Naomi’s sense of humour has gone AWOL since she opened her first wedding file. She didn’t laugh when Gina and Stuart – well, Gina mainly – suggested, completely deadpan, the double football-club wedding. It was only later, when Gina reassured her that she and Stuart were in no great rush to set a date, and certainly not within confetti-tossing distance of the Hewson-McIntyre nuptials, that she stopped twitching.
The trouble is, Naomi keeps assuming that Gina also has a four-inch-thick file of wedding plans and mood boards and favour samples, and Gina doesn’t. Sometimes she wakes up and forgets she’s engaged to Stuart, and when she does remember, she gets a rolling sensation inside her stomach that isn’t the unalloyed bliss Naomi keeps insisting she feels now she’s only fourteen weeks away from being Mrs Naomi Hewson.
Being engaged is fine for now. Nice, even. Yes, nice. Everyone’s off her case, and Stuart’s really getting into the renovation work they’re doing on Dryden Road. Which is good, because they can’t afford builders, and are scraping, stripping and steaming it all themselves. Gina’s thrilled by how much Stuart’s starting to love their old house. Up until now, he’s been much keener on the executive estate Jason’s looking into for him and Naomi’s next home.
‘Does it fit?’ Naomi demands through the changing-room curtain. ‘We can always get it altered – there’s still just about enough time if you don’t change shape at all. I’m only having one bridesmaid,’ she explains to Barbara, the dress-shop owner. ‘My cousins aren’t the sort of girls you want walking behind you anywhere, let alone up an aisle. Plus, Gina’s getting married soon herself, so she’s not going to do one of those undignified leaps for the bouquet.’
‘Hello? It’s a curtain, not a sound-proof wall,’ Gina points out.
‘And she’s my best friend in the whole world,’ adds Naomi loudly.
She hoicks at the boned bodice, and two pale apples of flesh appear between her armpits and the corset. Nice. She shuffles her breasts around inside, trying to create the pillowy bosom Naomi’s achieved in her beautiful wedding dress, and feels uncomfortably like a bad Nell Gwyn impersonator.
The last time Gina was a bridesmaid it was to her own mother, in the town-hall ceremony. Gina wore a Laura Ashley dress that made her look five, not eleven. Janet wore a two-piece Jaeger suit that made her look like the registrar. Terry wore a brown three-piece suit, but, then, it was 1991.
1991. Nearly twenty years ago. Time is passing in a very weird way, she thinks. It seems to pass more quickly in Longhampton than anywhere else.
Gina’s been back now for three years, and she might never have been away. Sometimes, in the pub with Stuart and Jason and Naomi, someone mentions London – usually in the context of outrageous house prices, or criminal activity – and Gina has to remind herself that she used to live there. The dresses she wore to work are at the back of her wardrobe, and the numbers of her old colleagues at Wandsworth Council are still in her phone, but there’s no trace of it inside her, apart from a sense of relief whenever Tube strikes are announced on the news. The weird thing is, Gina’s not that bothered. She doesn’t really want to think about those numb years. They’re boxed up and parked at the back of her mental attic.
This is the start of her real life, she tells herself.
‘How are you getting on in there? You’ve got to hoist your – pardon my French – boobs right up,’ interjects Barbara. ‘Do you want me to come in and help?’
Gina wriggles her shoulders back to redistribute her breasts so they’re not quite as obscene, and takes a first proper look at herself in the mirror. What she sees is so different from what she’s used to that she stops and blinks at her reflection. What with the diamanté-studded bodice and the net petticoat, this is more a ballgown than a bridesmaid’s dress, and her face above the bare shoulders looks younger and lighter (Naomi has made her ditch her glasses and put in contact lenses for this trying-on session). Prettier.
That’d be the super-flattering soft lighting in the changing room, Gina thinks cynically.
But something about the way the corsetry is squeezing her shakes out an old sense memory of the last time her ribs were compressed like this, the feeling of warm air on her shoulders—
The dress Naomi has chosen is, without her knowing, nearly identical to the one Gina wore to her first ball with Kit. It brings it right back: dancing barefoot on the deserted lawn with the dew glistening on her red toenails, feeling untouchable in the bubble he created round them. That world where they were both still young and reckless and completely oblivious to everything that could go wrong.
