I couldn’t afford to get arrested again.
I had way too much to do.
On Saturday, I took a lasagne and a load of ironing round to Frances’ farmhouse, only to find the village grapevine had beaten me to it.
‘The bedroom beside the bathroom, look in the wardrobe. There’ll be something that fits. Let me see you in it before you decide. I’d love to see those glad rags again but my legs aren’t friends with the stairs today.’
I left the lasagne in the oven, and went to find a dress belonging to an eighty-five-year-old farmer that might fit me. I thought it went without saying that I was praying I wouldn’t.
But I’d forgotten, this particular farmer had travelled the world, once upon a time. Rubbed shoulders with the rich and successful. Cherished quality, craftsmanship, excellence.
I swept down the staircase in the first one I tried. A silk 1950s tea-dress. Frances then insisted I try a load more (it didn’t take much persuading, to be honest). We ate our lasagne dressed like extras fromDownton Abbey, hair coiffed, jewellery twinkling, silk gloves getting in the way, the air rich with memories of fabulous days gone by.
So, when Mack’s message buzzed through as we delicately nibbled at our tartes Tatin, feeling more than a little giddy in my beaded bodice and string of pearls, I replied like the suave, sophisticated socialite I was masquerading as:
Starts at 11, so leave 6.30.
‘Your face has gone an alarming shade of raspberry,’ Frances remarked.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, not sounding at all fine. ‘Mack messaged about coming to the wedding.’
‘You invited Mack?’ Frances looked at me sideways, eyes shining like the silver candlesticks she’d insisted I set out.
‘No. He offered. And IthoughtI’d said no.’
‘Why on earth would you do that? And sensible chap for overruling you. I’m all for making up one’s mind and sticking to it, but why on earth turn down the chance to spend the day with an attractive man with lovely manners?’
‘He’s married.’
‘Excuse me?’ Frances’ wispy eyebrows shot into her hairline.
‘Well, he’s been separated for eighteen months. But his wife has been around a bit lately. I think they’re working things out.’
‘Well, they can’t be working things out very well if he’s coming to a wedding withyou. If he considers that appropriate behaviour it might explain why his marriage failed in the first place.’
‘No, it’s not like that. He offered to come as a friend, when he heard that… well. It’s complicated.’
‘Hmmm.’ Frances was not convinced. Neither was I. But the pull to have Mack with me… Seeing me looking half decent, rather than covered in mud, cobwebs or bobbly old pyjamas, was almost irresistible.
He replied that evening, as I lay in bed mooning at the borrowed dress hanging on the back of my door:
Too early. I’ve booked a couple of hotel rooms for the night before. If you feel the need to pay me back, we can work it out later. What time can you leave Thursday?
I threw good sense and sound moral judgement out of the window, and replied:
Can be ready 6.
I quickly followed it up:
And thanks, hotel sounds great. I can pay you back in cake or cash, you choose.
Him:
Always cake. What information do I need from that invitation? Hit me with the worst of it.
Me:
Being over twenty-five, it’d be impossible to type all that out without developing thumb blisters. Not a good sister-of-the-bride look. I’ll drop it round in the morning.
