The Ballroom Class (6 page)

‘Well, as a matter of fact, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with going down a less traditional route,’ murmured Irene. ‘I mean, yes, a church is very nice, but it does rather limit you in terms of putting your own stamp on your special day.’

Bridget looked stunned, but managed to keep a tight smile on her face. ‘But, Irene, it’s not just about the—’

‘It is only the once.’ Irene’s large blue eyes drooped sadly. ‘The one special day in a woman’s life, something to look back on and remember for ever. If I had my time again, I know I’d make every possible effort to have the day exactly the way I wanted.’

Bridget softened. ‘Yes, well, wouldn’t we all, Irene, but  . . .’ She turned to Lauren. ‘You can do whatever you want for the reception, love – I’m sure we can have the whole thing as romantic and fairytale as you want, but for the service  . . .’

‘Mum, I can hardly do a romantic fairytale with Chris waking me up to symbolise the beginning of our lives together if the vicar’s going to make a big fuss about having a horse in church, can I?’

‘Well, if you think the
horse
is more important than the actual service, Lauren, then I see your point.’

‘You’re twisting what I’ve said.’ Lauren’s lip jutted out.

‘It’s not the same as it was in our day, Bridget,’ agreed Irene. ‘Things have moved on. Young people now, they want to make their own special day.’

With horses, despaired Bridget. When neither of them can ride? The trouble about Lauren’s dream wedding was that it was just that – dreams. In her opinion, too many of these weddings set up the happy couple for the worst kind of reality check when they got home and the cake had gone and the bills started to come in. Not that Lauren and Chris were paying for this wedding; she and Frank were standing most of it, at Frank’s proud insistence. But then Frank seemed to think it would cost about the same as their modest sit-down-meal-and-one-round-of-drinks affair had done.

Lauren was looking hopefully at her, still holding a magazine advertising Edinburgh Castle as a venue.

It’s not real life, thought Bridget crossly. And we shouldn’t be encouraging her. But it was something she’d dreamed about so long, through all that teasing at school  . . .

‘Well, maybe I’m old fashioned,’ she said. ‘But if you ask me, there’s a lot to be said for sticking with tradition, and getting married locally, with your family, in a church.’ She paused, and pursed her lips. That hadn’t come out right.

Lauren held her breath. The last thing she wanted was for her mother and her mother-in-law-to-be to get into some kind of massive fight even before they’d got the blessing venue booked.

A tense silence filled the kitchen-diner.

Is Irene going to cry? Lauren wondered. She looked on the verge of it. Poor Irene, she thought. It’s not that long since she lost her husband. This must be bringing it all back for her.

It was Bridget who spoke first. ‘Oh dear. Sorry!’ she said, over-brightly, waving her hands in the air. ‘I’ve had a very long day. Don’t mind me. Now, what was that about dancing lessons? Eh? Maybe we should go along too, Irene? Brush up on the old foxtrot for the first dance. Frank’s not a bad mover, for all he moans about his knees!’

Lauren winced – what was Mum thinking, being so insensitive? There’d be no father of the groom for her to dance with, but the tears had vanished from Irene’s eyes as if by magic. ‘I’ll look into it. Now, have we had any more thoughts about numbers?’

On the way home in the car, bought and fixed up for her by Chris, Lauren drove too quickly for Bridget, and she knew her mother was trying to be diplomatic because she didn’t say anything.

On the other hand, she could tell she was brooding about something too, on account of the occasional little sigh escaping from her.

Lauren racked her brains for a way of currying favour.

‘Do you want to go round to the big Tesco’s while I’m in the car, Mum?’ she asked, as inspiration and guilt struck at the same time. ‘It’s my turn for the shopping, isn’t it? And I think we’re out of cereal. And crisps,’ she added.

Before Chris and Lauren got engaged, they’d been sharing a house on the outskirts of the town with two friends from school, but in an attempt to save up for a deposit of their own, Lauren had moved back into her old room at home, while Chris had moved in with his mate, Kian. Lauren missed cuddling up on the sofa, but if she was being really honest, the thrill of 24/7 sex was starting to be balanced by 24/7 cleaning duties. Happily, the old frisson of illicit quickies had returned, just in time to make the wedding seem even more romantic and old fashioned, and Chris certainly made it clear how much he missed her then.