Gina hasn’t let herself think about that night for a long time, but with the bones of the dress squeezing her waist in exactly the same way as her dress did then, she can smell the early morning already heating up, the flower arrangements giving off their secret night-time burst of scent, caramelised candy-floss and shirt starch, Kit’s aftershave and her own sunburned skin, undercut with the hangover creeping around the edges of her kaleidoscoping brain. And she misses it. Oh, my God, she misses it so much her whole chest is contracting – because it’s gone. All those possibilities are gone.
She closes her eyes and lets herself yield to the desperate longing to go back. But she can’t – it’s not even that she wants that particular moment; Gina just wants to go back to the night of the accident and not ruin things. That’s all she’s ever wanted. To go back and let that life carry on the road it was supposed to, because who knows where they’d be now, if she hadn’t spoiled everything?
Stop it, she thinks, furious with herself. Why are you thinking about this now? Why are you ruining this really nice day out?
‘Are you OK in there?’ Naomi jiggles the curtain. ‘Come on out!’
Gina pulls herself together, and swishes back the curtain. She can tell from Naomi and the wedding dress lady’s faces – the sudden, too bright smiles – that it’s not right. She and the peach dress don’t have the ‘wow factor’ they keep banging on about.
‘It’s nearly there,’ says Barbara, encouragingly. She makes a scooping gesture. ‘You need to hoick your boobs up. Here, let me show you.’
‘No!’ Gina steps backwards into the cubicle, nearly ripping the curtain off its hooks. Naomi looks surprised. ‘It’s fine. I’ll . . . Hang on.’
She pulls the curtain, and turns away from them, reaching into the corset to lift her handful of soft flesh higher up, and that’s when she feels the lump, like a pea, buried in the lower side of her left breast. Her fingers linger for a moment, as if she could pop it like a spot.
Gina’s hand freezes, and she holds her breath. Slowly, she removes her hand, and lifts the other breast up, irrationally hoping there’ll be an identical lump there to explain the first. A gland or something. But it’s fine – smooth and warm, the nipple nestling into her palm. Tentatively, she slips her hand around the left breast again, but this time she can’t feel anything. The breath leaves her in a rush.
Probably just the corset. And she’s about to start her period. Probably just that. That would explain the hormonal flashbacks, too, she thinks, relieved to have a reason.
Gina has an abrupt, stupid image of the Princess and the Pea. Surely if it was something bad she’d have felt it before. It’d hurt. This doesn’t hurt. It’s fine. Her fingers start to move there again, unable to resist. This time she can feel something.
‘Gina?’
She pulls back the curtain and Naomi’s expression brightens. Gina can see herself in the mirror behind them – tall, and dark, her cheekbones rounded under the light, and her breasts ice-creamy white above the corset.
Gina can’t stop staring at her reflection over their heads, as if this new grown-up her is a ghost in the room behind them. She doesn’t look ill – if anything she’s put on a few pounds. Aren’t you meant to start losing weight if you’ve got . . . lumps?
‘No wonder she’s staring at herself!’ says Barbara, approvingly. ‘Where were you hiding that bosom?’
‘You look
beautiful.’ Naomi’s eyes fill and beneath the expensive haircut and designer scarf, Gina sees the teenager again, the girl who couldn’t hold her vodka, who lied about liking Blur to impress Scott Rufford. She wonders what Naomi’s seeing when she looks at her. How much has she changed?
She feels messy with emotions, and guilty that she’s about to spoil what Naomi’s wedding magazines say is a key bonding process for bride and maid.
‘Are you OK, Gee?’ asks Naomi, suddenly.
‘Wedding dresses make everyone a bit teary,’ says Barbara, all girls together. ‘Your turn next, I hear.’ And she winks.
‘Yes,’ said Gina, but the voice doesn’t sound like hers.
