The Almost Wife: An absolutely gripping and emotional summer read Page 15
‘… such a shame she’s one of the most miserable women you’ll ever meet.’
What? Helen freezes. She can’t have heard that right. She goes to stand up but Irene isn’t finished yet.
‘Lost her husband a few years ago apparently, never got over it, people say, so goodness knows why she decided to go in to that line of business. I mean, would you want to buy your wedding dress off a joyless old misery guts? Never mixes with anyone from the local community either, contributes nothing. Just keeps herself tucked away, wallowing in her own grief. All very odd if you ask me.’
Hearing someone speak about her in that cruel, unforgiving, not to mention inaccurate way has completely winded Helen. How could Irene? She knows nothing about Helen or what she’s going through. Helen’s too panicked to move now, terrified she’ll draw attention to herself, wondering how she can slip out of the store before she is discovered. How mortifying. But then…
‘I mean, you have to ask yourself what a misery she was to be married to in the first place, the poor bugger, whoever he was.’
Something in Irene’s unsisterly tone ignites a fury in Helen that she is totally unfamiliar with. She stands bolt upright, dropping all the shopping she has gathered in her arms, sending the packet of biscuits rolling off down the aisle. She spins around and takes four deep strides towards the cash register so that Irene sees her for the first time, sees how pinched her mouth is, how she is holding her breath, ready to explode.
‘How dare you!’ Helen screams as Irene ducks as if to avoid a swooping wasp. ‘What do you know? Please, tell me one thing you know about me or my husband that is a fact!’ Helen is shouting now, blind to anything else that may be going on around her, about to make it personal too. ‘Something. Anything you haven’t just made up as idle gossip to while away the hours in this lousy shop. Please, I’m fascinated to know. What is it?’ She spits out the last words, everything beyond her control now. The elderly couple are rooted to the spot, flicking stunned glances between a seething Helen and a visibly shaken Irene, desperate to see what the next move will be. If there were a panic button under that counter, Irene would be reaching for it about now.
‘Helen, all I was really saying was that—’ Irene’s tone is anything but apologetic; so stubborn, refusing to back down.
‘I heard exactly what you were saying, Irene, and you disgust me.’ The words are flying out of Helen with barely any thought attached to them. ‘How sad your life must be, that you have to attack another woman. How spiteful! Is it any wonder that people avoid this shop? Avoid YOU! For your information, Irene, I am on my way to see a man who has asked me out on a date and I am going to say yes. I socialise with people that I want to see and avoid the vile ones that I don’t. Now grow up because someone your age really should know better.’
OK, so the bit about Roger is a lie but what the hell. Let’s give her something to really gossip about, thinks Helen. Lecture over, she spins back around towards the door, just in time to see Roger folding his daily newspaper under his arm, freeing his hands to give Helen a comical round of applause. Two other women who must have heard the commotion and come in to enjoy the spectacle are grinning like naughty school children – perhaps Irene’s dressing-down has been a long time coming. Helen’s not sure if it’s because of her enthusiastic performance or the fact she has publicly confirmed a date with him but something about the way Roger’s eyes have lit up and the sound of the chuckle that is bubbling up out of him makes Helen burst out laughing. All four of them spill out on the pavement before Irene has chance to gather her thoughts, along with the elderly couple who, far from being shaken by it all, have obviously enjoyed the free entertainment.
‘Right then, I will pick you up at 8 p.m. tonight, Helen,’ laughs Roger. ‘And I will remember my manners if you promise not to tell me off like that!’ Then he’s gone, disappearing up the road, all swagger and smiles, while Helen stands there, mouth gaping open, unable to say another thing.
* * *
Back at The White Gallery, Helen is ten minutes away from her next appointment – and on a somewhat shaky adrenaline come down. How did that just happen? She set off to apologise to Roger, managed to have simultaneously the worst and funniest row of her life, didn’t in fact apologise to Roger but now has a date with him that she’s not sure she’s even going to attend. She stands in her kitchen for a moment, bent over the work surface, letting the last of the hot, flustered air escape out of her. But there’s no time to dither. She gulps back a super strong cup of Earl Grey, changes into a fresh dress, somehow feeling the switch will help cast off the morning’s hoo-ha and heads into the boutique, just as Dolly Jackson rings the front door bell.
