Chapter 7 #3
Heat in Bren’s face, then, as he laces up his boots.
Caught between amusement and shame. As a rule, they do not discuss his inability to stay in one place.
The way you don’t draw attention to a facial birthmark, or one’s continued mispronunciation of a word; no need to make him feel bad, and in turn, her too.
That’s all fine, Bren says, as he straightens up. She’s hoping for some kind of cancellation deal, or something, by the summer. So I told her I’d stay.
Josie blinks, her apron hanging loose over her floral dress.
You’ll stay?
Until the wedding, yeah.
Oh, Bren.
She does not rush at him, like she’d done the night he’d arrived, but she does lift her hand to her mouth.
It’s not a big deal, he says, feeling hot for a different reason, now. It’s just a couple of months more. If that’s okay.
Of course it’s okay. Oh, Bren, she repeats, and this time, she does move towards him; loops her twiglet arms around his waist with a strength that surprises him. He inhales her; bread flour, magnolia perfume. Hesitates, then pats her on the back.
You’ll be here for Easter, then? she says, looking up at him like a child. He may not be tall, but his mother is tiny; seems to be getting smaller by the day.
I guess so?
Your father loved Easter, she says, didn’t he? And she lays her head against Bren’s chest once more as he struggles to respond, then draws back and dabs at her eyes with the tissue she keeps bunched beneath her sleeve. Better than Christmas, he used to say, remember?
And Bren does.
It’s not so long away, now, Josie goes on, as she folds the tissue back under the cuff of her cardigan. Middle of April, this year, in fact.
Cool, Bren says.
Maybe it would be nice if we did something for it? All of us, together?
Whatever you want, he says, because he knows it’ll just mean a pot of tea in the kitchen, hot cross buns on the lawn, at a push. I’m going to miss the bus, he tells her, even though he has nowhere to be.
And then the wedding, Josie says, so soon! Oh, I can’t wait, Bren. What lovely things to look forward to.
Definitely, Bren says, as he pulls on his coat.
I can’t wait, Josie repeats, and he nods, playing along.
Like she’ll be able to leave the house for it.
Like she’ll have no problem putting on a cocktail dress and high heels, one of those stupid little net hats.
See you later then, he says, ending the conversation.
Closing the door, and walking away, the morning cold and clear as glass.
_
What are you doing here, Shay demands, when Nora walks into the café the following Saturday.
They split weekend shifts and it is not her turn to be here, making coffees, selling ceramics, sweeping the floor of crumbs.
Not that Shay is doing much of that, by the looks of things; she’s reading a well-thumbed paperback behind the coffee bar, twiddling her purple hair in her fingers.
I’ve got an appointment in London this afternoon, Nora tells her, which she’d intentionally kept quiet, all week. So thought I might as well stop by.
That is so sad, Shay says.
Is it?
Yes! Go to a café that you don’t own, for crying out loud, on your precious Saturday! Or go and wander round a gallery, or a shoe shop! Don’t come to work if you don’t have to work, Nora, Jeez.
Never worked a day in my life here, Nora says, and Shay calls her sad again, while simultaneously seeming happy about what she’s just said.
Because it’s true. It is such a soothing space, Nora thinks, as she crosses the room, with its exposed plaster walls, the handmade objects on the shelves.
And for some reason, since the night of the fajitas – before that, even, at her party – Nora has felt the need to be soothed.
Behind the curtain in the back room, she finds Horace lying beside the radiator, his limbs long and grey, a cluster of paws.
Nora feeds him a biscuit from the jar on the desk.
Strokes his silken ears, looks into his glum, drooping eyes, before she opens the summer events timetable on the laptop and stares at it, without seeing.
So why are you here, again, Shay asks, sticking her head through the curtain. What’s the appointment for?
Nora says, without wanting to, that if she must know, she’s going to look at wedding dresses. Because they’re moving on this plan of Robin’s.
Horace groans.
The plan where you get hitched at the drop of a hat?
Nora nods. Says they’re telling people to be ready for a quick turnaround. If they can make it, great. If not, it doesn’t matter. People have lives, right, and they’re not set on a big, fancy day, anyway.
So you keep saying, Shay says. You decided on Devon, then?
Sort of. We’re going to see it, soon. To, I don’t know. Decide on things.
What things, Shay asks, and Nora twirls her hand in the air.
Everything, she says.
