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Chapter 1
Seven days to the renewal of the vows ceremony
Being trapped on the big roller coaster at Blackpool, swimming in shark-infested waters while bleeding from a severe paper cut, being sexually compromised by Jeremy Watson at work – these were just a few more favourable alternatives of Polly’s to spending time in a wedding dress shop with her partner’s sister Camay, a woman who made Hyacinth Bucket look understated. Not for her own wedding – that would never be on the cards, at least not now – but Camay’s, or more precisely the renewal of the vows first taken with her husband Ward thirty years ago. Polly hadn’t been on the family scene then, but she’d seen the photos of Camay in a blinding white crinoline looking as if she had just walked off the set ofGone with the Wind. Seven bridesmaids in shell-pink satin, a reception at Higher Hoppleton Hall with the Lord Lieutenant as one of the invited guests, more flowers than Kew Gardens. The perfect day, impossible to better; yet for some reason Camay had decided, on a whim, she wanted to do it all again, though on a smaller scale. This time, just theone bridesmaid and that honour to be bestowed upon her dear brother’s partner.
Camay, who knew as much about fashion as Polly knew about molecular cell biology, had insisted her bridesmaid should be dressed in beige. Not just any beige, butdesignerbeige and had chosen a frock by a ‘name’ familiar to anyone who sat in the hairdresser’s and read glossy mags: Galina de Jong, the queen of the bridal kaftan. If the frock wasn’t bad enough, Camay had also chosen for her a feathery fascinator in the style of a swan which had been swimming in murky waters and appeared to be attacking her head rather than sitting on it. This shade of beige made magnolia riveting and when Polly held out her arms, she looked not unlike a blanched flying squirrel. Camay, peering over Polly’s shoulder, was sighing at the reflection in the full-length mirror and seeming to see something Polly wished she could perceive. But then Camay, as she had come to learn over the years, had always been blinded by a fancy brand name that she could bandy about at every available opportunity: her Louis Vuitton handbag, her Gucci scarf, her Christian Louboutin shoes, not forgetting her fancy BMW.
Camay’s wedding gown was a closely guarded secret. All Polly knew about it was that it was plum. Designer plum of course and Ward’s favourite colour apparently. They’d be like plums and cream together, Camay chortled. Except this wasn’t cream, it was the worst kind of beige and it did pale-skinned Polly no favours at all. It was just as well all eyes would be on the bride.
The sales assistant was wearing a name badge that said ‘Paris’ on it. Such a lovely name. Names were so important, thought Polly, who hated hers with a passion. A child had to carry it all their life and names had powers, both beneficialand detrimental. Paris looked as if she had grown into hers, become pretty and elegant in a way that she might not have if she’d had a name like Polly. Paris was one of those names you couldn’t make fun of, unlike Polly and all those putting-kettles-on witticisms.
‘I wish I’d chosen one like this for myself instead of something so fitted,’ said Camay, dropping a different sort of sigh now, a regretful one. ‘One potato too many and I’m liable to pop a button. This shape is perfect for someone carrying a few extra pounds. Covers a multitude of sins.’
Polly tried not to let her indignation show. Okay, she was a couple of stone heavier than her skinny teenage self had been but she was hardly Mr Bump. In fact, she had an enviable tiny waist thanks to some lucky family genes, probably on her unknown father’s side because her mother had been built like Camay, short and solid with no discernible ins and outs.
‘Okay, we’re done. Take it off,’ Camay ordered, giving Polly a little push at her shoulder just in case she’d forgotten where to find the changing cubicle she’d so recently vacated.
Polly couldn’t strip it off fast enough. Thank goodness it would all be over soon and she’d never see the photos. Anyone else would have said, ‘I’m not doing this. Save your money and my pride.’ But she wasn’t anyone else, she was Polly Potter, with a default setting of putting others before herself. She wouldn’t ruin Camay’s big day. But then, after it was over, it was time to kick against type and put herself first for a change.
Camay’s husband Ward was waiting outside for them in his BMW. Camay rarely used the word ‘car’; she might have done had she driven a Joe Average vehicle, but she and Ward owned his and hers of the more prestigious modelsin the BMW range and felt duty-bound to insert the brand into conversation at every available opportunity:I’ll pick you up in the BMW. The BMW is having a service. We’ve just had the BMW valeted. We’re thinking about changing the BMW, for another BMW. Camay Barrett-Hunt especially lived to brag. And the sentiment ‘I have this and you don’t and you never will’ underpinned every boast that came out of her mouth.
