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Chapter Four

Rose

The whistle blew, the train rumbled slowly out of Paddington and the four women made their unsteady way along carriage ‘D’. JoJo had reserved four seats either side of a table, but it was taking a while to get to them; the train was busy and those without reserved seats were clogging up the aisle looking for spaces. Rose had to squeeze past a loud American couple, with a bird in a cage, who were bellowing something about ‘Cirences-tire’ and trying to persuade a disgruntled-looking teenager in enormous headphones to move so they could sit together. It was hot on that train; all the windows were already open and Rose felt quite stuffy and constricted in her jeans and top.

‘Here we are!’ declared JoJo, checking the numbers on the tickets sticking out the top of the seats. ‘This is us.’

They all started wedging their bags in the overhead racks. Rose, being quite short, had to stand on tiptoes to do hers and on the final shove went careering into a gentleman in a turquoise cagoule who was sitting below her.

‘Sorry!’ she said.

‘No problem,’ said the man, rustling his newspaper in suppressed rage.

As Rose took her seat, blushing, the others were all laughing.

‘Short arse!’ said Sal.

‘Clumsy Clots!’ said Wendy.

Rose grinned.

‘The longer I know you, the more you never change!’ laughed JoJo, settling in her seat. ‘The first time I met you, you tripped over in the Students’ Union and had to be picked up by that Philosophy lecturer. Do you remember?’ Rose nodded, giggling. ‘None of us really change, do we?’ continued JoJo. ‘Rose is clumsy, Wendy is crazy and Sal is always late.’ She grinned, stood up, reached to the rack, rummaged for her BlackBerry and charger and placed them on the table, before plugging the charger in.

Rose looked at Sal, Sal looked at Wendy and the three of them looked pointedly at JoJo.

‘Ha, very good,’ said JoJo, laughing. ‘I’m not going to look at that, by the way. I’m just charging it, for . . . later.’

‘Yeah, right,’ said Sal. ‘And sorry I was a bit late,’ she added, not looking that sorry at all.

‘It’s fine,’ said JoJo, with a grin. ‘There’s nothing I like more than sprinting towards a departing train like a demented bat out of hell.’

‘Me too.’ Wendy smiled, getting comfy in her seat and attempting and failing to smooth down her mass of red hair. The veil had fallen off again and was now sitting on the table. ‘I really appreciated leaping onto a moving ton of metal like Bruce Willis in Die Hard, minus the bald head and the vest.’

Rose chuckled at the thought of Wendy without hair and in a white, old man’s vest; she’d probably still look good, though. ‘I actually enjoyed it,’ Rose said. ‘It was fun, but then again I don’t get out that much these days. I’ll take my excitement where I can find it!’

‘We’ll be making up for that this weekend,’ said Sal. ‘Your lack of excitement.’ She got up to pull some stuff out of her bag and starting chucking things on the table: the penis deely boppers, the handcuffs, the L-plates, plus four miniature bottles of rosé.

‘So much for no hen props,’ said JoJo, shaking her head in mock sorrow. ‘Rose, Sal, you’ve really let me down.’

‘I know,’ wailed Wendy. ‘How could you?’ She grinned. ‘Will The Retreat even let me in if I turn up in some of this stuff? I can’t see the penises being allowed over the threshold!’

‘Of course they’ll let penises in,’ said Sal decisively. ‘Now stop whinging and let’s get some of this wine down our necks.’

They opened their tiny bottles and started glugging the wine. The rows of terraced houses outside the window were starting to flash past them quite fast now and the sun was coming out and glancing off NASA-sized satellite dishes. JoJo shrugged off her raincoat; Rose slipped her feet out of her court shoes. It was so hot on here!

‘Lovely,’ said Rose. She seemed to have quite a thirst on her and had drunk almost half her bottle in one gulp.

‘You might have chilled them,’ said JoJo. ‘Joking. They’re great.’

‘My wine, at the pub, is always chilled,’ said Sal. ‘I got these from the mini-mart at Woking station.’

