A Winter's Wedding (4 page)

‘Maybe I will drop by sometime,’ Emily said.

‘Yes, you’ve got to see how we do this place up,’ he added.

‘Drop by any time,’ Sylvia said knowingly.

Dylan reluctantly let go of Emily’s hand.

‘Okay, then. See you soon,’ Emily said as she left.

‘Merry Christmas,’ Dylan said.

‘Yes, merry Christmas,’ Emily replied.

Sylvia and Dylan exchanged knowing glances. Sylvia winked at Dylan, and he laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

Later that evening Emily lay on her sofa, wondering what Sylvia’s little wink had meant. Did every woman who came anywhere near Dylan end up falling hopelessly in love with him? Did Sylvia spend half her life talking Dylan’s ex-girlfriends down off various window sills? Or had Sylvia simply been aware of a little spark of mutual attraction in the air? Emily wasn’t sure. But she sensed they were good people, and that took away some of the niggling fear that Sylvia and Dylan had been laughing at her instead of with her.

At nine o’clock Emily’s mobile phone rang.

To her amazement it was Dylan.

‘Emily? I hope you don’t mind me calling you on Christmas Eve,’ he said quickly.

‘Dylan? Well, no, of course I don’t mind. But how did you find my number?’

‘Sylvia found your business card in one of those handbags you donated.’

‘I thought I’d emptied them all out.’

‘You did; it was in a side pocket.’

‘Sorry,’ Emily said, feeling embarrassed and yet hugely pleased at the same time.

‘No need to apologize. I was going to ask you for your number today, anyway. But you left the shop so quickly that I didn’t get the chance. I’m calling to ask if you’d like to have a drink with me sometime.’

‘Oh, now let me see,’ she said, feeling slightly flustered.

‘I mean, obviously, if you’re not already seeing somebody? And if you’re not interested … then I’m sorry for bothering you.’

‘No, it’s no bother.’

‘It’s just, I thought it would be nice to make some new friends.’

‘New friends … yes, that’d be … well, nice.’

‘I mean, I’m asking you out on a date. Yes? But if you’d rather not go on a date with me, then maybe we can still be friends – or, at least, acquaintances? I mean, I’d really like to stay in touch with you. If that’s okay?’

‘Well, that’d be lovely. I mean, yes … thanks.’

‘Why don’t you come to the shop for a coffee?’ Dylan said, detecting a hint of reticence in Emily’s voice. ‘Sylvia can chaperone us. As you can see, she’s a real no-nonsense sort. She won’t put up with any funny business, so I won’t be pouncing on you or anything. Not unless you want me to,’ he added playfully.

For a moment Emily was terrified. She’d love to go on a date with Dylan. Of course she would. But what would happen if it turned out to be a proper falling-in-love date, and then a proper grown-up relationship? Emily wasn’t sure she was ready for that. Not after Alex had left her standing at the altar the year before. The humiliation of that day was still seared into her soul. Or would she make a fool of herself if it turned out that Dylan only wanted a casual sort of romance? Would she be able to think of a single thing to say on their date? Would she be able to keep up the façade of the strong, independent woman for more than five minutes?

‘Emily, are you still there?’

‘Yes, sorry, I was thinking.’

‘Were you thinking yes or no?’

‘I was thinking … maybe.’

‘Maybe you’ll call in next Saturday?’

‘Next Saturday?’

‘Well, yes. I presume you’ll be working all week? It says on your card that you’re the chief features writer for
Stylish Living
.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Hey, that sounds pretty impressive.’

‘Um, thanks.’

‘And, of course, I’m sure you have plans for Christmas Day tomorrow, and so on? So shall we say the first Saturday after Christmas?’

Emily closed her eyes. She didn’t have a single plan for Christmas Day, but Dylan didn’t have to know that. She’d give her parents a quick call, of course. But that was about it. For the rest of the day it’d just be herself and her Christmas tree, a ready meal and the
Radio Times
.

‘Okay, then,’ she heard herself saying. ‘I’ll see you, then.’

‘Great. Bye, Emily.’

‘Bye, Dylan.’

Emily shut off her phone and went into the bedroom. She sat down gently on her unmade bed and looked pointedly at the wardrobe.

‘Yes, I know,’ she told it. ‘I’m not quite ready yet. But if I don’t do something soon, I never will be ready. I don’t have to throw myself at him, you know. I’ll just go along to the shop for an innocent cup of coffee and see what happens. And if he turns out to be as lovely as he looks, that’ll be brilliant. And if he turns out to be a let-down … well, I’ll just deal with it, okay?’

