RACHEL DECIDED TO CALL HER MUM AND ASK IF there was any chance of increasing the number of guests at the wedding if Alex were to pay. Her mum suggested that instead of finding a bigger restaurant, they have a party afterwards for all the guests they couldn’t fit on the eighteenth.
‘That’s a good idea,’ Rachel mused, ‘but I don’t want you and Dad having any more expense. I suppose we could hold it here at the flat.’ She hated the thought – it had taken days to tidy up after their New Year’s Eve party – but that would be the cheapest option.
‘I’m happy to buy a case of champagne and help you prepare some food.’
‘Mum, you’re doing enough as it is. It’s Alex’s turn to contribute something to this wedding.’ Her tone must have revealed her mood, because her mother picked up on it straight away.
‘What’s he done?’
It felt disloyal to talk about the previous day’s argument, but she couldn’t help herself. Her mum listened, and when Rachel had finished her rant, she was reassuring. ‘It’s only natural to argue during an engagement. Every couple does. You’re looking for faults in the other person, and worrying about whether you can put up with them for the rest of your life. No one’s perfect. We all have annoying habits – even you!’
Rachel swallowed. It was true. She wondered how Alex put up with her pickiness over clothes and decor. He was usually laid-back in those areas and let her make the decisions.
Her mum continued. ‘You need to stop criticising the documentary. Remember, it’s his career on the line. Next time he says something you consider tasteless, just button your lip.’
Rachel knew this was good advice.
‘And let him bring whoever he wants to the party. Why can’t it be a chance for him to invite his colleagues?’
Rachel didn’t like the idea of their wedding being turned into a networking event, but she supposed the main thing was that he turned up, they both said their vows and became man and wife. All the rest was window-dressing.
When Alex called that evening, he was frustrated that a manager at the Villa Windsor had refused to give them an interview about Diana and Dodi’s visit there on 30 August. He wouldn’t confirm anything about it, either on or off the record.
‘I’ve worked out that they could only have been there for around half an hour, so I’m guessing Diana took one look and said she didn’t like the house and didn’t want to live there,’ he said.
‘I read they were meeting an Italian interior designer,’ Rachel mentioned.
‘Yeah, I heard that too, but I don’t think it’s true. They would have been there much longer with a designer. Something else was going on and I’m determined to get to the bottom of it.’
‘I wondered if it might be something to do with the bracelet with the heart on it,’ she suggested. ‘Diana was wearing it after their visit but not before.’
Alex was silent for a moment. ‘How do you know?’
Rachel explained.
‘Genius,’ he said. ‘Top marks for observation. I’ll look into that.’
Pleased that he was in a better mood, Rachel tentatively suggested that they have a party at the flat, perhaps on the Saturday after the wedding, for those who couldn’t be at the dinner.
‘Don’t you think that’s a bit like having A-list and B-list guests?’ Alex retorted.
‘I don’t think so. The eighteenth is about family and close personal friends, but the twentieth is the drinking and dancing bit that everyone likes best.’
‘OK, I’ll make up a list. But if you could drop some of your interminable aunts and cousins, that would help.’
When Rachel came off the phone, she stared at it for a few moments. There had been no questions about how she had spent her day, no mention of the argument, no words of affection. It was hard to feel close to him when the only topic filling his head was Princess Diana’s death. Soon after they got together Alex had warned her that his previous relationships had tended to fail because of his obsessive attitude towards work but she had never known it to be like this.
Rachel was a self-sufficient type, and Alex seemed to appreciate that side of her. On holiday in Vietnam, when there was a mouse in their room, she was the one who trapped it in a wastebasket and got rid of it while he stood on the bed nervously giving directions; she was the one who did the DIY at home, and her knowledge of car mechanics far outstripped his. She had turned down his offer of money after the break-in and perhaps that made him feel she didn’t need any support – but she did. It was partly her own fault; she hadn’t told him about the huge financial pressure she was under. She had expected him to guess – and it seemed he hadn’t.
When Rachel woke next morning, the weather had turned grey and overcast, with squally rain battering the windows and the cold forcing her to turn on the central heating for the first time that autumn. As she walked to the shop, her umbrella kept blowing inside out and the spokes bent backwards so that it was limp and bedraggled by the time she reached the North Laines. This was clearly the end of summer.
The shop was deathly quiet all morning, the door only opening when the postman dropped off some bills. Rachel sat poring over the accounts, trying to devise cost savings, and filled out an application for an extra credit card. She called the art director at Gazelle Films, the company that was looking for 1920s items, but was told abruptly that they couldn’t consider any of her costumes without photographs and that their decisions would already be made by November. That was yet another blow. During the afternoon a couple of regular customers came in and browsed for five minutes, but she knew they wouldn’t buy because she had nothing they hadn’t seen before.
‘I’ll have new stock soon!’ she called as they were leaving. Not soon enough, though. There was an auction in Reading the following week, and she could do another charity-shop trawl, but both would entail closing the shop since she couldn’t afford to pay Nicola to be there.
Suddenly she thought of Susie Hargreaves. It had been over a month since Diana died. Would she be ready to make a date to clear out more clothes?
‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch,’ Susie apologised. ‘It’s been a difficult time.’
‘Of course. I understand.’
‘I keep going to the phone absent-mindedly, thinking, “I must call Duch,” then remembering I can’t any more. Her death hasn’t sunk in yet.’
‘How was the funeral?’ Rachel asked.
‘I wept like a baby, but fortunately I was sitting behind some large military type who got between me and the cameras. His wife kept turning round and tutting at the noise I was making.’ She gave a little laugh that had no mirth in it.
‘I watched a bit on TV and it seemed a strange mixture of royal funeral and show-biz tribute. The scenes outside were extraordinary.’
‘Diana was an extraordinary woman,’ Susie said. ‘But I suppose you’re ringing about setting a date to come over and clear some cupboards?’
‘I could use more stock, so it would really help me.’
‘And I could use some cash. Let me find my diary.’ She put the phone down and there was silence, punctuated by the sound of footsteps crossing a wooden floor.
Rachel tried to decide whether to mention Alex’s documentary. At least it would prove to him that she was supportive of his career, even if Susie dismissed the idea out of hand.
When Susie picked up the phone again, Rachel ventured: ‘I don’t know if I mentioned that my partner, Alex, is a documentary maker? He’s making a programme about Diana and I wondered if you would consider speaking to him.’ There was silence on the line. ‘Of course I’ll completely understand if you don’t want to. Sorry, just thought I’d mention it.’
When Susie spoke, her tone was cool. ‘Have him fax through some information about his programme and I’ll consider it.’ She gave the fax number and Rachel jotted it down on the corner of a page in her accounts book.
‘Thanks, Susie. And when do you want me to come to the house?’
‘I’ll get back to you,’ she said, and hung up without saying goodbye.