Cocktails, Wedding Bells and Summer Madness

Chapter 2

two

The bathroom was occupied. Rose could hear her brother Marty singing above the noise of the shower.

“Are you going to be long?” She rapped on the door.

“What?” He carried on singing – or screeching may have been the correct verb.

“Don’t be long!” she shouted. Rose went into her bedroom and flopped on the bed. It was soft and comfortable and smelt fresh like an ocean breeze. She plumped up the pillows and sank back to stare up at the lemon-coloured ceiling, where shadows danced and the light off her lamp created a soft silhouette. She wiggled her toes and emitted a sleepy sigh. If she didn’t have choir practise, she could curl under the duvet with her latest novel and a bumper bar of chocolate, put on her pyjamas and her fleece bed socks and relax. The thought of power napping crossed her mind. Granny Faith swore by it. Just ten minutes, she decided, turning onto her side and wrapping the edge of the duvet across her frame. The sound of the rain pattering on the windowsill was like a gentle lullaby, soothing away the Monday blues. Five minutes later, Rose was fast asleep.

From far away came the sound of ringing. It sounded like the fire alarm at work, only this was quieter and softer. Rose stretched one arm, blew a curl off her nose and slowly opened one eye. She could hear muffled voices. It was her mum firmly telling someone that she wasn’t well. Rose shot up, glanced at her wristwatch and emitted a squeak. Seven o’clock in the evening meant one thing: the choir was about to start. They would be waiting for her, preparing their voices to sing, wondering where she was. Rose bounced off the bed, tripped over her shoes and fell flat on her face, squashing her nose into the carpet. Could this Monday get any worse? Her head was thumping, her nose was streaming and she was late. Rose Archer was never late. Punctuality was one of her strongest traits.

“Mum,” she yelled, “I’m up!” Well, not literally but … Rose heaved herself to her feet and pulled open her bedroom door.

Fran was standing at the bottom of the stairs, phone pressed to her ear. “She’s coming.” She handed the phone over, shaking her head as she did so.

“Hello.” Rose’s head felt fuzzy, a combination of cold symptoms and napping. She never napped in the day. What was happening to her? she thought, as she plonked down on the bottom step.

“Ah, Rose,” the dulcet tones of Mr French, the parish vicar, wafted into her ear, “we were just wondering where you were. Are you okay?”

“Just a cold.” She sneezed into the cuff of her blouse. “I’m coming now, give me ten minutes.”

“Be careful how you drive now. Goodbye.” Buzz, the line went dead.

Rose went into the lounge where her mum, dad and gran were watching T.V.

“You off to that church again?” Rod was bent over, clipping ferociously at his toenails.

“I’ve been going every week for the past ten years, Dad.”

“Well maybe,” he waved the clippers at her, “you should do something else with your life?”

Granny Faith harrumphed with agreement. “Why not start with that new wine bar in town?”

Rose sighed. “I’m happy at my folk choir. Why does everyone have such a problem with me attending church?”

Fran put down her magazine. “There’s no problem, love, apart from the fact that life seems to be passing you by. You should be out there seeing the wider world.”

Faith pulled at her whiskery chin. “Maybe if she got herself a fella, that would be a start. You’re twenty-eight and I bet you’re still a virgin.”

“Mum!” Fran scolded Faith. “That’s none of your business.”

Rose’s cheeks flamed as red as her hair. “I have a… friend. Jeremy, remember?”

“A friend who wears tank tops and speaks like he’s got a plum stuck in his mouth,” Faith snorted. “What you need is a lover. Someone hot like… Daniel Craig.”

“Who?” Rose was perplexed. “I have no idea who you mean.”

Faith clicked her fingers. “You know, the guy who plays James Bond. Very nice body, especially in those swimming trunks…“

Rose picked up her keys and bag. “I’m leaving now,” she said firmly, “I won’t be late.”

She could hear the three of them tittering as she banged the door shut behind her.

