Bron was just locking the car, having put postcards about her mobile hairdressing service in all the local post offices in the area, and anywhere else who would put one up, when her phone rang. As she burrowed about for it she wondered if leaving the salon had been rash -she could spend more on fuel than she earned driving all over the country to do her work. But how could she have borne to go on working there? She'd be forever picturing her boss in a red nylon thong – not a pretty sight.
She found the phone at last. It was Roger's mother. 'Hello, Pat!' Bron tried to sound upbeat because she could tell that Pat was anything but.
‘Bron, I don't know what to say. Are you still speaking to me?'
‘Of course! Why shouldn't I be?'
‘Because of what that wretched boy has done. And I hear you've had to give up your job, too!'
‘Well-'
‘Have you found another one?'
‘Not yet. I've been quite busy and-'
‘Well, that Sasha will have to give you severance pay, all that sort of thing.'
‘You don't need to be so upset, Pat. You and I can still be friends. Not sure about Sasha,' she added, under her breath.
Pat was still riddled with guilt-by-association. 'But how, when my son has behaved so appallingly?’
Bron exhaled, quietly she hoped. 'Shall I come round?’
It was Pat's turn to exhale. 'Would you? I hate to ask, in the circumstances, but I've got an important do on tomorrow and I really need my hair doing. Not' – she went on hurriedly – 'that that's the only reason I want to see you. I hope you don't think that.’
Bron laughed. 'I'd love to come and see you and do your hair. We're friends. We must try and keep Roger out of it.'
‘Hmph! Sometimes I wish I could keep that boy out of my house! What a way to carry on!’
Bron was glad to be getting out of the house and if Pat paid for her hairdo, and she'd probably insist on it, it would give her a little petty cash to live on. Could she get enough weddings and clients to go properly freelance? she wondered. Or would she have to go further away and find another salon to work in? Carrie's wedding would certainly help.
It was both strange and familiar to park her car in Roger's parents' drive. His father would be at work and had he been home, Bron would have been far more reluctant to visit. She and Pat had always got on well, but Roger's father was another matter. Vince and Bron had never seen eye to eye.
Pat's arms opened to Bron at the same time as she opened the door. 'Lovie! How could he do that? He's such a silly boy!’
Bron returned the hug sincerely. 'We weren't right for each other really. We wouldn't have made each other happy ultimately, or why did he sleep with Sasha?’
‘Strumpet!' said Pat and Bron giggled.
‘That's a good word!'
‘A very satisfying one. I've been practising. Now come on in. I've bought your favourite biscuits; we can get it all off our chests. How long has he been having an affair with your boss?’
This simple question gave her a bit of a shock. 'I've no idea!' The word 'affair' implied it had been going on for some time. Had it, or had it been the first time? Something told her it hadn't. All the lies and deception that must have gone on made her humiliated in retrospect. She shuddered. 'Has she moved in, do you know?'
‘I think so.' Pat put her hand on Bron's arm. 'He's bringing her to lunch on Sunday. I insisted. She said she didn't want to come – I heard her in the background – but if you do the dirty on someone, you have to face up to your wrongdoing.’
Bron realised suddenly that Pat was far more upset about this than she was. 'Oh, Pat, let's have coffee and those biscuits. I'm fine about it now. I've got a lovely little cottage to rent – for not too much money – everything's lovely!’
Pat led the way to the kitchen where she clicked the kettle on. 'It's just like you to be brave about it, but he's behaved very badly.’
Pat's expression made Bron think she was about to send him round to her house to say sorry, as if he'd broken a window playing cricket or something.
‘Really, don't worry about it. It's fine.' Had Pat not been Roger's mother, Bron would have gone on to say it was a merciful relief not having to live with Roger any more. He was controlling, bad-tempered and not great in bed.
‘It's OK, really it is. Now what's this event you're going to? Are you happy with the colour? Or is it just a cut and blow-dry? I could come round early tomorrow if you like.'
‘Could you? That would be wonderful! It's this lunch thing with the Golf Club wives.’
Relieved to have got off the subject of Roger, Bron sat down at the kitchen table while Pat made coffee. 'What are "The Golf Club Wives"? It sounds like the title of a sex-and shopping blockbuster!'
‘Not quite as much fun as that, sadly, but pretty daunting. Vince wanted me to get involved with them in case any of the husbands are people he wants to get in with. We none of us play golf but we put on little social events between ourselves.’
There but for the grace of God go I, thought Bron as she nibbled oat and honey biscuits and sipped coffee. She could just imagine it – competitive fundraising with Women Who Lunched.
‘The thing is,' went on Pat, 'Mrs Bedlington, the chairperson-'
‘You have a chairperson? Golly!' muttered Bron.
‘-is quite a dominating woman and I would like to look my best for the occasion.'
