Four Weddings and a White Christmas Page 6

  But then Holly asked, ‘So why go out of circulation? If you don’t mind me asking.’ And she felt herself clam up.

  Luckily distraction came in the form of a waiter with a tray of pink champagne and miniature fairy-cakes. As the others cooed over the dainty pastries, Hannah found her mind consumed by the memory of telling her boss she was pregnant.

  She’d been working for a supplier at the time that designed, manufactured and delivered garments to a big high-street retailer. The clothes were for a dated, middle-aged clientele and the office environment suited the product. Most of the middle-management and above were men who’d been in their jobs for decades and still had mind-sets from back then; they made crass jokes and drank gin in the boardroom on a Friday. It was like being part of an old golf club. But the job was good. High pressure but fun. Exhausting and frustrating and nail-bitingly stressful, but the most enormous buzz when the retailer liked their designs or they beat their targets. She got to go to the Far East to source fabrics and trade shows in Paris. When she told her friends that she was off shopping to New York with the company credit card they’d roll their eyes and say, ‘You call that work?’

  She was twenty-five, what did a couple of misogynist bosses matter when she was making enough to pay her rent at the same time as jet-setting around the globe? But then she’d got pregnant and suddenly they mattered quite a lot.

  The news of her pregnancy had gone down like the biplanes in the war that they regularly discussed by the water fountain. She’d walked in on one of them blaming the downfall of both the economy and society on the breakdown on the traditional family unit and they’d had a big row in the middle of the kitchen area. She’d been called into the MD’s office and told that it was best if she kept a low profile. Told not to flaunt her condition. Told not to expect any favours or shortcuts. Told perhaps it would be better if she brought a partner to the Christmas party.

  She should have left. She knew she should have left. But she was about to be a mum and she needed a job – no matter how ashamed, how small they had made her feel at a time when she had been at her most vulnerable. Coupled with the fact that she had worked her way up at the company. She wasn’t officially trained and, at the time, that was a permanent source of insecurity. Would often be referenced by some of the older designers the few times she made a mistake.

  In the end it didn’t matter. They made her redundant three months into her maternity leave and she didn’t have the money, or the energy, to fight it.

  But once she’d picked herself up, she promised herself she’d never be in such a weak position again. Taking an office manager role at another supplier, she enrolled in a part-time fashion degree and, four years later, here she was.

  The funny thing was that a hundred different things could be said over a period of time and yet only a couple would stick. Standing there in The Dandelion Café with Holly, Emily and Annie all staring at her – the waiter now gone – she realised that she had ‘kept a low profile’ for five years. And only now was she beginning to understand the effect it had had on her reality.

  Hannah frowned. Then she swallowed. Then she said, ‘I hid for a while, I suppose. I think it was everything. The unexpectedness of the pregnancy. It didn’t go down well with my work.’ She looked at the three sets of eyes looking back at her, nodding, and felt like, in the talking, it was as if she was slipping off a cardigan, shedding a skin that hadn’t fitted her for years. ‘It just took a little bit longer than I thought to adjust. To work out who Hannah was again.’

  The corner of Holly’s mouth quirked up as if she knew the feeling.

  Annie put her hand on Hannah’s arm and said, ‘And now you know?’

  Hannah took a sip of her pink champagne and nodded. Felt her shoulders relax. ‘Yeah I think so. Maybe.’

  Emily laughed. ‘Try being in the film industry, darling. I lost Emily about fifteen times over before I had the good sense to get out. Ooh look!’ she added, pointing towards the kitchen. ‘Here’s the cake. Annie, go, go, go, you should be over there with your husband.’

  Hannah turned to see the cake gliding above the heads of all the guests, held aloft so that everyone could see it in all its glory. It was magnificent. Like something out Dynasty. Four tiers of white. Each cake square with piped edges and latticed columns. There were garlands of gold and peach on each side, curled ribbons, sugar-flowers, blue doves, curled necked swans. And on the top was a plastic gazebo capped with white feathers and flowers and in it a plastic bride and groom, slightly askew, a little worn, clearly found at the bottom of someone’s car boot sale box. Out the corner of Hannah’s eye she could just see Harry, leaning against one of the booths, the baby asleep in the crook of his arm, roll his eyes heavenward as the creation moved past him as if he’d never seen anything quite so ghastly in all his life.

