Katie Fforde - Wedding Season

Bron started to laugh. It was all so ridiculous. And so clear. Roger had, he thought, moulded her into the perfect wife, but a perfect wife wasn't enough. He wanted a mistress as well – one who just happened to be her boss.

‘I'm sorry not to be more flattered, but you never asked and I wasn't going to marry you back,' said Bron. 'I was going to tell you I was leaving anyway – tonight.'

‘What do you mean? Where would you go?'

‘I have a place arranged, thank you for your concern.’

He tried to speak for a few moments and then managed, 'But my parents think you're perfect for me!' Roger was still in denial. He might well have thought about upgrading from a mere hairdresser to the salon-owner but it had never occurred to him that the hairdresser might leave him. He was outraged.

‘I'm very fond of your mother, Roger, but you're going to turn into your father very soon, and he's a fascist.' It was bliss finally letting it all out.

‘How dare you talk about my father like that!' Roger jumped out of bed, naked, his whole body jiggling with indignation. It was hard not to see the funny side. She stifled a giggle.

‘Sorry to hurt your feelings, but you must admit he makes Genghis Khan seem like a bleeding-heart liberal. I don't know how poor Pat has put up with him all these years. And you're just the same!'

‘I don't know how you can say that!' He was now struggling into a pair of boxer shorts. 'I give to charity, don't I?'

‘So does the Mafia, Roger! And I should warn you,' she said to Sasha, 'that he won't bother with foreplay after the first six months. As for looking for your G spot, without Sat Nav, he hasn't a chance.' She frowned. 'Maybe that was a bit unfair. Sat Nav can lose far easier-to-find places than that.'

‘Now you're being disgusting.' Roger was now wearing trousers and it gave him a bit of confidence.

Feeling her own confidence growing by the minute, Bron stood up straight and confronted Roger. 'You're a fine one to talk! You dress your girlfriend up in my underwear and say I'm being disgusting!' she said.

‘Bron!' A T-shirt gave Roger the upper hand, or so he thought. 'You're blowing this up out of all proportion.'

‘At the risk of being thought disgusting again, I think you've been the one doing that!'

‘Really, I had no idea you had such a filthy mind!’

She shrugged, for the first time a little rueful. 'I didn't intend to give you the character-assassination speech, but you did rather ask for it.' She moved to the dressing table, opened a drawer and took out a large plastic bag she had ready. And to think she'd been feeling guilty about leaving him. She swept everything on the table into it.

Sasha was getting back into her clothes and Roger put on his socks and shoes. 'You're over-reacting,' he said. 'Typical bloody woman!’

Bron sighed briefly, her anger abating a little. Originally, she had only been going to take what she really needed.

She wasn't going to take everything she'd paid for, just because she could. But now she was intent on stripping the bedroom of anything she'd bought personally. There was a huge dress carrier ready in the wardrobe and she slid the dressing-table mirror and one of the bedside lights into this while Roger was still staring at her.

‘You can't take the furniture!' he roared.

‘I can if I paid for it. I won't take the mattress though. It's been sullied.' She had to stifle another giggle. 'Sullied' was such a lovely word and she hadn't realised she'd known it until it popped out. Adrenalin was keeping her going, she realised, aware that later the shock of all this would hit her. But at this moment, she was on a high.

She was aware of Sasha and Roger whispering to each other, probably wondering if she'd gone off her head. She'd never felt so on her head. The bathroom was the next place to get the treatment, although she left the shaving mirror as it had been a present from her to Roger and she couldn't see properly in it anyway. She then went downstairs to the kitchen.

Her carrier bags were full so she found a bin-liner and started filling it with gadgets: the blender, the toaster and the steamer. Roger came in while she had the knife block, full of knives, in her hand.

‘You can't take that!' Roger's trousers were half tucked into his socks. 'It was a present from my parents!’

‘Yes,' replied Bron, half admiring him for being so confrontational when she was so well armed. 'To me!’

‘Shall I put the kettle on?' suggested Sasha from behind him, now fully dressed and anxious to soothe the situation if she could.

‘If you're desperate for a cup, that's a good idea,' said Bron. 'I'll be taking it in a minute.'

‘You cannot just strip my house like this!' Roger was pulsating with indignation. 'It's robbery!' He wasn't even trying to win her back.

‘OK, I'll leave the kettle,' Bron conceded, 'although it's mine by right.' She knew there was a kettle in the cottage. Mrs Lennox-Featherstone had sent her an inventory of what was there.

She surveyed the kitchen and considered taking the saucepans, but then left them. They'd been her parents', left behind when they moved to Spain, and they weren't very good ones. Her cookery books she decided were just too heavy; as it was she could only just drag the sack into the hall before going back for another.

‘What do you need that for?' demanded Roger, seeing her detach the bin-bag from the roll. 'You've taken everything that isn't nailed down!'

‘There's the standard lamp in the sitting room!' Bron had to bite her lip to stop herself laughing. She had no intention of taking the standard lamp, although that too had come from her parents.

‘This is bloody ridiculous!'

‘OK then, Roger, I'll do a deal with you. Help me get this lot into my car and I won't take anything else if you really need it.'

‘I've put a couple of sugars in your tea, Rog,' said Sasha. 'For the shock. This must be so upsetting for you.’

Bron shook her head in disbelief but didn't say anything. Roger hated being called Rog even more than he hated sugar in tea.

When she drove away twenty minutes later, Bron gave a little toot of triumph on the horn. At that moment she felt she could conquer the world.

Bron's calm gave up on her when she was halfway to pick up the keys from Mrs Lennox-Featherstone. She pulled into a lay-by and did some deep-breathing exercises, but they didn't stop the shaking that was convulsing her body. She burrowed in her bag and found some Rescue Remedy and after a few moments she calmed down.

‘Is it the Rescue Remedy, or is it the time you take to take it that calms you?' she wondered out loud, partly to test her voice for tremors. She blew her nose, then she checked her make-up, removed the accumulation of it that had landed under her eyes, and drove on. Vanessa had said she could pick the key up anytime, but if she wanted a guided tour first, she'd have to wait until after eight. Bron had fully intended to wait until someone could show her over the cottage, but then she hadn't intended to find Roger in bed with her boss. Shit happens: plans have to change.

The door of the big house was opened by the housekeeper – she presumed. Elsa had mentioned there was one.

‘Oh, hi!' Bron said breezily. 'I'm a bit earlier than expected, but could I have the key to the cottage?’

The housekeeper said, 'Come in. Mrs Vanessa is out, but she left a message about the key.’

Bron followed her anxiously into the hallway. A 'message about the key' did not sound like the actual key, which was what she needed. Supposing she couldn't move into the cottage directly, what could she do? She didn't want to land on Elsa's or Sarah's floor, although she could as a last resort. She didn't really want to talk about what had happened, not yet. It was too raw. She wanted to establish herself in her new home first. Although not having to meet Mrs Lennox-Featherstone just then was a bit of a relief.