‘They’re perfect,’ said Wendy, settling back further into her seat. ‘Thank you, Sal. So, how is everyone? What have you all been up to recently? Any gossip?’

They all fell silent for a second. JoJo shrugged; she hardly ever had gossip, Rose knew, unless it was something salacious about a client. Sal looked . . . what? Guilty, a little bit cheeky? A smile was curling at the corner of her lips in a suspicious manner. And Rose was considering telling them about Jason, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to bring down the buoyant, excited mood just yet. She’d wait for a lull in proceedings, like maybe on the train home again.

‘All the exciting stuff is going on in your world, Wendy,’ Rose said. ‘The wedding . . . next Saturday! I can’t believe it! Are all the preparations done?’

‘All done!’ declared Wendy.

‘Is Frederick on his stag this weekend?’

‘Nope. Last weekend,’ Wendy said. ‘He and some of his old schoolmates went fishing for the weekend.’

‘Wild,’ pronounced Sal.

Wendy grinned. ‘It’s just something he likes to do. He always puts the fish back,’ she added.

‘Of course he does,’ said Rose, ‘Frederick’s a nice guy – lovely, in fact. You’re really lucky, Wendy. He’s a catch.’

‘Just like the fish,’ put in JoJo, to smiles all round.

‘Lucky is the word,’ said Wendy. ‘Bloody, bloody lucky I think you’ll find. Right, so you know all my news – how about yours? Somebody give me something! How are the girls, Rose?’

‘The Sisters of Sass? Oh, just the same, unfortunately!’

The Sisters of Sass. That’s what she and Jason called their daughters – they would never say it to their faces, it would make them more sassy than they already thought they were. As Rose had packed her bag, all three Sisters of Sass had lolled on her bed. One had her feet under Rose’s pillow; one had a smooth, fake-tanned leg dangling over the end of the bed; the third lay on her front and picked at her nails until glittery bits of polish sprinkled down onto Rose’s pale grey carpet. On principle, she shouldn’t even have allowed them in her bedroom – she wasn’t allowed in theirs, unless it was for essential de-scuzzing, or to bring food . . . They’d spreadeagled themselves – all legs and straightened hair and perfume and nail polish and powdery, foundationed cheeks – and had started criticising her fashion choices.

‘You’re not taking those, are you, Mum? Like, total cringe!’

‘Eew – those shoes are horrible, Mum!’

‘Mum! You’re, like, way too old for that top!’

So charming. Rose often wondered who these alien creatures were and where had they come from. They were so big. They were so loud. They had so much stuff – so many clothes, so much make-up, most of which they were wearing, all at once, layer upon layer of it. And they were so contemptuous. It was a good job she loved them so much, otherwise she might resent being a rather despised and worn part of the furniture – squishy and unkempt and thoroughly sat upon.

‘And how’s Jason?’ asked Sal.

As her daughters had lain on her bed and teased her on her sartorial choices, a great snort had come from the spare room and the girls had hung off each other’s shoulders in peals of sisterly laughter.

Jason was having a catch-up nap and a bloody good snore. He had a varied repertoire; never steady, rhythmic snoring that could be tolerated by a co-sleeping human, but the spluttering, intermittent kind – a frustrating orchestra of misleading lulls and great, trumpeting trumpets. It was snoring that had seen he and Rose resorting to separate rooms, which was not a great situation as, of course, they were already in separate rooms for most of the year anyway, but Rose got such a terrible night’s sleep if she and Jason slept in the same bed, and she needed to be alert, what with the girls and the house . . . and the girls . . . to deal with that it was the only solution. And he slept better without her prodding him or kneeing him in the back or making random clacking noises with her tongue, like she was giddying up a horse, which she’d heard could stop a bear of a man snoring in his tracks.

Disappointingly, she’d heard wrong. They never slept in the same bed because of the Philharmonic Snorechestra . . . Rose had coined that phrase and her daughters, for once, actually thought it quite funny.

‘He’s OK,’ replied Rose. ‘The same. He got back this morning. “Good cop” has returned.’

