Made in Heaven (33 page)

‘I hope Maureen doesn't think I'm against her ideas on principle? And it's really nice to talk to you about it.'

‘I'll have a word with her when you've gone, and she'll move on to something else in no time. She's good at that.'

As he spoke, Graham's right hand stroked the cover of her mother's book from time to time, as though it were a small pet. She caught his eye and he blushed again. ‘It's such a beautiful cover, isn't it? I hope it wins the Madrigal Prize. The shortlisting must be a great feather in your mother's cap, I should think.'

‘Yes, she's thrilled about it,' said Zannah, and stood up. ‘We should get on our way now, I think. I'll go and find Adrian.'

‘I'll come too. Wave you off.' He stood up and followed her out of the room.

All that blushing … Perhaps he was a secret fan of Ma's without telling her. I'll phone her tomorrow and let her know she has a secret admirer, Zannah thought. She'll be so pleased.

*

‘Okay, okay,' said Adrian. ‘I give up. I'm not going to pursue it, right? I promise. I'll phone my mum tomorrow and let her know, though God knows, Zannah,
why you've taken against the idea in this completely demented way.'

‘Demented? Me?' Zannah could scarcely believe what she was hearing. From the moment they'd left the Ashtons, they'd done nothing but yell at one another. At one point, Zannah had made him stop the car in a lay-by because she couldn't trust herself not to become hysterical and she knew that would make Adrian careless as he drove. ‘It's you. You've come to your senses. I thought you'd taken final leave of them. Guildford, honestly.'

‘What's so terrible about Guildford? As far as I can see the only disadvantage would be the commuting because, of course, I can't leave the bank and wouldn't want to, but from all other points of view, I reckon it wouldn't be a bad move.'

‘Your job, my job, the whole thing's senseless. It's just one of your mum's hare-brained schemes.'

As soon as the words were out, Zannah regretted them. You could think whatever you wanted about someone's mother, but you never told them. Even when they weren't that keen on their mums, blokes hated other women slagging them off and Adrian, far from not thinking much of Maureen, reckoned she was the model to whom other women should aspire. She added, quickly, ‘I don't mean that. She has very good ideas usually, Adrian, but this giving up of my job and moving to some dinky little establishment down there … I'd hate it.'

‘What's so special about St Botolph's? I thought you might give up work altogether after a bit. Certainly after we start having children.'

Zannah turned to look at Adrian's profile, and was relieved to discover that at least he was still as handsome as he'd always been, because he was suddenly saying things that he'd never even hinted at in the months that they'd been together. She took a deep
breath and struggled to sound loving and reasonable. ‘Darling, of course I'm not giving up my work when we have children. There's a very good crèche attached to St Botolph's, which is one reason I like the school so much. Plus it's convenient for the flat.'

‘Ah, but we won't be living there, will we? You know that. In fact, now that you've put the kibosh on Guildford, we ought to get ourselves sorted as far as houses are concerned. I'll make a few enquiries. No reason we can't view places now, is there?'

Zannah shook her head. There was no reason at all and any other bride would be eager, thrilled to look for a house to share with her new husband. And I am, I am, Zannah thought. It'll be great. I can decorate it from scratch and make it just the way I want it. Why was it, then, that thinking of the flat, her little studio up that flight of stairs, the views out of the kitchen window, she already felt something like sadness at the prospect of leaving it? It wasn't even as though she'd lose the place altogether. Em would still need somewhere to live and she could get friends in to share. I could still visit, Zannah thought. It wouldn't be the same, but maybe it would be better. I'm just suffering from wedding nerves. Wedding nerves are real. Everyone says so. She leaned back against the seat and fell into a light sleep as Adrian drove through the darkness towards London.

*

Isis asked, ‘Will Mummy be here when I get up in the morning?'

Emily had come home early so that she could be in the flat when Cal arrived to drop Isis off and now she was sitting at the end of her niece's bed. They'd just finished a takeaway pizza which Emily had hoped Cal might stay and share, but he'd had to hurry off, almost before he'd got there. There was something about Sunday evenings that was almost tangible: a sort of dread and heaviness left over from the days when you
didn't want to get up on Monday morning for school. She said, ‘Yes, they're driving back now. She'll be here in a couple of hours. She's sure to come in and give you a kiss. She always does.'