  She realised then, as she stood relaxed and happy with her friends, that it was him, not her, that was terrible at small talk.

  Holly and Wilf are consciously un-engaged

  and invite you to a party to celebrate life in general, our baby, Willow, and our new home in France on 27th May.

  We plan for a relaxed weekend house party, hanging out, playing tennis, billiards, boules, Molkky, tinkering on the grand piano or lying on chaises longues, enjoying the sunshine and, of course, eating and drinking.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘No.’

  Harry glared at the little girl. ‘You have to.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked. She was dressed in denim dungarees, a lime green T-shirt and flip-flops with big flowers on the toe. Her hands were perched on her hips.

  ‘Because I’m about to boil live lobster and it’s not a thing a kid should see.’ Harry stood up from his threadbare rattan stool, arched his back and stretched his hands up above his head.

  ‘Why are you doing it then?’ the kid asked.

  ‘Because it tastes good,’ he said, wiping some sweat off his forehead. It had been scorching hot since the moment he’d arrived in France. The shade of the outhouse roof was getting slimmer as the sun moved overhead. Around him the air was filled with the sound of cicadas, the heavy tinnitus hum slipping in and out of his consciousness. He didn’t know how long he’d been working, only that he felt like he’d been up for hours and hadn’t noticed the darkness of the cool outhouse change into burning hot sun.

  The little girl came over and peered into the white polystyrene box at the lobsters. ‘They don’t look alive,’ she said.

  ‘That’s because they’re cold.’ Harry nudged her out the way as he picked up the box and moved it towards the pan boiling on the portable double hob. ‘I put them in the freezer to slow their metabolic rate.’

  ‘Why?’

  He shrugged. ‘Seems a nicer thing to do. Means they don’t know they’re dying.’

  Jemima smiled, then pulled up a chair. ‘Proceed.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’ Harry stared down at her, eyebrows raised.

  ‘I can take it.’

  ‘Turn around.’

  They stared at each other.

  ‘No,’ she said after a second or two, her head tilted in defiance.

  ‘Fine,’ said Harry, lifting the pan lid. ‘But don’t come running to me if you have nightmares.’

  He dropped two lobsters into the vat of boiling water. The steam escaping from inside their shells made a sound like they were screaming.

  Jemima went completely white.

  Harry turned to look at her, wiping more sweat off his brow, and said, ‘You wanna be a chef, you gotta see stuff like this.’

  ‘I never said I wanted to be a chef,’ she said quietly.

  ‘What are you doing here then? Go and play boules or something.’

  She shook her head a fraction.

  Harry shook his head back. ‘Seriously. You should go. You’re scared. Go.’ He bent to pick up two more lobsters, expecting to see her little flip-flopped feet running away, but when he turned she was still there, stuck
resolutely in her seat. ‘You’re staying?’ he asked.

  She nodded her head, swiping her fringe out of her eyes.

  ‘You’re serious about this?’

  ‘Mm hm.’

  ‘OK then, two more. Cover your ears.’

  Harry cooked twenty lobsters. The he showed Jemima how to crack them in two, slicing the knife down hard to bisect their shells. He offered her a taste of the green paste in the body but she declined and he laughed.

  ‘Yuck,’ she said, when he dipped a finger in and scooped some green goo out.

  ‘It’s not yuck, it’s tomalley. It’s a delicacy. If you’re going to kill it, then you should be prepared to eat all of it,’ he said and she made a face like she was going to be sick. He laughed. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Jemima. I’m five.’

  Harry wiped his hand on his apron and held it out to shake hers. ‘Nice to meet you, Jemima. I’m Harry. I’m thirty-six.’

  She made a face. ‘You’re really old.’

  ‘I am not.’

  Jemima rolled her eyes dramatically and then took her seat again.

  Harry took a swig of water from the Evian he had in the cooler and reaching into the ice picked out another and chucked it to Jemima. ‘Stay hydrated, it’s hot out here.’

