The Almost Wife: An absolutely gripping and emotional summer read Read online

  She takes a seat at the antique dressing table next to her divan with its pretty patchwork bedstead to blow-dry her shoulder length light brown hair. She does this in the same unrushed way she does every morning, into the same style she has worn for decades. She’s using the hairdryer’s warm blast to tease out layers of soft feminine waves that she gently sweeps away from her face – a face that is framed by an expertly tamed fringe, thanks to the can of Elnett that sits on the table alongside several bottles of Estée Lauder perfume, her daily make-up essentials and a useful box of tissues.

  Helen retrieves the yellow-gold stud earrings from the glass trinket box in front of her and smiles warmly as she remembers the expensive bottle of Chablis she and Phillip shared over lunch at their favourite local bistro, celebrating her fiftieth birthday. Her husband had waited until they were both enjoying a velvety crème brûlée from the same plate before slipping the small jewellery box across the table to her with a simple, ‘Happy birthday, my darling’.

  Today every inch of Helen’s appearance radiates togetherness – a woman who would appear to have everything under control. And that’s exactly the look she’s hoping to convey, because the truth is far less palatable. No one wants to hear that, and she’s certainly not ready to share it with the world. Not yet. The understated, easy elegance of a successful businesswoman is all anyone will see today.

  Helen steps into her shiny cream patent L.K. Bennett mules, grabs the appointments diary and descends the small uneven staircase from her neat two-bedroom apartment above the The White Gallery, Gloucestershire’s most upmarket bridal fashion boutique. It occupies the lower level of Helen’s pretty Cotswold stone cottage, one in a row of four that bend gently around the corner, towards the old mill. The shop stands opposite Willow Manor hotel and the local church, separated only by one single-track road and the shallow stream that runs towards the mill.

  The frames of the cottage’s tiny glass windows are painted the traditional Cotswold green like every other property in the village and aside from the one small white sign hanging above the door, passers-by would never guess at what treasures are hidden inside. Helen designed the boutique so that stepping through its sixteenth-century solid oak front door is like passing from an ancient world into a bright, white, hopeful future.

  She enters the boutique this morning from the back door at the bottom of the stairs to her apartment and gets to work lighting her favourite Jo Malone candles. By the time the boutique opens in just over an hour they will have filled the air with the delicate scent of jasmine. She switches on the glass wall lights, softly illuminating the room’s Dior Grey walls, the perfect backdrop shade to a sea of white. On the boutique’s large, central glass-topped table, Helen has positioned an ornate crystal vase filled with her favourite wildflowers; the same varieties she carried in her own bridal bouquet thirty-five years ago. The pale pink foxgloves, honey-coloured sweet peas and sky-blue lupins mixed with cow parsley provide the only soft splash of colour today. They sit next to a decorative porcelain plate filled with freshly baked biscuits in the shape of miniature wedding gowns that have been iced a brilliant white.

  The only other decorations on the table are three beautifully framed photographs. Helen suppresses the swell of emotion building inside her as she tenderly traces her finger along the frame of the first image, swallowing back her tears. No time for that right now. It’s a black and white image of a twenty-one-year-old Helen with Phillip, taken on that roasting hot day in July 1981, just after the two of them had said their wedding vows and run out of the Bristol registry office, overflowing with happiness. Buoyed by the excitement of the day, Helen had stumbled on the hem of her ivory taffeta gown, and just as it looked as though she might tumble down the stone steps in front of their assembled well-wishers, Phillip caught her, at the very moment the photographer took his shot. It remains to this day her favourite image of their wedding.

  Both had thrown their heads backwards in a fit of relieved giggles. Phillip saved Helen’s blushes that day – as he would many times over – and every time she looks at the picture now she can’t help but compare her fortunes favourably to that year’s other far more famous bride – Lady Diana Spencer. Helen may have been nearly undone by a tricky hem, but Diana – a year younger than Helen at the time – had to make the three-and-a-half minute walk up the aisle of St Paul’s Cathedral in front of a global audience of 750 million eyes, all trained on her. The other two framed images on the table are of Helen and Phillip’s own children Betsy and Jack on their graduation days, joyous daily reminders of the very best of family times together. She just wishes she saw them more often.

