Chapter 14 #2
“She’s still a tiny little thing,” said Jules. “Fierce, though, when she needs to be.”
It was true: giggly, fluffy, jolly little Freya had demonstrated steely determination, rising to the heights she had achieved
in her career, holding her own in tough, bullying kitchens, where hierarchy was everything and men largely ruled the roost.
And now Freya, triumphant from her decade in France, was running her own successful restaurant and marrying Finn, with his
delightful family that would now, of course, become Freya’s own.
And in that same stretch of time, what had Jules achieved? Nothing, basically.
“She and her mum would come in most weeks, just to buy a bunch of something cheap and cheerful,” the flower lady mused, eyes
soft and distant. “Narcissi in the spring, of course, tulips after that, sunflowers later in the summer... Such a lovely
woman. It’s all so sad, her dying like that.”
And then Jules felt terrible for her envy of Freya.
Not many people would describe Maggie as a “lovely woman,” and she struggled to summon a positive childhood memory like the flower buying.
.. but even so. At least she still had her mum.
She should call her soon, definitely. Maybe next week.
Or maybe the week after... It was best not to rush these
things.
It was Finn who answered the door looking impossibly handsome in pin-striped trousers and a crisp white shirt, open at the
neck. He was holding a pair of shiny black shoes, which he put down to take the flower box from her.
“Is Freya not here?” Jules said, confused.
“She’s upstairs,” Finn told her, amiably enough. It seemed he had either forgiven or forgotten her delivering his wife back
from the nightclub in such poor shape. “Wow, these flowers smell amazing,” he went on. “Actually, now that you’re here—hang
on a minute...”
He put the box of flowers down on the counter and headed off through the door that connected the delicatessen with the restaurant.
In a moment, he reappeared brandishing a pair of champagne flutes in one hand and a bottle of the finest English sparkling
wine in the other.
“You’re not supposed to see her before the ceremony,” fretted Jules, divining his intentions. If she had been wearing pearls,
she would have clutched them.
“Don’t worry,” he said, and laughed. “I’ve been keeping well out of the way. And now I’ve got you to take these up to her.”
While he was talking, he was expertly removing the wire cage and sliding the cork out of the bottle. With minimum drama, he
filled the two glasses, holding both stems easily in one hand on a slant to avoid undue frothing.
“Dutch courage,” he said, passing her the glasses. “I don’t want her getting cold feet and changing her mind.”
“Jules!” exclaimed Freya delightedly when she saw her, getting up from the little dressing table to give her old friend a hug.
Freya was wearing a cream silk camisole and knickers, her blond hair in huge sponge rollers. Her face, half made up, was wreathed
in a smile, and her delight was so contagious, Jules grinned back at her, handing her one of the glasses.
“So, no collywobbles?” she asked, knowing the answer.
“Can’t wait,” squeaked Freya. “I just don’t want to spend another minute of my life not married to that gorgeous man.”
“What can I do to help?”
“In a sec you can help me put on the dress without smearing makeup all over it,” Freya told her, as she carefully brushed
on another layer of mascara. Her skin was porcelain smooth, with delicately blushed cheeks.
“You look beautiful,” Jules told her, smiling as she watched Freya make an O with her mouth and stipple on a barely there
lip color, just enough to finish the look. Jules sat down carefully beside Freya so as not to jog her elbow. She looked at
their reflections in the mirror, her pale green face next to Freya’s radiant one. “Can’t believe we’re all grown up enough
to be getting married and stuff,” she mused.
“I know, right?” said Freya, turning her head this way and that, smacking her lips together. “Seriously, what do you think?”
she asked anxiously. “I’m keeping it subtle. Finn’s not used to seeing me with a ton of makeup. I’m scared he’s going to see
this stranger walking toward him and run away.”
“He won’t,” she reassured her. “He can’t wait, like you. Oh!” Jules suddenly straightened at the thought. “Who are you going
to have walking you up the aisle?! I feel terrible, I should know all this stuff.”
Freya smiled contently. “Should you?” she said, sounding totally relaxed.
“It would have been Mum doing it, with you holding the train, but we were talking about it a few weeks ago, and Finn’s lovely dad offered.
He was so hesitant about it, bless him. Of course I said yes.
He looked a bit overcome, actually.” Her face twisted with momentary concern at the memory.
“You’re so lucky,” said Jules wistfully. “They’re a lovely family.”
“Aren’t they?” Freya replied. “Finn’s mum says she can’t wait to have a daughter at last.” Her eyes darkened in pain. “It’s...”
