Silk Queen Page 4

  Andrew was already waiting, revving the engine of the junky Cortina to keep it running. When I slipped into the passenger seat he greeted me with wide eyes and a look of alarm.

  I held off pulling the door closed. If the next words out of his mouth were as grave as his expression, I was ready to leg it back to the house.

  “What happened to your hair?” he asked, aghast.

  I wound my super chic side pony tail around my hand. “I dyed it,” I uttered. “Do you like it?”

  “No,” he replied. “Was it supposed to turn out like that?”

  “Not really,” I replied coolly. “But you can’t always get what you want, can you?”

  The Bridge End café wasn’t exactly the flashiest place in town. It was nowhere near a bridge either. It was located on a busy street right in the middle of the shopping precinct.

  It had been there forever, and its longevity was reflected by the tired décor. The gingham tablecloths were mismatched and ratty, the vinyl floor tiles were lifting and the lace curtains were discoloured, but the food was good. It was also cheap, which explained why it was one of our favourite haunts.

  Before we even sat down, Andrew ordered two Cokes. I chose a spot near the window, discreetly brushed some crumbs off the table and gave the cutlery a quick wipe with a serviette.

  “This is posh,” Andrew said, squaring up the small vase in the centre of the table.

  A dusty plastic carnation could never be posh, but I agreed with him anyway. “Flamingo Harry’s was good the other night,” I said, changing the subject. “They had a live band.”

  His smile was strained. “I’m sorry I missed it.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Playing my Atari, mostly,” he replied. “I got up to level eight. It’s dead addictive.”

  Feigning apathy, I reached for a menu. “By yourself?” I quizzed. “Mandy wasn’t there either.”

  Andrew let out a pissed off groan. “Not this again, Fiona,” he complained. “I told you before, I’ve had nowt to do with Mandy bleedin’ Brewer.”

  My first instinct was to apologise for jumping to conclusions, but I managed to hold back. It didn’t matter whether I’d lost out to arcade games or another woman, he’d still blown me off.

  “You could’ve called,” I mumbled.

  Andrew’s shoulders slumped. “I just needed some time away, Fi,” he confessed.

  “From me?”

  I had to wait for an answer. An unenthusiastic waitress made her way over to our table, scuffing her feet as she walked. “Ready to order?” she asked, offloading two bottles of Coke onto the table.

  “Not yet.” Andrew’s eyes never left mine. “Give us a minute.”

  She moseyed away without another word paving the way for the tense conversation to continue.

  “You’re doing my head in,” he told me. “I’m sick of wedding talk all the time.”

  The annoyance I felt was overshadowed by confusion. I purposefully kept the wedding talk to a minimum around Andrew. He had no interest in bridesmaid dresses or bouquet designs so sharing those details with him would have been an aggravating waste of breath.

  Then it hit me.

  The subject of the wedding wasn’t the irritant. Marriage was the topic of conversation that had sent him running. I hounded him every chance I got, desperately seeking assurance that he was on board with our plans.

  I wanted a loving marriage, a pretty home and a handful of kids. It was a set of goals that made Gill and other likeminded modern women cringe, but they were my dreams and they were valid.

  “We have to want the same things,” I said for the umpteenth time. “It’s important.”

  Andrew reached for my hand and gave my fingers a light squeeze. “You’re like a broken record. Just tone it down a notch, Fi.”

  I pulled away, but he didn’t seem to notice. He picked up a menu and called out to the waitress.

  I used the time it took for her to scuff her way over to pull myself together, refusing to show the hurt I was feeling.

  She pulled a notebook out of the pocket of her apron. “What’ll it be?”

  “Two chips and eggs,” replied Andrew ordering for both of us.

  “I don’t want chips and eggs,” I protested.

  He frowned. “But that’s what you always order.”

  “Maybe it’s time I tried something new.”

  Andrew picked up the menu and studied it again. “Maybe we should both try something new.”