She crossed the floor and turned the small bronze key in the wardrobe lock. With a tiny squeak the door opened. Inside, folded neatly into a hundred layers like a cross-section diagram in a geography book, were all the clothes and keepsakes that were holding Emily back. Things she hadn’t looked at in years. She could almost smell the disappointment lingering on everything like brick dust or mothballs. So many things, going all the way back to her insular childhood on a Belfast estate. She was thirty years old, she reminded herself. A milestone year. Surely she was not going to let a milestone year go by without at least making some changes to her safe (but stuck) life? And was it better to be safe and stuck or vulnerable and free?

A life coach would have described Emily as a butterfly. But was she a cowardly butterfly that was going to remain safely in her little glass box for ever? Or was she going to bravely take flight up into the bright blue sky, with all the possibilities – both good and bad – that might await her there?

Emily closed the door again and went to bed. She listened to the radio for company and was glad she hadn’t told Dylan she’d be on her own for Christmas. It was too soon to burden him with her various little family anecdotes, none of them pleasant.

Emily was still awake and thinking about Dylan when Christmas morning dawned. She got up, went into the sitting room and switched on the lights on her pretty tree. She made a cup of hot chocolate and listened to a carol service on the radio. She rang her parents in Belfast to wish them a merry Christmas, but nobody answered the phone – even though she let it ring for ages and ages before she gave up. Wondering what might have happened to her flaky mother and father, Emily opened the sitting-room curtains to find it was snowing heavily, yet again.

‘Oh, I don’t believe it,’ she murmured. ‘Not more snow! Will this winter never end?’

4. Tea and Biscuits

Dylan set the two mugs on the counter and offered Emily a broken biscuit.

‘Sorry, I dropped the packet on the floor,’ he said.

‘Better than dropping the tea on the floor,’ she replied.

‘So, Emily, is that a trace of an Irish accent you’ve got there?’ Dylan asked brightly.

Emily laughed in spite of her nerves. She was wearing skinny jeans, brown boots and her warmest jacket.

‘It’s a Belfast accent,’ she said carefully. ‘That’s in
Northern
Ireland, by the way.’

‘Um, I know where Belfast is. I’m not completely thick, you know.’

‘You’d be surprised how many people don’t know where Belfast is on the map. And then they start all this
top of the morning
stuff. We don’t say
top of the morning
in the north of Ireland. I’m not sure they say it in the south either, mind you. Maybe it’s just something that American film makers think we say? So then I remind them that I’m from Northern Ireland and they start shouting
No Surrender!
into my face – you know, like Ian Paisley? We’re not all like that. Actually, most of us are very shy and softly spoken. It’s only a handful of nutters and narcissists that give us all a bad name. And now I’m rambling again. Anyway, I thought I was doing a great job of covering up my accent.’

‘It’s not on a par with that Paisley chap,’ Dylan agreed. ‘You’re not scaring the living daylights out of me, I’ll give you that. But it’s still there. It’s very nice, actually.’

‘Ha, you don’t expect me to believe that, do you?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘I don’t like my accent.’

‘You should. It is
way
nicer than the LA whine that’s taking over the planet these days, not to mention our very own Essex cackle.’

‘You say the nicest things, Dylan. But then again, that’s easy for you to say because your accent is nice and clear and easy to understand. And people don’t make fun of it all the time.’

‘Fair point,’ he had to admit.

‘If you’re interested in accents, I can tell you that every neighbourhood in Northern Ireland has its own very distinct accent. Especially in Belfast – the accent changes slightly with every street corner. I can usually tell a lot about a person by the way they pronounce certain words. As well as their appearance, obviously …’

‘Can you really?’

‘Yes, I can.’

‘What’s it like over there? I’ve never been to Ireland. Sorry … Northern Ireland.’

‘It’s a very complicated society in many ways. People grow up with a heightened sense of danger. Their trouble radar is never switched off – even nowadays. Although most of the really scary stuff ended over a decade ago.’

‘But you live in London now, yes?’

‘Yes. I left Belfast for good when I was eighteen.’

‘Why? Was it for work?’

‘Yes, mainly for work. But I longed for the anonymity of London. Back home everybody knows everybody else, and it’s a bit claustrophobic.’

‘Same here. I’m from a little village in Surrey, called Appleton.’

Emily and Dylan were sitting on two old chairs in the charity shop. Dylan had bought a packet of chocolate biscuits in honour of Emily’s visit. But he’d dropped them twice on the way back from the shop and consequently most of the biscuits were in pieces.

‘What can you deduce about me?’ Dylan asked, still fascinated by Emily’s strange talent. ‘I know I’m not from Belfast. But have a try, anyway.’

‘You won’t be offended?’ Emily asked carefully.

‘I promise,’ he said firmly.