She stopped, as she stared sightlessly out the window.
“I know,” said Jules, putting her arm around her friend and gathering her up into a sideways hug. “I know.” Okay, she was
definitely going to call her mum soon. She owed it to Freya, if nobody else.
“It’s just, she would have loved to know I was settled,” said Freya, breathing out a long sigh through pursed lips and carefully
dabbing tears with her fingertips so as not to disturb the newly applied makeup.
Jules told her what the flower lady had said, and Freya brightened again and then teared up at the memory. Really, this roller
coaster of emotion was going to be draining, thought Jules. But she was the one who had to have the broad shoulders today.
Freya’s equilibrium was her absolute priority.
Slipping the beaded oyster silk shift over Freya’s head, being careful to avoid the fabric touching Freya’s face, Jules stood
back to judge the effect. “You look stunning,” she said, and this time it was her turn to tear up. She sniffed resolutely.
Broad shoulders, broad shoulders, she told herself sternly. And appropriately enough, she looked the part in her yellow dress, with the puffed sleeves set
in such a way as to make her look like a rugby quarterback. “You’re going to be a bit cold, though, aren’t you?” Jules asked
Freya with concern.
“I was just thinking I was worried that you would be cold,” said Freya. “I’ve got this, look.” She slid a matching silk bolero jacket off the hanger on the door of the wardrobe. It had ostrich feathers at the cuffs and neck, framing Freya’s face charmingly.
“Perfect,” said Jules, standing behind her as they both admired the effect in the mirror. “And I’ll be fine, don’t worry.
In London I’ve been living in the coldest, dampest house in Hackney. I’m used to the cold. No veil?”
“No,” said Freya. “I thought it would be a bit much for a civil wedding?” She twisted her mouth uncertainly.
“You look perfect as you are,” said Jules, smiling then glancing at her watch. “Shall we?”
Freya’s concern about the cold proved correct, as the two of them walked up the high street from the flat. Freya had insisted
there was absolutely no point in hiring a fancy wedding car for the two-minute walk to the town hall. By the time they were
halfway there, Jules was clenching her teeth to stop them from chattering. People divided like the parting of the Red Sea,
smiles and murmurs of pleasure emanating from them as Freya—so obviously a blushing bride—walked past, her skirt hitched off
the ground. Jules felt an almost proprietary pride as she walked alongside her dear friend, wondering if this was what it
was like to be sidekick to a celebrity.
As they turned the corner into the street where the town hall was, Jules stopped dead and put her arm across to stop Freya
in her tracks. “It’s Finn, you can’t see him!” she explained hastily, and then she saw another reason for stopping—a deeply
personal one this time. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Finn was Roman, wearing an impeccable tailcoat with a narcissus
buttonhole.
Of course it was.
“I don’t mind, I want to see him,” Freya was saying gaily. “I’m not superstitious.” And then she too stopped dead. “Yikes,” she said, looking stricken.
“Roman is Finn’s best man. Did I say?”
Both of the women knew she hadn’t. It simply hadn’t arisen.
Finn had had his stuff to organize, and Freya had had hers.
Of course, if Jules had been doing her job properly, she told herself, she would have asked, wouldn’t she?
She became aware that Freya was looking up at her anxiously, her sweet face clouded with distress.
“How could I not have thought,” she was saying. “You and Roman—with the whole shop thing... I should have warned you. You
wouldn’t have agreed to do it.”
“What?” Jules made herself say, altering her horrified facial expression with visible effort. “Roman? Not a problem. Totally
fine, honestly. And you’re mad. I would never have turned down the chance to be your maid of honor. Never.”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly,” Jules told her, squeezing her arm and putting, with enormous difficulty, a note of absolute authority and reassurance
into her voice.
Sighing happily, Freya looped her arm through Jules’s and set off toward the two men.
If Finn and Freya were the two magnets that attracted, Jules and Roman were the ones that repelled. Ignored by Freya now that
she had her man to swoon over, Jules reluctantly took up position next to Roman and tried not to look at him.
“Nice dress,” he said, looking her up and down with impertinent thoroughness. “When’s Big Bird getting it back?”
“Nice morning coat,” she retorted. “Which undertaker did you rent it from? Or penguin,” she added, “seeing as we’re talking
about birds.”
Additionally—irritatingly—her insult was perfectly ridiculous. His outfit made him look insanely handsome, because the Montbeaus