Kitabı oku: «The Wedding Shop on Wexley Street», sayfa 3
Chapter 4
Maria was pretty sure her head had been sawn off in the night, jammed with nuts and bolts, and then stapled back on. Even opening her eyes caused her physical pain, but she had a horrible feeling of dread that forced her to push back the pain and peel apart her crusty eyelids. Managing to pull open one eye, she half-sighed in relief as she realised she was lying on her front in Cassie’s spare room, her room while she was here. Her relief was short-lived when she saw a piece of paper on her pillow, some unfamiliar writing scrawled across it. Fighting against the wave of nausea that occurred when she moved her arm from her side, she reached for the paper, her fingers barely grasping it. Hungover was not the word. She felt as though she had been dug up. She could still taste the many, many shots she had drunk last night, along with an undertone of chips she didn’t remember eating. The paper said:
I had to get to work but thank you for last night. I really needed the company.
Mark Smith
A mobile number was underneath the name, along with a solitary kiss. Maria put the paper over her face, blocking out the sunlight from the window by her bed. A flashback of skin on skin popped into her head, and she grimaced. What the hell had she been thinking? Sleeping with a stranger went against everything she believed. And she did remember sleeping with him, however hazy her memory was. And protection? Oh Lord, she couldn’t remember. She rolled out of bed as urgently as she could (which wasn’t very urgently at all), crawling to the bathroom as the contents of her stomach warned her they were about to make an appearance. She had just reached the rim, her fingers curling around the cold porcelain, when she spotted something floating on top of the water. A condom. Thank heaven, the angels, and the makers of rubbers, she exclaimed in her head. The nausea subsided slightly with the panic, and she rolled onto her back, gripping the base of the toilet like an otter trying to break a clam.
‘Cass… i… e… eee,’ she called feebly. No reply. She banged her palm down on the tiled floor with a slap-slap sound, as loudly as she could bear with her headache. ‘Cass…’ slap ‘iieee…’ slap. ‘Cassie!’ she tried again, and heard a shuffling noise in the corridor. Maria was just about to shout again when the door opened and Maria found herself staring at the naked man parts of Nearly-Tatum, and the chips made a surprise reverse appearance after all.
Maria hugged the blanket around her for dear life as she looked at the Saturday morning autumn weather from the cottage window. She was dressed in fresh PJs, post-shower, and was still barely holding it together. Nearly-Tatum, a very friendly Australian otherwise known as Tucker, had made her a coffee and was now making scrambled eggs, in his pants, in the cottage kitchen. Cassie was lying in the armchair next to her, staring pointedly at her.
‘Cass, stop!’ Maria shuddered as the sound of her own voice rattled the pickled brain in her head. ‘I can’t talk about it. I can’t even drink this coffee.’ She put the steaming mug onto the coffee table, alongside a stack of law books and two yoghurt pots, spoons still stuck in. She gagged at the sight. ‘Seriously, Cass, I’ll clean this place for you, or hire you someone?’
Cassie, legs dangling over the IKEA chair arm, waved her away with her rather feeble fingers. ‘I will sort it, chill.’
The radio was on in the kitchen, and Tucker-Tatum was humming along to Bon Jovi as he clanged pans about. Cassie snuck a look at her, grinning devilishly. Even hungover, and with her Little Mermaid PJs on, she was still quite a sight with her perfect, sculpted brows and long, raven-black hair. Maria looked back at her, flicking her eyes to the kitchen. ‘So, what’s happening today? And what did you get up to last night?’
Cassie raised an eyebrow and shook her head. ‘Oh no, missus, you don’t get to find out about my night, till you spill about yours!’
Maria groaned. ‘Oh, Cass, it was a mistake, obviously. I shouldn’t have gone anywhere near a bloke last night. I can’t remember most of it, and I seriously think my liver is dying today. Those shots were little cups of poison, I’m sure of it.’
Cassie nodded, wincing herself. The smell of bacon and eggs started permeating the air, and they both licked their lips at the same time. A man, in the kitchen, cooking hangover food. It seemed that Cassie had won the morning after, at least. Not that Tatum-Tucker would be seen again after today. He was already on borrowed time, he just didn’t know it yet. It was a miracle he’d even got to stay the whole night. Maria was grateful for the fact that her friend didn’t do relationships, given the man had watched her vomit half-naked, held her hair back and picked her up off the bathroom floor. All done with tanned washboard abs and a pair of Captain America pants he had thankfully dashed to put on. Embarrassment was not the word, but he seemed to take it in his stride, calling for Cassie to help while he cleaned up the bathroom and got to making coffee. Now he was feeding them, and she had even seen him heading to the bins, black bag in hand. Cassie was oblivious to it all, having just helped Maria get changed before they plonked down into their respective blanket forts in the living room. It felt weirdly domestic, the longer they sat there, so Cassie turned on the television. Or rather, she jabbed at the remote on the arm of the chair with a shaky, polished finger. It sprang into life, and she dived on it, hitting the volume button with gusto as the sound of the morning news filled the air. ‘Arrghh!’ they both moaned collectively at the noise.