Plus, her mum was mad keen to spoil her, as usual, which Lauren didn’t object to at all. There were a few bumps, of course, what with Bridget seeming to think she was thirteen sometimes, not twenty two, but on the whole it wasn’t so bad, considering she’d been living away for a few years now. Lauren thought she was pretty lucky to have such a good relationship with her mum and dad. The longer she spent going over wedding plans with Irene, the more Lauren understood why Chris had been so quick to take up Kian’s offer rather than go home himself.

‘No, it’s all right,’ said Bridget, as Lauren had known she would. ‘Your father and I’ll go late-night Thursday. You know what he’s like now he’s retired – he likes to take charge of something.’

‘Well, let me give you some money, then,’ Lauren persisted. ‘Towards it.’

Bridget flapped a hand. ‘Get away. You’re barely eating anything anyway. You need to save up, don’t you?’

She wasn’t saying anything odd, but there was a funny edge to her voice: a sort of tightness. The outward show of normality wasn’t quite covering something beneath, especially when Lauren knew her mum so well.

‘Mum,’ she said, ‘what’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong.’

‘There is. I can tell.’

Bridget sighed, then said, tetchily, ‘Since when did we start calling weddings
Special Days
?’

‘What?’

‘Is it one of these non-denominational PC things? If Irene refers to it as “Your Special Day” one more time  . . .’

‘Mum, it
is
a special day for her. She’s only got Chris left, and this is the only wedding she’ll get to help with.’ Lauren looked across with some surprise at her mother. It really wasn’t like her to be catty. ‘Can’t you give her a break? She was showing me photos of her own wedding the other day – poor Irene had a register office do, in 1978, in Guildford. Pink suit, a bridesmaid with massive glasses, Babycham, and ten guests. She just wants me to have what she didn’t.’

Yes, but Irene isn’t paying for it, thought Bridget.
And it’s not her wedding
.

Instead, she said, ‘Lauren, this is your day, not some re-run of hers. I don’t want you to end up agreeing to some three-ring circus, just because you’re too nice to tell her to, I don’t know,
calm it down
.’

‘Well, maybe if Ron was still alive, she’d be able to have some kind of vow reaffirmation, but she can’t.’ Lauren paused, not liking the feeling of her mum sounding jealous. ‘Mum, you’ve got Dad, you’re lucky. And you know I’ve always dreamed of a lovely wedding.’

Bridget sighed. ‘I know, Laurie. I want you to
have
a lovely wedding.’

‘Well, then, let’s just be grateful I vetoed the contract she wanted the ushers and bridesmaids to sign. Fines for unauthorised weight gain, tattoos or hair colour changes? And that was just the men.’

Bridget laughed, and nudged her daughter – carefully, since Lauren’s driving was still a bit unpredictable – and they drove in companionable silence for a few minutes, passing the big new supermarket, the posh white villa that Bridget usually told her she’d like to buy if they won the Lottery, and even the 24-hour Donut Diner where Lauren sometimes pulled in to treat them.

‘Sorry,’ said Bridget, as they turned into Chestnut Grove. ‘Sorry for being such an old bag. I don’t like it when we fall out.’

‘That’s OK, Mum,’ said Lauren. ‘I just feel a bit torn. I don’t want to upset Irene, but I don’t want to upset you, either. And I’m sorry about the dresses. I wasn’t leaving you out. We can go this weekend if you want? I’ve got plenty I need to see.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Bridget. ‘There’s no need. Irene knows more about things like that than me. I just  . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

Lauren parked outside their house. Her dad’s Rover was in the drive, and lights were on in the kitchen. She could see him pottering about, making a pot of tea, his red jumper making a splash of colour in the little square of light. She’d bought him that jumper a few Christmases back. Lauren was willing to bet he’d never had it on till she came home, and was only wearing it now to please her. ‘You just what?’