Helen recalls the first visit Dolly made some weeks ago. How they carefully picked their way through dress after dress, Helen tactfully rejecting the ones that didn’t flatter Dolly’s tiny frame until they found the perfect silhouette. Today, Helen will be taking more precise measurements and pinning the fabric around Dolly’s body so that a made-to-measure gown can be created especially for her.
‘Hello Dolly, how are you?’ Helen is so pleased to see Dolly’s happy face, a noticeable improvement on how their previous appointment started – and ended.
‘Never better, Helen. Never better.’ Dolly is beside herself with joy.
“Let me guess, you managed to book that wedding band?’
‘Nope. Haven’t even looked. Don’t have one and don’t care. Guess again.’
‘Your boss has forgiven you for skipping work to come here?’ Helen recalls the look of utter fear she’d seen in Dolly’s eyes when she took the call from him on her last visit. So mean of him to hijack her like that.
‘Oh sod him! I couldn’t care less about that fool.’ Dolly is wonderfully jubilant.
‘I give up, Dolly. What is it? What can we credit for the fizzy excitement that is radiating out of you today?’ Helen is intrigued now.
‘My wedding dress and I are about to become very, very famous!’
‘Really? How?’ Helen watches bemused as Dolly casts her eyes skyward, palm pressed to her heart as if addressing her adoring fans.
‘I won’t tell you how I’ve done it Helen because to be honest it’s all a bit desperado, but Brides magazine is coming to the wedding and they have cleared four pages in their next issue – which, by the way, is the biggest selling one of the year – to feature it! Ha! What do you think of that then?’
‘Wow! That’s great news, Dolly!’ Helen wraps her arms around Dolly, absorbing and sharing her joy, so pleased for the happy distraction from her own turbulent morning’s events. ‘What does Josh think of it all?’
Dolly releases Helen from her grip. ‘Josh? Oh, I haven’t told him. I doubt he’ll even realise they’re there – although I’ve had to make a few changes to the plans. Brides featured a Sperry tent last issue so I’ve scrapped that and replaced it with a Tipi village. But they loved the sound of the bespoke brunch hampers so I’ve upgraded those to the more expensive Selfridges ones. They’re costing the bloody earth but the editor apparently loves the idea so I’m going big with it and I’ve ordered an extra giant one for her. Can you believe this is actually happening? I’m sure when they see what a fantastic job I’ve done styling the day, they are going to want me on board on the team. Don’t you think so? There’s got to be a chance at least, hasn’t there?’
Helen is lifting Dolly’s sample gown off its hanger and searching for her tin of pins. ‘I have no idea how these things work, Dolly, but the fact they are coming to the wedding has got to be good. Come on, we’ve got a dress to fit!’
Helen places the silk slip over Dolly’s head and watches as it cascades and ripples down her body. Beautiful; as if it was made just for her. She turns Dolly around so she can see the dress from all angles, noticing then that something looks different this time. It’s falling almost exactly as it had before except it’s pinching a little across her chest. I must have missed that, thinks Helen, before I added the lace cap-sle
eve jacket. Helen’s mistakes are so rare that it troubles her greatly when she does make one – usually on the days when dress details are fighting for space in a head still swimming with memories of Phillip. Anyway, the last thing she wants to do is question Dolly’s size so she simply makes a note of the adjustments needed and moves on.
Four more brides pass through The White Gallery that afternoon before 6 p.m. when Helen finally turns the pretty lace-edged door sign to closed and turns off the lights. She’s shattered but the small, barely noticeable fizz of nervous anticipation in her stomach is powering her on. Helen doesn’t want to admit it to herself, won’t even allow the thought to fully formulate in her mind, but she is looking forward to going out tonight. She already knows what she’s going to wear.