‘Everything all right?’ The Australian twang came from the kitchen.
‘Yes!’ they both shouted, wincing again. ‘Yess…’ they whispered, shooting each other a sympathetic look as they retreated deeper into their blankets like turtles into their shells.
‘And in other local news, Darcy Burgess – is the honeymoon truly over?’
The newscaster couldn’t have caused a larger impact if he had parachuted in through the roof. They both jumped off the sofa, commando-crawling across the cream (and slightly stained) carpet towards the dusty TV unit.
‘Turn it up, turn it up!’ Maria screamed at Cassie, who was pressing the buttons like her life depended on it.
‘Just weeks ago, a certain August wedding was heralded as the crown in Harrogate’s events calendar, with Darcy Burgess, eligible bachelor and heir to the Burgess Tea Company, set to wed local Westfield entrepreneur and wedding planner Maria Mallory. However, on the day, the wedding didn’t go to plan, and pictures emerged from the overseas press of Darcy, looking alone in St Lucia. What happened to the pair? Was Darcy jilted at the altar? The Burgess family have yet…’
‘Breakfast, girls!’ Tucker said, an apron emblazoned with the chipper slogan ‘This came with the kitchen’ the only thing covering his half-nakedness.
‘Sshh!’ They both batted him away. Shrugging, he put their plates down on the coffee table, returning to sit on the couch with one of his own.
‘Where did you get that apron?’ Cassie asked him, looking at Maria. Maria shook her head, transfixed by the screen.
‘It was in the drawer, in a wrapper. You know,’ he said, shovelling a piece of bacon into his mouth, ‘that kitchen is pretty grim, almost like no one uses it.’
‘Sshh!’ Maria waved frantically.
‘Sshh!’ Cassie added, giving him a glare from her mascara-ringed eyes. He snorted, biting off a piece of bacon aggressively at her. She grinned at him before remembering to scowl.
Maria was glued to the screen. ‘It says they have yet to release a statement. It’s ridiculous, why would they do that?’ The look she gave Cassie broke her heart. She wrapped her swaddled arm around her friend.
‘Protection, hun – they have a reputation.’
Maria sniffed, wiping away a tear. ‘So do I, and a business. I have a living to make, and Westfield is such a small, close-knit place. People talk, and after last night…’
A vision of the events of the evening before swam into focus and Maria burst into tears. Tucker stood and quietly left for the kitchen, sensing the need for privacy. Cassie hugged her tighter.
‘We can spin this, you know,’ Cassie said, her legal acumen springing into action. ‘Why don’t we talk to the local paper, see if they’ll run your story? At the end of the day, Mar, he went on honeymoon with another woman after jilting you at the altar. He deserves to be run through the press, not you.’
Maria sobbed loudly. ‘I can’t do that. It’s too petty, not to mention embarrassing. How did this happen? Them being so quiet about everything makes me look awful. How can he do this to me, Cass? And Mark last night… I mean, oh God!’
Cassie wrapped her arms around her best friend once more, crushing her under their combined blankets.
‘Hey, listen, last night was… well… it was company. You needed comfort, and everyone spins out when they have a break-up. We all do silly things and hurt people. Mark left you his number as well, so it’s not all bad. He could be Prince Charming! Darcy arseface could be the frog. This could be a funny story you and Mark tell your grandkids by the fire.’
Maria laughed, prompting a snot bubble to blow out of her left nostril. Cassie visibly shrank away from her, always disgusted by anything gross or remotely like looking after a child. She grabbed the tissue box and threw it to Maria. Maria caught it gratefully and blew her nose.
‘That, my friend, is gross. Now, come on, let’s eat breakfast before it gets cold. You have to work today, remember?’
Maria groaned. Saturday was the day she worked alone in the shop, luckily. She could get away with drinking vats of coffee in her sweatpants with Lynn not around, and there were no brides booked in, so she could concentrate on doing the alterations at the back of the shop. She made the odd dress or two for the sale racks when she had time, and they sold well to the locals and the tourists, so maybe she could run up a couple of designs to fill the shopfront a little. The display would need changing too, she thought, as she started to eat her cooling breakfast. It would soon be the party season, and the bridal display could be taken down. Thinking of her own gown, wrapped up with the other dresses in the upstairs flat of her shop, her stomach roiled once more. She would return it, she decided, and get rid of it. They’d paid for it anyway. They would just have to get rid of the burger relish stain. Darcy could jolly well spring for a dry cleaner. She needed to try to take back some semblance of control.