‘I'll be asleep,' Isis said. ‘But tell her she has to anyway.'

‘Okay. And I have to give you a kiss from Grandma and one from Grandpa. They really loved the pictures you sent them.'

She kissed Isis three times, tucked the duvet round her shoulders and left the room. Down in the kitchen, she threw away the pizza box and washed up the glasses they'd used. Ma had been in a funny mood over the weekend, Emily thought, and wondered if Zannah would be up to discussing it when she came back. Probably not. She'd be full of Maureen stories and if Emily was honest with herself, she was quite keen to know how the weekend
chez
Ashton had been. What, in any case, could she tell her sister that would convey the impression she'd had of their mother's state of mind? She seemed to be … well, not quite in the same world as the rest of them. There'd been a couple of occasions when Emily had had to say something two or three times before getting her attention, as though her mother's mind had been on something completely different. During meals, while Pa had told amusing stories of his time in Egypt, Ma sat there smiling, not hearing a word, Emily was quite sure. Once or twice, she'd wandered into the study while Ma had been sitting in front of her open laptop and she'd had the distinct impression that some file or other was very quickly shut down. Once she even joked about it.
Bet you're playing Patience, Ma
, she'd said.
We've got people in my office like you
. Ma had blushed and mumbled something about work. Could be true, but still, Emily had left her parents' house feeling that all was not quite as it had been through her childhood. For one thing, Pa never really talked about anything
of real interest to Ma any longer. Had it always been like this, with her and Zannah just not noticing? I'll ask Zannah what she thinks, Emily resolved, and settled down to watch 24 on Sky One.

There wasn't, Maureen reflected, all that much time left till the Day, which was what she called the wedding. This year, though, she didn't have Christmas to think about, which in one way was a blessing but in another was rather a shame. It would have been so lovely to have Adrian, Zannah and Isis, too, down to Guildford to celebrate with them but Graham had arranged the trip to South Africa to see Jonathan ages ago and at the time, Maureen had been thrilled to bits. Even now, when part of her longed to have the pleasure of the preparations, she was feeling quite excited about getting together a whole lot of super new outfits and shoes for a warm climate. There was something extra pleasant about doing this when the weather was cold. And of course, they'd be with darling Jonathan, whom she loved with a passion. It was ages since they'd seen him.

Maureen had never told anyone that Adrian was her favourite but she'd have bet her bottom dollar that many mothers were in exactly the same position. For instance, she was sure Zannah was her mother's favourite. Emily was a daddy's girl if ever she'd seen one and it didn't take a genius to see that Graham loved his own son a great deal more than he loved Adrian. Actually, she didn't think he loved Adrian at all. He used to tell her he did, in the old days, at the beginning
of their relationship, but that was to keep her happy, she was convinced of it. She was pretty sure that love had never been a part of what Graham felt for her son and Adrian made no secret of not having much time for his stepfather. It's to my credit, Maureen thought, that they've arrived at some kind of truce that enables us to rub along together well enough.

Next year, she told herself, I'll make sure they all come here and it will be so good to have a child in the house. She'd already made a note to email Zannah and find out what Isis wanted for Christmas. A gift from her and Graham, most beautifully wrapped, would have to be sent with the other presents to the Gratrix house, where the whole family was gathering. How on earth would Joss manage? No one would call her one of the world's natural hostesses. Maureen made a note to herself on a nearby pad to research presents for Isis. She was quite out of touch with what was
de rigueur
for eight-year-olds, and as she was going to be Isis's honorary granny, it was time she got her act together.

A granny … She sat up straighter and looked down at her hands, still mercifully unspotted, apart from a small outcrop of brown marks that were, frankly, more like freckles than what they rather chillingly called grave spots, just near the thumb. Was she ready to be a granny? Even an honorary one? Well, there was nothing to be done about it. Isis would be, to all intents and purposes, Adrian's daughter, so she'd just have to get used to it. Perhaps it was not too much to wish for that by the time they came to her next year, Zannah would be carrying her son's baby … How divine that would be!

