A Winter's Wedding (14 page)

‘Hush, Dad, you mustn’t say things like that. You mustn’t say anything racist in London, not ever,’ Emily told him. ‘Mum, don’t go to sleep here, please.’

‘What’s racist about asking if somebody is cold? I’m only saying they must be cold here. Why can we not talk about the foreigners, Emily? It’s no shame to be a foreigner. Weren’t the Irish always great ones for emigrating? It was Irish navvies that built America. And they built most of this country too. That’s the great pity of it, really, because the Irish did most of the hard work years ago – and now there’s nothing left for these foreign lads to do, except maybe for sweeping up and washing dishes.’

‘Hush, Dad, please, I’m begging you. Will you stop talking about immigrants and politics? Nobody here wants to talk about those things, right? It’s not polite. It’s not
acceptable
. Mum, will you wake up!’

‘Well, I’m sorry if we’re an embarrassment to you,’ her father said loudly.

‘I told you she wouldn’t be pleased to see us,’ Mrs Reilly added sadly, blinking herself awake again.

‘I am pleased to see you,’ Emily soothed.

‘You don’t look too pleased,’ her mother told her.

‘Oh, Mum. You never change,’ Emily snapped finally.

The three of them sat sulking silently on the banquette.

The security guard at the main door began to smirk, while the receptionist busied himself with sorting the mail into pigeonholes. Emily couldn’t help being sorely irritated that her parents seemed to belong in the 1940s. For pity’s sake, her father was only fifty-three and her mother was fifty. How had they managed to assume the beliefs of two old relics from a bygone era? Was it their insular lifestyle that had made them this way? They surely hadn’t failed to spot that there were plenty of what they called ‘foreigners’ in the professional classes?

‘What say you take the rest of the day off, and we’ll go to Madame Tussauds, hey?’ said Mr Reilly, trying to rescue the situation. ‘And then we’ll go to Buckingham Palace and give the Queen a shout?’

‘Look, Dad, I’m really sorry. But I just can’t take any time off work right now. I’m acting up for my boss.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I’m the boss now,’ Emily explained.

‘You’re the boss of the whole magazine?’ her father asked, his eyes as wide as saucers.

‘Just for a while,’ Emily said, thinking that he’d assume she was a millionaire now.

Arabella hadn’t actually discussed a pay rise for Emily, because she was hoping she’d be back at work within two or three months. And Emily was almost glad of that – she didn’t want Jane to find out she was getting a pay rise and use the information to start a mutiny.

‘The boss of the magazine, did you hear that? Well, that’s just brilliant news altogether. The big boss at last, hey? I hope they’re paying you top dollar, Emily?’

‘Never mind that now. Dad, tell me, have you both eaten? I can take you round the corner for something to eat. And then maybe I could see you both back to my flat in a taxi. I am sorry, but I’ve got to work today. We’ve so much to do. And I’ve no assistant to help me, because I used to be Arabella’s assistant. Do you understand?’

‘Well, that’s a crying shame,’ Emily’s mother said at once, suddenly coming out of her sleepy reverie. ‘We come all the way to London to see you – we come to London for the first time ever – and it turns out you’re too busy to show us around.’

‘Mum, I’m working. You should have told me you were coming.’

‘Ah well …’ Emily’s mother said heavily, then sniffed loudly.

She obviously had no concept of the nine-to-five. She obviously didn’t know that a person with a proper career couldn’t just take time off without applying for it days – or even weeks – in advance.

‘It’s only a magazine about houses,’ Emily’s mother muttered darkly. ‘Aren’t the shops all stuffed to the rafters with magazines about houses? I’m tripping over them every time I go to the doctor’s. Speaking of which, it’s not like you’re a surgeon and there’s somebody lying in the hospital waiting for a heart operation. Well, is it?’

Emily closed her eyes and swallowed down the urge to remind her mother that she’d never had a career of her own. And that she’d never had to pay her own rent either, or run a car. Her parents had probably been on benefits for so long, they’d forgotten where the benefit money came from in the first place – from time-poor taxpayers like Emily.

‘Now, don’t be making a big thing out of it, woman. Emily can’t help it if she has to work, can she? She’ll take us out tonight for a nice supper, won’t you, Emily? And to one of them fancy shows in the West End maybe?’

‘I’d love to, Dad, I really would. But meals out and theatre tickets are very expensive,’ Emily said quietly. She didn’t want the security guard or the receptionist to know she was up to her neck in debt. ‘I haven’t much money to spare at the moment.’