  When Wilf had asked him to cater the party in France, Harry’s immediate answer was no. He had loads of work to do – the restaurant was doing better and better and he was reluctant to leave the helm. But then his dad had had a small stroke and Harry had flown back to the UK to see him. The visit had been similar to Christmas except his dad was even more stubborn and more angry, hating being laid up and hating the sympathy more. Harry had spent most of the time biting his tongue or standing in the garden silently screaming under his breath. At one point he’d even resorted to a cigarette in the shed like old times, only this time his sister was with him rather than hammering annoyingly on the door pleading to be let in.

  A weekend in France seemed like the perfect antidote. He’d extended his trip to the UK another week, by which point he knew his dad was better because he’d started berating him about his five-year plan, and jumped on a plane to France for the last weekend before he headed back to the States. Wilf had been delighted because, since Harry’s decision to decline, the culinary duty had fallen to him and he hated wasting a good party behind a barbecue. When Harry had called to say he’d changed his mind, Wilf had been more than happy to set off in search of Harry’s detailed list of ingredients and had set up a preparation space to Harry’s exacting specifications.

  ‘OK.’ Harry reached into a bucket of water and picked out a shell. ‘Oysters. You ever had an oyster?’ he asked Jemima.

  ‘Yuck.’

  ‘Au contraire. Jewels of the sea,’ he said and, getting out his penknife, he shucked two oysters. He realised, as he gave them a quick squeeze of lemon, that it was the first time since he’d left the UK that he hadn’t been swamped by visions of his dad’s grey pallor, the antiseptic smell of his bedroom, the pills on the bedside table, the cold flannel that he kept dabbing his forehead with. It was quite a relief to be back in the present, feeling the sting of the sun and the fresh sharpness of the outside air. He handed an oyster to Jemima. ‘Here you go.’

  ‘Really?’ She curled her lip down in horror.

  ‘I thought you were serious about this. Do you wanna be a chef or not?’ Harry barked.

  Jemima nodded like he was her army major.

  ‘OK then. On three. One, two, three…’ Harry tipped his oyster down his throat, swallowed and then clapped his hands together with delight.

  He then looked down to see Jemima doubled over, spitting hers out onto the gravelly floor, coughing and spluttering and trying to scrape any that was left off her tongue.

  Harry laughed. ‘Rubbish.’

  Jemima carried on semi-retching.

  ‘Here, have this.’ Harry handed her a slice of fresh white bread that he’d quickly dipped into a bowl of freshly pulped tomatoes. ‘It’ll take the taste away.’

  Jemima took the bread and sat in silence as Harry got to work lighting the giant barbecue.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked after a while.

  She nodded, chewing on her bread and intermittently dipping it back into the tomatoes.

  ‘You did well,’ Harry said as he pushed the hot coals around. ‘Not many people would have tasted that oyster.’

  ‘No?’ Jemima looked up. ‘Really?’

  ‘Sure. A lot of people are scared to try new food. You were brave, hold onto that.’

  Jemima smiled into her piece of bread.

  ‘Here.’ He handed her a bowl of big grey prawns. ‘Wanna peel these?’

  She nodded then said, ‘I’ve got to go and tell my mum where I am.’

  Harry shrugged as if that was no problem at all and went over to the ice bucket to get himself a beer, about to take a nice breather, maybe close his eyes for a minute or two, but thirty seconds and she was back.

  ‘I’m ready,’ she said, and got to work on the prawns. When they were done she washed her hands and moved onto topping and tailing the mangetout. When she thought he wasn’t looking, she rammed a couple into her mouth.

  When Harry caught her, she looked up at him guiltily, her mouthful, but he said, ‘I like your style. I was twenty before I’d even tasted a mangetout.’

  ‘My mummy makes me eat three of everything. If I eat three I can leave it if I want.’

  ‘Clever mummy,’ Harry said, with a nod of respect. ‘Where is she?’ he asked, pointing towards the crowd that had gathered outside with his barbecue tongs.

