We got married at the beautiful old Scottish church where his grandparents had. It had been raining non-stop for a week, but when we came out into the grounds for our photographs, the clouds parted and the sun shone down. The wedding party all posed on a grassy embankment, but while the photographer was trying to arrange us, the Best Man trod heavily on my dress. I tried to balance myself, but I was too precarious in heels on the wet grass, and toppled arse over tit all the way down the hill, coming to a rest on a medieval grave. A muddy medieval grave.
Adele, York
The little white faux-fur stoles that Nora had sourced were absolutely charming, but they were doing bugger all against the winter chill.
“Okay, ladies, just dip those shoulders just a little more. A little more.” The photographer had been calling out ridiculous instructions at them for the last quarter of an hour. Sarah felt officially chilled to the bone. If it wasn’t for the warm and solid presence of Barlow to her front and Cole to her back, she might literally freeze. Still, obediently, she dipped her shoulder and shot her toothy smiles at the camera lens. The problem with being a bridesmaid, whilst obviously a great honour, is that it means that you spend much of the first part of the day off posing like a prat in a field/on a beach/up some stairs while the rest of the wedding guests get to see off the free drinks…
Nora – seemingly unaffected by the biting cold aside from the fetching pinkness it had raised in her cheeks and on the tip of her nose – kept staring up at Harry like she expected him to have changed from minute to minute. He too was heavily preoccupied with his new wife, dropping little kisses on her hair, the small of her neck, that shoulder she was being instructed to dip. How was it only two years since her own wedding day? It felt a lifetime ago. As if sensing the run of her thoughts, her estranged husband shifted behind her, angling himself differently, blocking out a little more of the icy air.
Finally they were released from posing oppression, albeit warned not to stray too far away in case they were needed for some more shots after the family ones were completed. Sarah gratefully accepted a glass of Winter Pimms from a hovering waiter and carefully picked her way across the crispy lawns to the sturdier pathway. She felt a steadying presence at her elbow, the weight of someone’s morning jacket on her shoulders, already warm with body heat. She turned, expecting Cole, but it was Barlow smiling at her in his shirtsleeves.
“How have you been? I haven’t wanted to bother you, but I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”
Sarah had felt the same. She and Barlow had always been close – working long hours keeping The Hand in Hand in business for that first year or so had forged their friendship in fire. But he’d been Cole’s friend long before a bedraggled Sarah had ever appeared at his bar and ordered that fateful glass of wine, and she’d felt too awkward to get in touch with him over the last few weeks.
“I’ve been better,” she admitted.
“Is your mum driving you mad?”
Sarah laughed. “Literally insane. What’s worse is that I think she wants me gone as much as I want to be gone. I need to get another job, be in back in Wales or up in London or – who knows – somewhere new and wonderful. How’s work?” she asked after a beat. She’d never moved on from a vested interest in The Hand in Hand. She knew things must be going well, as Barlow was in the middle of buying his first house, and the pub was always heaving every time Sarah dropped in.
Barlow’s beam confirmed her guess. “Really, really good. In fact, I’m buying another pub. In Chiswick. We’re expanding, baby!”
“Barlow, that’s amazing!”
“It is. But it’s also presented me with a problem. It’s actually another reason I’ve been meaning to get in contact with you.”
“Oh?”
“See, I can’t be owner/manager of two different establishments really.”
“If anyone can handle it, it’d be you.”
“I’d be pulling out my beard with stress after one week,” Barlow laughed. “No, I need to get a good team in place in Wimbledon so I can really concentrate on making the new branch a success.”
Sarah felt a pang at the thought of The Hand in Hand left without Barlow’s good-natured but sharp supervision. The junior bar and kitchen staff turnover was pretty high, pretty usual in the service industry, but, still, it would take a dedicated manager to keep morale and standards up.
“Are you going to promote Angie then?” The current assistant-manager had originally started as a bartender when Sarah had been there. She liked her fine, but she was a bit workshy, and – not that Sarah had ever dobbed her in to Barlow – had always had a habit of calling in sick to work and then checking in as out for drinks with her mates on Facebook that same evening (so, both a skiver and a little bit thick).
Barlow laughed. “God no, not Angie.”
“Ah, recruiting then? Seen anyone for interview yet?”
“Not yet. I was going to offer you first refusal.”
It took a beat or two for Barlow’s words to sink in. “Me?”
“You,” Barlow confirmed, with a grin.
“Me? Manager of The Hand?”
“Can’t think of anyone better.”
“I’ve never managed anything in my life!”
“Come off it. You were basically doing it for me when I was only paying you a part-time bar staff wage and you had a whole other job during the day,” Barlow scoffed.
“You’re not just saying this because I’m jobless and homeless, are you?”
“Not at all. I was already gearing up to talk to you about it before you and Cole – before you, ah, left London.”
