Jenny Oliver - The Vintage Summer Wedding

Nettleton, she thought, hands on her hips, there it was, all exactly as she remembered it.

Seb came round and draped his arm over her shoulders, giving her an affectionate shake. ‘Isn’t it lovely?’

She forced a little grin.

They strolled over towards a bakery coffee shop, its yellow-striped awning unwound over red cafe tables and chairs, a daisy in a jam jar on each.

‘Charming,’ Seb mused, pointing to the cakes in the window ‒ rows and rows of macaroons all the colour of summer and displayed to look like a sunrise, deep reds into lighter pinks and brilliant oranges fading into acid-lemon yellows, their cream bursting out the insides and their surfaces glistening in the shade. Like jewels jostling for space. Behind them were trays of summer fruit tarts, fresh gooseberries sinking into patisserie cream and stacks of Danish pastries with plump apricots drizzled with icing next to piles of freshly baked croissants, steaming from the oven. There was a small queue of people lined up in the cool, dark interior waiting to buy fresh baguettes and sandwiches. ‘Truly charming.’

Anna thought back to when she’d picked the wedding cake in Patisserie Gerard. The slices the chef brought over on little frilled-edged plates and metal two-pronged forks, watching as she placed the delicate vanilla sponge or chocolate sachertorte into her mouth and sighed with the pleasure of it. How he had suggested that she had to have between four and six layers, less was unheard of for weddings at The Waldegrave; two chocolate with a black forest-style cherry that would ooze when cut and soaked through with booze, heavy and dense. Then a light, fluffy little sponge on the top, perhaps in an orange or, he suggested, a clementine. Just slightly sweeter. The guests would be able to tell the difference. They’d definitely be the type to appreciate such delicate flavours.

Then, without warning, her mother’s voice popped into her head. We never had a wedding , Anna , and it was a sign . Anna didn’t see the cakes, just her own reflection as the words carried on. Pregnant with you, Anna, and standing in some crummy registry office with a couple of witnesses he’d dragged in from outside. I didn’t even get a new dress. And in those days you didn’t have pregnancy clothes, Anna, not the flashy things you have now. Oh no, I had a big hoop of corduroy pleated around my belly like a traffic cone. There were no photos. Thank god. But when I think about it now, I know it was definitely a sign. He wanted to gloss over it. A wedding is more than just a day, Anna. It’s a statement of intent.

As Seb pulled out a chair and stretched his legs out in the morning sun, Anna perched on the edge of the one opposite and said, ‘My mum rang yesterday.’

He twisted his head round to look at her. ‘What did she say?’

‘That she’d give us the money to get married. All of it.’ Seb sat up straighter. Anna licked her lips and pulled her sunglasses down over her eyes. ‘As long as I don’t invite Dad.’

Seb spluttered a cough. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me. No way. What did you say?’

She brushed some of the creases from her top. ‘I said I’d think about it.’

‘Anna, you can’t not invite your father.’

‘Why not? What difference would it make? At least it’d solve my problems.’ She paused. ‘Maybe then I wouldn’t have to invite yours either.’ She snorted at her own little joke, but Seb didn’t find it as funny as she’d hoped.

‘You can’t not invite him.’ He raked a hand through his hair. ‘I can’t start my married life on that kind of threat. She’s being a bitch.’

Anna bristled. ‘She’s not, he just hurt her.’

‘It was a long time ago, Anna,’ he said.

Anna glanced to the side, away from looking directly at Seb and, in doing so, caught a look at the girl behind the counter.

‘Oh god, it’s Rachel.’ Anna whipped round so fast her sunglasses fell off her head and landed with a clatter on the metal table.

‘What? Who?’ He stuck his nose right up against the glass. ‘No it’s not.’

‘It is. You’re so obvious.’ She pulled him back by the arm.

‘Well what’s wrong with it being Rachel. I liked Rachel.’

‘Urgh, that’s because you were a big old square at school just like her.’

‘I don’t think people say things like that any more. Not when they’re grown up.’ He raised a brow like she was one of his pupils.

‘God, I bet she’s loving this.’ Anna said, picking up her glasses and sliding them on to over her eyes. ‘Me back here with my tail between my legs. I bet that means Jackie’s somewhere about the place as well.’

‘Of course she is, Anna, she’s a teacher at the school, she helped me get the job.’ Seb shook his head at her like she was mad, as Anna started to breathe in too quickly.

‘Oh great, that’s all I need. Come on, we have to leave.’

‘Anna, stop it. This is ridiculous, you’re being ridiculous. You’re going to see people you used to know.’

And they’ll think, stupid Anna, now it’s our turn to laugh at her, she thought. They’ll think, what’s Seb doing with her? Have you heard, she lost all their cash? Spending outside her means. Running off to London, we all knew it was doomed. Never made it though, did she? Very few do, it’s a tough industry to break into. Did you hear she lost her job as well? Tough times though, isn’t it? Or the time to cut loose dead wood?

‘I can’t sit here.’ She started to push her chair away.

‘Anna!’ Seb raised his voice just a touch. ‘Anna, calm down. Sit down.’

‘No, I’ll see you later. Have a good first day,’ she said, grabbing her bag from where she’d slung it over the back of the chair and marching away in the direction of Vintage Treasure. She heard him sigh but couldn’t turn round. She caught sight of her reflection in the window of the old gift shop, Presents 4 You, and tried to regain some of her infamous poise. Her eye caught a T-shirt draped over a stack of gift boxes, on it read Paris, Milan, New York, Nettleton . In their dreams, she thought, in their dreams. Who would ever want to end up back here?

‘How do you like your tea?’ A woman’s voice called as soon as the bell over the door of Vintage Treasure chimed.

‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Anna said, her eyes pained by the catastrophe of objects piled around the place.

‘That’s not what I asked.’

She heard a clinking of teaspoons and the air-tight pop of the lid coming off a tea caddy, and made a face to herself at the woman’s tone.

Contemplating describing her love of Lapsang Souchong, her dislike of semi-skimmed milk and her tolerance for normal tea as long as it wasn’t too strong, she thought it easier to reply, ‘I just have it white.’

There was no answer, so Anna carried on her journey into the dingy Aladdin’s Cave, just relieved to be out of the scorching heat and the gossiping voices that seemed to lace the air. Inside, dust swirled in the beams of sunlight that forced their way through the dirty windows and shone like spotlights on such delights as a taxidermy crow, its claw positioned on an egg, a crack across the left-hand corner of the glass box, a dark-green chaise lounge, the back studded with emerald buttons and a gold scroll along the black lacquered edges. A looming welsh dresser stacked full of plates and cups and a line of Toby jugs with ugly faces and massive noses.

If there was one thing Anna hated, it was antiques. Anything that wasn’t new, anything with money off, anything that had to be haggled for or marked down.

All it did was remind her of being wrapped up against the cold, having her mittens hanging from her coat sleeves, her dad bundling her up at five in the morning in the passenger seat of his van, a flask of hot chocolate and a half-stale donut wrapped in a napkin that she ate with shaking hands as he scrapped the ice off the inside and outside of the window of his Ford Transit before trundling off to Ardingly, Newark or some other massive antique market. She had inherited her mother’s intolerance of the cold. The fiery Spanish blood that coursed through her veins wasn’t inclined to enjoy shivering in snow-crisp fields, her fingers losing their feeling, her damp lips freezing in the early morning frost as she trudged past other people’s mouldy, damp crap for sale on wonky trestle tables.