‘It’s only a little bit! You’ve got lots of hair. I’ll tuck the burnt bit in, no one will see. Don’t worry about it.’ Her mum spat on her hair as if any potential flame could be extinguished with such a paltry gob. It did little to erase the stench or restore Merrin’s faith in her mum’s hairdressing ability.
‘Don’t worry about what?’ Ruby asked as she came down from their bedroom. ‘God, what is that smell? It’s disgusting!’ She wafted the air with both hands towards the open back door. Both she and her mum did a double-take: Ruby’s make-up was thick and quite changed the way she looked. Gone was her natural, rosy-cheeked prettiness and in its place . . . Merrin tried to hide her expression, knowing Ruby had gone to a lot of trouble, but her sister looked part pantomime dame and part toddler let loose with her mum’s lipstick.
‘What you staring at?’ Ruby challenged, as was her way, direct and a little defensive.
‘Nothing.’ Merrin blinked. ‘And if you must know, the smell is Mum burning off my hair on the one day I need it to look nice, and that’s what I don’t have to worry about, which is good as, apparently, judging by her sighs and tears, I have a lot of other stuff I should be concerned with.’
‘It’s my job to worry,’ her mum said. ‘You are my littlest girl and, if I don’t, then who will?’
‘Her husband?’ Ruby replied, and in one swift move took the mug from her sister’s hands, downing the cooling tea before Merrin had a chance to object. ‘I’ll go put the kettle on.’ Ruby made her way to the sink. Her mum once again went to work with the curling tongs. ‘I can do your make-up, if you like, Merry?’ Ruby called out.
‘No!’
‘Oh, God no!’
She and her mum laughed in unison.
‘Don’t know why I even bother trying to be nice!’ Ruby mumbled.
Merrin felt her mother jiggle with laughter. Ruby’s comical petulance was legendary. As a child, she was the kind of girl who counted the Christmas presents to make sure she and her sister had the exact same number and who used her finger to measure the amount of juice in a glass in case she was being short-changed. Merrin had once asked her mum why her sister was this way.
Heather had shrugged. ‘A little bit of theatre and a little bit of the green-eyed monster, I think, but goodness knows, we love you both the same! And never forget she loves you. Truly she does. But it’s like her pendulum in’t quite set right; she swings too far between love and hate – fiery, like Granny Ellen.’
Today Merrin would take her sister’s comments in her stride; she was far more concerned with the fact she was off to get herself a husband than her sister’s misaligned pendulum.
Husband . . . a grown-up word, heavy with connotation. Married. But far from feeling flustered, she let the thought of Digby fill her. Mrs Mortimer . . . Her nose wrinkled, as she couldn’t help but picture the other Mrs Mortimer. Her mum tugged her scalp with the hairbrush. Merrin winced.
‘So where is it you and Digby boy are going to live again?’ Ruby asked from the sink, where she was now washing a pair of tights in washing-up liquid.
‘In a flat above the garages.’ She beamed at the thought of her very own sitting room and tiled bathroom. ‘But when his parents are away we’ll go into the main house. And don’t call him Digby boy!’
‘So, if Mum sees you around the big house when she is cleaning, will she have to curtsey? And what if she and Dad are invited to one of her Christmas soirees? Will she be a guest, but also have to carry the canapés on one of them big silver trays?’
Heather had worked for the Mortimers as a cleaner for many years, which meant that Merrin was in the oddly privileged position of having heard her parents’ unedited views on her soon-to-be in-laws.
‘Ruby!’ Heather leapt to the defence of her employer. ‘Just stop it. Loretta has always been very kind to me. Truly she has.’
Ruby laughed loudly. ‘God, I’m joking! I’m not keen on his mother, but I must admit I quite like old Digby. He told me he’d take me clay-pigeon shooting and I know if we lay bets I can make a fair few quid.’
Merrin laughed, knowing this was probably true. She had seen Ruby’s prowess on the pool table at the pub when the townies were there: ‘Oh, I use this stick? I mean cue? And I have to do what? Get the balls in the little pocket thing on the sides?’ Merrin would then watch the bets placed before Ruby did what she did best: clear the table with an impressive string of fancy shots.
‘And what do you call her, Merry? Mrs Mortimer? Loretta? Mother?’ Ruby raised her eyebrows.
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ her mum cut in sharply and predictably. ‘She won’t be calling her Mother.’
‘She hasn’t said exactly.’ Merrin wished the woman had made her preference clear, but figured this was the kind of detail that would get ironed out after the wedding, when no doubt Digby’s mother would say, ‘Darling, call me Loretta . . .’ probably before giving her a warm hug to properly welcome her into the bosom of the family.
Whilst Mrs Mortimer had only ever been nice to her, Merrin still felt as if she were on trial, under the watchful eye of her future mother-in-law, who often asked her random questions like: ‘What do you think about private education, Merrin?’
To which she had stuttered her reply: ‘I’m . . . I’m not against it, really, but I think it depends on the child; some kids might like it, but others not, and I’d just want mine to be happy. . .’
‘Kids. . .’ Loretta had repeated, in a manner that made Merrin feel like she had inadvertently failed a test. Mrs Mortimer was also a lot chattier to her when Digby was around, and fell quiet when they were alone. Merrin wasn’t used to the silence, not living in this house.
‘Morning, all!’ Her ebullient best friend came in via the open back door, still in her pyjamas but with her hair neat in curlers.
‘Bella!’ Merrin jumped up and ran to greet her second bridesmaid, who dumped her holdall, handbag and what looked like her wedding shoes in a pile on the floor. It was typical of Bella, who put very little store in possessions; they were all fairly certain that today would be the first time she would wear a dress, as generally she preferred jeans and old tshirts.
‘How’s our little bride doing? Running for the hills or running into his arms?’