Jason had arrived home this morning after yet another work trip to Hong Kong – it had been five years of this now; that land reclamation project was taking a really long time. His plane had actually arrived late last night, but sensible Jason never did a Roy Orbison and ‘Drove All Night’ to get home to her, all dishevelled and five o’clock shadow . . . rather he would check into the Novotel at the airport, have a good night’s sleep and a hearty continental buffet breakfast and then cruise on home for a civilised 8 a.m. When he’d stepped into the hall with a weary ‘hello’, she didn’t bother leaving the washing up to come and greet him; he went straight upstairs to sort out his case. It was predictable, non-romantic fare for two pedestrian, rather careworn ships that passed in the night, or rather, the morning. Same old same old.

‘Meaning you’re always bad cop?’ enquired JoJo.

‘Yep!’ said Rose. ‘I’m there at the coal face, in the trenches, doing all the nagging and the telling off. He breezes in now and again, like Prince Charming, to save the day, and to do nice things. They adore him because of it and just tolerate me. I’m so boring compared to him!’

To their girls, Jason’s homecomings were always Prodigal. All three of them had ambushed him on the landing this morning, showering him with kisses and hugs and risking creasing their lovingly ironed (by Mum) cropped tops and leggings. OK, they stopped short of ‘Daddy, my Daddy’ but it was like the bloody Railway Children.

‘Thank God you’re home!’ Darcie had exclaimed. ‘Mum’s been driving us nuts!’

‘And she took my phone away for being cheeky!’

‘And she wouldn’t buy me that new top, for Alex’s party!’

It was the same thing every time. He was someone fresh and exciting, hardly ever seen; she was always there, good old Mum, bad old cop, just part of the furniture to be sat on and abused, day after day, because it didn’t really matter if she was there or not.

‘Does he feel that way too?’ asked Sal. A train sped past them in the other direction, with an elongated toot and a flash of people sleeping or raising plastic coffee cups to their mouths.

‘That I’m boring?’ asked Rose. ‘Probably.’ Jason, she was sure, saw her as part of the furniture too. Not a lover, just that terrible and damning ‘mate’. When had he started calling her that? Five years ago, ten years ago? After Katie was born? When he’d been down the ‘business end’ three times in total, for the birth of his daughters, and had seen quite enough? When he’d witnessed her mooching round in her dressing gown of a morning cooking sausages one too many times? Or because he was away for more than half the year, leaving her and the girls to it, and ‘mate’ was the best she could get, in the current circumstances? She daren’t admit it could be way more than that, not yet.

‘Where’s he been?’ asked Wendy. ‘Hong Kong again?’

‘Always Hong Kong.’

‘He’s a man in demand.’

‘He is. Shame me and the girls are at the back of the queue for supply.’ Rose sighed a big, huffy sigh, and not for the first time. She was sure a lot of people thought she was a single mum, and she wouldn’t blame them. That’s what she was, in effect. ‘Ugh. Enough about me and Jason,’ Rose said, wriggling in her seat and slipping a foot in and out of one shoe, under the table. ‘It’s dull. What’s going on with you, Sal? Are you still dating and dumping?’

‘I like to call it being discerning.’ Sal smiled, as the train clattered heavily down a portion of track and their near-empty rosé miniatures jiggled on the table, threatening to topple over.

Rose smiled. Sal was always meeting people then discarding them. Several men in the last three years had been kicked to the kerb. There was Mr Lovely, who Sal was over the moon to discover had a tragically misspelled tattoo, a tiny etching of ‘They think its all over’, with a devastating missing apostrophe; there was Mr Right with the Wrong Attitude, who made the catastrophic error of opening a door for her and steering her through it as ‘one of the fairer sex’; and other men and other non-negotiable traits – an overly dirty laugh, an inability to pluck nostril hairs, a penchant for Travel Scrabble or owning one horrid jumper too many. Sal looked for faults like a bloodhound and was thrilled to uncover them so she could dispatch the man off into the horizon.

‘The Guy Effect,’ said JoJo sagely. ‘Still rumbling on.’

