Rosa Temple - Playing Her Cards Right

I laid a napkin on the table and pulled out a pen.

‘Tell me,’ I said, licking a rogue spot of cream off my top lip. ‘How do you see yourself? It’s a romantic Caribbean wedding, by the sea, on the sand. How do you imagine yourself that day?’

Mother looked off towards the window. The painted menu on the glass obstructed the view of yellow cabs and passers-by but she seemed to be picturing herself on the beach, eyes half closed.

‘Something flowing. Not white, obviously, but something in a very pale colour to complement my complexion.’

I began to draw on the napkin. I drew a slinky figurine. Mother was slight and well toned for a woman of sixty-two. I began the sketching of swoops and lines as Mother voiced how she’d pictured herself on her wedding day. The first sketch wasn’t right. I reached for another napkin and tried again as Mother went on.

‘It shouldn’t be too young-looking but a dress rather than an ensemble,’ she said. ‘Those add years to the older woman and I don’t want to look ancient. As long as it’s comfortable but shows off the body I’ve been working on for most of my adult life. No upper arms showing. No matter how much I exercise, age isn’t kind to upper arms.’ She picked up her teacup.

‘Something like this?’ I pushed the napkin towards Mother. She took out her glasses and inspected my scribbles.

‘And what would it be made of?’ she asked, her light brown eyes being magnified by her glasses.

‘Georgette or crêpe de Chine. Something silky and flowing. It’s going to be hot on the beach.’

‘Not see-through.’

‘Of course not,’ I agreed.

‘Colour?’

‘For you, I was thinking light peach.’

Mother pulled off her spectacles. ‘Magenta, this is it. You’ve just designed my wedding dress!’

‘Have I?’ I took the napkin and stared at my drawing. ‘I have. I could take this to a designer and have them put it together.’

Mother placed her hand on mine.

‘Why don’t you do it, Magenta? You had some fabulous ideas when you were on your fashion course. I remember that smashing dress you made for an assignment.’

‘Oh, Mother, that was a hundred years ago. I dropped out of my degree course. I was crap.’

‘Don’t use that word. And you were far from crap.’ She took the napkin. ‘This is my dress, Magenta, and I want you to make it.’

My sisters were in total agreement, each one grabbing the napkin and nodding in approval.

I became excited at the prospect of being the designer of my mother’s wedding dress. But could I really pull it off? I did a mental list of the things I’d already committed to do. I remembered I’d told Anthony I was going to repaint the kitchen when I got back from New York. Was I crazy to even consider this? But it was autumn and the wedding wasn’t until the following May; surely I’d have long enough.

‘Well the girls and I all have our dresses sorted,’ I said. ‘But I still have to shop for Father’s suit.’

‘Oh he’ll be happy with anything off the peg as long as it’s from his usual place,’ Mother insisted. ‘No one is expecting you to design clothes for the whole wedding party. Just my dress, darling, and I’m sure you could do it.’

I couldn’t resist the challenge.

‘I’ll do it.’ I had a wide grin plastered across my face as we left the teashop. I walked arm in arm with Mother along the wide street, my sisters flanking us. With a renewed energy, we all managed a little retail therapy before making our way back to the hotel.

I was excited about designing and making Mother’s dress. I’d need help – I knew that. I didn’t even possess a sewing machine. I’d either have to buy one or hire a seamstress. It was going to be a mammoth task, juggling wedding dress fabrics for Mother’s gown and colours for the kitchen walls. I could envisage a catalogue of disasters but not if I got organized.

At this point I didn’t see that being organized wasn’t going to be enough. I jumped in at the deep end – wedding planner, house decorator, and entrepreneur extraordinaire . Weeks later, at age thirty, I got my first grey hair, a sign that my stress levels were on the increase, but I still didn’t take a step back from it all. You see I was in my happy place, high on a year of Saturdays spent with Anthony.

Chapter 5

The Chauffeur

‘So I’ll be off to Paris tomorrow afternoon,’ I said to Anthony.

I was cooking a late supper and breezing in and out of the kitchen to the annexe at the back of the house, which Anthony used as his art studio. It was actually a conservatory, which the previous occupants used as a breakfast room, but it was perfect for light and a good temperature for Anthony’s materials.

Since moving in with Anthony, I noticed how incredibly moody he became when he started a new project. It wasn’t until his piece was well under way and he had a clear visualization of his subject that he became my Anthony again. If I spoke to him while he was working on a new idea he just grunted at me. But always, once he’d stepped out of the confines of his studio, Anthony was the relaxed, easy-going man I’d fallen in love with and who was openly affectionate and kind.

Anthony’s dark hair was touching his shoulders now but it looked unkempt and was definitely unwashed. It was scooped up in one of my scrunchies to keep it out of his eyes and from the doorway I could see the gorgeous dip at the back of his strong neck. I was dying to kiss it but as he was barely grunting over his shoulder at me I returned to the kitchen to finish dinner. I could always seduce him later.

The sauce was simmering away nicely so I thought I’d pop upstairs and start some packing for the trip. I took my suitcase down off the rickety wardrobe in the bedroom and opened it up on the bed. It was dark outside, a chilly November evening, and I was looking forward to snuggling up with Anthony on the sofa later when he was out of the studio.

Anthony had taken up an artist residency at Slater Gallery in Piccadilly. It was a one-year residency and he was part way through it. He should have been doing all his artwork at the gallery but he insisted on completing a series of paintings at home, which meant he was draining himself creatively and being a bit of a grouch with it.

As artist in residence at Slater’s, Anthony would have to have an exhibition ready at the end of the one-year period. It would consist of everything he’d completed while at the gallery. Anthony wanted to include some additional material he’d been working on in his home studio, causing himself extra pressure, I thought. He was also expected to collaborate with the local sixth form college, giving occasional workshops to A-level Art students. Anthony wasn’t too happy about the workshops. He was fundamentally shy and would probably stand in front of the students with sanguine cheeks while he lectured. I was pretty sure the girls would fall in love with him, though.

I opened the cabinet in the bathroom. What would I need to pack? I stared at the unopened box of tampons, which surely I should have started using since I bought them. I calculated the days in my head as I threw the packet into my toiletry bag. I got out my phone and looked at the calendar. It confirmed that time had flown by without me noticing not having had a period. It was probably due to the stress.

I’d spent several days up a ladder having painted three of the kitchen walls. I’d also bought a sketch pad and pencils and had been losing sleep over whether my wedding dress design was really any good. Not to mention the hours in bed spent on Amazon, trying to work out which sewing machine to buy. Knowing me I’d probably come on slap bang in the middle of one of the meetings in Paris.