‘So much for being the boss,’ Mrs Reilly sniffed.

‘Excuse me?’ Emily said.

‘Oh aye, I forgot about that side of things,’ her father said humbly. Then he bit his lip with embarrassment. ‘Yes, indeed … the lack of money is a real scourge, Emily, love. Nobody knows that better than me. Well, we can manage rightly on a bag of chips and a stroll by the Thames, hey?’

‘Oh, Daddy …’

Emily wanted to hug her father there and then and tell him how much she loved him. She also wanted to strangle him for coming over to London without giving her a warning first, and for promising Emily’s mother a lovely holiday when he must have known the three of them hadn’t a spare penny between them.

‘You both stay right here, okay?’ she said. ‘And I’ll go up and get my coat and handbag, and tell the staff I’ll be out of the office for an hour or so.’

‘Yes, love,’ he smiled.

‘Don’t be too long,’ her mother added. ‘I’m starving.’

Emily caught the lift back up to her floor and told Jane she’d be out of the office for an hour or so. Then she locked Arabella’s desk, so Jane couldn’t go for a sneaky rummage in it.

‘Is it something to do with Arabella’s arrest?’ Jane said bluntly as Emily passed her desk on the way out again.

‘No, it isn’t. Don’t be silly,’ Emily replied.

Emily had told the staff that Arabella’s recent arrest had been a simple case of mistaken identity. But Jane’s gossip radar had gone into overdrive, and Emily knew it was only a matter of time before Jane resorted to going through Arabella’s bins late at night looking for clues.

‘Just get on with your work, everyone,’ Emily said loudly. ‘I’ll be back before you know it. Petra, if anyone rings and asks for me, please take a message.’

Petra Dunwoody rolled her eyes.

‘Yes, Miss Reilly,’ she said. ‘Of course, Miss Reilly …’

Jane giggled.

Emily left the office before Jane could think of some excuse to accompany her down to the foyer.

Ten minutes later, Emily and her parents were sitting in one of the purple velvet booths of a bohemian café nearby, having just ordered tea and sandwiches.

‘Now, Mum and Dad, let’s get one thing straight; I
am
very pleased to see you.’

‘But what?’ her mother asked suspiciously.

‘But I’m afraid you’ll have to do your best to have a nice time in London on a non-existent budget,’ Emily told them firmly. ‘I wish it was different, but that’s the situation.’

‘That’s okay,’ Mr Reilly said cheerfully. ‘We’ve got enough for Tube fares. We can go and see things that are free. And just eat at your place.’

‘Thanks, Dad, you’re a great sport,’ Emily said, patting him tenderly on the arm.

‘Story of our lives,’ Mrs Reilly muttered, and then she went off to the Ladies.

Emily resisted the urge to follow her mother – to check she wasn’t hiding a half-bottle of vodka in her handbag.

‘So how is Mum keeping?’ Emily said as soon as her mother was out of earshot.

‘She’s doing great,’ Mr Reilly said quickly. ‘She’s only drinking about half of what she used to. And she’s eating better, and sleeping more.’

‘That’s something, I suppose. And how are you keeping, Dad? How’s the gambling?’

‘Emily, I haven’t gone near the bookies since I last saw you,’ he said.

‘Please tell me the truth, Daddy.’

‘I have a limit of two pounds a day,’ he admitted.

‘Is that all?’

‘Okay, three pounds.’

‘Is it five pounds?’

‘Look, I spend five pounds a day, and that includes any winnings from the day before. I swear that’s my limit. And I don’t bet on Sundays.’

‘Thirty pounds a week is still a lot of money,’ Emily said carefully.

‘I know it is.’

‘You could paint a room a nice colour for that. Or buy six novels. Or buy enough groceries for a week’s home cooking.’

‘I know I could. But I’m not interested in painting rooms and reading books. And I’m not interested in cooking either,’ Mr Reilly said stubbornly.

‘You should find a new hobby, both of you, to help take your mind off your addictions.’

‘Poor Emily, you’ve been saying that to us all your life. When will you just accept we can’t be like you, and just let us be who we are?’

‘I’m sorry, Dad. I can’t help it,’ Emily said quietly.

‘And neither can we,’ he replied. ‘On the bright side, I definitely won’t be playing poker any more. For word is all over the city that my daughter isn’t going to bail me out again, and now nobody will play poker with me.’

‘Okay,’ Emily smiled. ‘That’s very good news.’

Then the waiter brought their food, and Mrs Reilly returned from the Ladies with a sort of half-smile on her face and the merest whiff of vodka on her breath.