It was at that moment that Tucker walked back in sporting his apron and a dish-washing brush. Both having forgotten he was even there, Cassie joined Maria in a loud scream, which sent Tucker diving down the back of the sofa, suds flying, and the girls running to the medicine cabinet for more paracetamol.
‘Dude!’ Cassie said, ramming a white pill into her desert-dry mouth. ‘You need to wear a bell!’
Tucker laughed as he walked into Cassie’s room, a tattoo of a kangaroo punching a koala on a surfboard on his sculpted back the last thing they saw before the door closed.
Chapter 5
Opening the door to Happy Ever After, Maria heaved a sigh of frustration. Her old Ford car was freezing, the heating having not worked even when it belonged to her mother years ago, but the shop was supposed to be warm, and it was so cold. She always silently thanked Lynn in her head for doing one of the many tiny but wonderful things she did around the business, like setting the heating in autumn and winter. The radiators were cold to the touch this morning, though, no hum of the heating. Wexley Street was a small row of shops linked to pretty cottages at either side, just in the heart of town, near Baker Street and jutting off Foxley Street. Westfield had been home for ever to Maria and her mother and father, and she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Normally, at this time of year, with the wedding season slowing and the first autumn leaves dropping, Maria would be in her element. Designing fancy-dress costumes for kids that she sold online, catering for the local dances and parties that the festive season brought with it. It was magical.
This time, however, it felt so flat. She was alone. Nothing had changed, it seemed. Nothing at all. The shop was the same, with its slightly wonky walls, peeling paint and old-fashioned features. In its previous life it had been a bookshop, and her father had brought her as a girl to wander among the shelves, delving for literary treasures about pirates and princesses, while he studied one thing or another. It reminded her of the wand shop from Harry Potter, complete with dusty shelves and strange owner. Mr Hoffman had died not long after her mum and, with no family to speak of, the business closed. Maria had been dealing with the grief of becoming an orphan, living in an empty house full of memories, and a desire for something new, linked with the familiar. She had sunk all her money from the house into the shop, saving what furniture she could fit in and selling the rest. She had lived upstairs among the stock till Darcy had asked her to move in with him. Now she was back to being here, her safe haven, and she wouldn’t let anything or anyone take it from her.
Flicking the trusty kettle on, she shook off her fleecy coat and bobble hat, placing them on the old coat rack. Father’s hat still hung there, just as it had at home, perched on top, and she smiled at it fondly. It was on the far wall, near the double-windowed doors of the back room, next to the photo of her mother.
‘Morning, Mum,’ she said absently. ‘You don’t have to say a word,’ she muttered, opening the back doors to let light into the rooms. It seemed so much darker today. She looked into the back room at her inbox of projects and alterations. Not much there, she mused. Lynn had struck again. She knew her assistant had taken care of everything for her, not wanting her to be stressed with work, but in truth, with the huge blanks in the diary, Maria could have used the distraction. She shook her head to chase away the blues and headed to the counter. Filling her favourite mug with some sweetener, she reached for the kettle and flicked it on again. She mustn’t have done it properly the last time, as it was cold. Nothing happened.
Flicking the button impatiently, she waited for the red light to flick on. Nothing. Moving to the light switch, she flicked it on. Still nothing. She sighed and, going into the back room, flicked light switches on and off, tried the sewing machine, the over locker. Nothing, and the phone was off too. Damn it. Heading through to the back, she opened the door to the back pantry and pulled down the cover to the fuse box. Something had tripped, obviously. The electrics had been pretty much untouched since she bought the shop, and probably for years before that. She was amazed they’d passed the survey, looking at them now. She switched one of the switches, which was flipped down, back up, but it tripped again.
She growled and flicked the switch again. The same thing happened. ‘What?’
She tried again but got nothing. ‘Damn it, I don’t need this today. What the hell is going on?’
The shop was due to open soon. She couldn’t very well open up with no power! She went to her handbag to get her phone but remembered she had left it at home switched off. Perfect, and the desktop wouldn’t work without power. She looked under the wooden countertop, hunting around among catalogues and sample books till her fingers touched what she was looking for.
