Bron lay in bed for a few moments to see if Roger was stirring. Sunday morning was his favourite time for sex -he had usually had a bit too much to drink for it on Saturday night and was too obsessed with getting ready for work on weekdays. Although it really did nothing for her now, Bron knew that avoiding sex wouldn't help her relationship. She counted to ten and slipped out of bed and into the bathroom feeling relieved and guilty – but more relief than guilt. Maybe they did need a weekend away together somewhere, although in her heart of hearts she knew it would take more than that to fix it.
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.'
‘That's right,' said Roger. 'Local advertising is very important to us. If we could get a sponsor for the kit..
‘Well, that's good,' said Bron, quietly but more firmly than usual. 'If your cricketing chums come to the salon, I won't have to cut their hair for free.'
‘Bron?' said Sasha teasingly. 'You're not moonlighting, are you?'
‘I cut Roger's mother's hair and any of the WAGs who do teas for me when I'm on the rota.' Sasha didn't know about Bron's recent spate of weddings; Bron really hoped Roger wouldn't say anything.
‘Why don't you tell her to book an appointment at the salon?' said Sasha, still smiling to imply she was joking, but there was the usual edge to her voice whenever she spoke to Bron. 'We haven't got so many customers that you can afford to give out freebies!’
Bron smiled back. She knew perfectly well that Sasha meant every word and, for once, she had the perfect answer. 'If Roger's mother came to the salon, she couldn't guarantee to get me. She might have to make do with one of the other stylists.' Bron made an I'm-a-ditzy-girl expression, but she meant what she'd said just as much as Sasha had.
‘Oh, Mum wouldn't mind who she had to do her hair,' said Roger, missing all the undertones. 'It doesn't matter to women of that age what they look like.’
Even Sasha seemed a bit horrified at this, although she had made that really ageing suggestion for Bron's client.
‘Well, you know what I mean,' he went on. 'A bit of a snip here and there, it can't matter who does it.'
‘So who cuts your hair, Roger?' asked Sasha.
'Bron,' he said, getting slightly pink.
‘I can tell. Come and see me next time you want it cut. I could do things with hair like that.' Sasha gave him a look that excluded everyone else present.
‘Oh, please do,' said Bron. 'There's a really tricky bit where he's going a bit thin. You might be able to do something clever to disguise it.’
Roger stared at her, his mouth slightly open.
‘Sorry,' went on Bron, her inner bitch still off the leash, 'didn't you know you were going a bit bald? It's perfectly normal, you know, as you get older.' Then, aware that she might have gone a bit too far in asserting herself, she said, 'I feel a bit hot. I'm just going into the garden for some air.’
No one in the group objected to her leaving, she realised as they made way for her. The back doors of the pub opened on to large gardens that led to a small stream. Bron abandoned her empty glass and walked out into the fresh air. Then, her heels piercing the grass with every step, she headed to where she could see willows weeping picturesquely into the water. She pulled her pashmina around her shoulders to help keep off the midges. Once she could stare into the water she would feel calmer.
She'd have to go back in eventually, she realised, but she really didn't want to. They weren't her sort of people, they were Roger's, and they made her feel like the child on the edge of the group in the playground. She was not exactly ostracised, but she wasn't included, either. And when did Roger get so friendly with Sasha? It wasn't that she felt jealous, but she was confused.
She wrapped her arms around her and rocked a little, trying to sort herself out in her mind.
The glow of a cigarette drew her attention to the group of trees nearby. She'd just taken in that she wasn't alone when the smoker spoke.
‘Sorry, did I startle you?' said a man's voice.
‘Er – no – not at all,' said Bron, taken aback.
‘I'm trying to give it up,' he said as he emerged. 'But it does have its advantages.’
He was tall and needed a haircut, thought Bron immediately and then realised he was familiar. But as she couldn't remember where or when she'd seen him, she didn't comment.
He seemed to be wearing working clothes. A shirt, pale with washing, was half tucked in to a pair of faded jeans that had rents below the knee. Not for fashion's sake, Bron guessed, but through wear.
‘Hang on – we've met before!’
Bron gave him a questioning look. 'Maybe..
‘Yes! Just before Ashlyn's wedding. You were leaving when I came to put Major back in the house.'
‘That's right.' Bron nodded slowly, remembering clearly now – she'd had to rush back for Roger, always Roger.
