A Winter's Wedding Read online

  ‘It would have been nice to know there were some more girls like you in the world,’ he said gallantly. ‘You know, a few spares.’

  ‘Very funny,’ Emily said dryly. ‘They certainly are getting their money’s worth from whatever charm school they sent you to.’

  ‘I’m joking,’ Dylan laughed. ‘So what do your parents do for a living?’

  ‘They’re retired,’ Emily said quickly, helping herself to another broken biscuit.

  ‘I’m sorry. Did I speak out of turn?’ Dylan asked at once.

  ‘No, please don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Only they must be far too young to be retired, surely? You’re only, what, twenty-five?’

  ‘I wish I was twenty-five. I’m thirty!’

  ‘Well, you only look twenty-five to me. I’m thirty-two. It’s just that I really like you, Emily. And I’m just dying to know everything about you. I take it you went home to Belfast for the holidays?’

  Both Dylan and Emily were blushing furiously now. Dylan was wondering if he was coming on too strong to a girl he had just met. And how could Emily possibly tell Dylan she had spent Christmas Day on her own watching television, eating ready meals from M&S, and making ten phone calls to her parents that went unanswered?

  ‘Look, my parents are a bit eccentric, that’s all. Even by Belfast standards. And believe me, the acceptable standard for eccentricity is quite high over there.’

  ‘So tell me about them. Please?’

  ‘My mum left school at sixteen and worked in a sweet shop until she married my father when she was twenty. My dad worked for a bookmaker for a number of years, and after that he was a professional gambler. I don’t think either of them ever felt particularly fulfilled. But then again, Belfast isn’t exactly a career opportunity hotspot. And we’re not very big on self-help and soul-searching either. That’s it, really.’

  ‘But you said they were eccentric. That all sounds reasonably normal to me, especially your mother being a full-time housewife.’

  Emily bit her lip. How much could she sugar-coat the facts? she wondered. ‘The truth is, my mum shops rather a lot.’

  ‘A lot?’ he said, puzzled. ‘Like, more than the average woman?’

  ‘Yes, much more than the average woman. An awful lot more.’

  ‘Is she in actual fact a shoplifter?’

  ‘No, she’s not a thief. Thank the Lord!’

  ‘Sorry for even thinking it. Do you mean she’s a shopaholic?’

  ‘Maybe I do.’

  ‘Is she really a shopaholic?’

  ‘Yes, she is.’

  ‘I was only joking. Aren’t all women shopaholics?’ Dylan laughed.

  ‘Not like my mum. She can spend an entire day browsing for one little thing – one candle or one packet of soup. She only comes home again when the shops are closing, and sometimes not even then. She window-shops until it gets dark.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Yes, big wow. She’s also a heavy smoker. And she likes a drink. That’s pretty much my mother for you. Always shopping or smoking or having a wee sip.’

  ‘You sound very sad when you talk about your mother.’

  ‘We’re not close,’ Emily admitted. ‘I was more or less reared on Kellogg’s Corn Flakes, with the telly for company.’ She laughed then, but the laughter didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  ‘What sort of things does your mum buy?’

  ‘Do you really want to know?’ Emily said.

  ‘Yes, I’m totally into retail psychology. Can’t you tell?’ he laughed, indicating the shabby shelves dotted with equal amounts of trash and treasure.

  ‘Well, let me see. Ashtrays mostly – nice ones and novelty ones. Cups and saucers – preferably discontinued lines of fine bone china. She’s very fond of leather belts and shoes, leather handbags and purses; she thinks having real leather accessories is a sign of good breeding. She also collects soap dishes, teapots, plant pots, egg cups, coasters, place mats and cutlery. And linen napkins and glass cruet sets. And small kitchen appliances …’

  ‘Does she like giving dinner parties?’ Dylan said.

  ‘No, she’s very antisocial,’ Emily said matter-of-factly. ‘She never cooks either. I have no idea why I’m telling you all this. It’s sure to put you off me.’

  ‘No, I think it sounds fascinating.’

  Emily didn’t tell Dylan that her mother had opted to visit a new department store in Belfast on the day that Emily had graduated from university. Or that she’d queued for seven hours to get into a big sale in Brown Thomas in Dublin on the day Emily was due to get married to Alex. Or that she owned over a hundred ashtrays but not a single picture frame with a photograph of Emily in it. Or that she’d been hospitalized three times during Emily’s childhood when her drinking had spiralled out of control. No, there was no point in telling Dylan any of that, she decided, even if he did seem like the easiest person in the whole world to talk to. It was too soon to go making the big revelations. However, she did feel something in her heart wake up and begin to enjoy the attention that Dylan was paying her. And she felt a sort of sadness too. For she knew now, in her innermost heart of hearts, that her mother would never change. She would never be the sort of devoted, clucking mother that Emily had always wanted her to be.

  ‘How did you come to work for the magazine?’ Dylan asked next.

  ‘What? Sorry, I was miles away.’

  ‘The magazine, how did you end up working there?’

  ‘That was kind of a strange thing too, now you mention it. I was on the checkout in Marks & Spencer, and Arabella – that’s my boss – was chatting on her mobile phone and she dropped her basket of shopping. Beetroot slices and red wine splattered all over her shoes! She was mortified, as well as reeking of vinegar and Merlot! And by the time I’d helped her pick everything up, and dried her off a bit, we’d got chatting. And it turns out she was looking for a new assistant. And we sort of clicked, so she gave me the job. And I’ve worked my way up from general dogsbody to chief features writer. So that’s my story. My degree is in English.’

  ‘Good for you. It must be great fun working on a magazine.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘Oh, it must be really exciting sometimes.’

  ‘Not really exciting. I meet the odd celebrity – “odd” being the operative word – but I love the work, it suits me. It’s steady and predictable and I don’t have all that much to worry about – just praying the car doesn’t conk out when I’m ten miles down some tiny lane in Dorset. I’m a simple girl with simple tastes.’

  ‘I don’t believe that for one second.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Let’s wait and see, shall we?’

  For Dylan suspected there was a lot more to Emily than met the eye.

  At that moment the door swung open. An old man wearing a tweed jacket came shuffling into the shop and wanted to know if they had any cloth caps for sale. His head was freezing, he told them, since he’d left his old cap on the bus by accident.

  ‘It’s your lucky day, sir.’

  Dylan was able to show him a small selection from a drawer beneath the counter.

  ‘Nice and clean they look,’ the man said.

  ‘These caps have all been dry-cleaned,’ Dylan assured him. ‘My sister is the owner manager here and she runs a tight ship, let me tell you.’

  The man chose a cap and paid for it, delighted at the low price. ‘Great job,’ he said, putting the cap on and shuffling out again. ‘I shall tell my mates about this place.’

  ‘And another satisfied customer,’ Dylan said happily.

  ‘You’re good at this retail lark,’ Emily said, smiling at him. ‘You make it feel like it’s a real shop. I mean, not like a charity shop. There’s no air of melancholy in here – you know, the way there is in most charity shops?’

  ‘Thanks, Emily. I know the place isn’t much to look at now, but one day soon it’ll be a great attraction. That’s what Sylvia reckons. She wants to focus mainly on vintage c
lothes eventually. Obviously we need anything and everything right now to get started up, but then she’s going to gradually phase out the bric-a-brac and sell only the good stuff.’

  ‘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 rou
nd 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?’