She used to laugh at her mother and her old-school ways, hoarding things that didn’t have a place in the modern world. Now she did it too, and thank God she had. Thumbing through the Westfield phone book, she felt close to her, and her heart squeezed in pain at the fresh wave of loss she felt. Thank goodness for Cassie and Lynn. The thought of being alone was never far from her thoughts these days. She thought of Darcy, what he would think of her if he knew she had spent the night with a stranger. Would he even care? She had studied the pictures from the press so many times now, she felt as if she could draw them from memory.
She was glad her mother wasn’t here, in a way. The thought of her sitting in the church watching her only child get jilted was too much to bear. She wondered what kind of person could do that to another person. The Darcy she knew would never have done something so callous. Except he had. He’d done it and never looked back. The photos proved it. She could understand him wanting to get away. God knew she had wanted to escape herself. She could just about forgive him for going on their honeymoon, if she really willed herself to. The honeymoon she had booked, planned and helped pay for, given that he and his family had paid for the wedding. The honeymoon had been her contribution, her small way of exerting her independence. But it was fine. He needed to get away, escape the flak for what he’d done.
Fair enough. She could swallow that, in time. It was the arm in the photo that bothered her. What did it mean? Had he used her ticket to take someone else? Had he met someone there? Was it all for the press? They didn’t seem to know who she was, and as it was just an arm, they didn’t have much to go on. If it had been staged for the press, wouldn’t Darcy have made sure they could actually see her? At least with a face, a body, there would be more context. Maybe she was wearing a resort uniform? Perhaps she was just a member of staff, passing him a cocktail to cheer him up. Maybe she was minging. She could be a moose for all Maria knew. Anyone could have attractive-looking arms. Look at Madonna. Her arms were epic, but looking at them disembodied in a photo, you couldn’t tell whether it was the Queen of Pop or Iggy Pop. The crazy thought cheered her no end. The owner of the arm could indeed be no one, just a passing holidaymaker. The thought that Darcy could be that cruel didn’t bear thinking about. She’d loved the man he was. It felt like he had died too, in a way. The thought of him being out there, kissing another person with his lips, cradling someone in the arms that used to encircle her, was damn near killing her.
She felt the physical pain of her loss, and took a moment to will her body to breathe again. Grief and a hangover. Never great. She lowered herself to the floor, pulling the phone book onto her lap. Thumbing through, she looked for an electrician who wouldn’t charge the earth for a Saturday-morning callout. They didn’t have one in Westfield, tending to fix what they could themselves, but this was out of her league. She could call one of the villagers, but given that everyone seemed to be giving her a wide berth, she didn’t relish playing the jilted bride and damsel in distress. That would be one step too far in terms of feeling pathetic. She needed to prove to everyone, and herself for that matter, that she could still stand on her own two feet. She’d done it before, and she would again. She had to. And it was then that she saw it. The little box advert, staring out at her from the paper. Chance Electrics. Chance. It spoke to her. That’s what she needed. Hope. A chance to solve this problem, get her business back up and running and the home lights burning so she could at least keep the wolves from the door while she recovered.
This is it, Maria. She could hear her mother’s voice in her head, spurring her on. You can do this, my girl. You don’t need anything else. Use what you already hold. She nodded at her mother’s photo and picked herself up off the floor. Thank goodness there were still phone boxes in the village, she thought to herself as she headed to the nearest one. Pressing in the number, she smiled to herself. No weekend callout fee either. It really was a sign.
Cassie was hiding in her bathroom, pretending to get ready. She had applied her liquid eyeliner three times already. Any more and she was going to end up looking like Marilyn Manson. She could still hear Tucker in the kitchen, humming along to the radio and banging things around. Why was he still here? Robbers made less noise. She half-hoped he was robbing her, because then at least he would go and she could avoid the awkward conversation she knew was coming. This was precisely the reason why she never brought people home. Sanctuary Cottage was just that to her, a sanctuary from her parents at first, and then her job, and now she had a rogue Australian running around, rummaging in her cupboards. She couldn’t even ring Maria because her phone was on charge in the living room. She needed to fake a work emergency or something, but what would she say? A carrier pigeon had flown in through the bathroom window? Hogwarts owl? She couldn’t hide in here all day, that was certain. She needed to woman up, go out there and face him. Say ‘thanks for the hot sex, don’t forget to wipe me from your memory on your way out of the door’. What kind of weirdo hung around in the morning anyway, let alone made breakfast? It was definitely bad man code, she was sure of it.
A polite knock came at the door, making her jump.
‘Cassie, you okay in there?’ His Aussie twang reverberated through the wood.
‘Er, yeah, I’m fine. Do you need something?’ She tiptoed to the door, listening for sounds of movement.