Emily poured the tea, handed round the sandwiches and paid the bill.

15. The First Snow of Winter

Emily checked that the wardrobe door was firmly locked, and then she slipped the little bronze key into her jeans pocket. She was giving her parents her bedroom during their stay in London, but she didn’t want them trying to hang their coats up in her wardrobe. That scenario was just too difficult to cope with emotionally. Even the thought of her mother rummaging through her old things filled Emily with horror. The wardrobe was the keeper of Emily’s emotional baggage, and she wasn’t ready to share that space with anybody else – not just yet.

But Mrs Reilly had other things on her mind that day.

‘Oh dear, I really don’t like those old skylights,’ she said when she came in to inspect the bedroom. ‘If it rains at all, I can’t get to sleep with the noise – it sounds like a marching band.’

‘When were you ever in a room with skylights?’ Emily asked.

‘That’s none of your business,’ her mother replied defensively.

And Emily suddenly remembered that the hospital room her mother had stayed in had had skylights.

‘I’m really sorry, Mum, but I can’t do anything about them,’ Emily said simply.

‘Never mind … It probably won’t rain now, it’s that cold outside. I bet it’ll be snowing by bedtime,’ Mrs Reilly said, peering up at the ceiling with a faraway expression on her deathly white face.

‘Don’t make a fuss, woman,’ her husband told her firmly. ‘You can’t make a fuss when you’re getting free accommodation.’

‘I suppose that’s true enough.’

Mr Reilly winked at Emily, and she winked back at him.

‘I’ll make us a nice curry for supper,’ she said.

‘I don’t like curry,’ her mother said. ‘It gives me heartburn.’

‘I’ll make a frittata, then.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s an omelette with potatoes and cheese in it,’ Emily said.

‘Sounds okay to me,’ Mr Reilly smiled.

‘We’ve come a long way just to eat eggs and spuds,’ Mrs Reilly said.

‘This is fancy eggs and spuds, you’ll love it,’ Emily told her.

She went breezing into the kitchen while her mother went back to the sitting room, looking even more disappointed than usual.

‘It’s very cold in this flat, Emily,’ she said, rubbing her arms. ‘Could you maybe light the fire?’

‘That’s not a real fireplace, Mum. It’s only a fake one.’

‘Is it really?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘It looks real enough. Who’d bother putting in a fake fireplace?’ Mrs Reilly wondered.

‘The landlord, I suppose,’ Emily said, and the tears sprang into her eyes. She was beginning to feel a complete failure.

‘What a waste of time, putting in a fireplace that doesn’t work,’ her mother said in a reedy voice. ‘Oh dear, I’m really frozen here. I hope I don’t catch a chill from sitting in such a cold room. There’s nothing as nice as a real coal fire. I’m beginning to wish we’d stayed in Belfast.’

Emily began to understand why her father spent so much time in the relative peace and comfort of his local bookmaker’s. She’d only been with her mother for a few hours, and already she was exhausted and longing to crawl under the duvet. And then she remembered with a sinking heart that she wouldn’t have her beloved bedroom to herself for another two weeks. A flash of acute anxiety worked its way around her nervous system.

She wondered, should she give Dylan a call? And would he be able to think of anything she could do to entertain her parents for two whole weeks? Maybe she could take them down the road to Dylan’s shop for a fashion makeover? He was bound to have something nice they could wear, she thought to herself. Something smart and relatively tasteful they could wear for their first ever holiday in London – or, indeed, outside of Ireland. She even thought briefly of asking the girls at the
Rock & Fairy
hair boutique if they needed a couple of models to practise new styles on. Her father could do with a decent trim, and her mother could do with losing about ten inches off her untidy mane. If she suggested a makeover, she knew her parents would be dreadfully offended. However, Dylan might be able to make it all sound like great fun.

At that exact moment the buzzer rang, and Emily just knew it was Dylan back from his rugby trip to France. She was exhilarated at the thought of seeing him, and a bit disappointed they wouldn’t be able to go straight into the bedroom and make love.

‘I think it’s Dylan,’ she said to her parents. ‘Be nice to him, won’t you?’

‘Why wouldn’t we be?’ her father said.

‘Because of the poker thing,’ Emily explained. ‘Because he told that thug to back off and leave you alone …’

‘That wasn’t his fault,’ Mr Reilly said matter-of-factly. ‘You told him to do it.’

‘I’m still starving,’ her mother complained. ‘My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.’

‘Oh boy,’ Emily groaned.