‘Well, from your accent and the rugby-shirt collar being turned up, I’m guessing you’re from a privileged background. So that makes you middle class at the very least. Though you’re very self-assured – and I mean that in a nice way – so I’d put money on you being upper middle class. Public school, even. You don’t jump every time the door opens, so that means you were generally relaxed as a child. And that leads me to think your parents were and still are happily married. You’re very laid-back in the company of women, and you don’t mind making the tea and handing out the biscuits, so I’d say you have at least three sisters. And your shabby trainers suggest you just want a simple life, which is why you’re working in a charity shop when everything about you indicates a good solid education and that you really ought to be working in a much better place than this. I know you said you were helping Sylvia out for a while, but I think you enjoy being here. You could probably have paid a carpenter to put up the shelves, after all.’

‘That’s amazing,’ Dylan breathed slowly. ‘It’s all true. I have three sisters. My parents are dairy farmers with a bit of land around Appleton. My surname is Shawcross, by the way. And I still play rugby back home with the village team. I’m the skipper. Anyway, you’re very clever.’

‘Thank you,’ Emily said, taking a little bow. ‘I told you we were a nosy bunch in Northern Ireland. I also feel duty-bound to tell you I was baptized a Catholic, but I’m not religious any more. And I have no interest in politics – they’re all as bad as each other in my book.’

‘Okay,’ he laughed. ‘And I’m C of E. And I did once vote Tory, but only because the local candidate promised to save our village post office.’

‘And did he?’

‘Yes, he did, to give the guy his dues. But then there was an armed robbery. The owner of the post office had a nervous breakdown and moved to Cyprus. And now the post office is a branch of Cath Kidston.’

‘Ah well, at least you’ll never be stuck for a floral tea towel. Listen, I hope you don’t think I’m neurotic mentioning religion like that? I just don’t care for labels, you see. And I like to get all that sort of thing over and done with, when I meet a new person. Otherwise I’ll only worry about saying the wrong thing. Or they might worry about saying the wrong thing to me. I’m pretty okay with most people – unless they’re about to stab me.’

‘Same here. So tell me about your family. Are you from a big Irish clan? Are there ten more of you back home – all girls, and all as gorgeous as you?’

‘I’m very flattered, but how dare you suggest I have ten siblings,’ Emily said mock-indignantly. ‘There haven’t been any really big Irish families since the 1940s. Believe it or not, we have heard of family planning these days. All those stories about cutting up flour sacks to make sheets were not an urban myth. I’m an only child, as it happens.’

‘Are you, really? How unusual. I don’t think I know very many only children.’

‘Well, that’s the situation. And I can’t do anything about it now, I’m afraid.’

‘It would have been nice to know there were some more girls like you in the world,’ he said gallantly. ‘You know, a few spares.’

‘Very funny,’ Emily said dryly. ‘They certainly are getting their money’s worth from whatever charm school they sent you to.’

‘I’m joking,’ Dylan laughed. ‘So what do your parents do for a living?’

‘They’re retired,’ Emily said quickly, helping herself to another broken biscuit.

‘I’m sorry. Did I speak out of turn?’ Dylan asked at once.

‘No, please don’t worry about it.’

‘Only they must be far too young to be retired, surely? You’re only, what, twenty-five?’

‘I wish I was twenty-five. I’m thirty!’

‘Well, you only look twenty-five to me. I’m thirty-two. It’s just that I really like you, Emily. And I’m just dying to know everything about you. I take it you went home to Belfast for the holidays?’

Both Dylan and Emily were blushing furiously now. Dylan was wondering if he was coming on too strong to a girl he had just met. And how could Emily possibly tell Dylan she had spent Christmas Day on her own watching television, eating ready meals from M&S, and making ten phone calls to her parents that went unanswered?

‘Look, my parents are a bit eccentric, that’s all. Even by Belfast standards. And believe me, the acceptable standard for eccentricity is quite high over there.’

‘So tell me about them. Please?’

‘My mum left school at sixteen and worked in a sweet shop until she married my father when she was twenty. My dad worked for a bookmaker for a number of years, and after that he was a professional gambler. I don’t think either of them ever felt particularly fulfilled. But then again, Belfast isn’t exactly a career opportunity hotspot. And we’re not very big on self-help and soul-searching either. That’s it, really.’

‘But you said they were eccentric. That all sounds reasonably normal to me, especially your mother being a full-time housewife.’

Emily bit her lip. How much could she sugar-coat the facts? she wondered. ‘The truth is, my mum shops rather a lot.’

‘A lot?’ he said, puzzled. ‘Like, more than the average woman?’

‘Yes, much more than the average woman. An awful lot more.’

‘Is she in actual fact a shoplifter?’

‘No, she’s not a thief. Thank the Lord!’

‘Sorry for even thinking it. Do you mean she’s a shopaholic?’

‘Maybe I do.’

‘Is she really a shopaholic?’

‘Yes, she is.’

‘I was only joking. Aren’t all women shopaholics?’ Dylan laughed.

