Summer Daydreams (18 page)

Back at Live and Let Fry the champagne corks pop. Some of our friends swing by to join us and swell the numbers. In his usual inimitable style, Phil serves us all fabulous fish and chips. The mood is high. I put disposable cameras on the tables and everyone is taking photographs – lovely mementos of our special day. We let sixties music rock out of the stereo system and I feel all the tension of the last few months melt away.

Looking over at Olly, I watch him tenderly wiping tomato ketchup from the front of Petal’s dress, and smile.

‘It does feel different,’ I say as I sidle up next to him and link my arm in his, ‘being Mrs Oliver Meyers.’ Who would have thought so after all the years we’ve been together? But somehow it does feel like we’re a proper family now. A tightknit little unit. Us against the world.

‘You think so?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Maybe I should have become Mr Nell McNamara if you’re going to be the famous one?’

‘I don’t think so. I’m happy being Mrs Meyers.’

Tonight, Constance has offered to take Petal home with her for a sleepover so that Olly and I can have a one-night-athome honeymoon. My husband (I like the sound of that!) thought that we should at least have a few days away somewhere, but how can we when I have so much to do at the moment? Our two-week extravaganza in an exclusive beach bungalow in Bali will more than likely have to wait until our tenth anniversary. It was more by good luck than good management that we’ve actually had the whole day off today. I can certainly manage one night of wedded bliss though!

‘Happy?’ Olly asks.

‘Very.’

‘Mummy and Daddy! You’re being all squishy,’ Petal complains.

‘That’s because we’re very much in love,’ I tell her.

Our child doesn’t look very impressed by that, but Olly and I exchange a dreamy look nevertheless.

The afternoon wears on. Phil, jacket already thrown off, loosens his tie and spends an awful lot of time cosied up with Constance, which makes me smile. Everything about Jenny is getting looser due to the amount of champagne that she’s necked. She comes up now and plants a wet kiss on my cheek.

‘I bloody love you two,’ she slurs. ‘Bloody love ya.’ She wraps her arms round Olly. ‘And you,’ she continues, ‘have missed your big chance.’ He gets a big fat smacker on his lips. It must be like being licked by an over exuberant puppy.

‘Great,’ Olly says. I can tell that he wants to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand and I grin at him. ‘Shall we cut the cake now, Nell?’

‘Excellent idea,’ I agree, coming to his rescue.

We clear the decks a bit and we all gather round the rather grand cake. A battery of disposable cameras flash as we pose with the knife held precariously above the bottom tier. Just as we’re about to make our first cut together, the door chime signals the arrival of a new addition to our party. I look up and see Tod coming through the door. Immediately, I abandon the cake-cutting and rush to greet him.

There’s a hiatus while I say hello.

‘Hi.’ I feel flushed and overexcited, whereas Tod is as cool as always. ‘Glad you could make it.’

‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ he says, then he turns to Olly. ‘May I kiss the bride?’

‘You’d better ask the bride yourself,’ Olly, quite wisely, answers.

Tod tilts his head, silently asking for approval, then he lifts my chin and for one fleeting moment I get a flashback to when we were in the car together. He kisses me softly on both cheeks. ‘For the blushing bride.’

He’s right, the bride
is
blushing now. My face probably matches the bright pink gerberas in my bouquet.

Tod proffers an exquisitely wrapped present, which looks like it might well be a bottle of fizz. ‘Thank you.’

‘I have one more surprise for you, if I may?’ With that, he throws open the door again and lets in a photographer laden down with equipment.

‘Oh?’

‘What better backdrop to photograph your new Ms & Mrs handbag than this?’

I’d forgotten that I’d even told Tod about that. Fancy him remembering. ‘Fantastic idea,’ I gush. Some of it may be the copious champagne talking.

Tod waves airily at our guests. ‘Don’t let us interfere. Carry on with your cake-cutting, Nell. That will be just perfect.’

So, somewhat bemused, we return to pose with the knife. I notice that the expression on Olly’s face has darkened somewhat.