When Rose arrived at the church, Brenda the clarinet player was waiting for her on the car park.

“Rose, you’re here!”

“Of course.” Rose slid out of the car with a smile on her face. “Have you started without me?”

“No, Rose, we were just having tea and cake,” said Brenda. “The vicar’s wife has made the most delicious fruitcake and Jeremy’s back.”

“He is?” Together, they walked through the arched doorway, past the pews and the font and towards the partitioned-off meeting room.

“He’s been regaling us of tales about Africa, where he met the most wonderful people and magnificent beasts.” Brenda sighed. “It all sounds so exciting.” She propped her umbrella in the stand with the others and Rose followed her into the room.

The folk choir consisted of ten people: six singers, Brenda the clarinet player, Rose on the organ, Mr French the conductor and Jeremy who played the guitar. They were sitting at an old oak table scratched by years of use, eating cake and drinking tea from delicate china cups.

“Oh Rose, you came.” Mrs French stood to kiss her cheek. “Are you feeling okay? Your mother said you were unwell.”

“I’m fine,” she replied, shaking the raindrops from her hair. “Hello, Jeremy.”

He was holding out one hand, pushing his spectacles up with the other. “Rose, how lovely to see you. It’s been a while…”

“It’s been two months.” She smiled widely. “It’s good to have you back. And how was Africa?”

“It was amazing.” Jeremy’s gaze flickered away from hers and there ensued a moment of awkward silence.

Mr French clapped his hands. “Shall we commence with the music and then we can chat afterwards?”

The others murmured in agreement. Rose frowned but made her way to the organ. Her fingers tinkled softly over the keys as, next to her, Brenda blew on her clarinet and Jeremy strummed his guitar. They ran through a list of hymns which began with Rose’s favourite, All Things Bright and Beautiful. By the fifth song, Rose was sneezing profusely and a halt was called by Mr French.

“I think we should stop for tonight,” like many vicars, his tone was deep and melodious, “poor Rose is obviously not well. You should be at home in the warmth, dear. Come back to us next week, fighting fit.”

“Okay.” Rose nodded his way with gratitude. “Would you like a lift, Jeremy?” She was eager to speak to him about his adventures. During his time away, she had missed him. Her mind cast back to the last time she had seen him. The way he had held her hand when no one was looking and his declaration of love for her on the church car park. At the time, Rose had been confused and not sure how to react. She liked him a great deal but was that enough? Yet over the last two months, she had thought about him constantly and realised she did like him as more than just friends. So tonight, she decided, was the night she would reciprocate his feelings. Jeremy was nice, and handsome in a bookish kind of way. He was gentle and kind and his eyes were an attractive blue. She didn’t know if he resembled Daniel Craig, but he definitely reminded her of Clark Kent from Superman. And she wanted to kiss him: tonight.

“Just let me pop to the loo,” Rose said, “and I’m all yours.” She skirted around Brenda who was struggling into a navy blue raincoat.

“See you at the fete, dear.” Rose waved and hurried to the ladies.

The bright white walls and chrome furnishings of the tiny toilet added to the chilly ambience of the room, but Rose was hot. She looked in the cracked mirror as she washed her hands. Her cheeks were bright red and her hair was gravitating upwards from the damp and humidity. She scooped cold water over her face and smoothed down her hair. Should she apply lipstick, she wondered? A thorough search of her handbag revealed the only make-up available was a squashed eyeliner pencil. She tossed it back in and popped a peppermint in her mouth instead.

Jeremy was waiting for her at the entrance, fiddling with the What’s On In Twineham leaflets.

“There’s a food-tasting festival in August.” He raised his head to peer at her. “Have you got a temperature, Rose? I can catch the bus home if it’s out of your way.”

“Of course it isn’t,” she replied hastily, “really I’m all right, I just need a good night’s sleep. We can go… to the food-tasting festival… together, if you want to?” She was aware she was gabbling and inwardly flinched.