  Helen circulates around the boutique, small cloth duster in hand, ensuring there are no rogue fingerprints and no clutter, then checks the small waste-paper bin in the fitting room for tear-soaked tissues from the previous day’s fittings. Betsy has repeatedly suggested her mum get a cleaner to help every morning, concerned that she has more than enough to worry about, but it’s a role Helen enjoys. Besides, a lifetime of caring for and cleaning up after a hardworking husband and two children has more than qualified her for the job.

  9.15 a.m. – plenty of time for Helen to buff the duster around the boutique’s single rose-gold clothes rail that runs the perimeter of the room. It is on this rail that all of Helen’s wedding gowns are hung, each on its own softly padded white silk hanger, draped so that every hemline softly kisses the thick cream carpeted floor beneath it. Helen starts to the left of the front door, in her experience the direction most brides turn when they first enter the boutique, and where she has positioned her collection of six modern romantic Jenny Packham gowns.

  Helen approaches the rail, running her hand carefully between each gown to check none of the beadwork has caught a neighbouring dress, lifting the skirt of each one upwards carefully in one brisk fluid movement, filling it with air to show it off to its very best advantage. She straightens the embellished beaded cap sleeves of one, smoothes the silk tulle overlay on another, before adjusting the sparkling beaded lace bodice on the next. She decides to move one of Jenny’s latest designs, a gown with a show-stopping cascading tiered skirt to the front to create some serious wow factor for everyone entering the boutique today.

  This season Helen has bought Jenny’s more form-fitting silhouettes – those adorned with wild flower and foliage appliqués, crystal illusion bodices, daring open backs, and plunging necklines. They may not be entirely to her own taste, but when it comes to ultimate contemporary glamour, Helen knows that no one does it better than Jenny – and so do her brides, judging by the stream of orders already placed.

  Helen works her way along the rail and on to the five expertly structured Peter Langner gowns including her personal favourite, a ballgown in embossed Shantung silk, with flutter sleeves and embroidered with falling chiffon petals. Next come the legendary bias-cut Pronovias gowns – the ones she knows her more fashionable brides are sure to gravitate towards. Sharply cut racer-backs, a second-skin embroidered lace dress, peek-a-boo sheer chiffon and thigh-high splits are not for every bride, but the ones who love these looks are usually more than happy to pay the higher price tag these gowns demand.

  There is just time to complete her circuit of the remaining gowns, before finishing with the eight exquisite designs from Oscar de la Renta, all strapless save for one plunging V-neck A-line gown, which Helen takes the time to adjust on its hanger so it sits perfectly symmetrically. Each dress has been given one incredible defining feature which Helen double-checks now: a back adorned with an oversized bow (straightened); intricate guipure lace (smoothed); a neat peplum skirt (lightly fluffed) and a lace bolero edged with mink and fox fur (lifted higher on its hanger).

  Happy with the rail, Helen walks to the back of the boutique and enters the sumptuous fitting room with its floor-to-ceiling ornate gold-framed mirrors on both sides. There is a luxurious chaise, generously upholstered in cream velvet running the length of the room, providing plenty of space for mums and mai
ds to perch and an extravagant crystal chandelier hanging centrally over the space. One small glass table in the corner is where Helen keeps her ‘Mary Poppins bag’, as she affectionately refers to it. Just like the old fashioned leather doctor’s bag carried by its namesake, it opens up like a gaping mouth to reveal dozens of individually boxed and ordered pins, clips, ribbons and elastic – everything she might need to turn a too big or small gown miraculously into the near-perfect size for the bride within it.

  The fitting room is where three more super special gowns are today suspended from a floating rail. Knowing that these dresses would take some extra time to present properly, Helen positioned them here last night after closing, giving them longer for any stubborn creases to disappear from the fabric. It’s important they look perfect and, analysing them closely again now, Helen is happy that she has done her work well.