As Dylan came bounding up the stairs, the three of them stood in a little huddle to greet him.

‘Oh, hi there,’ Dylan said when he reached Emily’s door.

His face was flushed with the cold and his eyes were bluer than ever. Emily longed to kiss him passionately, but she made do with the briefest of hugs instead.

‘I didn’t know your parents were coming over.’

‘Mum and Dad are staying with me for
two whole weeks
,’ Emily said.

‘Isn’t that lovely?’ Dylan said at once, shaking their hands warmly. ‘I hope you have a great time while you’re here, Mr and Mrs Reilly.’

‘Don’t be so formal, lad. You’ve met us before. Call me Pat – and this is Annie, in case you’ve forgotten,’ Mr Reilly said.

‘Won’t you stay for supper?’ Emily asked him.

‘He will, surely,’ Mr Reilly said.

‘It’s only eggs,’ Mrs Reilly pointed out.

‘I love eggs,’ Dylan nodded.

‘It’s a
frittata
,’ Emily said, smiling determinedly at her mother.

‘We’re on a tight budget, money-wise,’ Mr Reilly said, winking crookedly at Dylan.

‘Half-rations; the story of our lives,’ Mrs Reilly added.

‘Mum and Dad, that’ll do,’ Emily warned.

‘Well, look, we can’t have you on half-rations your first night in London. I wonder, would you let me take the three of you out somewhere nice? There’s a fantastic restaurant about a mile from here. They do a mean steak, and their toffee puddings are to die for.’

‘There’s really no need, Dylan,’ Emily began.

‘We’d be delighted,’ Mr Reilly said at once. ‘That’s very generous of you, Dylan.’

‘Have you got a car? Because I’m too tired to walk far,’ Mrs Reilly said.

‘Yes, I have my car right outside the door,’ he smiled.

Soon the four of them were sitting in Dylan’s old BMW with the heating turned up full blast.

‘This is a nice car,’ Mrs Reilly said approvingly.

‘Thank you,’ Dylan said, pulling out into the evening traffic.

‘I hope you don’t mind me sitting in the passenger seat, Dylan? Only I can’t sit in the back or I’ll get travel sickness,’ Emily’s mother explained.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Emily said. ‘I was going to suggest you sit in the front, anyway.’

‘Would the two of you like to see some horses in the country?’ Dylan asked them.

‘I love horses,’ Emily’s father said at once.

‘He loves them far too much for his own good,’ his wife added.

‘My sister Sylvia rescues old ponies. The stables are about fifty miles from here. I could take you for a spin tomorrow, if you like? If you’ve nothing else planned? I can take the day off work tomorrow.’

‘I’d love that,’ Mr Reilly said.

‘I’d like a spin in the car,’ Mrs Reilly admitted.

‘It’s a date, then,’ Dylan said.

Emily could have kissed him – except she couldn’t kiss him, because she was sitting in the back seat beside her father.

‘Will you come with us, Emily?’ her mother asked.

‘Emily can’t come with us, because she’s got a big important meeting with the printers tomorrow. Haven’t you, Emily?’ Dylan said, steering calmly down the heavily congested road.

‘You remembered?’ Emily said, feeling suddenly very moved.

‘Of course I remembered,’ he said. ‘Emily’s arranging for this handy little booklet on de-cluttering to be given away with the magazine,’ he told her parents. ‘I love it when people de-clutter, because it means we get more donations in the shop.’

‘Well, we’ll just have to manage without you, Emily,’ her mother said kindly. ‘Is this a nice restaurant we’re going to, Dylan? Only I’m totally famished. I could eat a horse, I’m that hungry.’

‘Don’t say that to Sylvia,’ Dylan joked.

They all laughed.

‘It’s a really lovely place,’ Dylan told Mrs Reilly. ‘I used to go there all the time when I was in my last job. Let’s go mad, shall we? I don’t know about you, but I’m going to have three courses – soup and a steak and a toffee pudding. I know the menu like the back of my hand, and everything they serve is absolutely delicious. And we’ll even try a bottle of bubbly; just the one between us? That’ll be okay, won’t it, Emily?’

‘Go on, then. Why not?’

‘Yeah, let’s live a little,’ Dylan said brightly. ‘We’ll have a real family get-together.’

‘I like this fellow of yours, Emily,’ Mrs Reilly said after a minute’s pause. ‘That last one – Alex – was hard work. He wouldn’t give you the time of day if he could help it, Dylan. I bet you any money his wallet had a moth living in it.’

‘Mum, please don’t start.’

