When 73 year old Jen announces that she is going to marry Eddie, a man she met just a few months previously on a beach on Boxing Day, her four best friends from aqua aerobics are flabbergasted.
The wedding is booked and, when the groom decides to have a stag trip to Las Vegas, the ladies arrange a hen party to beat all others -a week in the city of love, Paris.
From misadventures at the Louvre, outrageous Parisian cabarets, to drinking champage with dashing a millionaire at the casino, Paris lives up to all their hopes and dreams. But a week can change everything, and the women that come home have very different dreams from the ones who got on the plane just days ago.
From misadventures at the Louvre, outrageous Parisian cabarets, to drinking champage with dashing a millionaire at the casino, Paris lives up to all their hopes and dreams. But a week can change everything, and the women that come home have very different dreams from the ones who got on the plane just days ago.
Extract
Chapter
One
Jen held the umbrella over her head and listened to the rain drumming on the canvas. It would be cosy inside the pub. The wind blew hard through the material of her jacket. She’d thought she’d be warm enough, but there was ice in the February gusts that sifted around the corner and lifted her hair, rearranging it across her face. She’d spent the afternoon in the hairdresser’s and had been pleased with the glossy style, silver strands streaked through the chestnut locks. In the grey suit and neat heels, she’d thought she’d look smart, but the cold weather and the sharp breeze had taken the edge off her preparations and she was sure her nose would glow red beneath the light dusting of powder. But Eddie wouldn’t mind – the first thing he always said was how nice it was to see her and how lovely she looked.
Jen held the umbrella over her head and listened to the rain drumming on the canvas. It would be cosy inside the pub. The wind blew hard through the material of her jacket. She’d thought she’d be warm enough, but there was ice in the February gusts that sifted around the corner and lifted her hair, rearranging it across her face. She’d spent the afternoon in the hairdresser’s and had been pleased with the glossy style, silver strands streaked through the chestnut locks. In the grey suit and neat heels, she’d thought she’d look smart, but the cold weather and the sharp breeze had taken the edge off her preparations and she was sure her nose would glow red beneath the light dusting of powder. But Eddie wouldn’t mind – the first thing he always said was how nice it was to see her and how lovely she looked.
There
were posters in the windows of the Olive Grove, huge red hearts and
cute Cupids with arrows, proclaiming the evening’s special
Valentine dinner. Jen could hear the hushing of the waves breaking
against the sea walls in the distance and, from down the road, the
crisp sound of approaching footfall. It was Eddie, in his pale
mackintosh, the collar up, looking debonair, just like Inspector
Morse. It was seven thirty, sharp.
*
* *
Half
seven, thought Rose. The torture must end soon. Little Amelia’s
nimble fingers pressed the pristine ivory keys on the piano: the
discordant jangle made a pulse in Rose’s head throb.
‘Try
again from the beginning, dear,’ she murmured, watching the second
hand twitch on the wall clock. It would soon be over and Amelia would
leave her in peace. Rose sighed and spoke through clenched teeth.
‘Shall we call it a night, dear? I think Mummy’s here – someone
just rang the doorbell, I’m sure.’
Amelia
slammed the piano lid down without turning round and stood up, still
in her school uniform, tidy in the crisp white blouse and tartan
skirt, her blonde plaits neatly secured with bows. Rose held up the
child’s coat and led her to the door where a tall, slim woman with
dark hair in a no-nonsense cut and a smart coat was standing in the
porch, the rain teeming behind her. Amelia went straight to her and
took her hand, a dutiful six year old. But Rose was sure that the
child wrinkled her nose and stuck out the edge of a pink tongue at
her. Amelia’s mother smiled, although her eyes remained cold.
‘How
was Amelia’s lesson, Mrs Grant? She’s been practising all week.
Is it time for her to be put forward for a grading?’ She held out
two notes, a ten and a five.
Rose
noticed Amelia scowling. She was unsure what to say, her hand
fluttering in front of her face. ‘She’s making progress, Mrs
Bassett. Soon, I hope.’
Amelia’s
mother frowned. ‘My friend, Sally, tells me that Joni Yates puts
all her pupils in for grading early. They all seem to pass with
distinctions too.’
Rose
sighed. She wished she could tell the woman to take her child to Joni
Yates, then, and see how she coped with Amelia, who clearly didn’t
practise anything from one week to another. But her pupils were
becoming scarcer: she had no idea why she didn’t just retire. After
all, it wasn’t as if she needed the money. Bernard had left her
comfortably off and piano teaching was a routine that left her
feeling unfulfilled, flat, without energy. ‘Keep practising Für
Elise,
Amelia, and maybe we’ll discuss grade
entry next week.’
Amelia
gazed up at her mother, her tiny brows meeting in a knot. ‘Furry
Liza is boring, Mummy. Can I learn the violin instead? Elsa in my
class goes to violin. She says the teacher is really cool.’
Amelia’s
mother met Rose’s eyes, as if her daughter had just made up her
mind for her, and turned on her heel, tugging the child towards the
pouring rain and a dark car parked by the kerb. Rose closed the door,
locked it securely with the bolt and chain and muttered, ‘Minx.’
As an afterthought, she mumbled, ‘What a blessing that Beethoven
was deaf. If he’d heard Amelia slaughtering his Für
Elise for the last forty-five minutes,
it would raise him from the grave.’
She
stood in the hallway, thinking. Half past seven. She hadn’t eaten
since lunch, and then just a slice of toast. She wasn’t really
hungry, but she ought to look after herself better. Her skirt was
hanging off her, the waist baggy, and her legs felt weak. She would
find something in the freezer, something with calories. There was a
box of macaroni cheese for one. She could heat it up in the
microwave. Rose sighed again. She didn’t like February. Spring was
too far away and the house was too cold. Besides, Bernard had died in
February two years ago and each year she felt the cold, haunting
loneliness grasp her by the shoulders and whisper in her ear that she
was by herself and companionless and that was how it would always be
now.
Of
course, she had her new friends, the four women she’d met at aqua
aerobics last October when the club first started. They were nice
women, but they only met for coffee once a week and then she came
home alone and it was back to the silence again. She shuffled into
the lounge and picked up a yellow duster, rubbing it over the piano.
It had been hers and Bernard’s. He had been a wonderful musician, a
church organist too. She replaced their wedding photo lovingly on
top, over the circle left by a wine glass years ago. Not hers, of
course – it might have been made by their son, Paul, one Christmas
when he’d visited with the children. His visits were a rare thing
nowadays – he was a busy man, of course, he had an important job.
Links
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