  Clearly, we weren’t talking about chips and eggs any more but I didn’t ask for clarification. Marrying this Atari addicted man-child who may or may not be cheating on me would be the biggest mistake of my short life, but I took my mother’s advice and battened down to weather the storm.

  I hate it when he orders food for me.

  I hate the ugly blue jacket he always wears.

  I hate his ugly car.

  His friends are idiots.

  Book of the week: A Recipe for Romance

  Honeymoon Fund: £63.00

  Chapter Ten

  With just a few weeks to go before the wedding, my life was in shambles. Andrew had basically checked out. I hadn’t heard from him in two days, and if I was being honest, I’d admit that I didn’t really care.

  Cleaning house for Mrs Crichton-Percy was fast becoming the highlight of my week.

  The lady of the manor met me at the door with a wide smile and a vague set of instructions. “Just flitter around and give things a good spruce.” She handed me a bucket of cleaning supplies. “You can start in the bedrooms.”

  I dutifully followed her upstairs, dusting a cloth along the rail of the bannister as I went.

  “My friend Judith is here.” She spoke as if I knew who Judith was. “We’re sorting through clothes to sell at the charity auction.”

  Philanthropic ventures seemed to be a common pastime for privileged women like Mrs Crichton-Percy. Charlene’s mother was also a fixture on the charity scene.

  “Do you like doing charity work?” I asked, taking the last step up onto the landing.

  “It serves a purpose.” She turned back, smiling wryly. “It’s a good way of keeping designer gowns out of thrift shops.”

  I was secretly appalled, but probably just looked confused. I’d come to know Mrs Crichton-Percy as a generous person; constantly overpaying me and gifting me lovely things. But she was showing a new side that I wasn’t sure I liked.

  I gave the bucket a shake. “I should make a start.”

  Before she could reply, a posh voice called out from the bedroom. “Are these the best coat hangers you’ve got, darling?” she asked. “They’re frightfully tatty.”

  I would’ve told her to sod off, but Mrs Crichton-Percy turned and dashed into the bedroom as if she’d been beckoned by the queen herself. I stayed put, electing to eavesdrop from the doorway.

  “I have some lovely crocheted hangers,” she offered.

  The woman let out a strange groan. “Crochet – how delightful.”

  She didn’t mean it, and Mrs Crichton-Percy knew it. Within seconds, she volunteered to buy some new ones. “Perhaps padded velvet?”

  I don’t know what possessed me to round the doorway and put my two cents in, but I did it. “My mam sells velvet hangers in her shop,” I volunteered. “They’re dead lovely.”

  When Judith spun around to face me, the first thing I noticed was her earrings. The huge glittery baubles looked heavy as heck. Perhaps that explained her stiff posture.

  “And who might you be, darling?” she asked, looking me up and down.

  “Nobody.” I raised the bucket of cleaning supplies. “I’m just here to clean.”

  Her heavily made up eyes bored right through me. “The notion of a pretty young girl introducing herself as a nobody is troubling. Don’t ever do it again.”

  Clearly, the woman was rude, but she was also fascinating and had gorgeous shoes so I corrected the faux pas by telling her my name.

  “Her mother owns th
e haberdashery shop in Denton,” added Mrs Crichton-Percy.

  The unnecessary footnote was annoying, and it riled Judith too. “I didn’t ask about her mother,” she snapped.

  Perhaps feeling suitably chastised, Mrs Crichton-Percy quickly changed the subject. “I think it’s time for a spot of tea.”

  “That’s a lovely idea, darling,” praised Judith. “Fiona can join us.”

  Judging by her sucking-lemon expression, that wasn’t my boss’ plan. “Wonderful,” she muttered, heading for the door.

  Within seconds of being alone in the room, Judith dropped the prickly attitude. “I cannot stand her,” she whispered.

  “Why?” I whispered back.

  Her ensuing smile was as harsh as her ruby lipstick. “Nina Crichton-Percy simply tries too hard.” She scooped a long blue dress off the bed and held it up. “New with tags,” she noted. “The woman is so determined to pack a punch on the charity scene that she resorts to donating new gowns.”