15
Dolly
Ten weeks to go
As months go, June is a shitty one. Work is unbearable for Dolly thanks to the choke chain The Dick is keeping on her, continually monitoring her presence in the office of doom. Josh is constantly absent, shooting one perfect woman after another and failing to grasp the fact they’ve got an aisle to walk in ten weeks. Any intimacy they’re sharing amounts to a string of lusty late night sessions, nothing memorable, just getting the job done; retaining some sort of connection. Both are prioritising their personal ambitions beyond the bedroom.
Now Dolly is a ball of knotted tension and nerves about the impending arrival of the Brides shoot team at her wedding and as a direct result her budget is careering out of control. She can’t help herself. The pressure of knowing the biggest-selling bridal mag is coming to report on every detail of her day means she’s added two courses to dinner as well as doubling the choice on the cocktail menu and adding more waiters to serve them. Then, having decided not to serve canapés (£28 a head!) they are now back on. Plus, there’s more giant tropical planting and, because she knows it will make an extra shot, a proper tiered wedding cake covered in an explosion of multicoloured graffiti-style icing has been commissioned from a baker who does all the big London film premier parties.
These pictures need to be good. The editor needs to be impressed. Dolly is depending on it.
But for now she is standing in her tiny white bathroom, starkers, and – staring at the pair of dirty boxers Josh left on the floor this morning for her to pick up – wondering what the hell else can go wrong. She steps on to her Fitbit scales and clearly someone has been fucking with them because according to the digital display she has put on six pounds. She quickly runs through her mental checklist. OK, were the scales on zero to start with? She jumps off to check. Yes. Has she had her morning wee – which she knows can add about a pound on a particularly busting morning? Yes, she has. Did she neck a glass of lemon water yet? No. Did she eat late last night? Yes, but it was only a few slices of serrano ham, the only thing left in the fridge that required no cooking. As there’s nothing else she can think of, or remove, that’s it, she’s getting fat. Fatter with every day that passes before the big one. And there is only one fucker to blame for all this. The Dick.
Dolly’s mind flicks back to that awful morning when she sprinted into the office, two-and-a-half hours late from her dress appointment, sweat sliding down between her shoulder blades, pooling horribly at the base of her spine where a wet patch fanned out across her pretty peach Self-Portrait blouse. How The Dick had taken great delight in hauling her straight into his office (stopping her just outside and forcing her to read aloud his latest motivational gem: Everything you’ve ever wanted is on the other side of fear!) then gone to town on her so hard that everyone in the room – and probably the adjoining floors – had heard it. Her punishment was simple, but evil. Spend the following month brunching, lunching, and scoffing supper with the agency’s most obnoxious clients. Then just to be a total asshole, The Dick had thrown in a list of up-themselves journalists; the ones desperate to escape their own deadline-driven offices and abusive bosses for a three-hour booze-fuelled lunch (especially when she is paying), or to blag cocktails after work that somehow turned in to a 2 a.m. finish and a monster round of buttered toast when Dolly eventually made it home.
Now Dolly is tired. So bloody tired. What she needs is a week on the sofa. What she’s facing is another week of corporate entertaining, schmoozing, pretending to like people, looking enthralled by another yawn anecdote, asking questions she has no desire to have answered, brainstorming lame ideas over another plate of rich, butter-soaked food. Then washing it all down with another glass of expensive champagne, and feeling more disinterested with every sip.
The relentless hours and general loathsomeness of the task The Dick has given her means food is the only way to get through it. Sick of pushing stodge around posh plates in wanky restaurants and too exhausted to fight the urge any longer, she has royally broken every rule in her own book. And now she feels disgusting for it; on a self-loathing low. So far removed from her usual controlled grip on everything that passes her lips, she’s struggling to see a way back. Too exhausted and time-starved to exercise, she is the walking, talking definition of demotivation. Worse, in the rare daylight moments they have managed to spend together recently, Josh has noticed, saying she’d better increase the sit-ups because she’s looking doughy around the middle. And now Dolly thinks about it, the dress was a little tight on her last visit to see Helen, wasn’t it? Maybe she’ll just skip food altogether today – and tomorrow, and redress the balance a little. It wouldn’t be the first time. But even as she’s thinking it, she knows she won’t. What she fancies more than anything else right now is thick white toast, generously cut from an unsliced loaf, made soggy with butter and topped with an obscene amount of crunchy peanut butter.
