‘Boo!’ Beth says an hour or so later. ‘Penny for them.’ She puts a cup of tea down on Jo’s sewing table.
‘Oh, thanks, Beth.’
‘You were miles away.’
‘I was?’
Beth reaches for the garment spread out on the table, holds it up. ‘This is stunning,’ she says. ‘So different.’
‘I love working on pieces like this,’ Jo replies. ‘Far more interesting than the usual frilly white things.’
‘Oh yes, I totally agree,’ Beth says, running her fingers over the burgundy, gold and jade brocade on the bodice. Long blousy sleeves in dusky rose-coloured chiffon end with vintage lace cuffs.
‘The bride has collected antique fabrics for years, and her grandmother gave her some interesting samples, too. She wants all the bridesmaids’ dresses made from them, a kind of patchwork of memories of her family’s life.’
‘That’s lovely,’ Beth replies. ‘And so unique.’
‘She’s having a peasant-style wedding,’ Jo explains, pulling up some pictures on her phone of the mood board the bride sent through for inspiration. ‘She’s going to arrive at the village church on the back of a horse-drawn hay wagon. All the flowers are going to be collected from the hedgerows – cow parsley mainly – and there’s going to be a hog roast and a folk band in an old barn afterwards. Firepits and all.’
‘Nice,’ Beth says, nodding her approval. ‘Reckon I’d like that when I get married. If I get married,’ she adds with a laugh and a wink. ‘No man ever seems to stick around long enough to ask me. They all piss off for one reason or another. The last idiot ghosted me and— Oh God… I’m so sorry,’ she says, checking herself and blushing. ‘That was utterly insensitive of me, Jo.’ Beth carefully lays the little dress back down on the table. She’s new, but Margot had filled her in on what had happened to Jo when she first started.
‘It’s fine,’ Jo replies in a voice she hopes will ease Beth’s guilt. ‘I don’t want people treading on eggshells. Not any more.’ She looks up at her, feeling her faux pas pain.
‘Tell me to mind my own business, but are you OK?’ Beth says, touching her shoulder. ‘I mean… you know, as OK as you can be? It’s just that before, when I brought your tea, you seemed miles away. You didn’t really seem present.’
‘Oh,’ Jo says, laughing it off, ‘don’t mind me. Daydreaming, most likely.’
‘About him?’
‘Yeah…’ she replies with a shrug and a half-laugh. She can hardly tell Beth it’s because of the photos of Will on another woman’s mantelpiece.
‘Hi, Mum,’ Jo says, pinning her phone to her ear with her shoulder as she riffles through her wardrobe. Everything reminds her of Will. This is the dress I wore on our last meal out… this is the top I made from the fabric he bought me as a surprise, remembering how much I’d loved it. She was gathering a few items together to take away. ‘Everything OK?’ Her mum only usually called if something was wrong. Or to check if she’d met someone else yet.
‘Yes, darling. And don’t say it in that tone of voice.’
‘What tone of voice?’
‘Your tone of voice.’
‘You mean, just my voice?’ Jo steps back from the wardrobe, sitting down on the bed, repressing the heavy sigh she wants to let out. She holds the phone against her ear with one hand, rubbing at her neck with the other.
‘Now, now,’ Elizabeth Langham says. ‘That’s just what I mean, darling. Sarcastic and, well, a bit bitchy, if I’m honest. It’s upsetting.’
‘Bitchy?’ Jo says, closing her eyes and counting to ten. ‘Mum, you know I’m the least bitchy person around. Is that what you called to tell me?’
‘No, no, of course not. Can’t a mother call her daughter once in a while without an ulterior motive?’
‘Of course, Mum. I’m sorry.’ In another life, with another mother, Jo would pour her heart out – how she’s been upset, deeply upset, since she saw Will’s photos online; how she may, in a couple of days, discover what happened to him – that he’s living a perfectly happy life with another woman and not giving her a thought. About how she would have to go to the police if she found him – how she should go to the police right now. But she can’t – she can’t tell her mother, or the police, any of that. Not without discovering more first herself.
‘In another life what?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You just said “in another life”.’
‘Oh, I—’
‘Now, the reason I’m calling…’
Here we go, Jo thinks. Disaster or demand. Which will it be?
‘The Cresswells are having a party at the weekend. An engagement celebration for Phoebe. Everyone will be there. And so will you. You might meet someone, Joanna. It’s the right set.’
‘What?’ Jo’s head thrums. Demand, then, she thinks. ‘I can’t come, Mum. I’m sorry.’ And I don’t want to meet anyone. I’d quite like to have my husband back, thank you. Not have so-called suitors thrust in my face, Mother.
Jo claps her hand over her mouth. Please don’t let me have said all that…
‘Why can’t you come?’
‘Because I’m going away.’
‘Where?’
‘Just a little holiday, on the South Coast.’
‘Well, how can you afford that? You say you can’t afford anything any more.’
‘Mum, can I call you back later? Someone’s… someone’s just rung the doorbell.’
‘Well, I didn’t hear it.’
‘I’m upstairs. Mum, I’ll call you back, OK? Bye.’
Jo taps the red button to hang up, flopping back onto her pillow. She can’t stand a grilling, can’t take the questions, the disapproval that would inevitably follow. She knows exactly how the conversation would play out.
If that stupid man hadn’t abandoned you, then you wouldn’t need to be cleaning up dog mess, pretending it was a holiday. You should be sunning yourself in the Caribbean, darling, not being a skivvy. If you’d married someone decent, like your father and I told you to, then none of this would have happened, would it?
No… no, Mum, it wouldn’t, Jo thinks in response. Because if I hadn’t met and married Will, I’d still be searching for the love of my life, just like I am now anyway.
Ten
It’s raining – driving columns that come at Jo from every angle as she walks briskly home from the bus stop. She is taking the bus more and more now, the fare cheaper than petrol and parking. She knows the car will soon have to go, but not before she’s made the long drive down to Hastings to find out about…
‘Oh, just get in!’ she says, frustration taking hold as she fumbles with the key in her front door, struggling with her bag as it falls off her shoulder, her umbrella straining in her hand as the wind whips up. She’s trying to keep her hair dry as there’s no time to shower now before she leaves for Hastings, and she doesn’t want to turn up looking like a drowned rat.