Polly sat in the back with the boxes containing her dress, the fascinator and shoes. The shoes were actually nice, not that she’d ever wear them again after the wedding.Bunion-makers. Her mum lived in high heels. After she’d died, Polly found over a hundred pairs in her cupboard, no heel less than two inches, most not even worn. Her feet were in a terrible state, but still she had crammed all the bulges and bumps into her fancy shoes.
When they got to Polly’s house, Camay and Ward came in with her because Camay said they hadn’t seen Christopher for simply ages. Then again Polly lived with him and she didn’t see him that much either. She’d converted one of the spare rooms upstairs into a den where she could sit and read and do a jigsaw puzzle in peace because he claimed full TV rights in the lounge. They’d become Mr Downstairs and Mrs Upstairs and it wasn’t right. It was one of many things that weren’t right, that shouldn’t have been allowed to develop, but they had and she was way past the point of hoping for change.
This time Polly didn’t blush seeing Camay’s eyes rove around the house: the hall carpet with the large worn patch in it, the spaces on the kitchen walls where tiles had dropped off, the missing slat in the venetian blinds, the wonky cupboard doors that didn’t sit flush. Polly had given up on telling Chris that she’d had enough of the way the house was andwas going to get a painter/tiler/floorer to change it only to get the response that she wasn’t because it washishouse and he wasn’t wasting money on having other people doing things he could do himself – except he never did because he was always too busy. Annoyingly though, if his daughter Shauna ever rang up with a DIY ‘emergency’ he was round there with his toolbox like Usain frigging Bolt. It was a relief not to care any more.
‘Tea? Coffee?’ Polly offered.
‘Do you have Earl Grey?’ asked Camay.
‘Nope, just good old Yorkshire tea,’ replied Polly.
‘I’ll have coffee,’ said Ward.
‘Me too then. If instant, I’ll take a heaped teaspoon, I like it strong.’ Then Camay added with a titter, ‘Like my men.’
It was a joke of course. Even Enid Blyton with her vivid imagination wouldn’t have applied the adjective ‘strong’ to Ward Hunt. At home he might best be described as a ‘blundering oaf’ who kowtowed to his wife’s every demand. At work, in his prestigious banking job, he more than made up for his domestic subjugation by being a misogynistic, condescending bully, if the grapevine was any reliable source of information. Polly knew his type only too well. She was surrounded by them every single day.
The door from the lounge swung open. ‘Did I hear the kettle being mentioned?’ Polly’s partner Chris made his presence known. He bent down and gave his older sister a kiss on the cheek. He was wearing his lucky Man U shirt. He was always in costume for a match, even if he was sitting in the lounge watching it on the TV.
‘What’s the score so far?’ asked Ward.
‘Just finished,’ Chris grinned. ‘Three-nil to us.’ He sat down at the kitchen table with the others. ‘Coffee for me, Pol.’
Please, added Polly to herself. However well you knew someone, they were still worthy of manners. Jeremy at work never said thank you for anything either. Maybe it was a male middle-age thing and had an explanatory Greek term likeManmnesia. But Chris would have said those two words to a customer, and Jeremy would definitely have said them to Charles the company owner, so it was a deliberate omission not to say them to her. Polly got another mug out of the cupboard and spooned some coffee into it.
‘Not long to go now, Sis. You must be getting excited,’ said Chris.
‘Yes, yes, I am rather,’ came the reply.
Polly put a plate of biscuits down on the table and Ward’s hand shot out to pick up two at once. Polly often wondered whether, if someone were to cut through Ward Hunt, they’d find GREED written through the middle of him like a stick of Blackpool rock. In the time she’d known him, he had grown a little more bloated every year on executive lunches and fine dining until he was this walking barrel of a man, but the greed extended far beyond his gastronomic excesses. He had the perfect partner in Camay, a pair of coveters who had to have the biggest and best and most of everything. They likened themselves to the ‘Joneses’, who set the standard lesser mortals could only aspire to keep up with.
‘Are you looking forward to your big day, Ward?’ asked Polly, distributing coffees.
‘I suppose so,’ he replied.
‘Of course he is,’ said Camay. ‘How could he not be, marrying me all over again? And then having a wonderful feast at Maltstone Old Hall.’ She gave him a poke and his default grumble-face broke into a smile of delight.
