forty years earlier, she’d been told by the estate agent. He had done no repairs, no redecoration. By the time he died himself, the place had been in a parlous state. But—the agent had beamed—it wouldn’t take much trouble to modernise.
She should never have believed him. Even though the price had been low, the mortgage was more than she would have wished to pay. She had very little left over once she had paid it each month. Despite that, she loved this little house; it was the first real home she had ever had.
In her childhood she had passed from one “family” to another. Some foster mothers had only liked small children and hadn’t been able to cope with older girls. Once her foster family had split up in divorce and she had been parcelled off to another one. She had yearned for stability, for a sense of belonging, a real home—and at last she had one. No price could be too high for that.
She could do without expensive clothes, make-up, visits to beauty parlours, holidays abroad. She had a home of her own; that was all that mattered.
She had had to minimise the expense of conversion, though. So she had done all the redecorating herself, even painted the outside walls, standing on a rather rickety ladder she had bought for a song in an auction, but she had had to pay a local builder to repair the roof and instal a new bathroom. Those jobs were beyond her.
But when she and Tom were married they would be living here; she wouldn’t have to move again. Tom had grown to dislike his own house; living on a housing estate meant living with noisy children running around all day, kicking balls, shouting, riding far too fast on their bicycles along pavements, and his neighbours played their radios and televisions too loudly.
Life would be easier for them if they lived in her cottage. Tom insisted on taking over her mortgage and she meant to pay for all the food they bought. Their joint income would be comfortable. They would even take holidays in the sun in exotic places.
Lying in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, Pippa smiled at that thought. She hadn’t been abroad much; she was dying to go to foreign places, enjoy better weather.
An image flashed through her mind with a strangely vivid sensation, as if it was happening now, right now, and she started, shuddering.
The car crash, those terrifying sounds of tyres screaming on tarmac, the airbag ballooning into her face, the red sports car skewed into the hawthorn hedge, the moment when the driver got out.
Her heart beat painfully, her ears drumming with agitated blood. She shut her eyes. She wouldn’t think about it. She had to forget; she must clear her head.
Oh, why had it happened? Why now? Fate had a strange sense of humour. Only one more week and she would be Tom’s wife. Why had they had the accident, crashed into the man’s car, at this particular time?
She tried to sleep, but was awake most of the night. The flashback kept coming. Her brain was her enemy and would not let her forget. As the hours wore on, her head began to ache. She was first hot, then cold, twisting and turning in the bed, hearing the tick-tick of the clock on her bedside table as though it beat in her blood.
Eventually she did fall into a heavy, stupefied sleep from which she woke abruptly when her alarm went off at nine o’clock. She felt like death as she stumbled out of bed.
After a shower she dressed in jeans and a clean white T-shirt, then went downstairs to make coffee.
Samson gave her an angry greeting. She was usually up well before this time, and like all cats he had a good sense of the time, especially where meals were concerned. While she moved about he kept brushing against her, slithering between her legs, making his demand calls. Miaow. Miaow. Where’s my breakfast? Where’s my food?
After giving him a saucer of milk and cereal, she let him out of the back door, watched him streak through the little garden, then she poured herself orange juice and sat down to sip it. After contemplating the idea of some toast, she decided against it—she really wasn’t hungry.
The dressmaker arrived half an hour later, bright and cheerful in a neat grey skirt and blue blouse. ‘Lovely morning, isn’t it?’ She said as Pippa opened the front door.
‘Lovely.’ In fact Pippa hadn’t noticed; she had been too preoccupied. Now she glanced around, absorbing the bright spring sunshine, the blue sky, the tassels of catkins on a hazel tree in her garden, the frilly yellow daffodils and deep purplish blue of hyacinth. She had planted them last year; this year they had come up without her help.
‘Yes, lovely,’ she agreed. Another one of Fate’s little jokes, this wonderful weather, the beauty of the morning. It should have been stormy, threatening, not full of light and hope. The weather did not fit her mood at all. ‘Can I get you some coffee, Mrs Lucas?’ she asked, stepping back to let the dressmaker into the hall.
‘Thanks, I’d love some later, but I’d like to get on with the fitting first; I have a busy day ahead.’ Mrs Lucas considered her, frowning. ‘Aren’t you well, dear? You’re very pale.’
‘We went to a party last night, and on the way home we had a bit of an accident.’
‘No! Was it serious? Anyone hurt?’
‘Thank heavens, no, and the car wasn’t badly damaged, but it was a shock.’
‘Of course it was. Bound to be. No wonder you’re pale. Well, I won’t take up too much of your time. There isn’t much to do; the dress is nearly finished. I just want to check that it fits perfectly. Have you got everything else, now?’
‘Almost everything.’
‘Good girl. Well, get your jeans and T-shirt off, stand on that chair, and I’ll slip the dress over your head.’ Mrs Lucas stood waiting while Pippa obeyed her. The silk and lace dress was carefully held between her two hands and once Pippa was in position she delicately lifted her hands and the dress dropped over Pippa’s head and rustled softly as it fell to her feet. There was a small mirror on the wall opposite her; Pippa could see a partial reflection of herself, looking strange and unfamiliar in that dream dress. What was it about a bride that left a romantic glow?
Mrs Lucas got busy with pins, tucking in her waist a fraction, clicking her tongue. ‘You’ve lost weight again! Another pound, I’d say.’
‘Sorry. I’m not dieting, honestly. I can’t think why I’m losing weight.’
‘Oh, it often happens to brides. Wedding nerves, rushing around, forgetting to eat; they always seem to lose weight. Don’t worry, I can cope.’
Her mouth full of pins, she adjusted the set of the lacy bodice from which Pippa’s head rose so vividly, with that frame of bright chestnut hair lit by morning sunlight. Pippa watched her mirrored image with uneasy green eyes. Everything seemed surreal, unlikely—was that really her?
And if she seemed strange to herself now, she was going to feel much stranger in a week, after her wedding.
Looking at her watch with a groan, Mrs Lucas got up from her knees. ‘I must go; I’ve got so much to do today. I’ll just take the dress off, Pippa, before you get down. Next time you see it, it will fit you perfectly, I promise. You’re going to be a lovely bride.’
The silk and lace softly, sibilantly, lifted over her head. Mrs Lucas inserted the dress back onto a hanger inside the plastic carrier in which she had brought it, and zipped up the carrier.
‘Have
