Made in Heaven (25 page)

*

Emily wondered if Zannah knew how much she'd sacrificed to come with her on her wedding-dress expedition. She could have gone to the movies with Cal and Isis. They were off to see
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
and she'd have loved that. It would have been much more fun than spending any time at all with Maureen in full sail. Emily was longing for this afternoon to be over, because Cal was coming back with Isis to the flat for supper. If I were at the movies, she thought, I'd be eating popcorn and pretending that we were a family: a mum and a dad and their daughter out on a Saturday afternoon, having normal fun. How great would it be if Pa could suddenly materialize at her side, in the way he used to when she was a girl. They'd always had fun together.

‘Psst … wanna see a mummy?' This was on a Saturday afternoon when Zannah had gone off with some friends and she'd been feeling left out and grumpy.

‘Egyptian kind of mummy?' Emily sat up, looking interested.

‘Yup,' said Pa. ‘A princess called Asru.'

They'd gone into Manchester in the car and had coffee in a funny little café just down the road from the university. When they'd got to Asru's display case, she was spookily and shiveringly and very satisfyingly dead and wrinkled and mummified. Pa had been the only person looking at her who knew anything about her, and Emily remembered being proud of him as he held forth in his rather too-loud voice. Which proves how young I was. It embarrassed me when I was a teenager. Wish I could be a kid again, she thought, and have some normal fun.

Normal fun was not what Maureen had in mind. She appeared from the depths of Green Park Underground decked in autumn colours, and it was clear even before she'd come up to them that she had dressed for this
occasion as though it were some special kind of party. Not quite cocktail, but smart-smart. She looked, Emily thought, like someone from the days when a lady didn't leave her house without a nice clean pair of gloves. Okay, she wasn't actually wearing gloves, but you felt that they were there in her head, so to speak: part of her image of herself. Another part of the picture now, ever since the bombs on the Tube in July, was an almost visible air of Vera Lynnishness about her: a gallant smile, a devil-may-care stiff upper lip, a sort of squareness to the shoulders. She was probably imagining crowds of admiring people around her, commending her on her courage in undertaking this brave assault on Bond Street undeterred by the worst Al Qaeda could throw at her. One part of Emily chided herself for her unkindness, but still a voice in her head murmured:
I bet that's how she thinks of herself. I bet it is
.

Zannah kissed her politely on one cheek, and Emily smiled from the sidelines.

‘Hello, Emily. I didn't know you were coming with us. How lovely!' Emily could see that Maureen would have been far happier to have Zannah to herself, and she noticed the barely perceptible hint of disapproval (slightly raised eyebrows) as she took in the black denim skirt and cream jacket that would evidently let the side down in whatever blisteringly chic emporium she'd marked out for them to visit.

‘It's just down here,' Maureen said, striding briskly into the network of small streets behind Piccadilly. ‘Not many people know about it – it's quite a trade secret – but it does have the most gorgeous selection of dresses from all sorts of designers. I've made an appointment for you, Zannah, and you can take your time trying everything on, with no pressure at all, of course. Just a little reconnaissance, if you know what I mean.'

Dreamdress didn't look much from the outside.
Zannah was dutifully talking to Maureen as they went in, so Emily had to keep her thoughts to herself. Discreet was the word that came to mind: a silver door, and that was it. You had to ring a bell and be let in, as though you were getting in to some members-only sex club. Members. Emily smiled to herself at the smutty joke and wished Maureen weren't there so that she could share it with Zannah.

Inside, a short flight of stairs led up to an enormous space, carpeted in a shade of pink so luscious you felt like sinking on to your knees and licking it. Doors all round the walls looked as though they led into other rooms, but turned out to be nothing but glorified cupboards. The saleslady was even smarter than Maureen, which was saying something. Her make-up was perfect; her nails likewise. She would have made most women – but not Zannah, who was seriously thin – feel positively chubby.

Emily found herself on a chair opposite Zannah and Maureen, who were sharing a sofa as though they were the best of friends. Only a sister would see that she's ready to make a run for it, Emily thought. Zannah kept biting her lip, always a giveaway. And her hands were literally twisted together in her lap as the dresses came out, one after another. Soon, there were about eight bridal confections hanging from hooks that hadn't been noticeable before because they were cunningly disguised to look like decorations on the doors/cupboards.

