A Winter's Wedding (5 page)

‘Sounds amazing,’ Emily said.

‘Yes, amazing is the word I was thinking of too,’ he said, looking very intently at Emily’s face.

Emily had the strangest feeling Dylan was going to kiss her. He was gazing at her lips and she had a lovely, woozy feeling. Her eyes were almost closing in anticipation. He leaned in towards her and his breathing slowed right down. Emily’s breathing, on the other hand, speeded up to such an extent she thought she was going to hyperventilate. His breath smelt of minty toothpaste and chocolate biscuits. But just then Sylvia came bustling in through the door with another box of donated goods that she’d managed to collect from friends and family, and the romantic spell was broken.

‘Hi there, you sweet little pair of lovebirds,’ she teased.

‘Don’t worry, I am still on duty,’ Dylan said, standing up and making a salute.

‘Yes, he just sold a cloth cap,’ Emily added in a weak voice.

‘A cloth cap, you say? Ha, we’re in the money at last,’ Sylvia grinned.

Dylan went to help Sylvia carry her booty through to the storeroom. And Emily felt her lovely, woozy feeling slowly evaporate.

‘I’d better be getting back,’ Emily said, getting up and reaching for her coat. ‘Thanks for the tea, Dylan.’

Sylvia smiled at them and then surveyed the two mismatched mugs and half-eaten packet of biscuits on the counter.

‘Chocolate biscuits, I see? Broken biscuits – but they taste just as good, I suppose. He’s very domesticated, isn’t he?’ Sylvia said proudly.

‘I’m not the worst,’ Dylan said at once.

‘I never said you were,’ Sylvia replied. ‘I’m very impressed, actually.’

‘May I call you tomorrow?’ Dylan asked Emily.

‘That would be lovely,’ she smiled, then waved goodbye to her new friends.

On the way back to her car Emily wondered why she’d as good as told Dylan her own mother was mentally ill. Did she really have to mention the cruet sets? she wondered. Or state she was a non-practising Catholic? She must have sounded as if she were giving evidence in a court of law. She was an idiot! Why on earth was she such a rambling fool at times?

‘I must really like him,’ she said to herself. And at least she hadn’t told him about her father, she thought sadly. Not yet, anyway. She drove home to her attic flat, feeling a mixture of euphoria and dread.

‘I’m trying to act like a normal person,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m not exactly storming it, but at least I’m trying. He was going to kiss me, remember! He must have liked me!’

That night Emily opened the wardrobe door fully, and carefully took every item pertaining to her childhood out of it. Her tiny baptism gown, her Holy Communion dress and lace veil, her old school blazer and ties, her tennis racket, 7 Barbie dolls, 3 teddy bears, 4 pairs of leather school shoes, 25 storybooks and a plastic carry-case containing 63 pop cassettes. All things her parents had bought for her, yes, but bought very reluctantly. Bless them, but they had found parenthood a bit of an ordeal, she thought sadly. Maybe the vast majority of parents found parenthood a bit of an ordeal, but they were smart enough never to admit it? Well, it was over now and high time she stopped blaming her parents and herself for not being the perfect family. That was all in the past now, and she had to look to the future. She packed all the things into the boot of her car and vowed to deliver them to the shop the following Monday, which was Dylan’s day off. She wanted to help the shop get up and running, but she didn’t want Dylan to think she was a cold person giving away her childhood things. It was just that she needed to give them away so that she could become … well, unstuck.

She got into bed, leaving the curtains wide open, and spent ages just gazing out of the window. It was snowing again and the flakes were big and uneven, scurrying past her bedroom window as if they were all rushing to catch a bus. The wind howled through tiny gaps in the old wooden frames and made eerie moaning noises. Emily thought about Dylan and what he might be doing at that exact moment. She wondered, was he lying awake and thinking about her? She had forgotten to ask him where he lived, she realized. Perhaps he shared a house with some mates? She thought of her parents too, and shed a few guilty tears that she hadn’t gone home for Christmas again this year. She could easily have forced herself to give them a couple of days of her time, just to cook a small turkey and put up a few decorations. It wouldn’t have killed her, would it? No, it wouldn’t have killed her. But she couldn’t risk them pulling her back to Belfast with their hopelessness and their neediness, she told herself firmly. She didn’t want to spend the next thirty years of her life acting as carer, cleaner and referee for the two of them. They didn’t need a carer, but they’d soon get used to having one – that was Emily’s worry. And that’s exactly what might happen if she allowed herself to feel guilty, even for forty-eight hours. They were so useless, the pair of them. Sitting there watching the television for hours every night in the middle of a bizarre little nest of useless things, surrounded by the blue haze of her mother’s cigarette smoke and a general air of under-achievement. Emily felt sick just thinking about the little house in west Belfast – especially when she compared it with all the gorgeous homes she got to photograph for the magazine.

