‘What the hell’s the matter with you, Graham? It’s only a bloody book when all’s said and done. Anyone would think it’s the Crown Jewels!’
‘I ordered it!’ He was shouting at her. He was red in the face with fury. ‘My name’s on the packet. Doesn’t take a genius to know not to open it.’
‘WHY NOT?’ Maureen was screaming now. ‘It’s a book. Why shouldn’t I open it? Since when do people order private stuff on Amazon, for God’s sake? I’ve got a book on order too, and that’s why I opened your stupid package. I wasn’t looking at the name. Grow up! Anyway, now that I’ve seen what it is, the fuss you’re making is even more ridiculous. It’s Joss’s book. I’m about to become related to the bloody woman. Why shouldn’t I have a look at it? Not that I will again. It’s totally boring and you’re more than welcome to it.’
‘Don’t throw it!’
Too late. Maureen had taken the offending volume and hurled it at her husband. It caught him on the side of the head and he picked it up from the floor.
‘I’m the one who orders from Amazon in this house. Not you,’ he said.
‘How dare you say that? Why not me? I’ve got just as much right to order books as you have. Can’t imagine why you did order it, as a matter of fact.’
For a moment, Graham seemed confused. Maureen felt a rush of triumph. He hasn’t got an answer, she thought.
‘I’m interested in the Madrigal Prize. I write poetry, remember?’ he said, sounding a little less furious. She hadn’t seen him so put out for years. He muttered something about waiting for it for ages. And now, she could see he was about to make a fuss. Okay, the cover was bent back a bit, but that wasn’t the end of the world, was it? She sighed. ‘I’ll let you open the next Amazon packet. All right? It’ll be for me and you can open it.’
He didn’t bother to answer and went up the stairs to his study. Maureen wished he was still within kicking distance. He was beginning to drive her mad. He was taking no interest whatsoever in the wedding. Whenever she brought up the subject, he either changed it or wandered off somewhere. He was doing very long hours at work and all she was good for, it seemed, was to put the meals on the table and provide sex when he needed it, which wasn’t as often as she’d have liked. It was lucky she had other things on her mind. The dress. The food. She was in email contact with various catering firms and wrote to Zannah quite often with her thoughts on wedding-related matters. To be fair to her prospective daughter-in-law, her replies were always prompt but she didn’t go in for long, chatty, enjoyable emails. She was always to the point: not a good communicator. Never mind, Maureen told herself. Some people just are like that when they’re on the computer. They think they have to write in a kind of telegram-type style: as short as possible. Boring.
Maureen sometimes found herself wondering about Zannah. She was very attractive, if you liked the beanpole look, with not much in the way of a bosom, and hair that verged on ginger. Nice blue-green eyes. Tall, too, which would be useful when it came to wedding dresses. But there was a kind of reserve about her which she obviously got from her mother and that meant she wasn’t the kind of prospective daughter-in-law Maureen would have preferred in an ideal world. She allowed herself to conjure up a plump blonde who’d have gone round the shops and wedding fairs with her endlessly, comparing samples of this and that and discussing the merits of fruit versus chocolate for the cake. Zannah was too much like Joss: another one who came over all tight-lipped in emails.
She wished that Adrian was in touch more often. There was the matter of Charlotte and the women she lived with to discuss and no one else would understand her feelings. She wasn’t happy about that household. Since she had found out that Charlotte had been suspected of fraud and served six months, she’d also discovered that Edie – the sweet-looking dumpy one – was involved with one of those refuges full of women running away from abusive husbands and had once actually had an article in the Daily Telegraph. Maureen wondered how she’d cope if the media brought Edie to national attention while they were all involved with the wedding. The other woman, Val, was even worse. Apart from looking like an elderly and not very well-dressed scarecrow, she’d served six years for killing her husband with a kitchen knife. She’d never denied it, apparently. Maureen imagined a man’s body slumped over a Formica table, the scarecrow cowering with bloodstained hands in the corner, shivering.
Charlotte had told her all this over lunch a few weeks ago. Maureen had practically invited herself to the house, telling the old lady that they had a great many arrangements to go over together. Actually, there wasn’t anything that couldn’t have been done on the phone, but Charlotte was not very forthcoming about the marquee, so she’d gone there to find out the details for herself. One thing had led to another and Maureen prided herself on being good at extracting any information she wanted from whoever it was she wanted it from.
When the story of Val’s crime emerged, Charlotte had been careful to emphasise how cruel her husband had been. A brute. A rapist. Well, yes, Maureen thought privately, but still. Kitchen knives were not the answer and whenever that household came into her mind she felt a kind of sharp irritation bordering on distress. Imagine her son’s wedding actually being held in that place! Her grandmother used to say: What can’t be cured must be endured, but where was the sense in that? What can’t be cured must be changed as quickly and efficiently as possible. That was Maureen’s philosophy. But in this case, Zannah had set her heart on a marquee at her great-aunt’s house and there was nothing to be done.
Where was that number for Dreamdress? Maureen picked up the phone and keyed it in. She’d managed to get Zannah to commit to a date for looking at wedding dresses and was about to confirm this with the shop: the Saturday after next. If it weren’t for me, she thought, and to some extent Charlotte, this wedding wouldn’t get off the ground. True, Joss had organized the invitations, which would be beautiful, she had to admit, but she was busy, apparently, next Saturday week. A reading in the local library. How could that possibly be more important than helping your daughter with one of the most important decisions of her life? Maureen had actually said something along those lines in one of her emails and Joss had written back to say that she trusted Zannah’s taste. Not a word about my taste, Maureen reflected. Never mind, I’ll be there when the dress is chosen, which is what counts. She could hardly wait to see what Dreamdress had to offer. The article in the Daily Telegraph had been full of praise for the individual care lavished on customers.
‘Is that Dreamdress?’ she purred into the phone. ‘It’s Mrs Ashton … Thank you.’
As she waited to be put through to the lady in charge of appointments, she made a mental note to visit a few designer websites and begin thinking about her own outfit. Something in periwinkle blue, perhaps, but not too bright and vulgar. Or possibly pale coral.