‘Now take your time, dear,' said the supersmart saleslady. ‘Try them on, one after another, and see how you feel about each one. Choosing a wedding dress isn't something one should do in a rush. And, of course, if there's a style or a look you fancy that you don't see here, just let me know. We have so, so much more to offer, if these don't appeal.'

‘Thank you,' said Zannah, and stood up with the air of a Resistance heroine about to be interviewed by the
Gestapo. She walked towards a dress that seemed made of a thousand layers of tulle and organdie.

Emily stood up as well, and went over to her. ‘Shall I come too? To zip you up?'

‘Thanks!' said Zannah, her relief obvious. She turned to Maureen. ‘Won't be a moment.'

In the changing-room, Emily looked around and said, ‘Get a load of this, Zan! They could let it out to a single mum and her kids, couldn't they? Or we could have the reception in here. Whaddaya say?'

‘Oh, God, why did I agree to this, Em?'

‘To please Adrian? To bond with Little Mo, in Ma's words? Perhaps even to choose a wedding dress … Here, let me do that up for you. There you go. The cream-cake look!'

‘It's awful. I hate it. I hate them all.' Zannah stood in front of the mirror, stricken.

‘Nonsense. You look like a very pretty cream cake. Go out and show your ma-in-law.'

‘Must I? Even though I know I'll never, ever wear anything like this. Not for love or money.'

‘I'll tell them,' Emily said. ‘I'll go and get another one and say you want something simpler. How's that?'

‘Would you? Really? Please, Em … go and get me something that at least looks wearable.'

*

Two hours later, Zannah, Emily and Maureen were recovering from the Dreamdress experience in Fortnum & Mason's.

‘My treat,' said Zannah. This extravagance, Emily knew, was the result of guilt. Zannah was feeling bad about hating every single one of the wedding dresses she'd been shown. She would, Emily knew, try to put a positive slant on the afternoon over a soothing cup of tea and some cakes priced as though they were items of jewellery.

‘Well,' said Maureen. She was making a bad job of
keeping the bitterness of disappointment out of her voice. ‘That was interesting, don't you think? I must say, Zannah, I'm not quite sure what it is you want. You seemed not to like anything we were shown. So many different styles … so many fabrics. What was the matter with them?' Maureen was keeping her temper, but it was clearly an effort.

Zannah took a deep breath and launched into an explanation. ‘I'm so sorry, Maureen. It's very kind of you to have come all this way and I'm terribly grateful, only the thing is … well, I did tell you that I have a good idea of what I want. I've had the same idea for years, really. Since I was about twelve.'

‘I was sure your childhood vision would be there somewhere. Are you quite certain there wasn't anything even remotely similar?'

‘The main thing was, most of the dresses were strapless.'

‘That's the fashion these days,' said Maureen. ‘You've only got to look at a couple of magazines to see that.'

‘Yes,' said Zannah. ‘I've noticed. I'm not very keen on it.'

‘Why on earth not?'

‘That style doesn't suit me, I'm afraid. I'm too bony round the shoulders. I've got no bust to speak of. It's just … it's not a look I like, that's all. And besides … '

‘Yes?' Maureen's teacup was halfway to her lips. The suspense was killing her.

‘They don't look bridal, those dresses. Not my idea of bridal.'

‘Anyone would think,' said Maureen, sweetly, ‘that you were a virginal young girl walking innocently up the aisle. You're the mother of an eight-year-old child, though, and this is your second marriage.'

Emily was dying to make some really rude remark that would have put the kibosh on the whole afternoon, but restrained herself. She could see Zannah was hurt.
She was doing that thing she always did when someone really upset her: biting her lip and looking down at her hands. Her voice was strained as she said, ‘I'll think about it, Maureen, and get back to you. Perhaps I should look into having something made specially for me … to my specifications, I mean.'