‘I know it’s not fair to compare them with the millionaires of Mayfair. I know it’s not fair to compare them with Dylan’s parents. I know I’m a shallow, selfish, snobbish, mean and cruel cow,’ she said to herself.

Then she thought of the little sliver of empty space at the top of her wardrobe, and it did feel as if she could breathe more easily. She felt that her heart was relaxing a little bit – it didn’t feel quite so squashed any more.

Maybe there really was something Zen and empowering about the simple act of de-cluttering? Maybe it was good for the soul to say goodbye to the past? Maybe it was a good thing to know you could give away the trappings of your past and still survive without them? Maybe you really could wipe the slate clean and start all over again?

And this time you’d be in charge – not your mad parents or your callous ex-boyfriend.

Emily snuggled down under the duvet and closed her eyes.

5. Bosoms and Buttons

Emily brought the tray of coffees over to Arabella’s corner of the office and handed them out to the small group of freelance contributors and in-house staff. The office was stiflingly warm, but if they were to open a window now they might all expire of acute hypothermia within minutes. It seemed as if the snow would never stop falling.

‘I’m sure Arabella will be here any minute,’ Emily said briskly. ‘She’s probably stuck in a traffic jam somewhere. The traffic is a nightmare these days. Can I get anybody a biscuit?’ she added, thinking briefly of Dylan and his chocolate Digestives.

‘Any decent ones, have you?’ Jane asked, yawning. ‘Don’t trouble yourself if it’s just a Rich Tea, mind – I won’t bother with the calories.’

Jane Maxwell could be a right diva when she put her mind to it, but Emily decided to humour her today, just to make the wait for Arabella less stressful than it already was. There was hardly a month went by that Arabella didn’t dream of firing Jane but, really and truly, she didn’t think she could justify it. And something about Jane told Emily and Arabella that Jane wouldn’t go quietly if she did get fired. She’d probably make it her life’s work to ruin the magazine in the courts.

‘She’s quite clearly sex-starved,’ Arabella would say, after every editorial run-in with Miss Maxwell. ‘What that girl needs is the love of a good man.’

And then Emily and Arabella would have a secret giggle at such an outrageously sexist pronouncement.

‘Just so happens I have some lovely biscuits, yes, Jane. One moment, please.’

Emily duly fetched the secret stash of butter shortbread from her desk, and set it on the round table where Arabella held their monthly meetings.

‘Only shortbread ones?’ Jane said, yawning again. ‘I thought you said you had something lovely?’

Jane ate one anyway, Emily noticed. Then she ate another five, licking her fingers loudly. Everyone else flicked politely through the pages of rival magazines. After thirty minutes of fidgeting and clock-watching, mostly by Jane, the mood in the room was distinctly icy – almost as icy as the wind that whipped up and down the street outside. Jane kept saying she had seriously important things to do and that if Arabella was going to be so late today she should have let them know.

‘I’ll just call her,’ Emily said, stepping into the corridor and flicking her mobile phone open. ‘Maybe she’s wedged in a snowdrift somewhere,’ she said to herself as she selected her boss’s private number.

Arabella answered on the first ring.

‘David? David, is that you?’ she said.

‘Arabella, it’s Emily here.’

‘Oh, of course it is – I forgot to look at the caller ID.’

‘Thank heaven you had your phone switched on. Where are you?’

‘I’m still at home, my darling.’

There was a muffled sound as Arabella blew her nose and then sniffed loudly.

‘Are you crying, Arabella?’

‘Yes, I am. Listen, Emily, you’ve got to take over the meeting for me.’

‘What? I can’t do that. They’ll take no notice of me.’

‘Make them take notice of you, then. You’re not exactly an intern.’

‘Okay, okay, I’ll try.’

‘Yes, do try! I should have made you deputy editor years ago.’

‘Do you really mean that?’

‘Yes,’ Arabella sniffed.

‘Are you poorly?’ Emily asked.

‘No, I’m not poorly. I’m distraught. My toad of a husband, Mr David Harrington, the king of the toads, has just left me,’ Arabella said after a short pause. ‘The man is a big fat prize specimen! I’m all over the place, if you must know.’

‘What did you say? He’s left you? David’s left you?’

‘Yes, indeed. We had a massive fight last night and another one this morning. And I nearly trashed the house, I was so damn angry with him. He wouldn’t even look at me, Emily. I said some silly things to him, but I was beyond livid. So he walked out and told me he wasn’t coming back – not ever. And now I’ve cut my arm quite badly on a broken vase. Accidentally, I might add. That impossible man isn’t worth my committing suicide over. You’ll have to hold the meeting for me, Emily.’