  9.50 a.m. – Helen returns to the front of the boutique and unlocks the door, ready ten minutes ahead of schedule for her first bride of the day. She uses the time to flick through the file she keeps on every bride she serves – the bible that carefully charts each woman’s dress progress from her initial measurements to styles chosen, alternations needed, final refinements and delivery dates. The file never leaves a locked cupboard under the boutique’s till – Helen knows she would be lost without it. Opening the concertina box to the section marked Ms Jessica Jones, Helen re-scans the fifteen emails that she has printed out and logged there – emails that Jessie has sent Helen in the weeks leading up to this appointment with an increasingly specific and detailed breakdown of exactly what she is looking for. Helen runs through the requirements in her head again. Not one dress, but three. The first, for the rehearsal dinner the night before the wedding, the second for the ceremony itself and the third for the wedding evening party. I cannot wait for her to see these gowns, thinks Helen, confident that she will be nothing but overjoyed with what is awaiting her. Helen runs her fingers over the swatches of fabric stapled to the emails that Jessie has sent her along with various video links to designer catwalk shows and the password to a whole Pinterest board full of designs from Jessie’s three favourite bridal designers.

  For their very first appointment, most brides-to-be come to Helen with a handful of pictures torn from their favourite bridal magazines and, if they are very good, a rough budget – a budget that is nearly always blown once they set foot inside The White Gallery.

  None – before Jessie – have flown to New York Bridal Fashion Week to personally view the new collections on the catwalk, before insisting that three favourite sample gowns are pulled off their sales shows and shipped immediately to Helen’s small Cotswold boutique.

  10.05 a.m. – With no sign of her bride, Helen refers back to the appointments diary to ensure no mistake has been made. One-hour Saturday appointments with Helen at The White Gallery need to be booked weeks in advance and once a sought-after slot is secured no bride ever cancels and very rarely are any late without an extremely good reason. Helen pauses for a moment to think about the young woman she is about to meet. Up until now there has been no one Helen couldn’t disarm. The disinterested mother-in-law, the jealous bridesmaid who can’t afford the dress her childhood friend is trying on and so determines to hate it. The mother-of-the-bride who projects all of her fusty style rules on her confused daughter. Or the bride’s father who simply sobs his way through the entire appointment, offering no help at all. Helen has advised, educated, humoured and ultimately won over every one of them. And not one of them has ever guessed at the personal sadness she carries inside her every day, she’s made sure of that. Every bride she serves is completely indulged by Helen. She always listens eagerly to their wedding plans, and has never once sold a dress to a girl without being honest about how it looked on her. But Helen knew very well as she was writing the name Jessica Jones under Saturday 1st March, that she has never experienced a young woman quite like this before – not one.

  10.15 a.m. – Helen hears what can only be described as foul-mouthed ranting from outside the boutique and heads to the front door, pulling it open to investigate.

  ‘Oh for crying out fucking loud! Lilac! A colour that looks good on no one. And Next! Perfect! She could be tripping down the aisle ahead of me in thousands of pounds worth of Max Mara but no, we’ll go to Next. Please dear God, let there not be a fascinator sprouting from the top of her head. I can’t actually cope with it!’

  ‘Jessica, isn’t it? Please, come in,’ says Helen, as her outstretched right arm welcomes Jessie under the glorious archway of purple wisteria that frames The White Gallery’s entrance.

  ‘What?’ barks Jessie, still huffing and puffing in the direction of her phone.

  Helen sucks in a lungful of the sweet floral scent, letting it wash away the unpleasantness of the bad language she detests so much and politely steps aside to let Jessie enter.

  ‘Everything is ready for you, Jessica. The dresses were all shipped from America and arrived two days ago. I don’t know how you did it but all three made it and they are absolutely exquisite. But should we wait? Is someone else going to be joining you for the appointment Ms Jones – your mother or a girlfriend?’

