Katie Fforde - Wedding Season

The next morning, having called Mrs Lennox-Featherstone, who'd said come straight over, Elsa dressed very carefully. As a gesture to the beautiful, early summer morning, she wore string-coloured linen trousers instead of her uniform black, but with a black fitted T-shirt, so as not to stray too far from her comfort zone. Her new hairstyle shone with health and she put on make-up in honour of the occasion.

The house was a little way away from the town and Elsa admired it as she drove slowly up the drive, putting off the shy-making moment as long as possible.

It was a house worthy of admiration, with classic, Queen Anne proportions. Small for a manor house, it was huge by any other standards, with two storeys over a basement and tall sash windows. There was a flight of steps up to the front door. Going by the size of the stone walls that surrounded the property, it also had a huge garden.

Eventually Elsa had to stop the car and get out. She had steamed the dress and inspected it closely for marks or signs of wear. Only the keenest eye would recognise that it had been worn, and it definitely qualified as having had 'one careful lady owner' in the best tradition of secondhand cars. She still felt terribly nervous although logically she knew she had no reason to be.

The dress was in a special bag hung over her arm, the train caught up so it couldn't trail on the ground by mistake. Elsa took a breath and pulled at the bell-pull; she heard the bell ring through the house. So as not to appear too anxious, she turned to admire the perfect lawns and the roses that lined the distant wall and rambled up into neighbouring trees. When she heard footsteps, she turned back and took another calming breath.

A young woman wearing an apron over her slacks and polo shirt opened the door. 'Miss Ashcombe? Mrs Vanessa is expecting you.' She had a middle-European accent and a friendly smile. 'Follow me.’

Elsa, holding the dress high, followed the maid through parqueted corridors until they reached a large, sunny room, with French doors open to the garden. Mrs Lennox-Featherstone was on the telephone and waved an arm towards a table and two chairs that were over by the windows, looking out into the garden. Elsa went in their direction but stayed standing, holding the dress so it wouldn't crumple on the floor, trying not to look as if she could hear every word an increasingly irate Mrs Lennox-Featherstone was saying.

‘That's just too irritating for words!' said Mrs Lennox-Featherstone into the telephone. And then, 'How am I expected to do that? It's ridiculous!' She put down the phone abruptly.

‘It's maddening! Bloody insurance won't cover an empty property.'

‘Won't they?' asked Elsa politely.

‘Apparently not. We've got a little cottage nearby that we're getting done up in the autumn, but if it burns down between now and then, we'll get nothing! Just because it's empty! Surely it's more likely to catch fire if there's someone in it?'

‘I would have thought so,' said Elsa.

‘Hm, well, if you hear of anyone who needs somewhere to live for a couple of months, let me know. Really, that's far too short a let for anyone and it's not fit for holiday accommodation.' Elsa's hostess gave a final huff and then turned her full attention to her guest.

‘Where should I put the dress?' said Elsa, feeling rather self-conscious under the spotlight of Mrs Lennox-Featherstone's enquiring gaze. 'It should be hung up, really.'

‘Oh I'll take that.' The bag was draped over a chair without quite sufficient reverence for Elsa's sensibilities. 'Now, let's have a look at you… I knew it,' declared Mrs Lennox-Featherstone after a moment's critical scrutiny of Elsa's face. 'Black really is quite the wrong colour for you. I think you might be a summer person, but we'd need to check. Sit down.’

Obediently, Elsa sat at the indicated chair, wondering if her hostess was speaking in tongues.

Mrs Lennox-Featherstone took the other chair. 'You really are a lovely girl. That fringe is adorable – very Audrey Hepburn. That hairdresser was really talented.'

‘Yes she is,' said Elsa, glad of an opportunity to say something. 'She's a friend of mine.' After last night, she felt this was true.

‘Is she? Does she do much freelance work? I have an idea to take a party of my old ladies – one of my charities – to the theatre. I think it would be great fun to give them all a mini-makeover first, so they feel pampered and special. She'd need to bring a colleague,' she added thoughtfully. 'Have you got a number for her? Or better still, a card?'

‘I haven't a card, but I've got her mobile number in my phone. I'm not sure if she's actually doing much outside her normal working hours, apart from weddings.' While Bron had hinted that she would like to do more, Elsa didn't want to push her into something she wasn't ready for.

'Pop it down there for me.' Elsa was handed a pad and a little gold pen. 'Ah, here's Olga with the drinks. Lemon green tea all right for you? It has anti-cancer properties. You could have water, if you'd rather.’

Olga set the tray down on the little table and Elsa saw there were glasses and a bottle of water on it as well as a pot of tea and two china cups and saucers.

‘Oh, the tea will be fine, thank you, Mrs Lennox-Featherstone,' said Elsa, wanting to please her hostess; it seemed safer.

‘Oh, call me Vanessa, do. My name always makes me think someone's taken a bite out of a pillow and it's gone down the wrong way.’

Elsa smiled. This did pretty much sum up her hostess's surname.

‘Good girl,' said Vanessa. She picked up the teapot and began to pour. 'Now, I want to give you a present. No, don't protest, you deserve something for standing in for that little cow at the last moment, but I'm afraid I'm going to be frightfully bossy and tell you what you should have. There's your tea.’

Elsa took the cup, aware that she'd hardly opened her mouth and yet unable to think of anything to say that would be worth the agony of saying it. Mrs Lennox-Featherstone was flitting from one topic to another like a demented butterfly.

‘I want you to have your colours done.'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘A wonderful woman I know will tell you what colours work for you and which ones don't – clothes, make-up, that sort of thing. I'll come with you, so you won't be on your own. It'll be huge fun. I'll set it up and let you know the date.'

‘Really, it's extremely kind of you…' Elsa protested. It sounded like another form of torture and anyway, what was wrong with black?

‘No, dear, don't thank me. It's a bit of a mission. I'm like it with underwear too. Not that you need help on that score. Your bra has obviously been properly fitted. But if you knew how many women are ignorant of the fact that the nipple should be halfway between the top of the shoulder and the elbow. You see more nipples at elbow height than you can shake a stick at.’

Elsa, struck by the combination of shaking sticks and nipples wanted to giggle. It was partly nerves, she knew, and took a couple of deep breaths to help her relax.

‘You mustn't mind me, darling,' said Vanessa, 'I do get bees in my bonnet about things. I'm a woman with a mission. I should have been at the top of a multi-national company really, but I gave it all up for love.' She smiled. 'How are you liking the tea?'

‘It's fine – lovely.'

‘I know one can get quite hung up on health kicks and superfoods but I do think green tea is worth drinking.'

‘It's very pleasant,' repeated Elsa. She took a couple of large sips. Just as soon as she was finished she could leave. She'd stayed the polite amount of time, after all.

Just then the telephone rang again, and while Vanessa got up to answer it, Elsa finished her tea in one.