As we cut the cake, the professional photographer clicks away, this way and that. I pose and preen with my handbag on full show and get Petal in on the act too, but I can’t help but notice that Olly doesn’t seem to share my enthusiasm.

The deed is done. Our friends clap. The photographer finally puts down his camera. I start to help Constance and Jenny dish out the cake to our friends.

‘Can I steal you away for five minutes?’ Tod asks. ‘Kyle here would like to take some more shots of just you on your own with your handbag.’

‘Oh, OK.’ I put down the plate in my hands, lick my sticky fingers and wipe them on my dress.

Olly takes my arm and pulls me to one side. ‘Nell,’ he says. His teeth are gritted. ‘This is not a good time.’

‘It’s only five minutes,’ I say. ‘No one minds.’

‘
I
do,’ he hisses. ‘I mind. Not everything has to be turned into a publicity stunt.’

‘But this is a great chance,’ I counter. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself. Tod has been kind enough to organise a photographer.’

‘I’m not happy, Nell.’

‘It makes perfect sense. Tod’s right. It’s the ideal setting to launch the Ms & Mrs handbag.’

‘We could have just staged a wedding if that’s how you feel,’ he snaps. ‘Why go through the bother of all those tiresome vows?’

‘I don’t feel like that,’ I snap back. ‘It’s just that I happen to think, in this instance, that Tod is right.’

‘Tod, Tod, Tod,’ my husband mutters.

‘Come on,’ I urge. ‘Just have a couple of photographs of us taken together. For me.’

‘No.’ He pulls away. ‘Leave me out of this. I’ll have nothing to do with it.’

‘Well, excuse me,’ I say crisply, ‘but I’m going to have my photograph taken.’ I snatch up the handbag that’s causing so much controversy. Olly stomps away.

Looks like we’ve had our first domestic as Mr and Mrs Meyers. That didn’t take long. But surely Olly understands by now how important this is to me? Clearly he doesn’t.

I sigh to myself. Looks like the one-night honeymoon isn’t going to be much fun after this.

Chapter 36

Two weeks after the wedding, I’m sitting in my pyjamas watching
Lorraine
. Petal is sitting on my lap eating her breakfast and has just spilled her porridge all down me.

‘Sorry, Mummy,’ Petal says.

‘Breakfast at the table tomorrow,’ I say. That will teach me to encourage my child to have slovenly habits. Even though there are extenuating circumstances today.

Petal’s got a sniffly cold and is red-eyed and runny-nosed. The nursery are hysterical if you send any children in with the slightest thing wrong, so I’m having to keep her at home for a couple of days until it clears up. She’s not poorly enough to be confined to bed, but she’s ill enough to be tired and whiny and tearful, which is a complete nightmare as I have so much to do.

In fact, I’m so tired that I didn’t even jump up when the porridge ran down my jim-jams. I’m just looking at it with a sinking heart. More washing.

After the photograph of the Ms & Mrs handbag appeared in the national press – all organised by Tod – the phone hasn’t stopped ringing. Olly and I haven’t had a moment to ourselves. The orders have gone completely crazy and every waking moment – and some sleeping ones – has been spent making handbags.

The house is a complete state. Every corner looks like a handbag factory. There’s a small, clear track that winds its way through the middle like a maze but you have to move handbags from every seat before you can sit down. Already, before I got Petal up this morning, I’ve been making handbags for two hours.

My mobile rings again and I sigh. I can’t even sit here in my porridge-covered state in peace for five minutes. From beneath the pile of soft toys and handbag trimmings, I locate the ringing and rescue the phone.

I know that it’s a business call as no one else ever rings us these days. Our friends have long since given up asking us to go out as we’re never available. Sure enough, the cut-glass tone on the other end tells me I wasn’t mistaken.

‘Karin Parks from
Fabulous
magazine,’ the woman says.

‘We want to run a feature on your handbags.’

I feel like falling to my knees and giving praise, but I am aware of dislodging my child and nicely congealed breakfast cereal by doing so. This is like someone phoning to tell you that you’ve won the lottery and that it’s Christmas tomorrow.