  ‘God, no. I don’t need any help thank you. I hope my emails have made it clear that I already know exactly what I want.’

  Being snapped at by a strung-out bride-to-be is nothing new. But even Helen is taken back by Jessie’s immediate and undiluted rudeness. Her mind flicks to her own Betsy and how mortified she’d be to see her daughter behave this way. But more than anything it’s sympathy she feels for Jessie. No woman should have to attend her first bridal appointment on her own, thinks Helen. The idea of Betsy doing that is inconceivable to her.

  ‘OK, well if you’re ready, Ms Jones, shall we take a look?’

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ Jessie rolls her eyes sarcastically towards the ceiling, forcing Helen to suck in a deep lung-expanding breath. She’s not sure she has the strength to deal with this attitude today. She wavers for a moment, wondering whether to confront the rudeness head on, then decides perhaps this total lack of friendliness is what she needs, it’ll force her to focus on the job at hand. She needs to get on to the dresses, her comfort zone.

  She heads to the back of the boutique and with both arms slowly pulls open the fitting room’s heavy silk drapes revealing three of the most breathtaking bridal gowns either woman has ever seen.

  ‘On the left, Ms Jones, is the ivory silk crepe shift dress by Oscar de la Renta. I think the pearl and ostrich feather embroidered hem make it more than smart and certainly special enough for your rehearsal dinner. Obviously, we won’t know if the hem length is right until we see you in it but looking at you now, I think we could afford to take it up an inch or two. Just look at the way those feathers are already lifting on the breeze. This, Ms Jones, is a dress you can have fun in.’

  Aware that Jessie is saying precisely nothing, Helen continues.

  ‘Then we come to the Carolina Herrera, the gown I believe closed her New York show this season. As I’m sure you already know, Herrera is famous for making wedding dresses that are just as beautiful inside as they are outside and the hand-stitched internal boning work in this chantilly lace bodice is probably the best I have ever seen. It will nip your waist in like nothing else and provide all the support you’re going to need to carry an explosion of a skirt this size. So clever of Herrera to have incorporated her signature pocket detail too – just keeping it modern enough, don’t you think?’

  Still nothing from Jessie, who is standing motionless with a blank expression that is proving very hard for Helen to read. Undeterred, she continues on to the third and final gown in the line-up.

  ‘And this is your ultimate party piece. Every inch of this metallic fringed cocktail dress is designed to move with you, Ms Jones. Your body will look like it’s dancing even when it’s not and the jewelled neck negates the need to add any further accessories. It’s the first time designer Naeem Khan has included a cocktail
dress as part of his main bridal collection and my goodness, he couldn’t have done it any better.’

  Helen’s chest swells as she takes another moment to appreciate the full glory of what is set before her. She can see in a second the craftsmanship, the endless hours of hand beading, the attention to detail on every inch of lace work. She can see how perfectly tailored each silhouette is, designed very precisely with the female form in mind – not restrictive, but built to glide over a woman’s curves so she can walk, dance and entertain her guests totally confident in the knowledge that she looks the very best she ever has.

  Helen turns away from the dresses now to confront Jessie face on, desperate to finally elicit a reaction. But Jessie is frozen, one blink away from releasing the tears that have filled her eyes and sending them streaming down her perfectly made-up face. Her mouth is struggling to form the words she wants to say and Helen can see she is trembling ever so slightly from the sheer effort of trying to hold herself together. The bolshie arrogance of ten minutes ago has deserted her completely and the embarrassment of losing her composure in front of Helen is starting to take hold. Perhaps others might have let her suffer for a moment longer, payback for the earlier unkindness, but not Helen.

  All her warm, motherly instincts propel her towards Jessie and she pulls her into a deep maternal hug, feeling her uptight and stressed-out little body yield slightly – knowing she’ll be dry-cleaning her blouse tomorrow to remove the tearstains that are now forming on her right shoulder. And there they both stand for one whole minute, neither of them saying a word but Helen silently promising she will help to fix this girl, whatever has broken her.