribution from her parents is not only unnecessary – but of no use; but how do you convey that without sounding horribly ungrateful?

  Jessie can feel this conversation slipping out of her control.

  ‘I hope you’re not expecting me to buy another outfit?’ Claire interjects. ‘We all know you’re loaded but not everyone has your bank balance, Jess. Anyway, I’ve already bought my dress from River Island, I’ll just change the cardi for the different events or something.’

  ‘Really? What’s it like?’ The edge has returned to Jessie’s voice, giving away her nervousness at what outfit Claire has deemed wedding-worthy.

  ‘Why? Worried I’m going to embarrass you?’ Claire is on to her.

  ‘Of course not.’ Yes, obviously. ‘I’m just interested.’

  ‘It’s green, quite floaty, and has a big old sparkly belt around the middle. Mum says it looks good, and it was in the sale, forty quid. Can’t argue with that.’

  ‘It’s wonderful to see you in something feminine for once, Claire,’ adds Margaret supportively.

  Jessie hopes her face doesn’t look as horrified as she feels. Why would anyone Claire’s size think they could do floaty? The girl needed structure. The sort that went into the engineering of a very large building – foundations, underpinning, reinforcements, cladding! And she has no middle. Any belt is just going to disappear.

  Jessie is panicking now. She’d hoped to take Claire out shopping, to a designer who understands internal boning. No chance now. Think, think. Jessie doesn’t want to face the obvious way to solve this problem. But how else can she salvage the situation and stop Claire looking like she’s eaten three of the other wedding guests? There will be whispers, stares, cruel comments. As much as Jessie despises the way Claire looks, she doesn’t wish that sort of mass judgement on her – or how it will reflect on Jessie herself, obviously.

  ‘So your second dress is for the wedding day – what’s the third one for?’

  ‘The evening party.’

  ‘Well if you’re changing, then so am I. Yes! I can wear my orange dress I bought for Marbella last year!’

  Jessie has seen pictures of Claire in that dress, a cheap knock off of a Hervé Léger gown designed for a woman no bigger than a firm size eight. On Claire it’s a giant orange, demented space hopper of a dress; an overblown beach ball ready to burst. She just can’t let Claire do this. She has to stop it. No choice now, she needs do the unthinkable.

  ‘Actually, Claire, I wanted to ask if you would be my bridesmaid.’ Jessie feels sick, like she’s committing wedding style suicide but it’s the only way she can have at least some control over Claire’s clusterfuck approach to dressing herself.

  ‘Really?’ Claire is as surprised as Jessie to hear the words.

  ‘Wonderful idea!’ Margaret is made up. ‘Oh wow, my two beautiful girls together! Claire, you must catch the bouquet!’

  Sweet fucking Jesus, she’s gone all Mrs Bennett. Claire must be nowhere near
me when I launch that thing or every man in the place will be bolting for the exit.

  ‘It would mean of course that I’d buy you three different outfits to cover all the events.’ Jessie needs Claire to commit to this now and she’s sure a few free dresses will clinch it.

  ‘Done!’

  One problem solved, another huge one created. How to make Claire look good. Jessie’s mind is working overtime now, while the rest of them plough on through the digestives. Vivienne Westwood? Always looks amazing on Nigella Lawson. Rouland Mouret? No, brilliant at shaping but too fashionable for Claire. Lanvin and Lela Rose all have beautiful shaped dresses for fuller figures and wasn’t it Marina Rinaldi who dressed the plus-size comedian Melissa McCarthy for the Oscars one year when no one else would? Claire is going to need something couture. Bruce Oldfield perhaps? He’s known for being brilliant with bodies of all shapes and sizes: chic and tasteful – two words she needs Helen to introduce her sister to whether she likes it or not.

  The rest of Saturday afternoon passes much like any other in the Jones household; Mum backwards and forwards to the kettle three hundred times, Dad never moving. The TV is never off; it plays a continuous loop of soaps, game shows and property programmes until the five of them settle down together, cheese and crackers on laps, to watch the evening movie. It’s another re-run of Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink, Jessie’s favourite: the girl from the wrong side of the tracks dating the wealthy, popular guy. And he’s lovely, charming and genuinely likes her despite the haters who think she’s uncool and beneath him. The date is a success until it’s time for him to take her home, then she panics because she doesn’t want him to see where she lives.

  Jessie flinches, the parallels all too obvious. But no one else notices a thing. Claire has moved on to the sofa next to her mum and dad, while Jason still hasn’t made it off the floor next to them, forcing Jessie into one of the armchairs set away slightly. As she looks on she can’t help but think how wonderful it must be not to care. Not to be aware of the differences in their lives. They’re all enjoying the film for what it is, fluffy feel-good Hollywood entertainment. Except Jessie. For her it’s a sharp reminder of who she is and the pretence she’s got to keep up. She’s so grateful the main light has been switched off and it’s just the glow from the TV lighting the room because tears have unexpectedly started to pool in her eyes. She knows her family love her – but they love the version of her they think they know. And that’s no longer Jessie. That girl just doesn’t exist any more. She can’t. She’s had to adapt, move on, move up and blend in to a whole new world. As the TV casts a flattering glow across everyone’s contented faces, never more has Jessie felt so relaxed and yet so alienated, this sole survivor on the lonely middle ground between the past and the future.