Bridget sighed and looked wryly across the car. ‘It’s silly, I know, but I just  . . . I just want to be there when you pull back the changing-room curtain, and there you are – my little girl in a bridal gown. I need to get used to seeing you standing there, all grown up and beautiful, or else I’ll cry buckets on the big day and set you off, and set your father off, and then where will you be? You’ll have to get Irene to find some mother-of-the-bride-proof mascara.’

Lauren heard a wobble in Bridget’s voice and tears sprang into her own eyes. ‘I know,’ she said, taking her hand off the wheel to squeeze her mother’s. Bridget immediately clasped it in her own, so Lauren felt the diamond and gold band squeeze against her solitaire. If she had a marriage as solid as her parents’, she and Chris would be OK. Forty years, next April, despite her mother’s terrible driving, her dad’s gardening obsession, and the foot height difference. ‘I’ve got a list of shops I need to go to – will you come with me, on Saturday?’

‘I’d love to, Laurie.’

Bridget blinked back the tears threatening to spill. She wasn’t a crier, normally, but this wedding was worse than the menopause for hormonal mood swings. Lauren was grown up, with her wedding file and her mortgage leaflets, but not so grown up that she didn’t sometimes remind her of the cheery little girl she used to be, so eager to make her mum happy. She seemed very young to be getting married.

A year older than you were
, she reminded herself. But things were very different for her and Frank. Very different.

Maybe it was just the shock of realising how much time had passed without her really noticing, until Lauren was now the age she still felt she was herself, inside, anyway. Maybe that was why it was so hard to say no, as the costs stacked up, and the mad wishlists got ever madder.

‘Mum?’ said Lauren, concerned. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Fine. I’m fine,’ she said, smiling away the mingled emotions rising up her throat. ‘Just hoping your dad hasn’t started to make the tea on his own.’

Lauren smiled. ‘It’ll be the first time in years if he has.’

‘Right.’ Bridget ran a quick hand through her dark cropped hair, putting the wedding out of her head, and trying to remember if she had everything in to make her emergency tuna bake thing. ‘Better go and stop him before something gets burned, eh?’

As Lauren watched her mother bustle up the path, calling out to her dad as she unlocked the door, she resigned herself to trying on every wedding dress in a twenty-mile radius – for the second time.

3

At twenty to eight on Wednesday night, Katie drew up next to an unprepossessing block of concrete 1960s flats and pulled on the handbrake. ‘Are you sure it’s here?’ she said, for the third time.

‘
Yes
,’ said Ross.

‘Did you phone ahead, though, to make sure? It wasn’t clear on the poster.’ She looked up at the tall, featureless council blocks. ‘It
can’t
be here  . . .’

I should have done it myself, she thought. Then I’d know everything was sorted.

‘Katie! I
know
exactly
where it is!’ He glared at her resentfully, and for a moment she wondered what on earth an hour of stupid dancing was going to do to bridge the cold, echoing space between them. It was so obvious in the car that there might as well have been plate glass between them, even though she’d tried to fill it by telling him all about her problems with the new contractors. ‘There’s a softplay group in the same place once a week – I sometimes take Jack.’

‘OK, OK.’ She undid her seat belt, feeling caught offside as she always did when he told her something she didn’t know about her own kids.

‘It’s a Memorial Hall, behind the flats,’ Ross went on, getting out. ‘The houses round it must have been bombed or demolished or something, but it survived – it’s rather nice.’

‘I didn’t think there was anything like that round here.’

‘Really?’ Ross replied in his annoying passive-aggressive voice, the one he knew wound her up.

‘What do you mean by that? If you’ve got something to say, then say it! If it’s some kind of dig about not taking the kids to bloody softplay, then just say so!’

Katie realised she was standing still, nearly yelling in the street-lit silence of the estate.

Ross stopped too, and looked at her. He didn’t raise his voice and his self-control only annoyed her more. ‘It’s not always about you. I don’t
mean
anything. All I meant is that you work in a planning department. I’m surprised you haven’t come across it. Is all I meant. Will you stop trying to pick fights and just calm down?’