Sounds stressful, Shay says, though it’s meant to be the opposite. So, Shay says, a bit like packing a hospital bag ahead of giving birth, I’ll need to pack a wedding bag that I can grab at a moment’s notice?
Pretty much, Nora says. Robin would love that. He’s really taken with this spontaneity thing. His notebook is filled with ideas.
Hold the phone, Shay says, Robin has ideas? And he’s writing them in his notebook? His notebook that he’s carried around like an oxygen tank ever since our first year? What is up with that? He’s usually so unoriginal. So passive.
I get your point, Nora says.
So you’re going dress shopping so you can pack your emergency wedding bag, Shay says, because your fiancé wants to marry the pants off you. And that makes you sad because …?
I’m not sad!
You are either sombre or sad and no, I could not tell you the difference, Shay says, but get away from the laptop and come and eat a pastry, why don’t you. I could even come with you, if you want. If you can push back the appointment to tonight?
I don’t think so, Nora says. They already squeezed me in last minute.
Send me pictures, then. You’ll need a second opinion, at least.
I’ll have one, Nora says, because she does not need to hide this.
Freya came round, then? Shay says, waving to a customer who’s leaving, and Nora says no, she’s patched things up with Bren. Sort of. So … he’s coming.
To the wedding?
Well, yes. But also to my appointment.
Shay removes the portafilter from the coffee machine and bangs it to get rid of the ground beans. Another customer approaches the counter for a scone; Nora serves her, takes payment, looks back at Shay when she’s done.
Why, Shay asks her, would you want your non-committal red-headed friend, who has a certain predilection for grubby clothing and terrible tattoos, helping you choose your wedding dress?
Because he’s going to be my best man, Nora says.
It is the first time she has said it out loud.
That guy who rocked up at your party, she imagines Shay saying, that guy you’ve never quite got over, yes, I could see it in your eyes that night, all that unspoken history, don’t deny it, but instead all Shay says is I’m not your best man?
Nora bites at the catch in her thumbnail.
Would you want to be?
Christ, no.
An eye roll, then, Nora’s pulse resuming its normal speed.
Good to know he’ll be at the wedding, though, Shay says. At least there’ll be one other thirty-something singleton there, for dancing or drinking or whatever shenanigans he might be open to.
Nora continues to gnaw at her nail.
Since when do you care about being single, she asks.
Rarely, Shay says, unless I’m at a wedding. That changes things, temporarily. All that love gives me a burning in my loins, the need to celebrate being young and alive in a kickass outfit. I’m thinking my green satin jumpsuit.
Naturally.
Plus you know I’ve always had a thing for gingers.
Do not say gingers, Nora says. We’re not fourteen.
D’you think he’d go for an angry, purple-haired dog-mum?
I think he’d be lucky to have you, Nora says, but something is happening inside of her, a clam closing where her heart is, and she says she’s got to go, the boutique is a bit of a walk away and she doesn’t want to be late or sweaty or whatever, when she gets there.
You look kind of sweaty already.
Thanks, Shay.
Take a croissant, Shay says, taking some tongs to the glass counter, maybe you’re having a sugar low.
To which Nora agrees. Because that, surely, is all that’s wrong: a dip in her blood sugar.
Which is dangerous, she knows, damn near transformative.
Robin says she becomes a different person, it’s almost frightening, has been known to throw snacks at her from a safe distance until the hungry angst of her recedes, and the Nora he knows and loves returns to the room.
_
She gets to the shop ten minutes early. Brick walls, swirling white stencils up the windows saying Pre-Loved, Vintage Couture.
She half expects Bren won’t show but then he’s there too, hands shoved in the pockets of his down jacket, flash of blue nylon against the pavements.
Hey, he says, with his half-smile, and she says it back.
They hug, which still doesn’t feel normal, and when they break apart he tells her she has sugar on her face.
I had an almond croissant before I got here, she explains, as she touches her chin, brushes it off. I should have brought you one, sorry.
He says it’s okay and they stall, rain beading on the sleeves of their coats.
So shall we, Bren says, looking at the glass door of the shop, and that clam of her heart feels stuck now, as if dunked in resin.
I’m kind of nervous, she admits.
What about?
It’s meant to be fun, this part, she says, but I think there’s a lot of judgement, too, about your budget, and your taste, and I have a low budget and weird taste, as it is.
And it’s just happening so fast, she says, by which she means the dress, of course, meaning the sudden engagement turning to a sudden wedding to a sudden situation where she is here, with him, outside this door.
So let’s sack it off, Bren says, after a moment.