‘Right, okay, I can see that. But do you need to go to A&E for stitches?’

‘Look, don’t worry about me. The bleeding is slowing down. I’ve put a nice clean towel on it. It’s not even sore; I think my adrenaline is still working overtime.’

‘Arabella, this is awful. You should get your doctor to have a look at you. How big is the cut?’

‘Emily, there isn’t time for this conversation. Just hold the meeting, choose next month’s cover, and send flowers to our main advertisers in lieu of a lunch with me later on today. And don’t take any nonsense from Jane, by the way. She’s a great stylist but a cheeky madam sometimes – and given half a chance she’d take over the entire magazine. I’ll call you later. Actually, could you come over here as soon as you can and help me tidy up? Could you, sweetheart? I wouldn’t ask, if I hadn’t cut my arm.’

‘Okay, yes, of course I’ll come over. Just you rest, yeah? And if the bleeding doesn’t stop, will you please go to the hospital?’

But Arabella had already hung up.

‘Well, here goes,’ Emily said as she took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy glass door to the office. ‘It seems Arabella has been delayed,’ she said in her bravest voice. ‘She won’t be coming in today. And we can’t postpone this meeting until tomorrow, so I’ve been asked to conduct the meeting and select the next cover. So let’s begin with that, shall we?’

Everyone glanced briefly round the table, as if waiting for an objection. When none came they began to place their cover submissions in front of Emily.

‘Wait a minute. Is nobody else going to say anything?’ Jane was glaring at Emily.

‘Arabella just asked me to do this,’ Emily said.

‘Are you kidding us?’ Jane said angrily, a seventh shortbread finger halfway to her open mouth. ‘You’re actually in charge here? You’re choosing the cover?’

‘Well, yes – I am. You see, the thing is, we have to let the printer have the cover layout by lunchtime today. So let’s see what we’ve got, yes?’ Emily smiled at them all, even though her heart was racing like a train going downhill without any brakes.

‘Now, look here. If Arabella isn’t coming in today then I’m the most senior person present,’ Jane began. ‘I should chair the meeting and make any major decisions that have to be made.’

But Emily bravely ignored her and started flicking through the photographs. She knew only too well that Arabella wasn’t overly keen on Jane’s fondness for modern interiors and typefaces.

‘There are two front runners,’ she said briskly. ‘Personally I prefer the button-maker’s cottage. It’s like something from a fairytale, with all those hundreds of jars of buttons stacked up on every flat surface – though we should also give some consideration to the Daisy Churchill feature, of course.’

Emily didn’t intend for one second to put Daisy on the cover, but she knew Jane would throw a hissy fit if her pet project was ignored completely. However, Jane was even more belligerent than usual that morning.

‘Consideration, did you say? Daisy is only the country’s leading celebrity model,’ Jane snapped. ‘There’s no question about who is going to be on the cover.’

‘Daisy is a celebrity
glamour
model,’ Emily corrected her carefully. ‘And she’s very lovely, and so on. But our typical reader is more concerned with buttons than bosoms, wouldn’t you say? That’s why they read our magazine, Jane – to get away from bosoms. From implants that resemble ostrich eggs. I don’t know about you, but every time I see a cover featuring that woman I can almost hear the little chicks cheeping away inside her bra.’

There were some barely stifled giggles around the table. Jane wasn’t all that well liked, and there wasn’t anyone present who wouldn’t mind seeing her precious feature bumped to the back pages. They didn’t much care for Daisy either, after she’d dumped her normal boyfriend for a wealthy businessman the year before.

‘Daisy Churchill is a multimillionaire model and fashion icon. She’s the biggest star in the UK right now. She lives in a stunning mansion, and I styled that shoot personally,’ Jane said frostily. ‘It took over eight hours and was very tastefully done.’

‘Yes, I’m sure it was, Jane. But this shot of Daisy lying on a white rug on the sitting-room floor, in a white fur bikini?’ Emily said quietly. ‘It’s got the wow factor and everything, of course. But I’m not sure it fits our demographic. Is this really the sort of vibe we’re aiming for?’

Emily didn’t dare look up from the photographs spread across the table. She knew that Jane would be staring back at her, as if she were nothing but an annoying little upstart from the back of beyond, which she supposed she was. But Arabella needed her to be strong now and, really, Emily didn’t think a white fur bikini was the right image for the cover of
Stylish Living
. Usually they had a shabby-chic patchwork quilt and some embroidered cushions, or an antique lemonade bottle with wild flowers in it, or a nice friendly-looking couple sitting on a willow bench in their garden.

‘It was a winter wonderland theme,’ Jane said slowly, as if Emily were a complete idiot. ‘I used a white fur bikini because it was a winter theme.’

