Katie Fforde - Wedding Season

He sensed her defiance and the corner of his mouth moved. 'I know.' He hesitated and then said, 'And I know it's an awfully cliched expression, but why don't you phone a friend?'

‘I will later. I feel too exhausted to talk too much now.' Bron finished her brandy. 'Men, eh? Who'd have 'em?'

‘He was only one example. We're not all like that.’

She sighed deeply. 'I know, but it'll take me a while to trust again, that's for sure.’

There was a moment's silence. 'Have your tea.' He moved the little stool closer to her. 'Would you like a biscuit?'

‘No thank you, I really should get settled in next door.'

‘Well, wait till you've finished your tea. I'll come over with you and make sure everything's working. Vanessa told me a new tenant was moving in – a young woman -and said I might need to turn on the electricity at the mains and things.' He paused. 'It'll be nice to have a neighbour again.’

Bron struggled to her feet. 'We'd better go then.’

James, having found the key, carried the bedding while Bron retrieved her case and some of the things she'd liberated from the house.

The little cottage smelt a bit funny to Bron as she entered. 'Alan, the man who lived here before, was an artist. He might have smoked the odd spliff,' said James.

Bron smiled. 'That explains it.' She didn't ask if James had shared the odd spliff with the artist, but he answered her question anyway.

‘I don't like my head being messed with,' he said. 'Tobacco is bad enough. I'm definitely giving up.' He grinned. 'Don't worry, you haven't moved next door to a crack den or anything.'

‘I'm sure I haven't.'

‘Listen, why don't I make supper for us a bit later – when you've had time to move your stuff in.'

‘Well, I did bring food…' Then she froze. The bag of groceries – just enough to tide her over for the first weekend – was still sitting in Roger's fridge.

‘You left it behind?’

She nodded.

‘I'll knock on the door when it's ready. It'll be something simple – eggs, I keep my own hens. Anyway, would seven be too early for you?'

‘Not at all. I should be sorted out by then. I'm really grateful for all your help.’

When she was alone, Bron got out her phone and found Elsa's number.

‘I've done it,' she said when Elsa answered. 'I've left him.'

‘Well done! What's the cottage like? Have you had time to settle in yet?'

‘Er no.'

‘Well, all in good time.' Then, sensing there was something Bron hadn't told her, Elsa asked, 'Is everything all right? Do you need me to come round?'

‘No, no, I'm fine… err..

‘Yes?'

‘I found Roger in bed with Sasha, my boss from the salon.’

Elsa dropped her phone.

After a quiet Sunday spent with her parents, eating lunch, going for a walk and watching an old film while she finished off putting some scarlet silk binding on a corset, Elsa woke up the following morning full of energy and ideas.

Without bothering to get dressed she went straight to her workshop. She had done all she could for Carrie until Carrie made a few decisions. There were two designs for bridesmaids' dresses, one long, one ballerina length. Ashlyn had had this, and so Elsa had assumed Carrie would want the same options. As to quantity and size of bridesmaids, Carrie was, as ever, hard to pin down.

So today she would get on with her own ball gown. The moment she heard from Carrie about the designs she had sent her, she would drop everything to get on with her dress, but just for now, she could concentrate on herself.

She got out her swatch books, going through them to make sure there wasn't anything more suitable – or more lovely – for her overskirt than the material she had already picked out.

She got out her book of costumes and found the picture of the one she wanted to make. It was very pretty and although her enthusiasm for creating it was total, the thought of wearing it was more daunting. Ashlyn's wedding had been a one-off; she much preferred to be anonymous, to wear clothes that didn't draw attention to her. And if this was the reason, as her mother insisted, that she didn't have a boyfriend, then so be it.

The phone rang; the voice on the end of it was commanding. 'Elsa? Is that you? Vanessa Lennox-Featherstone.'

‘Oh, hello.' Elsa glanced at the clock. It was only ten to eight in the morning! Who else but Mrs Lennox-Featherstone would ring so early?

‘So sorry to ring you at sparrow's fart,' said her caller, making the word 'fart' sound positively patrician. 'Tried yesterday but couldn't get you. Thing is, I've got an appointment for you. To have your colours done. Today. That OK?’

Damn! She'd so hoped that colours thing had been forgotten about. Still, she supposed she'd have to go now. And today, when she was going to do something for herself. She cleared her throat, coughed and ummed and erred a bit, but eventually had to concede that today was fine.

‘Fab! But I'm going to come with you so I know what you've been told and I can check up on you.'

‘Oh!' Elsa didn't quite know how she felt about this. It was very kind of Ashlyn's mother to give her a present but she didn't really think she wanted it. Sadly, she couldn't refuse – she just wasn't brave enough.

Mrs Lennox-Featherstone told Elsa she'd pick her up on the way to the studio. 'She's a marvellous woman – she'll tell you exactly what to wear and how to wear it. Tips on make-up, too. You'll have to throw away half your wardrobe, of course, but it's worth it! See you at half ten then. Byee!’

If this woman, whom Elsa already hated, and Mrs Lennox-Featherstone thought they could bully her into throwing away her black V-necked tops they were in for a surprise. She may be too shy and cowardly to defy them when they were actually present, but they wouldn't know – or indeed care – if she did nothing about changing. And why should she? She looked just fine in black.

Defiantly she went into the kitchen. A cup of Women's Tea would sort her out. When describing this to friends she said it was what you drank if you needed a strong whisky, but couldn't have one – possibly because it was still before eight in the morning. Once fortified, she went to shower and dress.

The doorbell rang promptly at ten-thirty and Elsa found Bron on the doorstep. She looked different – giggly and a bit wild-eyed.

‘Bron! What happened? Did you decide not to go back to work after all?'

‘I went in, just to see. And although I thought I could go on working for her, I found I couldn't. She did beg me to stay – terrified I'd tell the world, probably. I should have taken pictures with my mobile, I could have blackmailed her for millions!’

Elsa laughed. 'Well, you look great on it, I must say. What a shame your landlady is such a bully!'

‘She's not really, once you get used to her. I met her as I was going back to the cottage and she said I should come along. I didn't have anything else to do and I thought you might appreciate some support.'

‘Yes I do, of course I do. Let's go.’

Vanessa Lennox-Featherstone stood outside her sports car wearing a geranium-red suit that exactly matched her car. She may have been a woman of a certain age but she was no slouch in the style department. Elsa, clutching her bag defensively across her chest, admitted this with trepidation.

As she walked to the car Vanessa said, 'Morning, darling. Do hope this isn't terribly inconvenient but Hilary is incredibly booked up and we got a cancellation. Has Bron told you what's happened to her? Nightmare! Thank you so much for telling her about my little house. She's going to be the perfect tenant.'

‘I hope so,' said Bron.

‘Of course you are! A hairdresser on my very own land – how much better could you be? I usually go up to London to have mine done but now I can pop along to see you.’