  She glances across to the sofa and at her mum whose head is violently jerking as she keeps catching herself falling asleep. She’s shattered and it’s not even 9 p.m. Jessie looks at her cheap Primark slippers where the soles are detaching and knows she won’t buy another pair until these ones literally fall off her feet. The temperature has dropped and her mum is clutching a hot water bottle to her belly, determined not to waste money on the gas fire. The sight fills Jessie with so much sadness, her mum deserves much more – and she could so easily give it to her.

  Jessie steps across the room towards her mum, waking her.

  ‘How about I book us into a lovely spa for some proper pampering before the wedding, Mum? Let’s get the full works shall we? My treat.’

  ‘That would be wonderful Jessie. Nothing would make me happier than spending the day with you.’ She smiles up at Jessie through exhausted eyes.

  That was all it took to fill her mum’s heart with joy. I wonder if she’d still love me if she knew what was going on in my head, Jessie thinks sadly to herself, despising herself once again for assuming that’s another problem easily solved by throwing money at it.

  14

  Helen

  Helen wakes feeling awful. But it’s a different kind of awful today. Not the usual heartbroken loneliness that swamps her from the moment her eyes slide open each morning. This is different. Still there in the pit of her stomach, like a dull heavy weight but more current. There is a freshness to it somehow that she can’t immediately place through the fug of her still sleepy brain. Then it clicks. It’s shame. Regret. The unshakeable feeling that she has disgraced herself. Let herself down.

  Roger.

  She can feel warm blood flooding her cheeks as the memory of the way she awkwardly rejected him washes back over her. The courage it took to ask her to dinner may be every bit as strong as her reasons for declining him. She knows that. Didn’t Susan say he’s lost his wife too? How would she feel if the tables were turned? Helen lies in bed for a few moments longer than usual, staring up at the ceiling, wondering how to make this right again, wishing that Betsy was here to make her feel better. Should she give her daughter a quick call, chat it through with her? She knows Betsy will say all the right things and put it all in perspective. No, she decides against it. She can’t trust herself not to cry and that will only make Betsy worry she’s not coping on her own.

  When Roger interrupted her appointment with Jessie that day, she was caught off guard, not ready to deflect his advances in the same way she did everyone else’s questions about her private life. It’s suddenly very important to her that Roger knows she’s not the rude, cold and ungrateful woman she came across as that day. Surprisingly important.

  Helen slumps her legs over the side of the bed and hauls herself upright, releasing a long, low sigh. She washes and dresses in a pretty coral-belted summer dress with a fawn cardigan and pristine white canvas shoes. It’s Tuesday and there is no one due at the boutique for a few hours. She can’t let the situation fester for a moment longer. She owes Roger an apology and he’s going to get it. Only then can she put this whole horrible episode behind her. But first she has to find him. She grabs her keys and heads out of the apartment, into the bright sunlight of the late May morning. Everything is so green, so alive, so fragrant. Perhaps if she didn’t have this embarrassing score to settle she might walk down to the stream, feed the ducks and feel pleased to live in such an idyllic part of the world. It’s 9 a.m. Too early for the tourist swarm to have started so Helen takes her time, trying to drink in the birdsong, the perfumed smell of jasmine on the air mixed with the unmistakeable whiff of the countryside that suggests the local farmers are already muck raking.

  Helen heads for the small village shop, just beyond the mill, tucked away so it is rarely busy, apart from knowledgeable locals and the odd sightseers who have strayed off the main village road and found themselves at the back of some of the prettiest cottages in the area. The store is run by a middle-aged woman called Irene, who couldn’t be more country if she tried. Write the definition for farmer’s wife and she is it. Well upholstered, wearing not a scrap of make-up, a food-stained, scalloped-edged pinny permanently attached to the front of her, wiry grey hair exploding out of her ruddy complexion. A woman who also expresses plenty of opinions, most of them unwelcome. Helen once heard her taking down some naive newbie to the village, who had committed the cardinal sin of not enrolling her children in the local village school. As the mother had handed over the money to pay for her weekly essentials, Irene had let her have it with both barrels, blaming those loaded Londoners for destroying village life and pricing hardworking locals out of the property market. It is a wonder that anyone has the nerve to set foot in there. But the point is, Irene’s made it her business to know everyone and while Helen would normally avoid her, today she needs her help. If anyone is going to know where Roger lives, it’s her.

  Helen steps in to the shop and, while Irene is busy serving an elderly couple who are taking an age to decide between the plain or fruit-filled scones, she ducks down one of the aisles to grab some butter, cheese and a fresh unsliced loaf for her lunchtime break. Irene is deep in conversation with the couple and hasn’t seen her arrive. A swel
l of pride rises up in Helen’s chest as she realises their conversation has moved on to The White Gallery.

  ‘What a stunning boutique,’ the friendly female customer is gushing loudly as she unpacks a mountain of local treats onto the counter. ‘I simply couldn’t imagine any place I would rather work. In a pretty cottage like that, filled with some of the most beautiful gowns I think I have ever seen.’

  ‘Gorgeous isn’t it!’ Irene starts to pack the shopping into a brown paper bag. ‘Brides come from all over the country to visit that boutique. The owner Helen stocks dresses that you can’t buy anywhere else. They’re not cheap mind you, but they are apparently the best, it’s just such a shame…’

  Helen is crouching low, completely out of sight now, trying to retrieve a packet of chocolate chip cookies, a little treat for when she hits her mid-afternoon slump.