“Oh, erm, maybe?” Jeremy looked down at his feet.

“Come on then,” Rose said, with a forced brightness she didn’t feel, “you can tell me all about Africa.”

Rose wound down the windows to allow the fresh evening air to filter into the car. “Did you go on a safari?”

“Oh yes.” Jeremy’s face took on a dreamy sheen. “We saw them all, Rose. Lions, elephants, giraffes, wildebeest…” He trailed off to look down at his lap and she wondered who the ‘we’ meant.

“I thought about you.” She patted his hand. “I thought about what you said to me the last time we spoke.”

There was no reply, just the rumble of the engine as she manoeuvred it around a corner. “Jeremy,” Rose took a deep breath, “I feel the same way.”

“Ah.” Jeremy slunk down in his seat. “About that…”

“Yes?” She glanced at his face which had paled to an off-white colour. “It’s okay. What you said to me was beautiful, poetic even. No one has ever said my hair resembled fire before and… and that my eyes were like beautiful blue whirlpools.” She sniffed, paused as her mind searched for a suitable compliment to say about him, and went on, “You’re kind, Jeremy, noble and decent. Handsome, too. I would like very much to be your girlfr…”

“Rose!” He cut her off abruptly. “Things have changed.”

“Wh-what?” Her hand slipped off the gear stick.

“I’ve met someone else. While I was in Africa.”

Rose felt her heart sink like a lead balloon. “Oh,” was all she could manage.

“Please don’t make this difficult,” Jeremy beseeched, “I hate doing this to you, Rose, but I think you and I are destined to be just good friends.”

“But… but the things you said to me!” Rose pressed her foot on the accelerator a little too firmly and they shot forward. “You said that you… “

“Please!” He held up his hand. “Don’t get emotional. I can’t bear hysterics.”

“I’m hardly hysterical, Jeremy,” she felt suddenly cross, “just confused.”

He emitted a shuddering breath. “My feelings have changed. The first time I met Sabrina, well, she took my breath away.”

“Sabrina?” Rose tutted. “Does she have hair like fire, too?”

“No, her hair is golden like the most beautiful sunset …” He trailed off as he noticed her mouth set into a firm line. “Sorry.” He played with the cuff on his jacket which Rose noticed was dirty and frayed. “We didn’t mean to fall in love...”

“It just happened,” Rose finished for him. “Is she British?”

A quick nod confirmed she was correct. “She resides in Berkshire. Sabrina is on a gap year from university where she studies environmental science.”

Rose swallowed. “That must be interesting. But wait, how old is she?”

“Twenty, but she is very mature and wise for her age. You would like her, Rose. She plays the piano like you.”

“I play the organ,” she corrected. “How old are you now, Jeremy?”

“Only thirty-two!” His tone became defensive. “Age is no barrier to true love.”

Rose flicked the indicator on and turned left into his street. “Well, I wish you luck, Jeremy and …” she searched for a suitable term, “happiness.”

“Thank you.” Jeremy patted her hand. “There’s someone out there for you, too, Rose. You’ll find true love when you least expect it, like Sabrina and I.”

“Will I?” Rose stopped the car outside his flat and glanced in the mirror. “Maybe I’m destined to be a spinster.”

“A spinster?” Jeremy chuckled. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Well then, you’re still a babe. Plenty of time for you to find Mister Right.”

Rose gave him a tight smile. “I should get home now. Work tomorrow.”

Jeremy unclipped his seatbelt. “Thank you for the lift, Rose and …” his tone turned contrite, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Rose searched in her glove compartment for a tissue. “Will you still be coming to the folk choir?”

“I will. Good night, Rose,” he leant across and brushed her cheek with his lips. A gentle kiss, but not the type of kiss she had been anticipating. Rose watched him walk up the path and, with one last wave, he had disappeared from view. With a sigh, Rose pulled up the handbrake and drove away up the darkened street, back towards home and her empty bed.