‘Not like my mum. She can spend an entire day browsing for one little thing – one candle or one packet of soup. She only comes home again when the shops are closing, and sometimes not even then. She window-shops until it gets dark.’

‘Wow.’

‘Yes, big wow. She’s also a heavy smoker. And she likes a drink. That’s pretty much my mother for you. Always shopping or smoking or having a wee sip.’

‘You sound very sad when you talk about your mother.’

‘We’re not close,’ Emily admitted. ‘I was more or less reared on Kellogg’s Corn Flakes, with the telly for company.’ She laughed then, but the laughter didn’t quite reach her eyes.

‘What sort of things does your mum buy?’

‘Do you really want to know?’ Emily said.

‘Yes, I’m totally into retail psychology. Can’t you tell?’ he laughed, indicating the shabby shelves dotted with equal amounts of trash and treasure.

‘Well, let me see. Ashtrays mostly – nice ones and novelty ones. Cups and saucers – preferably discontinued lines of fine bone china. She’s very fond of leather belts and shoes, leather handbags and purses; she thinks having real leather accessories is a sign of good breeding. She also collects soap dishes, teapots, plant pots, egg cups, coasters, place mats and cutlery. And linen napkins and glass cruet sets. And small kitchen appliances …’

‘Does she like giving dinner parties?’ Dylan said.

‘No, she’s very antisocial,’ Emily said matter-of-factly. ‘She never cooks either. I have no idea why I’m telling you all this. It’s sure to put you off me.’

‘No, I think it sounds fascinating.’

Emily didn’t tell Dylan that her mother had opted to visit a new department store in Belfast on the day that Emily had graduated from university. Or that she’d queued for seven hours to get into a big sale in Brown Thomas in Dublin on the day Emily was due to get married to Alex. Or that she owned over a hundred ashtrays but not a single picture frame with a photograph of Emily in it. Or that she’d been hospitalized three times during Emily’s childhood when her drinking had spiralled out of control. No, there was no point in telling Dylan any of that, she decided, even if he did seem like the easiest person in the whole world to talk to. It was too soon to go making the big revelations. However, she did feel something in her heart wake up and begin to enjoy the attention that Dylan was paying her. And she felt a sort of sadness too. For she knew now, in her innermost heart of hearts, that her mother would never change. She would never be the sort of devoted, clucking mother that Emily had always wanted her to be.

‘How did you come to work for the magazine?’ Dylan asked next.

‘What? Sorry, I was miles away.’

‘The magazine, how did you end up working there?’

‘That was kind of a strange thing too, now you mention it. I was on the checkout in Marks & Spencer, and Arabella – that’s my boss – was chatting on her mobile phone and she dropped her basket of shopping. Beetroot slices and red wine splattered all over her shoes! She was mortified, as well as reeking of vinegar and Merlot! And by the time I’d helped her pick everything up, and dried her off a bit, we’d got chatting. And it turns out she was looking for a new assistant. And we sort of clicked, so she gave me the job. And I’ve worked my way up from general dogsbody to chief features writer. So that’s my story. My degree is in English.’

‘Good for you. It must be great fun working on a magazine.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘Oh, it must be really exciting sometimes.’

‘Not
really
exciting. I meet the odd celebrity – “odd” being the operative word – but I love the work, it suits me. It’s steady and predictable and I don’t have all that much to worry about – just praying the car doesn’t conk out when I’m ten miles down some tiny lane in Dorset. I’m a simple girl with simple tastes.’

‘I don’t believe that for one second.’

‘I am.’

‘Let’s wait and see, shall we?’

For Dylan suspected there was a lot more to Emily than met the eye.

At that moment the door swung open. An old man wearing a tweed jacket came shuffling into the shop and wanted to know if they had any cloth caps for sale. His head was freezing, he told them, since he’d left his old cap on the bus by accident.

‘It’s your lucky day, sir.’

Dylan was able to show him a small selection from a drawer beneath the counter.

‘Nice and clean they look,’ the man said.

‘These caps have all been dry-cleaned,’ Dylan assured him. ‘My sister is the owner manager here and she runs a tight ship, let me tell you.’

The man chose a cap and paid for it, delighted at the low price. ‘Great job,’ he said, putting the cap on and shuffling out again. ‘I shall tell my mates about this place.’

‘And another satisfied customer,’ Dylan said happily.

‘You’re good at this retail lark,’ Emily said, smiling at him. ‘You make it feel like it’s a real shop. I mean, not like a charity shop. There’s no air of melancholy in here – you know, the way there is in most charity shops?’

‘Thanks, Emily. I know the place isn’t much to look at now, but one day soon it’ll be a great attraction. That’s what Sylvia reckons. She wants to focus mainly on vintage clothes eventually. Obviously we need anything and everything right now to get started up, but then she’s going to gradually phase out the bric-a-brac and sell only the good stuff.’