‘That’s fantastic,’ I manage to stammer.

I can hear the satisfied smile even down the line. ‘We’d like to send a photographer to your offices today.’

Not so good.

‘Offices,’ I blurt. ‘I work from home.’

‘Even better,’ she says. But I think maybe she is imagining some minimalist, penthouse loft apartment in the Docklands, not a tatty, terraced house in Hitchin.

Surveying the mess with dismay, I venture, ‘Could you possibly make that tomorrow?’

‘We’re squeezing you into the next issue.’ More crisply. ‘I’d prefer today. I have a photographer free.’

‘Today would be wonderful,’ I say.

‘He’ll be with you at eleven,’ she says. ‘Can you email me your address details?’

Before I agree, she’s already hung up. I look round the room again and my heart starts to pound with panic. ‘Petal,’ I say. ‘Would you like to play a game with Mummy?’

‘No,’ my daughter says. I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.

‘We’re going to play Tidy the Lounge,’ I tell her. ‘First we’re,
you’re
, going to put all your toys away.’

‘I’m poorly,’ Petal reminds me. ‘You do it.’

‘This will make you feel better,’ I lie. ‘We’ll do it together.’

‘I’m busy watching television and having a cold,’ my daughter insists.

‘A very important person is coming to visit us and we want the house to look all sparkly.’

She takes in the seemingly impossible task. ‘I don’t.’

‘Let’s just phone Auntie Constance and see if she’d like to help too.’ When I call her, my dear, reliable and indispensable friend agrees to come round straight away. I quickly email my details to the magazine. That done, I reckon I have ten minutes before Constance arrives to get myself showered and dressed in clothes that make me look more like an up-and-coming handbag designer about to break onto the scene rather than a porridge-wearing slattern.

‘Petal, start collecting your toys now,’ I say. I try to sound as threatening as possible. ‘Or they all go straight in the bin.’

My daughter rolls her eyes but, miracle upon miracle, she starts to round up her toys. It’s all done, of course, at the slowest pace possible and she has a chat with each of them as she does. Leaving her to it, I make my escape and run into the shower.

I’m just downstairs again when Constance arrives. I hug her, give her the low-down and, without further ado, we set to. Petal also bucks up considerably now that Constance is here.

An hour later and my house still looks like a handbag factory, but it looks like a tidy-ish one. Trimmings are scooped into plastic cartons. Boxes are stacked. Bags are lined up for display. Sketches are piled neatly. Everything that can be hidden is hidden. We finish as the doorbell rings again.

Constance sighs with relief. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

I kiss her. ‘I love you.’

‘Do you love me too, Mummy?’ Petal demands.

‘Yes. You’ve been wonderful.’ She gets a kiss too.

The photographer and her assistant sweep in. They are both unfeasibly slender and trendy. Black is the
mode du jour
and I feel clownish in my yellow, red and blue T-shirt dress and orange ballet pumps.

‘Perfect,’ the photographer coos. ‘Workshop chic.’

Is that a compliment? Not for the first time, I’m embarrassed by my own house when previously I loved it so much. Its battered comfort suited us well as a family. Now I have the world’s press trudging through it, I’m not so sure.

They both completely take over the living room with lights and equipment. I feel like a spare part. But, eventually, after rearranging all the furniture, they have me posing with the handbags. They also take some pictures of Petal as she’s ‘adorable’, despite me having to continually wipe a slime trail of snot from her nose, and down as much tea as Constance can provide.

Three exhausting hours later and they sweep out again.

We all collapse onto the sofa. ‘That was fun.’ Like having your toenails pulled out or peeling off your own face with a spoon.

‘I don’t know how you do it, girl,’ Constance says. ‘I’m worn out just watching you.’ She pats my knee. ‘We miss you at the chippy.’

‘I miss you all too,’ I say honestly. ‘I’ll try to pop in more often.’

We all cuddle up together until Constance says, ‘I’d better go now or I’ll be late and Phil will give me what for.’