In the morning, the dog was still curled up on the cushion by the door where Gina had left him, his long nose tucked into the sleek curve of his hind leg, making a tight knot of skin and bones. She was surprised by how small he was – in her mind, standing in the hallway, he’d been bigger. Now he looked like a kidney bean.
He was alive, because she could see the barrelled ribs rise and fall softly with each breath. She watched, counting the long seconds between each, noting the fine sprinkling of grey around his muzzle, the snowflake pattern of spots on his haunches. Although his eyes were shut while she stood there wondering what to do next, when she moved towards him they snapped open, and in a second the greyhound was on his feet, cowering slightly, his beady gaze fixed on her as if already fearing what her next move would be.
Gina didn’t know much about dogs, but the submissive way its thin tail was curved between its legs made her feel ashamed of the irritation that had been bubbling in her head. He was bigger, standing up, but rather oddly shaped, with that broad chest and narrow hips and small, slightly prehistoric head.
‘It’s OK,’ she said awkwardly. The greyhound shivered, though that might have been from the draughty hall; she could see the muscles twitch under his skin.
Talking to the dog was a bad sign. You’ve got to move it out before you start feeling guilty, she thought, as he – Buzz? Was that what the man had called it? – slunk into the kitchen. This is not your problem.
As the greyhound passed her, white-tipped paws making no sound on the laminate flooring, Gina could hear his stomach make a pathetic rumbling noise and knew she was going to have to feed him before she worked out what to do next.
Gina made Buzz another bowl of Weetabix, which he wolfed down before she had time to pour the milk on her own. Then, because he was still eyeing her plaintively, a nervous side glance that she couldn’t bear to meet, she gave him a couple of digestive biscuits too, which he picked up and took under the table. He crunched them quickly and neatly, one eye on her the whole time.
While she ate, Gina ran through her own day in her head. She had an appointment to inspect the first stage of Naomi’s playhouse-shed, which was taking shape in the joiner’s workshop on the Longhampton Trading Estate, and from there, she needed to pick up some new paint cards from the renovation suppliers on the same estate; that gave her plenty of time to drop the dog off at the police station and report the theft of her mountain bike.
The only minor flaw in the plan was that she didn’t know where the police station was since it had moved out of the town centre, and her Internet still wasn’t set up, so she couldn’t check online. Gina hadn’t told her mother that. It fell into the list of tasks Stuart would have done, which she was definitely going to tackle soon. Being without the Internet was, in some ways, much less stressful than she’d expected.
Buzz watched her from under the table as she found the phone book in the pile of junk mail, then waited in a queue to talk to a human being at the station. It took a long time, and when she got through, the desk sergeant sounded harassed. Reporting the theft wasn’t a problem – they’d send an officer after work to take her full statement – but the dog was. Apparently there was no room at the inn, literally, since they’d just raided a suspected drugs den guarded by no fewer than five dangerous dogs, all of which were now in the police station’s emergency kennels.
Gina didn’t want Buzz in her flat, but she didn’t want him in a kennel with dangerous dogs. He looked terrified enough already.
‘What sort of dog is it?’ the desk sergeant asked.
‘Um, a greyhound?’ Gina peered at Buzz. ‘A whippet? I’m not an expert. He’s skinny, anyway.’
‘Is it dangerous? Snappy?’
‘No, he’s very quiet.’ She checked her watch. She didn’t want to be late for the joiner: he’d made noises about having to go out to cost a job at half past. ‘Look, I just want to hand this dog over to someone who’ll look after him. And I want to report a stolen bike, please.’
‘To be fair, this is more of a matter for the dog warden. It’s technically a stray dog you’ve got there . . . Let me give you a number to call. Have you got a pen?’
‘What? Not an address where I can drop the dog off? Is he going to take long?’
‘I can’t say. He’s usually out on call during the day, and it’s a council department, so if you could keep the dog in your house until—’
‘I can’t do that! I have to go out.’
‘Give me a moment.’ The desk sergeant muffled a sigh, and in the background Gina could hear some frenzied barking. Did Buzz shrink under the table?
