‘You’ll always be the expert at making Victoria jam sponges, Mummy,’ said Lizzie. She gave her mother a little smile and hoped she wouldn’t think she was being insincere. Why was she was finding the day so awkward? She was shocked to realise she was longing to go back to London, to leave the place she’d always thought of as home. She deeply loved her parents but she didn’t think she could live with them any more.
Lizzie had gone up to her room to see if there was anything she wanted to take back up to London when her mother came and sat on her bed. ‘Sit down. It’s been a little while since we had a mother-and-daughter chat.’
Lizzie put down the dress she had been holding. She didn’t like it but it had a very full skirt and she had been wondering if she could make something else from it.
Her mother patted the bed. Lizzie’s mind went back to the time when her mother had told her ‘the facts of life’ – about periods and how babies were made. It was lucky she had known all about this already; the little lecture had been so full of embarrassment and euphemisms Lizzie felt she would never have worked out what really happened.
Now her mother seemed more confident. ‘I just want you to reassure me. If you stay in Londonwhen your course finishes, and get a job as a waitress, will you be in a position to meet suitable men?’
‘How do you mean, suitable?’ Lizzie knew the answer really, but she was still a teenager, and surely, even by her mother’s standards, far too young to think about marriage.
‘Darling, don’t be naïve! I mean young men with good career prospects, who’ll be able to look after you, give you the finer things in life. A doctor, possibly, who has a good private practice and will become a consultant. Not a GP – you’d end up being his receptionist, which wouldn’t do at all. Or someone in the City. Or a barrister.’ Her mother smiled, obviously enjoying choosing fictional husbands for her daughter.
‘Oh, come on, Mummy! I’m far too young to think about getting married!’
Her mother shook her head. ‘And I know exactly what sort of wedding you’ll have. Obviously the service will be in our church here. It’s old, about the right size and has a very pretty churchyard. And then I’d like to have the reception here, in a marquee in the garden, a proper country wedding in the bride’s house. We could easily fit in three hundred guests, I think. It would have to be a buffet, of course.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. Daddy’s already buying the champagne. A contact from the golf club is a wine merchant sohe’s getting it on very favourable terms. And I know who we’ll have to cater.’
Lizzie couldn’t decide if she should be outraged or amused. ‘How many bridesmaids should I have?’
‘There are four on our side and of course your groom might have suitable young relations.’ Lizzie’s mother smiled. ‘I suggest you only have small bridesmaids.’
‘Are you worried big ones would outshine me?’
‘Certainly not. Bridesmaids are there to set off the bride. Enhance her, not compete with her.’
Lizzie nodded. ‘I see.’
Her mother was looking into the middle distance. ‘I have your wedding dress very clear in my head.’
Lizzie realised she wasn’t supposed to have an opinion on this. ‘And what’s it like?’
She’d known her mother’s greatest ambition was for her to marry well but she hadn’t realised she’d thought about it in quite so much detail.
‘Full length, I think. A tight waist – you have a lovely small waist although no one would ever know it with those straight-up-and-down bits of cloth you seem to like nowadays. And my mother’s veil of course. She wore it, I wore it and I want my darling daughter to wear it.’ Her mother’s voice broke a little.
She got up and headed for the door, dabbing her eyes. Then she stopped and turned. ‘My daughter’s wedding. It’ll be the best day of my life!’
Her mother had wrapped up the remaining cake in greaseproof paper and put it in a tin for Lizzie to take back to London. She had it ready when Lizzie came down with a few clothes.
‘Well, if I’m to get my train, I’d better go.’ Lizzie was aiming for the earliest train back to London that she decently could catch.
‘Don’t worry, darling,’ said her mother. ‘We’ve decided to drive you back.’
‘How sweet of you! But no need. I’ve got my ticket. I only need a lift to the station.’ The thought of it made Lizzie sweat slightly.
‘No,’ said her mother firmly. ‘We’ve decided. But we do want to go immediately. Your father has to work in the morning and the traffic might be bad.’ She patted her daughter’s arm. ‘Daddy is getting the car out now.’
As Lizzie went to the car she frantically tried to think of an excuse to telephone her housemates but couldn’t think of one. David might easily be there on a Sunday night. How would she explain him? Her parents would never accept her living in a mixed household.
Because Lizzie didn’t want to get there, the traffic was surprisingly light considering everyone was going back to London after their weekend in thecountry. With the help of Lizzie’s mother’s skilful use of the A–Z they were soon parking in front of the big house in Belgravia that Lizzie now called home.
‘That was so sweet of you, Daddy, driving me home. Now I know you want to get off so I won’t keep you.’ Lizzie was out of the back seat and on the pavement in seconds.
‘We’re not in that much of a hurry, darling,’ said her mother, opening the passenger door and getting out. ‘We’d love to see where you live, wouldn’t we, Edward?’