They all nodded. Sal had been in a ten-year relationship with Guy. On a good day he had been charismatic and charming, on a bad, downright awful. He had a lot wrong with him but Sal loved the man and could never see it. She defended him, she made excuses for him. She said he was a ‘poet and a tortured soul’ (he really wasn’t; he was a merely a frustrated copy editor on a lawnmower magazine); Rose and the others just thought he was a grumpy, argumentative loser.

During one of their epic fights four years ago, Guy had died. There had been a petty argument in the car involving Sal’s map reading and Guy’s refusal to stop and ask a passer-by for directions. The argument had escalated; the car had accelerated, driven by an increasingly angry Guy. He’d failed to see a Give Way sign and had ploughed them into the base of an electricity pylon. Guy had died instantly; Sal miraculously emerged unscathed, physically, at least, and, although grief-stricken over his death, Sal suddenly saw the relationship and its terrible end for what it was. She had been blind to Guy’s faults and that blindness had caused years of pain and, ultimately, tragedy, which was why she looked for them relentlessly in men now. It was a protection: simply, she only dated people she could never fall in love with.

‘Actually,’ said Sal, hesitantly, ‘I’ve slept with someone.’ Her face broke into a broad grin. ‘Someone I really shouldn’t have slept with.’

‘Who?’ asked Rose.

‘When?’ asked JoJo.

‘Why shouldn’t you have slept with him?’ asked Wendy. ‘Did he have the Wrong Shoes or call you a “lady” to your face?’

‘Er, no,’ said Sal, looking quite sheepish, for her. ‘He’s my chef, at the pub.’

‘Your chef!’ exclaimed Rose, delighted. ‘Oh, naughty, naughty.’

‘What’s he like?’ queried JoJo.

‘Have you got a photo of him?’ enquired Wendy.

‘No, of course not!’

‘A one-night stand?’ asked Rose.

‘Yes, of course a one-night stand.’ Sal jumped; a high-speed train coming in the opposite direction shot past them in dramatic fashion, making the windows rattle. Rose automatically breathed in. ‘You don’t think I’d make a habit of it, do you?’

‘Depends how good he was!’ laughed Wendy. Sal laughed too, but Rose knew she would do everything in her power not to make a habit of anyone. She was OK now, after what had happened to Guy, but she wasn’t ready to let anyone into her heart. Not again. Sal had said more than once that the pain simply wasn’t worth it.

The conductor came, punched their tickets; made unnecessary small talk. Rose willed him to hurry up and move on – they were trying to have an in-depth catch-up here! Finally, he shuffled down to the next seats.

‘Wow!’ said Wendy. ‘Your chef. Now that is gossip!’

‘Yup,’ said Sal. ‘And rather unsavoury, if you excuse the pun. I shouldn’t have gone there. Now,’ she said briskly, ‘let’s move on from my love life. JoJo, any men on the horizon for you?’

‘Nope.’ JoJo shrugged happily. ‘No men. Not interested, don’t have the time. I’m married to my work, as you know.’ A very apt choice of phrase, decided Rose, and so ironic: JoJo was so busy helping other women have perfect weddings she could never meet someone to provide her with her own. ‘I’ll keep my life plain and simple, thank you.’ She smiled serenely and picked her BlackBerry off the table to give it a composed glance.

Yes, that was JoJo, thought Rose. Married to her work and so eternally unruffled. She always had been. Even in university halls, where they first met, JoJo’s bed was always immaculately made, her room spic and span, her shoes – always heels; she wore them at university, when no one else did – lined up neatly against the wall. It would be nice if a man could come along and unruffle JoJo, Rose thought, but she couldn’t see it happening.

‘Speaking of which,’ said Wendy, draining the very last of her miniature. ‘How are my last-minute alterations coming along?’

JoJo had made Wendy’s wedding dress, to Wendy’s very precise specifications: a simple, silk, empire line dress with lace, capped sleeves. No loud, blingy embellishments, none of what Wendy called ‘unnecessary frou-frou’.