‘All the years you wasted on that man, and he never took us out to dinner once. Tight as two coats of paint, he was.’

‘Mum, that’s enough,’ Emily said.

‘I’m only telling Dylan the truth,’ Mrs Reilly protested. ‘Honestly, even at Christmas he’d get us some old cheap tin of biscuits from the supermarket. Though he didn’t mind lavishing the money on himself, oh no. He only wore designer clothes. Mind you, he still didn’t look all that great in them. Bit of a tummy on him. And he had a massive car, though he couldn’t even park the thing without denting it.’

‘Thanks, Mum, but I’m quite sure Dylan doesn’t want to hear another word about Alex,’ Emily said loudly.

‘Oh yes, I do,’ Dylan laughed. ‘Just as long as it’s all bad.’

‘He wasn’t as handsome as you are either,’ added Mrs Reilly.

‘Mum, if you don’t give over about Alex, I am getting out of this car and walking home,’ Emily threatened. ‘And you can have your swanky dinner without me.’

‘She’s a right bossy madam sometimes,’ Emily’s mother said to Dylan then, and she patted his knee in a sympathetic way. ‘I do hope you know what you’re getting yourself into?’

Laughing his head off, Dylan parked the car outside the restaurant, ushered them all up the steps and held the door open for Emily’s mother. Then all four of them went breezing into the elegant interior in grand style. The waiter was a friend of Dylan’s, and he gave them a table upstairs by the terrace with a great view of the city. They had a fabulous meal; every morsel was divine. The conversation never faltered for a moment. Mostly it consisted of Mrs Reilly regaling Dylan with funny tales from Emily’s childhood and Dylan laughing heartily at every one. Emily was amazed her mother was able to remember so many details, as she’d seemed tipsy for most of it. Emily’s father simply enjoyed the fine food – such a change for him after a lifetime of battered sausages and fish suppers. He even decided not to ask the waiter for a bottle of tomato ketchup to go with his lemon sole.

As they were finishing off a perfect evening with a round of Irish coffees, it began to snow softly. The temperature outside plummeted, and within half an hour the road markings were hidden beneath a soft layer of white. It was tempting to stay in the delicious warmth of the restaurant for another half-hour, and to gaze out of the huge windows at the twinkling lights of London, but eventually they conceded it was time to go home.

‘That was truly a lovely meal,’ Dylan said, signalling for the waiter.

He decided to go and pay at the bar, because he didn’t want Emily or her parents to see the bill. He didn’t think there’d be much change left over from two hundred pounds. Their evening in the restaurant had been so enjoyable; he didn’t want Emily to worry about the cost of it now.

‘I told you it was going to snow today,’ Mrs Reilly sniffed as they stood up and put on their coats. ‘I could feel it in my bones. I wish we’d brought more clothes over from Belfast with us.’

‘Oh, Mum,’ Emily muttered, but she was too full of garlic chicken to be cross with her parents any more tonight.

By the time they stepped outside the snow was coming down in huge, feather-light tufts. One landed on Emily’s nose, and Dylan brushed it away tenderly.

‘Thanks for a lovely time,’ Emily said happily.

‘I’m going to die of cold,’ Mrs Reilly said quietly.

‘We just got some lovely stuff in at the shop,’ Dylan said as they settled back into the car for the drive home. ‘Vintage coats, lovely quality – we could take a look at them on our way to the stables tomorrow?’

‘Well, that’d be great … if the snow doesn’t leave us trapped in the house for days and days,’ Mrs Reilly muttered.

‘I’m sure it won’t,’ Emily said absent-mindedly.

She was already thinking of her meeting the following day. She needed to convince everyone it was worth spending the rest of their budget on the de-cluttering booklet. Emily didn’t need their permission, of course, but she didn’t want to alienate them any further either.

She was so engrossed in her thoughts, they were soon back at the flat and she hadn’t heard one word of the in-car chat.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Dylan asked Emily as they lay whispering on the ancient sofa bed later that evening. Dylan had told Emily’s parents he’d stay the night, so they could leave for the stables bright and early the following morning. And amazingly they hadn’t displayed any signs of disapproval. Instead, they’d gone off to bed, all happy and contented, with two mugs of cocoa.

‘I’m thinking that you’re going to think I’m a liar,’ Emily admitted.

‘Why would I think that?’ he said, kissing her shoulder hungrily.

‘Oh no, don’t do that,’ she said, buttoning her pyjamas right up to the neck.

‘We can be really quiet,’ he whispered imploringly. ‘Please?’