The wedding dress massacre had not been in her plan for the day. Kim had woken to the alarm, ready to set about a list of tasks. She scanned her phone quickly before leaving the bed.The AA had patched up her punctured tyre – although a dealer would need to replace it soon. The mobile confirmed it was a Saturday and, yes, WEEK OFF was her only diary event. Sitting up with a pillow propping her, Kim emailed the office.
Let me know if we get a firm offer on Thirdfield Terrace from Slater-Glynne. Not sure we want to progress it. Call me anytime to update, am just wallpapering at home.
Yesterday had been hectic. That stressful property viewing, that hideous couple, the flat tyre. Stevie and Edward in the coffee shop. From there she jumped selfishly to thoughts of her own defunct marriage. She did not want to lie in bed remembering the violent oaf of a cop who tied her up (in every way but literally) for a decade, arresting people in the day whose crimes were far less serious than the ones he committed after sundown against his own wife. She knew she could not have his kids and now guessed it was too late to have anyone’s.
She had jumped out of bed in her knickers, as if running away from the memory.
And that was when her mind went to the wedding dress. She knew where it was because her move to the flat had been so recent. She found it vacuum-packed at the bottom of a deep drawer. When she had opened the bag, air rushed in, as if the dress was gasping for life. ‘No, honey,’ she whispered, ‘your time has gone.’ That was when she resolved to paint the house in it. How else to show that her miracle in satin was worth less these days than charity shop overalls?
She had told the office ‘wallpapering’, but it was more. She was like Armstrong on the moon – putting a flag down to mark her new life on this bare planet. Kim’s divorce apartment was on the western edge of Sidmouth, right beside the golf club, a spot she had chosen partly because it was only fifteen minutesfrom there to her mother’s home in Colaton Raleigh. Oh, and she could never live more than half an hour’s walk from the Clock Tower Café!
The first globs of green emulsion meant the die was cast. They sank into the cream material like cancer on the skin. What was ‘sage green’ anyway? Was there a range of greens, from sage through to unperceptive, and at the end of the line, what – Idiot Green? Twat Green? Her mind went to Edward. Her beautiful big fool. Twat was rude, wasn’t it? She could still say it to herself. Her beautiful big twat. That really did sound rude. Edward had wanted to ask her – hang on, wasn’t it ‘something, something important’?
She hoped to God it was not … not that. Surely he was not the shade of green that proposes marriage because it’s a quiet Friday? If so, he was lucky he had lost his voice. Neither of them needed another marriage. She flicked more paint at the dress. Then some wallpaper glue, so viscous it landed with a slap. Her answer to Edward.
Before beginning the decorating, Kim hesitated. She would go for her daily run first. She wrapped the paintbrushes in clingfilm and grabbed her Lycra. Enjoying the snug pinch of the newly washed material on her legs and torso, Kim picked up her phone and reread Edward’s WhatsApp message, sent late last night.
Eeeeuuuurgh this blimmin throat thing. What is it when it’s serious? Streptococcololoulus or was that a Roman emperor? No way can I do my show tonight, tomorrow etc. Or even speak to you my lover! Got LOTS to talk about too. Can you ask Wendy Wrigley three questions for me? 07700 900178 is her
There we go again. ‘LOTS to talk about’? Kim wondered if she should call Edward, but it was early and it was Saturday, and how would he even speak with Strepto-whatever? She pulled the front door closed behind her and stepped lightly down the carpeted stairs of the apartment block so as not to disturb the neighbours.
Arriving in the outdoor air, she was on the balls of her feet immediately, jogging with the wind in her hair, mini-backpack strapped tight, new trainers still bright white, body braced against the sharpness of the seven-thirty breeze from the sea. Her running bra was pinching. She worked her thumb under the left cup as she ran and found a twist in the support strap.
She loved the speed and randomness of her thinking when she ran. But then, padding along the almost empty promenade, running east with the sea to her right, she stopped.
Three questions?
Quickly typing as her body reacted against the sudden halt, she messaged Edward back.
Three questions for Wendy? What are we – the police now?
She ran for another hundred yards, past Muffles and Nine Chairs, past the old pizza parlour, and then, before she reached the tallest building on the seafront where Edward’s radio station was located, she felt the phone vibrate beside her skin.
Be my voice
Curses, she thought, this exchange could stop her running. She carried on for another fifty yards but could not resist the reply:
Male grandiosity or what
Then, as she sat in the rotted bus shelter facing the sea, they were away with a texted conversation.
Are you planning on having no voice for several years?
Right now it feels like I may never speak again, I can’t even swallow.
She sent a series of eye-roll emojis and Edward replied:
Don’t you even want to know my three questions?
To which she, feeling pleased with herself, wrote:
Why did you do it, when did you do it, how did you do it?
before laughing into the air, snapping her phone shut, tucking it back into her bra and continuing to run. Edward could talk to the boob, she wasn’t listening.
Kim ran the length of the promenade, loving the way the morning sun brought out the early summer holidaymakers in their pessimistic cagoules. At the end of the seafront, where the beach pebbles became huge rocks and a sheer red cliff face cut a line between land and sea, she patted the wall of the lifeboat station (a daily ritual, for luck) and then turned 180 degrees, put on a sprint, and covered the length of the seafront in seven minutes. The last was a brutal climb to Connaught Gardens. It was just before eight now and, through misted glass, she saw the coffee machine steaming and young servers getting cakes ready in theClock Tower Café. She stood outside, breathless, running on the spot, until one of them caught her eye and took pity.
‘Come on in, madam. We’ll unlock early for you. Suzy’s in today doing the accounts and Lewis is in the kitchen with Georgie. They always tell us to make sure everyone gets a welcome here, and the largest piece of cake. Coffee’s not hot yet, but we’ll do one as soon as we can.’
