Katie Fforde - Wedding Season

When she came back into the bedroom he was awake. He peered sleepily at her. 'If there's nothing else going on here this morning, you might as well bring me breakfast in bed,’

he grumbled.

Bron pulled on some clothes as quickly as possible to stop him getting too interested. 'What do you want?’

`You know what I want, but you're obviously not going to give it to me.’

Bron forced a smile. 'I meant for breakfast, silly. I've got lots to do today before we go to your parents'.'

‘I'll have eggs and bacon, toast and coffee. Oh, and half a tomato.'

‘Not toast in bed, Roger, please!'

‘Oh, don't be so anal.' Then he moved down in the bed, turned over, and apparently went back to sleep instantly.

Downstairs, she put the kettle on and then opened the cupboard and found her secret stash of chocolate. She sighed. Roger wasn't all bad by any means, but he wasn't particularly alert when it came to their relationship. Was he really happy to carry on as they were? Wouldn't he like something more like it was when they first got together?

She got a packet of bacon out of the fridge. When she'd made Roger's breakfast and taken it up, she'd come down, make a cup of tea and dip chocolate in it, while she read yesterday's paper. It would be a few golden moments of self-indulgence before the hurly-burly of Sunday properly began.

When she took up his tray he seemed to be fast asleep. Should she wake him? Just leave the tray and risk it getting cold, or take it downstairs again? She could eat the toast herself. But before she could make a decision, he groaned, farted loudly and said, 'Did I tell you there's a cricket club do on at the pub this evening? You won't have to do any cooking at all today, with Mum making lunch.'

‘I have just made your breakfast,' she pointed out, but without rancour; she couldn't be bothered to argue with him this morning.

‘Doesn't count. You never do during the week.' He sat up and smiled. 'This looks nice. Could you bring me up the motoring section of the paper? I know you're only interested in the girly bits.’

Bron considered telling him that he hadn't mentioned the cricket do but decided she didn't want to risk an argument. If their life together couldn't be exciting, let it be peaceful.

That evening, Bron was aware that Roger wanted her to look good so she took trouble with her make-up. Her hair was freshly washed and blow-dried and her nails were a reasonable length for once. She took out her favourite dress. It was last year's but still looked pretty and fresh with its shortish, flirty skirt, spaghetti straps and delicate floral pattern. It was one of those dresses that had never really been in fashion and so was never really out of it. She pulled out a pale orchid-coloured pashmina to wrap up in if she felt cold, but the evening was verging on the sultry and she probably wouldn't need it. She tied it round the handle of her bag so she wouldn't lose it, and then went to present herself to Roger who had his feet on the coffee table, reading the sports pages of a Sunday paper he'd cadged from his parents.

‘How do I look?' she said. She hated herself for needing to check, but if she didn't, Roger would tell her she looked wrong anyway.

He glanced at her. 'OK.'

‘Is it the skirt? Too short?’

He shook his head. 'No, it's fine. Quite classy.' A compliment! She couldn't believe it! 'So don't open your mouth and ruin it,' he added.

‘What do you mean by that exactly?' she demanded.

He sighed. 'Nothing! Don't get all worked up, it was only a joke. I just meant don't go boring everyone with tales of the salon. Having to cut out a tangled roller is just not that funny. A lot of the wives who'll be there have got really high-powered jobs.’

That was her put in her place. And as he had roared with laughter when she'd told him about this incident when they first met, she felt hurt and nostalgic for happier times. Was this relationship really salvageable? And if not, what were her alternatives? She knew the answer really, but didn't want to acknowledge it. Secretly, she had compiled a list of clients – either people she'd already worked for away from the salon, or people who'd go with her if she left. But knowing Roger would be unhappy about this only made her feel more guilty.

‘Well, darling, hairdressing isn't exactly rocket science, is it?' he went on, possibly sensing he'd hurt her feelings and trying to make her feel better.

‘Actually, rocket science isn't rocket science,' she said, feeling tired before they'd even set off. 'It's quite simple.’

Bron had heard this somewhere, but didn't really know if it was simple or not. She clattered out of the room on her high heels that weren't all that easy to walk in before he could answer. She took refuge in the kitchen and sipped a glass of water.

Oh, how she didn't want to go to this do! She'd hardly know anyone, and the ones she did know she didn't particularly like: they were all city traders or lawyers or the like. And Roger had been right about the wives – they all had careers they could talk about with pride. She knew perfectly well that what she did was just as challenging and difficult as what many of them did, but she also knew that society – that society anyway – assumed that hairdressing was a job for thickos. At times she considered getting a T-shirt that said 'I'm a hairdresser, please speak slowly' but thought people probably wouldn't understand it was meant ironically. A T-shirt with 'I have twelve GCSEs, three A levels and had a good offer for a place at university, and I chose to be a hairdresser' probably wouldn't help her case either.

When they arrived at the pub they had to fight their way across the crowded room. It was a country pub, one that Roger knew well from going with his cricket crowd, but Bron had only been to it a couple of times. The cricket club took over one of the rooms so it felt more like a club than a pub, really.

‘What are you drinking?' Roger asked. 'You're driving.’

As she always drove when they went out with his friends this was no great surprise. ' Orange juice and soda, please.’

While she waited behind Roger as he fought his way to the bar, feeling, as always, like a child waiting for its mother to pay it some attention, she looked around. She recognised a few faces and then her gaze landed on one she knew well. It was Sasha, the owner of the salon where she worked, and her bete noire. What was she doing here, of all places?

She looked away quickly, hoping Sasha wouldn't see her. It was already going to be a difficult enough evening -the last thing she needed added to it was her boss.

Roger handed her a glass. 'Come on, I can see the others over there.’

Deeply depressed, Bron followed Roger to the area where Sasha was, ensconced among Roger's friends as if she was already part of the gang.

‘Hi guys,' said Roger. 'Cheers!' He raised his pint glass, not bothering to introduce Bron, who wondered why on earth he'd brought her.

She smiled into space and sipped her drink.

‘Hi, Bron!' said Sasha. 'Bet you didn't expect to see me!’

Bron forced a smile. 'No. I don't expect you thought you'd see me, either.' It was interesting that Sasha seemed quite at home among all these high-flyers, but perhaps owning a salon raised your status somewhat.

‘Oh, I knew you were coming.' Sasha looked at Bron in a knowing way that made Bron feel as if everyone was in on a secret except her. 'Roger said he'd bring you.’

Bron looked at Roger, who was looking perfectly comfortable. Sasha and Roger knew each other slightly, she knew that. But she didn't know that Roger had spoken properly to Sasha, ever.

‘Don't look so stricken,' said Sasha. 'I phoned him about putting an ad in the cricket programmes.'