  It might’ve been the most beautiful dress in the world, but I paid no attention to it. My focus was solely on the three hundred quid price tag dangling from the sleeve.

  “What a waste,” I muttered, mainly to myself.

  “Frivolous to say the least.” Judith dropped the dress onto the bed in a messy heap. “But it’s not her fault. Money can’t buy class.”

  Thanks to Judith’s loose but cutting tongue, I learned a lot about the inner workings of high society over the next few minutes – and alarmingly, Mrs Crichton-Percy didn’t pass muster.

  “She’ll never be part of the fold,” she said pityingly. “But enough about New-Money-Nina. I want to know more about you.” Judith turned back to face me, looking me up and down again. “Why are you housecleaning in Bramhall?”

  “Because I’m No-Money-Fiona,” I cheekily replied. “I need this job.”

  “I don’t believe that’s the only reason, darling,” she accused. “I think you’re a curious girl.”

  She was right. I was curious about a million things. For example, why did she tack the word ‘darling’ onto the end of every sentence? And how the heck did she manage to glue her false lashes on so straight? The few times I had tried had ended in disaster.

  Those were the sorts of things I wondered about when in the company of high society women. I studied them in the same way I pored over fashion magazines, and Judith had called me out on it.

  “I like to see how the other half lives,” I confessed.

  “Do you think the grass is greener on this side of the fence, Fiona?”

  “Yes,” I replied simply. My life was a slippery slope of disappointment and uncertainty, but I still believed in the fairy-tale ending. “One day I’m going to have the greenest grass of all.”

  It sounded strong and plausible only for a second, and then Mrs Crichton-Percy killed it. The cups on the tray rattled beneath her grasp as she cackled her way into the room. “You’re marrying an apprentice bricklayer, Fiona,” she said. “Perhaps you should’ve set your sights on a landscaper instead.”

  Before embarrassment could take hold, Judith swooped in. “You were right about the hangers, Nina.” She pointed at the dresses laid out on the bed. “Velvet would be suitable. We’ll need at least twenty.”

  “Now?” Mrs Crichton-Percy’s eyes widened. “We have work to do.”

  “Fiona can help me,” Judith suggested. “You run along.”

  Doing little to disguise her disdain, my boss snatched her handbag off the dresser and headed for the door. It wasn’t the half hour drive to Denton that pissed her off. I’d inadvertently muscled in on her playdate, and that would’ve infuriated anyone.

  “Maybe I should get back to the cleaning,” I said as soon as she was gone. “She’s cross with me.”

  “Nonsense,” Judith scoffed. “She’s cross with me.”

  And from what I could tell, the most glamorous, cutting woman I’d ever met didn’t care one iota.

  “Are you the leader of your friends?”

  The crass question tumbled out of my mouth, but rather than take offense, she threw back her head and laughed.

  “The leader?” She giggled. “Explain what you mean, darling.”

  Desperate to avoid eye contact, I scooped a gown off the bed and clumsily tried folding it. “Well, in my group of friends, Gill is the leader. She’s dead smart and tough as nails.” She was also crooked as heck, but I left that part out. “Whenever there’s drama, she always handles it.”

  “I don’t handle drama, darling,” she replied. “I like to nip it in the bud before it takes hold.” Judith took the dress from my grasp and laid it back on the bed. “Do you have drama in your life Fiona?”

  I dragged my ponytail over my shoulder and picked at the dry ends. “Only my hair colour,” I replied half-jokingly. “That was a drama and a half.”

  “Experimentation is a rite of passage.” She smiled brightly. “You’ll make a hundred more mistakes along the way, and they won’t all be beauty related.”

  “I’m getting married in a few weeks.” The random comment was delivered in a dismal tone. “That’s a mistake I’d like to nip in the bud.”

  It was a terrible admission to make, but the relief that came with saying it out loud felt wonderful.

  “You mustn’t go through with it if you’re unhappy, darling.” Judith sat down on the edge of the bed and patted the empty space beside her. “Call it off at once.”