Dolly flops back on the bed, which is empty of course, Josh having left at the crack of dawn this morning without saying a word, to shoot another story in London. He may as well move there, it would save a fortune on train fares. It’s only now that Dolly’s eyes fall onto her bedside table, and the blister pack of contraceptive pills that are poking out from under the novel she hasn’t picked up for days. Her eyes linger for a moment too long, while her brain tries to catch up with the nagging little doubt nudging its way into her consciousness.
Shit. Her pills. In all the fuss of dresses, The Dick, Brides, Josh and this juggernaut of a wedding, has she forgotten to take her pill? She checks the blister pack. No, she hasn’t missed one. She’s missed four. Shit! How could she be that stupid? Did she miss any last month too? Probably. OK, don’t panic. She’s been playing this particular game of roulette for years and got away with it. Stop being an arse, Dolly; you’re not going to be pregnant just because you missed a few pills. The chemicals swim around in your ovaries for months. No one on the pill gets pregnant that easily. Plus, you haven’t puked once so you can’t be. And any cells that may be thinking of splitting their way to new life will have been drowned in booze. Obliterated before they even got started.
The logical part of Dolly’s brain is completely satisfied that there is nothing to worry about but… there has been a lot of sex. Josh’s shoot schedule is insane but every time he comes home, he is on her, even some nights when she is already nodding off. And since she’s spent most of the past month drunk, it’s impossible to pinpoint dates, times or frequency.
She throws on a thick linen robe and heads into the kitchen, really not needing anything else to worry about. She hasn’t had a chance to prep any food so tucks into the toast and a bowl of Josh’s sugary breakfast cereal, the sweetness immediately making her feel better. Then she flicks on BBC breakfast news and slumps on the sofa. It’s all so depressing. Hate crimes. Another high-street favourite closing its doors for the last time. Children injured on holiday by faulty fun fair rides. Her mind can’t process it all and it begins to wander. What if she is pregnant? She imagines it for a moment; the nursery-rhyme version. Milky babies. Soft downy hair. Someone looking up at her with love-filled, devoted, grateful eyes – that bit might be nice. The gorgeous little outfits. The maternity leave!
But… Josh as a dad? Parenthood changes some men immeasurably; she knows that from the endless office chat from new mums who return to work with tales of transformed husbands who’ve happily swapped late nights for chronically early mornings. But Josh?
Dolly’s eyes scan the row of plain white, framed photos lining the lounge mantelpiece. Her and Josh skiing; poshed-up at friends’ weddings; their first Christmas together; group holidays surrounded by gorgeous friends, all sun-kissed hair, flawless young skin and hysterical grins. Happy memories. A couple with no one to worry about but themselves. Then she thinks about how Josh had declined an invitation to be godparent to a friend’s first born last year, telling them he couldn’t commit to something with an obvious religious responsibility, while telling her the last thing he wanted to do was spend his weekends pretending to be interested in other people’s brats. How every time they entered a café or restaurant together he requested a table that was nowhere near any kids. At first she put it down to his lack of tolerance for anything that crashed in on the conversation he wanted to have. Now she’s not so sure. If there’s an opportunity to avoid kids, he takes it without fail and he’s showing no signs of mellowing. On a very surface level it worries Dolly, she’s bound to want them one day and then what?
She remembers how the colour had drained from his face, the look of panic and utter fear gripping him after a pregnancy scare last year. How he had physically stepped away from her when she walked into the kitchen, tears rolling down her face, holding the pregnancy test she was about to take. His body language said it all – your problem. Then four minutes later, when he knew he was in the clear, he had recalled a conversation with a male friend of theirs shortly after his wife had given birth to their only child. Josh told how the husband had been there for the whole thing at the business end and how it was like watching your favourite pub burn down. Dolly got the real version from the new mum herself – the relentless pain, hour after hour, the absent anaesthetist, a string of different midwives and changing shift patterns, a once-perfect vagina ripped to bits, literally days spent in agony. Josh howled about that joke for months, telling every man he knew. Repeated it again and again, obviously believing it to be true.