  Jemima turned and looked. ‘There,’ she said, nodding towards the makeshift bar made of scaffolding and MDF painted various shades of pastel. Harry looked. Wilf’s business partner and one of the co-owners of Harry’s restaurant, Alfonso – an eternally single Argentinean polo player – stood leaning up against one of the scaffolding poles talking to a woman with short, bobbed brown hair wearing a red pleated skirt that just skimmed her knee and a black vest top, her skin lightly tanned.

  ‘That’s your mum?’

  Jemima nodded. ‘She’s beautiful.’

  Harry hadn’t seen her face but he was inclined to agree from this angle.

  ‘My daddy’s an adventurer.’

  Ah, that was a shame. He hadn’t even thought about the dad. ‘Yeah?’ he said, feigning nonchalant disinterest.

  ‘Yeah.’ Jemima nodded, scooping up some more mangetout. ‘He’s off adventuring somewhere. Mummy says that if he knew about me he’d come back in a heartbeat.’

  Harry paused as he stoked the coal flames, absorbing the information. Just then the woman turned, lifted her sunglasses and looked around for someone. Jemima. Bloody hell. Harry stood up straight. It was the dressmaker. He was momentarily speechless. There were no bags under her eyes any more, just sun-kissed skin. Her hair was all shorn off and glossy. She oozed life. Confidence. He might even go so far as to say she looked radiant.

  He saw her wave at Jemima. Then he saw her see him. Saw her eyes squint, then look heavenwards for a second as she recognised him. She looked like she might be about to come over, but Jemima made a gesture to shoo her away.

  He watched as she shrugged her shoulders at Jemima and turned back to Alfonso, who clearly said something hilarious because she put her hand up to her mouth and started to laugh.

  Harry felt strangely proprietorial. She was his dressmaker. He’d spotted her first, seen her agonising journey from amateur to professional. He’d seen through her to the insecurity and panic. Alfonso couldn’t just swoop in with his heroic Argentinian chat.

  He wanted to talk to her.

  Why did he want to talk to her?

  Harry jabbed at the coals.

  He didn’t want to talk to her. He had work to do.

  God it was so hot. He was sweating. The barbecue was getting hotter. Jemima was nattering away. He burnt his hand on the grill because he got distracted when Hannah laughed again
and Alfonso put his hand on her shoulder.

  It was only then, when he went over and shoved his hand in the bucket of ice, that he realised what Jemima was talking about. ‘So Mummy had me when she wasn’t sure she was ready to have a baby. I was the perfect surprise…’

  She was like a little fount of knowledge just spewing forth anything and everything he might want to know. So as he cooked, he listened as Jemima told him the whole of Hannah’s history. It had clearly all been wrapped up in a nice child-friendly package but it was pretty easy to read between the lines. To grasp the impact of the accidental pregnancy, the job loss, the living with her parents, the late nights sewing, but what made Harry’s tongs still on the grill was Jemima’s insistence that they’d always been just a little unit of two. Her mother eternally single. Although Jemima was desperate for her to fall in love with someone good-looking and funny. Like in Tangled.

  Harry had to shake his head then and say, ‘Sorry, I haven’t seen it.’

  Jemima narrowed her eyes, deeply suspicious and said, ‘But it’s Tangled.’

  And Harry laughed and said, ‘I’m sure it is. I haven’t seen any Disney films. It’s Disney, isn’t it?’

  But Jemima couldn’t compute this last statement and, shuffling to the edge of her chair, leant forward and said quietly, ‘What? Not even Frozen?’

  Harry had to shake his head again. Jemima’s eyes widened and she sat back, stunned into silence, leaving Harry to further contemplate her mother’s forever single existence.

  Chapter Nine

  The line for the food snaked around the box hedge and down towards the lawn where there had earlier been a haphazard game of rounders. The heat rising from the barbecue made the view of the big house wiggle and wave. Croquet sticks lay discarded mid-match as the call was made for lunch. Above them, birds watched from the big pine trees that rose high into the wisps of cloud. A couple of kids pushed into the middle of the queue and were sent to the back in a string of stern French. The tennis players, too absorbed in their game to notice the time, carried on and the monotonous sound of the ball merged with the cicada hum.