  She made backing out of my wedding sound as simple as cancelling a lunch date. I knew differently, and wasted no time in telling her so.

  I sat beside her. “My mam will skin me alive.”

  “Your mother isn’t marrying him,” she shot back.

  “No, but she’s been planning the wedding for a long time.”

  Judith let out a hard, humourless laugh. “Oh, dear girl.”

  The only thing worse than feeling inferior is feeling pitied. It immediately got my back up. “Andrew’s not a bad guy,” I defended. “He just doesn’t make me giddy.”

  “Giddy?”

  Her confused expression left me wondering if giddy was even a real word.

  I leaned, dragging my latest tattered read out of the back pocket of my jeans. As I thumbed through the pages of A Recipe for Romance, Judith asked an incredulous question.

  “Do you often carry books in your back pocket, darling?”

  “Always,” I replied. “That’s why I love Mills and Boons. They’re only thin so they don’t make my bum look big.”

  Finally, her laugh sounded genuine. “Quite.”

  Without asking permission, I cleared my throat and began to read out loud. “Giddy with lust, Angelica felt a tidal wave of molten lava burn her heart to a cinder.”

  “Gosh,” said Judith. “That’s frightfully dramatic.”

  “Is it real?” My hopeful tone reeked of desperation. “I need it to be real.”

  “What does your mother say about it?”

  My shoulders sagged as I loosened my grip on the book. “She tells me that I need to get my head out of the clouds and start living in the real world.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m just a hopeful romantic.”

  “Hopeless romantic, Fiona,” she corrected, patting my knee.

  “No, hopeful is the right term,” I insisted. “Hopefully I’ll get burned by lava one day soon.”

  “Are we talking about sex now, darling?”

  “I don’t know. Are we?”

  The naïve question highlighted just how clueless I was. I was saving myself for marriage – at least that was the official line – but lately I wondered if I was just saving myself for someone worthy.

  Judith looked as confused as I felt. “You mean you’ve never…”

  I shook my head, killing the need for her to finish the awkward question.

  “We’ve fooled around.” I tried to sound confident and experienced, but failed. “But I want it to be special.”

  And the back seat of the Cortina could never
be special.

  Judith’s smile had a rueful tinge. “I’m no expert, darling,” she said gently. “But I will tell you this. If there’s no spark now, there will never be lava.”

  I wished my mother could be as frank, but by her own admission, she knew nothing about passion. Her ‘lie back and think of England attitude’ served her well for ten long years – and then my father left her for a barmaid from the Gloucester Arms and moved to Skegness. As far as I knew, she’d never been with another man since, and that seemed to suit her just fine.

  “You need a man who can make your toes curl,” added Judith. “Surely you talk about this with your friends.”

  “None of us are very worldly,” I confessed. “The last bloke who tried to kiss Gill ended up with a split lip for his troubles, and Charlene is still saving herself for Simon Le Bon. I guess we still have some growing up to do.”

  In a motherly move that I wasn’t expecting, Judith reached out and tucked a long strand of burgundy hair behind my ear. “You’ll get there, darling.” She spoke with absolute certainty. “And when you do, you’ll see just how green the grass can be.”

  I met a lady called Judith Wiltshire, and I’m pretty sure she has the whole world worked out. She’s dead elegant, very posh and says ‘darling’ every two seconds.

  My life goals are changing.

  1. Get my hair back to a nice shade of normal.

  2. Find a prince who makes my toes curl.

  3. Be like Judith.

  I guess that means the wedding is off. How am I going to get out of this one?

  Book of the week: Sky High Lovers

  Honeymoon Fund: £68.00

  Chapter Eleven

  Bingo Bonanza is one of Denton’s biggest events of the year. People come from far and wide for a chance to win the thousand quid main prize, and Gill, Charlene and I were usually first in the door.

  This year’s event was sponsored by the local butcher, and Mr Cooper of Cooper’s Cuts went all out to make sure it was a grand affair.