Sarah stupidly felt like she could cry at the sheer weight of the blessing that had just fallen into her lap. A job – and not just any job, one she could really care about. Combined with Cole’s promise that he’d move out of their house to give her space, all of a sudden her life felt like it could be hers again. She blinked back the heat that had massed at her lashes.
“Are you sure?”
“I am one hundred percent sure, Sar.”
“And do you promise you’ll fire me immediately if I turn out to be absolute crap?”
Barlow laugh was loud and fond. “I promise.”
“Then okay.” Sarah threw herself into her friend’s arms and he squeezed her thoroughly.
“Do you not even want to talk about the logistics? Salary?” Barlow laughed.
“We can get to that. My answer will still be yes!” Sarah was oddly breathless. “Thank you, Barlow. You have no idea what this means to me.”
“Hey, it’s not a favour, remember,” he reminded her gently. “If anything I’m taking complete advantage of your amazingness.”
“Okay. I’ll do my best to be amazing for you.”
“Can I have the bridesmaids back, please?” the photographer called impatiently from the middle of the lawns. “I just want some shots with the sisters of the bride.”
Sarah got halfway back across the grass before she remembered she was still wearing Barlow’s jacket, and had to tumble back over to return it to him. As she stood in the line and posed and dipped and beamed on cue, she hoped very much that she wouldn’t look as daftly over-excited as she felt in the final photos, but at least she knew that all the smiles were utterly genuine.
* * *
Bea’s cheeks ached from all the enforced smiling. She resisted the urge to rub them and helped herself to a flute of champagne instead. Nora and Harry had been pulled away to take cringingly romantic, staring-into-one-another’s-eyes couple photos in the rich late-afternoon light before the wedding breakfast was served, and so, for the bridesmaids, a brief reprieve in duties.
Just as she had made up her mind that she probably had enough time to nip upstairs to her room, check on her hair and slip off her heels for a bit, a familiar voice carried to her ears.
Claire, in the middle of informing a stricken waiter carrying a tray of canapes all about her current dietary requirements, had apparently decided to throw a middle finger up at December and was wearing a peacock print maxi dress and open-toe sandals; she looked fabulous, albeit more at home on a fancy resort holiday. Bea had clocked her sat near the front during the ceremony; they hadn’t spoken since that night in Paris. With a last lingering thought for her aching feet, Bea grabbed another glass of champagne from the stash kept behind for the wedding party and approached her old friend.
“The best peace offering may be diamonds,” Bea said conversationally as she handed over the glass, “but champagne has got to be up there too, right?”
Claire accepted the drink with a quick shrug of her shoulders. “Thanks. For all I should really be taking it easy. It turns out I become a complete gobby bitch when I’ve had too much to drink.”
“That’s nothing.” Bea sighed dramatically. “I shag completely inappropriate blokes when I’ve had too much to drink.”
“That’s not true,” Claire protested. “You do that sober sometimes too.”
The tease startled a laugh out of Bea. “Fair. And you’re a mouthy cow pretty much 24/7 too.”
“Well, I’m glad we got that straightened out,” Claire nodded, saluting Bea with her glass before taking a drink. “I really am sorry. Sorry I was jealous,” she added, after a beat. “And for what I did in Paris.”
“And I’m sorry for what I was saying about you. And that I slept with Cole in the first place.” Bea looked forward to the day where she wouldn’t feel quite so genuinely awful about a night she could barely remember. “We’re terrible people.”
Claire surveyed her over the rim of her champagne flute, eyes uncharacteristically shrewd. “I think we’re just people.” After a moment, she reached out and touched the material of the bridesmaid dress gathered at Bea’s shoulder. “I like these,” she said softly. “They’re beautiful. The colour wouldn’t have done much for me though.”
“I think you would have looked great.” Bea threw her free arm around the bare, winter-impervious shoulders of her friend and gave her a quick squeeze. Maybe Claire would never quite get over the sting of not getting to be one of Nora’s bridesmaids, but at least she was proving mature enough not to let it affect her friendships.
“I’m so happy for Nora. And Harry,” Claire said, as if on cue. “Their happy ever after. It’s like a fairy tale.”
Bea, who had had a front row seat to all of Nora and Harry’s previous relationships, the disasters and the almost-could-have-been-somethings and everything in between; the handful of times Nora had been adamant that getting together with Harry had been a huge mistake, the once or twice they’d even broken up, however temporary: if it was a fairy tale, it was a very modern sort of fairy tale, Bea thought with a wry smile.
“You know, you, me and Nora’s friendship has already lasted way longer than the average marriage,” Bea pointed out.
“Here’s to the successes.” Claire offered her glass for Bea to chink against, and Bea did: whether Claire meant friendships, marriages or people, it didn’t really matter.