‘Anyone worth their salt as a designer-dressmaker would charge you a good deal more than a thousand pounds,' said Maureen, as though she'd already looked into it. She probably had, Emily reflected. You couldn't accuse her of not doing her wedding homework. Her laptop was doubtless steaming with the amount of Internet consultation that must have gone on. Now she was gathering her things together as though she was getting ready to go home, and not before time either. She was smiling at Zannah now, confident that she'd had the last word. ‘You wouldn't want to spend that amount, surely?'

Which, being translated, meant:
You can't afford to spend that much
.

Zannah shook her head. ‘No, of course not. Well, I'll just have to think, I expect. I'll let you know what I decide, Maureen, and it was kind of you to fix up the appointment for us. Really helpful.'

‘A pleasure, dear,' said Maureen, standing up. ‘You now know exactly what you don't want, which is half the battle, isn't it? Now I really must fly. Regards to your parents, of course. Such a shame your mother couldn't be here too.'

You had to be on Maureen's wavelength, Emily thought. What she's saying is: if Ma had been here, she might have talked some sense into her wayward daughter. And what sort of a mother isn't at her daughter's side when such earth-shaking decisions had to be made? A bad one, that's what Maureen evidently thought. Zannah just smiled, which was typical. If she'd said that to me, Emily reflected, I'd have found a suitably
sharp response. Not to mention a suitably sharp knife to stick into the bosom which she doubtless thinks of as ‘voluptuous' but which, Emily saw, was running the risk of becoming something more matronly altogether. She's making it seem as though Ma isn't interested, when the truth is much more likely to be that she didn't want to spend the afternoon with Maureen, and who could blame her?

*

Zannah stood at the sink, washing the plates and cutlery from the Chinese takeaway they'd just eaten. Adrian was out with the friends who were going to make up the guest list at his stag night. She thought of them privately as ‘the lads' and while most of them were okay, she'd been quite relieved not to have to go out after the wearing afternoon she'd just spent with Maureen. Isis, exhausted from recounting the whole of the plot of the movie they'd seen that afternoon, had gone to bed without too much fuss. She'd even managed to eat most of her prawn chow mein while undertaking this marathon of storytelling, which was quite an achievement. She'd insisted on Cal tucking her in, but he was back in the kitchen now, and putting away the dishes as she washed and Emily dried them.

He knows where they go, she thought. I don't have to tell him. All evening, she'd felt relaxed and comfortable. She'd taken off the clothes she'd worn to go to Dreamdress the second they'd come back to the flat, and was now in black velvet trousers, an ancient sweat-shirt and an even more ancient pair of sports socks. Her hair was up in a pony tail and it occurred to her that she wouldn't mind staying in this outfit for the entire weekend. Adrian would be shocked to know I think like that, she reflected. He likes me to be what he calls ‘prettied up'. Cal never noticed what I wore and still doesn't. Once, years ago, she'd burst into tears because he'd said nothing when she'd gone to endless trouble
to look gorgeous for some do or other, and then when she'd chided him, he simply hadn't known what she was talking about.
I see faces, Zannah
, he'd said.
I don't see clothes
. She could hardly believe it. She'd questioned him and it turned out to be literally true. A person could be wearing a binbag and Cal would only notice it if someone drew it to his attention. His lack of interest in clothes had irritated her when they were married, but now she found it refreshing. Did Cal remember what she'd worn at their wedding? Of course not. There were a few amateur snapshots of the party after the register-office ceremony (mostly taken in ghastly light in the pub) but none showed her outfit to any advantage.

It was a lovely dress, too. She still liked it and had recently taken to wearing it to parties and enjoyed the bluey-green swirly chiffon wafting round her knees as she walked. Cal had once, in an uncharacteristically lyrical turn of phrase, told her it turned her eyes the colour of aquamarines. Why had she suddenly remembered that now? Was she mad to keep it? No, not at all. Wedding dresses, she thought, lose any sentimental value they might once have had after you're divorced. It was just the fact that she looked good in it that stopped her from giving it to Oxfam.

Emily and Cal were giggling together.

‘You should've seen her face, honestly,' Emily said. ‘Disapproval written all over it. And Zannah stood her ground, which I wasn't expecting. I was sure she'd cave in before the combined forces of an intimidating saleslady and an even more determined Maureen.'