Petra Dunwoody, one of the more senior freelancers, could stand the tension no longer. She burst out laughing. Everybody else bit their lip nervously and looked out of the window. Really, that suggestive pose of Daisy’s was as far away from a winter wonderland theme as anyone sane could possibly imagine. More like a cheesy roller disco in the 1960s, if anything, Petra thought suddenly.

‘Jane, I admire you for getting the gig,’ Petra spluttered. ‘And Daisy probably is the most recognized face in the UK right now. But you’ve got to be sensible, darling. This is
Stylish Living
, yeah? Not
Nuts
magazine. Daisy hasn’t got the right sort of image for us at all. So I think Emily is quite right. Let’s go for the button-maker on the front cover. Look at those gorgeous little lavender bags hanging on the Shaker drawers behind her. It’s so appropriate for this new era of make-do-and-mend. We could do a little cut-out-and-keep pattern for making lavender bags, to run alongside? I’ve got something like that on file. We could drop it into the feature.’

‘Lavender bags, did you say? Screw the lavender bags. Arabella will be absolutely furious if you turn down a world-famous celebrity in favour of a two-room shack with exposed pipes and a six-socket plugboard in the background,’ Jane almost shouted. ‘I spent weeks negotiating that shoot so that we could get it without paying Daisy a massive fee. This is grossly unfair to me. Not to mention a right slap in the face for Daisy Churchill.’

There were more giggles then as everyone suddenly remembered Daisy had been bitch-slapped the week before by some super-possessive WAG outside a bar in Liverpool, after she’d posed for pictures with a group of Premier League footballers.

‘I’m really sorry, Jane, but you do know that our last six covers have been very successful? And they’ve all had an old-fashioned feel to them. It is an antiques-based magazine, you know. Our readers won’t be expecting a glamour model with a pout on her like two slugs mating in a bowl of jelly.’

Jane looked as if she might be about to thump Emily.

‘Arabella did say the Daisy feature would have to suit the magazine’s profile, didn’t she? If you went ahead with it, that is. You know that Arabella wanted pictures of Daisy without her heavy make-up on – just sitting in her kitchen, drinking tea.’

Emily did her best to sound sympathetic, but sometimes she wondered why Jane didn’t just decamp to the gossip titles and be done with it. She clearly had no interest in antiques – or even in ordinary people.

‘Slugs for lips! Well, that takes the biscuit. I’m going to phone Arabella right this minute for a second opinion,’ Jane said defiantly.

‘You can’t do that. Arabella’s busy today, she’s got things to do,’ Emily said quickly.

‘What are you – her mother?’ Jane said.

‘Please, Jane, I just want to get the cover sorted,’ Emily said firmly.

‘Let’s do it the old-fashioned way,’ Petra interjected. ‘Show of hands, please? All those in favour of the button-maker for the front cover, please put your hands up.’

Slowly everyone raised their hands – except Jane, who was so angry her lips had disappeared into a tight knot of suppressed rage.

‘Actually, the Daisy feature is very lengthy. So it won’t fit into this issue, anyway,’ Petra added.

‘Good point, Petra. Do you know, I think the Daisy feature might suit next month’s bathroom supplement better?’ Emily said, trying to be fair. ‘We still have twelve pages to fill there – and all the bikini shots might be more appropriate in a bathroom setting. Hasn’t she got a massive loofah, by the way?’

There was another round of sniggers.

‘Forget about it. Don’t bother doing me any special favours,’ Jane said bitterly.

She left her other submissions in a neat pile in front of Emily, made her excuses and left the office. For a few seconds after she’d gone there was an uncomfortable silence. Then the meeting exploded into peals of laughter, and lots of derision was expressed for Daisy’s white fur bikini.

‘Good for you, Emily,’ said Petra, clapping her hands loudly. ‘Daisy Churchill is a shameless self-publicist who has no more interest in interiors and antiques than I have in nuclear physics. Dozy trollop! The truth is, every other magazine in the country is sick of the sight of her. There’s not a single thing left to say about the personal life of that silly woman. So she’s now targeting the niche magazines such as ours. It’ll be the fishing quarterlies next:
Daisy Churchill Likes A Big Rod
! And if anybody takes the biscuit, Jane does. Greedy cow scoffed half that tin of shortbread.’

More laughter filled the office.

‘Thanks, Petra,’ Emily said gratefully.

‘It’s true. I mean, just look at these pictures. There’s hardly any background in them at all – just Daisy in a succession of her ludicrous lingerie. And look at the kitchen pictures. There’s just a toaster and a kettle on the counter, nothing personal whatsoever. If I were you, I wouldn’t put this feature in at all.’