‘I know you only do class and sophistication, but nothing too over-the-top please,’ she had reportedly said to JoJo, when it was first mooted. ‘I don’t want to look like a toilet roll holder or a fairy on top of a Christmas tree.’ Wendy had also said she wanted to look like ‘herself’ on her wedding day and that she would do her own hair and make-up as ‘nobody wants a one-off orange fright with ringlets for the day’. But, the dress had to be white; that was a given. Frederick’s family were very conservative and very, very traditional; it was a huge white wedding and it was going to be very, very posh.

It was a shame Wendy couldn’t have what she really wanted, thought Rose – a good splash of colour, some zany touches, a more lightened-up, casual approach to the day, but on this momentous occasion she knew Wendy was willing to toe a more conservative line for the man she loved.

‘Coming along swimmingly,’ JoJo said, placing her BlackBerry back on the table and ignoring them all looking at it as though it were kryptonite. ‘Just a few areas of hand-stitched panelling to finish off then all done. Are you still going to let me add the beading? It’ll be subtle, I promise, and slightly vintage. It’ll really make the dress.’

‘Yes, I trust you,’ said Wendy. ‘Whatever you think. Go for it.’

JoJo was an incredible seamstress. She’d studied law at university, something her parents had pushed her into, but her first love was sewing, and after having Constance (a baby Rose had been highly jealous to discover slept all the time – her girls had all been nightmares) she took it up again. She made baby clothes, at first, then the most beautiful christening dresses – as her skills and confidence grew – then, with her friends’ excited encouragement, wedding dresses. They would never forget the first one she made: it was a silky, hand-embroidered slip dress she’d sold to a gushingly grateful bride in North Wales and it had been absolutely stunning.

‘You’re going to look wonderful, Wendy,’ said Rose. ‘I can’t wait to see you in it.’

‘Thank you, Rose,’ said Wendy. ‘And is it still next Wednesday, JoJo, for the final fitting?’

‘Absolutely,’ said JoJo. ‘I’ll have the champagne waiting.’

‘Booze,’ said Sal, nodding emphatically. ‘We need more of it now. There’s a bar on this train, right?’ She picked up the veil from the table and stuck it on her head, before standing up. ‘I’m off to track it down.’

Sal ambled up the swaying carriage towards the front of the train, the veil fluttering in the breeze from the open windows. Rose looked out of hers. They were in real patchwork-quilt country now and there was not a cloud in the sky. It was a really beautiful evening.

Sal came back with two half-bottles of red wine and some plastic cups. ‘It was all they had,’ she said. ‘Chateau de Plonk, and I got mistaken for the bride, which was quite hilarious. Told some old bloke I was getting married in the south of France and honeymooning on safari in South Africa.’

They all laughed. Sal was a hoot. Rose wondered what this chef of hers was like. She hadn’t even told them his name. Still, if it was a one-night stand, never to be repeated, what did it matter?

‘Hey, what’s your chef’s name?’ she asked.

‘Niall,’ said Sal, ‘and I’m not blushing.’ She handed round the cups. ‘I’m just a bit pissed.’

‘Ooh,’ they all chorused, ‘Niall,’ and Sal had to shush them and whack them all in turn with her veil until they shut up.

By the time they arrived at Chippenham Station they were more than a little bit drunk and very giddy and excited. They’d corralled the poor conductor as he’d made his way back up the carriage and regaled him with how Wendy was getting married and could he make an announcement about it over the tannoy. He’d refused, but wished Wendy lots of luck and chatted to them for a while about Norfolk, where the wedding was being held. He knew it very well, he said. He was from Thetford and knew Sumberley Hall where Wendy was getting married, as well as the Donnington-Blacks, Frederick’s family – he’d described them as almost like Norfolk royalty and Wendy had looked slightly scared. They’d also got chatting to the people on the table the other side of the aisle to them – four quite hilarious ladies off for a hillwalking weekend, who shared stories of being lost on the moors and eating cheese and pickle sandwiches on the sides of mountains, surrounded by hungry goats.