‘I hope you don't feel accosted.' He frowned slightly. 'Perhaps if I introduced myself – my name is James.'
‘I'm Bron. And no, it's all right. I don't feel accosted.' Bron wasn't quite sure how she felt. He seemed nice enough and friendly, and not at all threatening, not that Roger would come to her rescue if she needed him. She shivered.
He tipped his head on one side a fraction. 'Are you OK?’
Bron pulled her shawl about her more tightly, as if to protect herself from his questions. 'Fine.' She realised that she'd sounded strained and hoped he wouldn't notice.
‘It's all right, I'm not trying to pick you up. I just thought you seemed a bit… well, never mind.' He smiled again and she noticed he had a very nice smile. His face was brown and there was a fair bit of stubble going on round his jaw, but it was a kind face. 'Actually, you look great, but not happy.'
‘I said, I'm fine,' she repeated, with more conviction this time.
‘So what are you doing on your own out here? You're not having a cheeky fag, so what is it?’
Bron sighed. 'I just fancied some fresh air, that's all.’
James chuckled. 'I'm afraid these days the air can be fresher inside the building than it is in the garden. Although I swear I'm giving up.' This last comment was almost to himself.
‘It's quite hot in there,' said Bron.
‘But your friends will be wondering what's happened to you. In fact, even as we speak your girlfriends are deciding which one of them should come out and check on you.’
Bron sighed. 'No they're not. I'm not here with girlfriends, my partner's inside. He'll probably be wondering where I am.' She closed her eyes for a few seconds, wishing he wasn't – not so much so she could feel free to chat with this James person, but because they no longer made each other happy. Anyway, he probably hadn't even noticed she'd gone. He obviously preferred to spend time with people like Sasha rather than her.
‘On the other hand,' persisted James, 'if you're out here it's probably because you've had a row.'
‘No! Well, not really.'
‘Do you know, somehow, that seems sadder. All couples row from time to time, but for you to want to come out here on your own when you haven't rowed makes it more likely there's something else that's wrong. You seem so sad about it.’
Bron turned away from him a little. He was far too perceptive for comfort. She might not be happy with Roger – in fact she definitely wasn't – but she didn't want to discuss his shortcomings with a stranger.
‘Do I sound like a counsellor? Sorry! I just know that couples have ups and downs.’
James dropped his cigarette end and then stubbed it out with his boot. It was a tiny little roll-up, hardly a cigarette at all. The boot, however, was heavy and stained with soil. He picked up the remains and put it in a little tin. Bron wondered if he was in a relationship and if so whether he was speaking from experience.
‘It's perfectly natural,' she said, meaning to be consoling if he was sad.
‘Oh yes. As long as the good times outweigh the bad.' Bron realised then that the good times hadn't done this for a while. There were bad times and there were OK times.
That was all. She hoped things were better for him. 'I'm sorry to have intruded,' he said.
‘Oh you haven't – not really. It's nice to have someone to chat to.' She regretted these words the moment they were out. Now he would know exactly how barren her relationship with Roger had become and she really hadn't intended to broadcast this fact.
‘It's a shame you didn't go to the wedding.'
‘I know. It was really kind of Mrs Lennox-Featherstone to ask me, but I had to get back.'
‘It was a very good do.' He smiled. 'Great food!'
‘So I heard. Elsa, the dressmaker, who ended up as one of the bridesmaids, told me all about it.’
He frowned. 'That's a bit odd, isn't it? Choosing your dressmaker to be your bridesmaid? Although if you really got on..
Bron chuckled as she tried to explain. 'It was a last-minute thing. The real bridesmaid dropped out and Elsa was made to stand in for her. She wasn't keen, I can tell you.’
James laughed. 'Well, she looked the part. Very pretty, I thought.'
‘Thank you! I mean, I think she looked pretty, but I'd done her hair for her so I can take some of the credit.’
‘So you're a hairdresser?’
Bron tried really hard not to get tense. 'Yes.'
‘Cool.’
Bron shot him a glance. Was he mocking her? It didn't really seem so but perhaps he was just hiding his feelings about it. 'I like it,' she said defiantly. And then her phone started to sing from her handbag.
‘Oh, excuse me. I'd better see who this is. Sarah!' she said a moment later. 'No, this is a perfect time to call.’