The phone came off mute. ‘Right. Can you drop the dog off at the Four Oaks rescue kennels on the Rosehill road? They’re one of the local overspill kennels for strays. I can give you directions and a number for them.’
‘I know where it is.’ Four Oaks Kennels was on the way out of Longhampton towards Rosehill. Gina had driven past the gold-and-green painted sign – the spreading oak tree with paw-shaped leaves – often enough. It was the same spreading oak tree that was on the sign for their charity shop opposite her window.
She arranged a time for the constable to come and take down the details of the stolen bike, then hung up. ‘Well,’ she said to Buzz, ‘you’re going to be fine. They’re very nice ladies up there – they do a lot of reading.’
His ears flattened against his head as if he were listening to her, and she felt surprised again at how unthreatening he was for a large, strange dog. Gina hesitated for a second, then reached out to stroke his head, but he shied away, backing into the sofa. When her mobile rang he flinched, and scurried to the door, tail rammed between his legs again.
Gina kept an eye on him as she answered; it was Tony the joiner.
‘Hiya, Gina,’ he said, and immediately she could hear the apology in his voice. ‘Would it be all right if you came a bit earlier this morning? It’s just that job I was going to quote for has moved and the lads are all out.’
‘How much earlier?’
‘Er, as soon as? I need to talk you through a few choices,’ he said pointedly. ‘As I recall the client was quite specific about some of the details. We’re having a bit of trouble with some of these specs.’
Gina couldn’t deny that. Naomi had had some quite innovative ideas about how the shed was to be divided between a three-year-old girl and a thirty-something bloke. A bespoke playhouse-shed was necessarily quite a complex design statement.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can but I’ve got to do a . . .’ She had glanced out of the window across the high street and seen a very quick way of shaving half an hour off her schedule.
‘That’s not the most sensible lead I’ve seen but it’s probably the most stylish,’ said Rachel when Gina dashed into the Four Oaks shop with her latest donation. ‘Can I interest you in a more traditional option?’ She waved her long hand towards a rail of punched-leather martingales and handmade dog coats.
‘No, thanks. Didn’t I explain? I’m supposed to be getting rid of things,’ said Gina. She dumped two bags of clothes on the desk. ‘Here. I’ve got some clothes for you. Call it a sweetener.’
They were actually some of the clothes she and Naomi were supposed to be selling, but Naomi hadn’t been round to help and Gina reckoned she needed to butter
up the dog-rescue people a bit.
‘Thanks! That’s fab. I hope you’re not getting rid of this handsome chap, though.’ Rachel slipped out from behind the counter and bent to stroke Buzz’s velvet ears. He pushed his narrow head into her hand, closing his eyes in a show of trust. ‘You’re a beaut,’ she cooed. ‘What are you called, eh?’
‘Buzz. And he’s not mine. I’m dropping him off with you.’
Rachel lifted her head in surprise. A hank of black hair from her choppy bob fell into her eyes; she pushed it back so she could fix Gina with an amused look. ‘No, no. We do books, and old cardies, and jigsaws. Not actual dogs. You need to take him up to the rescue. Do you know where it is? Up on the hill, just past the big cherry tree?’
‘I don’t have time this morning. And I don’t think I could get him into my car.’
Rachel stood up and brushed white hairs from her trousers. ‘Beautiful as he is, I can’t just take him in – there are procedures to go through. Who does he belong to? Did you find him wandering on the streets?’
‘Some lowlife left him as collateral while he stole my bike last night. I phoned the police, and they told me to take him to the kennels so the dog warden can collect him and . . . do whatever they do with stray dogs.’ As she said it, Gina wondered what the warden did with stray dogs. She had an unpleasant vision of Lady and the Tramp, and the pound truck. Another much-loved children’s film that had given her nightmares, much to Janet’s bewilderment.
‘His owner just abandoned him?’ Rachel’s expression darkened.
Gina nodded. ‘I don’t know if he’ll try to turn up and collect him – at which point I hope the police will nick the bastard, and hopefully get my bike back. If he hasn’t sold it on already.’