‘Well, I thought we could maybe get lunch, if you like? I don’t have to work till later. Do you fancy it?’
‘Lunch?’ Cassie said, incredulous. ‘Why?’
An amused chuckle came back. ‘It’s what people do, eat at certain times of day. Sometimes they even do it together, have a conversation or two.’
Cassie cringed. She couldn’t think of anything more toe curling, aside from turning up to court dressed as a pirate.
What have you come dressed as today, Cass? Professional suicide? Arrgghhhh, me hearties!
‘Er, no, sorry, I can’t. I have a lot of work coming up, I have to work. All weekend. And next week. The whole month, actually.’
He said nothing, so she put her ear to the door. She couldn’t hear anything.
‘Okay, so lunch next week then. You eat lunch at work, right? I’ll call you…’
Oh God. What was his deal? Did he feel bad? He obviously didn’t do this very often.
‘Er, yeah?’
‘Right, it’s a date then. I’m going to go now, let you get on with work and stop listening behind doors.’
Cassie sprang back from the entrance, cursing under her breath.
‘Nice mouth,’ he laughed. ‘See you next week! I left you something in the fridge.’
She stared at the door, head cocked to one side till she heard the front door open and close. She came out of the bathroom, heading to her bedroom to look out of the window. Looking out from behind the blinds, she saw him heading down her path. He looked like he was walking down a catwalk. Weird or not, Cassie did have to recognise that the man was an absolute hottie. Shame she wasn’t the type to do second dates. Or even first ones. Hell, having breakfast with him had been a first, even with Maria as a buffer. She was just admiring his butt wistfully when he stopped at the gate, turned and looked straight at her.
‘Shit!’ she said, jumping back behind the curtain. Sneaking a peek, she saw him blow her a kiss before walking off towards Westfield centre. Uber hadn’t quite hit the village yet. The villagers were still getting over high-speed internet arriving. Summoning a taxi with the click of a button was more than some of them could take, for now. Hopefully he wouldn’t go shooting his mouth off in the village about where he had spent the night. With Maria already in the spotlight, the last thing she needed was for people to think she was hanging around with random men. But as Cassie herself always said, the best way to get over a man was to get under another. It would have done Maria some good, something to take her mind off Arsy Darcy. As long as it wasn’t a regular thing. Maria wasn’t like that anyway. All she had ever wanted to be was happy and married.
Cassie watched Tucker walk away till he was out of sight, and then headed downstairs. It was like stepping into the twilight zone. It didn’t even feel like her house. She looked into the lounge. Same in there. He had cleaned up. Really cleaned. She could smell polish, cleaning sprays. Walking into the kitchen she was hit by a horrible smell. She gagged and headed to the window, throwing it open. What the hell had he done? She looked around and saw the bottle on the side. Bleach. The man was insane. She’d pulled Mr Mop. Every surface had been cleared, wiped clean. She could see her work surfaces for once. It felt like she had been robbed. Flicking her foot on the pedal bin, she only saw an empty bin liner. He had even taken the rubbish out. She looked in horror towards the now very shiny fridge freezer. He had even scrubbed the fronts of the damn appliances. Who knew what horrors awaited behind those doors. What would it be? A severed head? A ransom note?
She walked across the gleaming kitchen floor, pinching her nose against the smell of cleanliness around her, and curled her fingers around the metal fridge handle. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door.
Her fridge was mostly empty, aside from a bottle of wine in the cooler. It was always empty, which begged the question of where he had got breakfast from. In her alcohol-pickled stupor this morning, she hadn’t even realised that she didn’t own a tin of beans, let alone the makings of a full English. Had he been shopping? Oh, dear Lord.
On the bottom shelf was a package wrapped in tinfoil. When she opened it, she saw a ham salad sandwich, cut in half and placed neatly on a plate. On the top was a note, written on a small piece of paper.
Thanks for last night, and since I know you’ll probably say no to lunch, I made some for you.
Jesse Tucker
He had left his number, written there underneath his name. A stupid name at that. Who had a last name as a first name, anyway? Another reason never to call him. And she wouldn’t be eating his food either. Not a chance in hell. She shut the fridge door again and headed upstairs. She needed to get to the gym, try and get rid of this hangover. Hopefully the stink of her gym bag when she got back would mask the gross smells here. She just hoped Maria wouldn’t expect her to keep things like this. It was never going to happen. Who would want to live like this? Life was for living, not cleaning. Cassie headed out, grabbing her phone on the way past. A minute later, she came back and grabbed the sandwich, tucking it into her bag. If she got hungry later, she might as well eat the damn thing. No one would ever know.