They’d got off the train, waving merrily goodbye to their new friends as it pulled away from the platform to continue its journey to Bristol Temple Meads, then crossed the footbridge over to the station building. Rose, now wearing the veil, tripped up one of the steps; Wendy, in the L-plates, hooted with laughter, startling a passing mother and toddler, who started to cry in his pushchair. JoJo had to apologise to them both while Sal picked up the pair of deely boppers that had got dropped in front of one of the wheels, squashing a penis. Spirits were so high by the time they reached their waiting taxi (JoJo, thinking of everything, had pre-booked one) that the driver looked reluctant to take them.

‘Had a bit to drink, have we?’ he commented drily as he manoeuvred out of the car park.

‘Yes, and it’s fabulous!’ replied Rose.

It really was. Reunited with her oldest and bestest friends for a whole three nights away, home and Jason and the girls seemed a million miles away and, at this moment in time, that was fine by her. She was ready to let her hair down, swing it around a bit and then have it wrapped in a big white towel while she had her toenails buffed.

They drove for half an hour, firstly through the town and then largely in the middle of nowhere. They were on an endless country road, which became single track, and, travelling under a thick canopy of over-lapping trees, it felt like they were in a tunnel. A thick, medieval brick wall flanked them on the left; Rose’s eyes travelled along with it, as it ebbed up and down in her vision. Suddenly, the wall stopped at two huge, wide-open wrought iron gates. A black slate sign, welcoming them with the swirly, engraved words, ‘The Retreat Salon and Spa’ protruded from lush, green grass. And then they were bumping up a long, sweeping, tree-lined gravel drive towards a huge Cotswold stone manor house.

Wow. It was stunning. Its pale yellow Georgian frontage, flanked by two impressive wings either side, gleamed in the evening sunshine; its walls dripped with tumbling, late-flowering, pale lilac wisteria. Spread before it was a gorgeous arrangement of ponds and fountains, circled by multicoloured blooms. It was posh, but with a romantic, faded-looking country glamour. It was majestic, but welcoming. Rose couldn’t wait to get inside.

They got out of the taxi, marginally stunned, and just stood on the gravel, gawping up at The Retreat.

‘Oh, JoJo!’ said Wendy. She actually had tears in her eyes. ‘It’s breathtaking. If I haven’t already, I completely take it back about not wanting a hen weekend.’

‘Too right,’ said Sal, her jaw dropping. ‘It’s bloody gorgeous. Look at that flippin’ swimming pool!’ Over to the right of the house, on a diamond-shaped jigsaw of Cotswold slab set into the perfect, emerald lawn, was a huge, outdoor swimming pool surrounded by expensive-looking wooden sunloungers topped with yellow and white striped towels. Swanky white umbrellas fluttered in the breeze; stone steps at one end led down to turquoise, sparkling water. And next to it was a pool house so big and glamorous it could be an estate all of its own.

‘The girl did good,’ said Rose, giving her friend a squeeze round the waist. ‘Well done, JoJo.’ JoJo looked all proud, as well she might, thought Rose. This place looked amazing, like something out of a film, and she knew they all couldn’t wait to sample the treats it promised. Glamour Pamper Package, here they came!

‘You’re welcome,’ said JoJo. ‘I wanted to book something really special for Wendy. She deserves it. And you all deserve it, too.’

‘And you, as well,’ said Wendy. ‘You deserve a break.’

‘Yes, I know,’ admitted JoJo, not looking wholly convinced.

‘Turn off the BlackBerry for the duration,’ scolded Sal. ‘Brides will still adore and order your dresses, the shop will still be standing when you get back to London, and the world won’t stop turning because you don’t pick up a needle and thread or a bloody diamanté for the next two and a bit days.’

JoJo laughed. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘And I promise to try. Shall we get inside?’

‘Yes please,’ said Rose. They laughingly linked arms, like The Monkees, then realised that wouldn’t work as they all had their bags to bring in. Giggling, they picked up their luggage, crossed the gravel and made their way into reception.

This was going to be the Best. Weekend. Ever.