‘I'll come upstairs and help you choose an outfit if you like. My friend Elsa – you know? The one who made the dresses for that big wedding, who had to be a stand-in bridesmaid? – well, Ashlyn's mother – Ashlyn was the bride, if you remember – well, Ashlyn's mother-'
‘I think I'm still following you,' said Pat, 'though it's not easy.’
Bron laughed and went on, 'Well, she made Elsa get her colours done. It was a present for being a last-minute bridesmaid. She made me go too. It was huge fun! There were three of us trying on jewellery. It was just what I needed…' Her voice tailed away. Pat already felt quite guilty enough without Bron rubbing it in. She changed the subject a bit. 'Getting people to give up wearing black is always a bit of a problem, apparently.’
Pat seemed totally confused. 'What do you mean, she got her colours done?'
‘Oh! Don't you know? It's a firm – well, a franchise, I suppose – called Colour Me Beautiful. They tell you what sort of colours you can wear.’
Pat humphed. 'It sounds a bit like Mrs Bedlington to me.’
‘No! It's not bossy, it's liberating! They take all your make-up off, or most of it, and then they hold all sorts of different colours against your skin and you can see which ones work and which don't.' Bron thought for a few seconds. 'Actually, it's not unlike choosing the right colours for people's hair. Some colours make people look like death and others make them glow.' She peered at Pat's hair for a moment. 'I think we could put a semi-permanent on yours, just for a bit of a lift. We haven't got time for foils and all that.'
‘Not unless you come at dawn and I'm not sure I fancy having my hair done with Vince snoring in the bedroom.' Bron laughed. 'Let's go up and sort out what you're wearing and then I'll tell you about my new project. I'm going to make an official wedding cake!'
‘Bron, that's marvellous. You always were a grand baker. Are you getting it iced professionally?'
‘No!' Bron squeaked her indignation. 'I'm icing it. It's going to be tricky because it's a tree. You know, one of those ones like lollipops that posh restaurants have outside their doors.'
‘My goodness, Bron.'
‘Trouble is, I don't know where I can make it. It has to be in a properly approved kitchen and also one big enough.' Pat went quiet for a moment and then suddenly looked very pleased with herself. 'I think I can help you there. The woman I have in mind is away at the moment, but I'll get back to you as soon as I can. She's lovely, I know she'll let you use her kitchen if she can. It's been through all the checks apparently, you know, health and safety.'
‘Oh, Pat!' Bron put her arms round her and gave her a hug. 'You're amazing.’
Pat hugged her back. 'Roger doesn't know what he's lost by cheating on you.’
They released each other and Bron gathered up their coffee mugs and put them by the dishwasher. 'I think he did know. He thought he wanted a little woman to be at his beck and call, but in fact what he really wanted was someone more exciting. It's a perfectly valid choice.’
Really, thought Bron, she had been just as bad for him as he had been for her. They had both dragged each other down.
Having helped Pat decide on what to wear for her important lunch with an association she was certain Sarah would condemn as too sexist and retro for words, Bron decided to cook a special meal for James. It was, she realised, a knee-jerk reaction. The way to Roger's heart had been through his stomach and although she didn't want to reach James's heart, he had been kind to her and she wanted to do something nice for him in return.
But what should she cook him? The trouble with cooking for someone you hardly knew was that you had to second-guess their tastes. He'd cooked her an omelette when she'd moved in: he might well be vegetarian. One solution would be to go home tonight and ask him, and then invite him for a meal, but that would make the whole thing seem a bit formal. She would much prefer to just leave a note on his front door saying, 'Don't bother to cook, just come round to mine at about seven.' That way it would be nice and casual. All she wanted to do was to save him the bother of cooking, and perhaps eating something nicer than he might make for himself. Everyone liked to be cooked for once in a while, especially when they lived alone as he appeared to do. She hadn't noticed him staying away at all or a potential girlfriend visiting him. But then she didn't really know that much about him, just that he seemed a kind man who liked to keep pretty much to himself.
Having wandered up and down the high street and stared into the butcher's window for a while, Bron decided she'd just have to ring and ask him.
‘James? It's Bron, your new neighbour.’
He chuckled. 'Vague as I can be, I haven't forgotten who you are yet.'
‘Oh good. I was just ringing because I wanted to cook you a meal – to say thank you. Tonight OK?'
‘That would be excellent.'
‘Not sure about that, but I'll do my best.' Bron suddenly found herself a bit more anxious about this than she thought she would have been. 'So, are you vegetarian? We had eggs..
‘No.'
‘Or vegan?’
He chuckled. 'I think that's pretty much a given. I couldn't be a vegan if I ate meat, now could I?'
‘No,' said Bron, feeling silly. 'Any particular hates?’
‘Anything except eggs would be great.’
Bron felt herself blush and was pleased he couldn't see her. 'I'd forgotten about the hens. About seven, then?’