She looked at the file on her computer labelled
South Africa: Christmas
and moved the cursor down rather regretfully to
Wedding
. On Monday, which would be the twenty-seventh, there would be exactly six months to go to the Day. She had to concede that things were going quite smoothly, even though she mentally crossed
her fingers as she thought this. Zannah had been stubborn when it came to the dress, and not as grateful as she might have been for Maureen's help and input, but still, someone who'd worked for Norman Hartnell wasn't to be sniffed at. Zannah's sketch, she could see, was quite a different concept from the one she'd had about what one might wear at one's wedding. It was a beautiful drawing, there was no doubt about it, but one word came into Maureen's mind whenever she thought about it and that was ‘old-fashioned'. It looked, if she was completely honest, like the sort of thing her own mother might have worn at a wedding some time in the 1930s … perhaps ‘vintage' or ‘period' was a politer way of putting it. She'd mentioned this tentatively to Zannah, and was astonished when her future daughter-in-law, instead of frowning or sulking or losing her temper, smiled at her with genuine pleasure and said, ‘Exactly, Maureen. Vintage … That's just right. I'm so pleased you understand. That's what I'm after, the 1930s look.'

So on that front, there was nothing to be done. The bride has the last word when it comes to the dress, Maureen reflected, and you have to make the best of it, and she had to admit that the bridesmaids' outfits, also designed by Zannah, were too sweet for words. At first, Maureen had blinked a little at the idea of pale green, but the samples of taffeta Zannah had shown her were lovely and would look gorgeous trimmed with pink velvet ribbon. Isis and her little friend were going to carry small round bouquets studded with pink roses and the foliage, Zannah assured her, would match the green of their dresses as nearly as it was possible to match anything. Also, there was no getting away from the fact that the ancient dressmaker in charge of all three dresses had a certain cachet and it was the Norman Hartnell connection that Maureen had been busy emphasizing to her friends.

Joss, to give credit where it was due, had come up with beautiful invitations: stiff, cream card engraved with black letters in a really elegant font, called Garamond.
Robert and Jocelyn Gratrix invite you to celebrate the marriage of their elder daughter Suzannah to Adrian Whittaker, elder son of Graham and Maureen Ashton
 … She wasn't quite sure about the wording, but it was too late now. The cards had been printed and would be sent out straight after Christmas. She herself would have favoured Professor and Mrs Robert Gratrix … and then there was the small matter of Adrian not being Graham's son. Surely there was a way of indicating this tactfully, maybe by putting Maureen's name first. Never mind. No one else would even think twice about it. I'm just fussier than most people, she thought, and remembered a time straight after their wedding when Graham used to tease her about it, calling her the Princess, after the Hans Andersen story, ‘The Princess and the Pea'. She'd never seen anything strange about that young lady's behaviour. I'd probably have felt that pea through all the mattresses too, she thought, and why not?

Zannah had been to see a florist and they were working on variations on cream roses, woven with glossy foliage, and very dark red roses dotted here and there with just a hint of pale pink. She hadn't seen the actual sketches for the bouquets, but Zannah had forwarded several photos of arrangements for the tables and the marquee and Maureen couldn't find fault with them. You had to be careful with flowers for a marquee because of the masses of space between the tables and the roof but hanging baskets seemed a good way to get over that problem.

Charlotte had the marquee under control. It would be white, and the lining was going to be cream, striped with palest gold. Charlotte had sent her the bumf from the company and there had been nothing she could object to. The question of buffet versus tables had been hotly
debated by email and it was a good thing that the whole matter had been dealt with electronically. In a normal conversation, someone would have lost their temper, but somehow they'd arrived at what Maureen considered the right decision. Tables had won the day, thank heaven. There was nothing worse than being stuck with a plate to balance, when your best handbag was either clutched in your other hand or slung over your shoulder and slipping maddeningly down to the crook of your elbow. Infuriating and unnecessary. The list had gone down from seventy-five to about sixty, apparently, and they'd all fit comfortably into Charlotte's marquee. The best thing about tables was the opportunity they gave for glorious centrepieces and the ones that Zannah had emailed her looked lovely: square, crystal vases filled with the same red/cream/pink roses and foliage as the bouquets. The hanging baskets, Zannah had decided – and Maureen had to admit that she had a good eye for such things – would be mostly foliage, with perhaps some lisianthus but hidden among the leaves, ivy and trailing green plants would be little gold and silver butterflies, and very nice they looked too.