disappearing at twice the usual rate since Lauren moved back in.
Though the precinct bore all the worst hallmarks of the 1950s love affair with concrete, and had its very own Siberian wind tunnel effect, the shops that faced on to the high street had started to smarten up in the last year; here and there were signs of new life in Longhampton, springing up like green shoots between the grey solicitors and mobile phone shops. The deli was one of the new wave of fresh, ambitious cafés, all retro glass cups and whooshing coffee machines. They reminded Bridget of the old coffee shops that had been knocked down to make room for the precinct in the first place.
‘Now,’ she said, looking at the menu, ‘I think I need a coffee.’
‘I’ll get it,’ said Lauren, then she leaned over and stroked Bridget’s hand. ‘Thanks for coming with me today! It’s just how I always imagined it would be, you and me, trying on my wedding dress.’
‘Really?’ Bridget had to admit she loved spending time with Lauren. The last time they’d done something like this, Lauren had been twelve; the last time, in fact, she let Bridget buy her clothes.
Lauren nodded, and sighed happily, tucking her long blonde hair behind one ear. ‘I felt like a real princess in there! It’s amazing, those corsets, and net and all that. And the head-dresses and tiaras and veils . . .’
‘But you don’t want the dress to be wearing you, now, do you?’ said Bridget, tactfully. ‘Less is more, you know.’
‘Not on your wedding day, Mum,’ said Lauren, looking at the menu. ‘When else can you have a train? Might as well go for the dream dress.’
Bridget watched the diamond on Lauren’s engagement ring – so much bigger than her own modest sapphire – glint in the sun as she raised her hand to attract the waitress. Lauren’s wedding was something she and Frank had started saving for as soon as she’d begun rehearsing it with her Bridal Barbie, but even with that money set aside, Bridget wasn’t sure they were going to have enough. Not when Lauren seemed to be getting most of her inspiration from Hello! magazine, rather than the local paper.
Still, she thought, as Lauren ordered for them, most of it’s that Irene, putting stupid wedding show ideas in her head. Lauren was a sensible girl, with a job. She’d understand about being realistic, now she was over the initial thrill of it all.
No time like the present, Bridget told herself, as Lauren got out her white satin notebook.
‘Laurie, love,’ she said, hesitantly. ‘I’ve been wanting to have a chat with you . . . about the wedding.’
She looked up from her ‘favour inspiration’ list. ‘Mum, don’t tell me – you’ve promised your whole class that they can be involved. That’s fine with me, honestly. You know, maybe you could get them to do a big dance with ribbons, like they did for the summer concert.’
‘Well, not exactly. It’s about . . .’
Lauren’s phone rang on the table in front of them and her eyes turned straight to it, her fingers already reaching out.
‘Mum, can I just answer this?’ she asked, already answering it. ‘Chris was going to get back to me about his numbers. Hello? Oh, hello, Irene.’
Bridget held her breath and tried not to think uncharitable thoughts.
‘Mmm,’ Lauren was saying. Her wide blue eyes were skating round the deli, trying to work out what to say. ‘Yes, we are in town.’
Bridget knew Lauren was incapable of telling fibs. It was one of her most endearing traits. She also knew what Irene’s questions would be on the other side of the conversation.
‘Um, with Mum . . .’ Lauren was saying now, her eyes falling on her mother. ‘Yes, we are on a dress mission, actually . . .’
Bridget shook her head, trying to communicate ‘this is us time!’ without looking insane or selfish. Lauren, understanding for once, pulled a face.
‘We’re just having lunch . . .’ Her voice changed and relaxed,
Though the precinct bore all the worst hallmarks of the 1950s love affair with concrete, and had its very own Siberian wind tunnel effect, the shops that faced on to the high street had started to smarten up in the last year; here and there were signs of new life in Longhampton, springing up like green shoots between the grey solicitors and mobile phone shops. The deli was one of the new wave of fresh, ambitious cafés, all retro glass cups and whooshing coffee machines. They reminded Bridget of the old coffee shops that had been knocked down to make room for the precinct in the first place.
‘Now,’ she said, looking at the menu, ‘I think I need a coffee.’
‘I’ll get it,’ said Lauren, then she leaned over and stroked Bridget’s hand. ‘Thanks for coming with me today! It’s just how I always imagined it would be, you and me, trying on my wedding dress.’
‘Really?’ Bridget had to admit she loved spending time with Lauren. The last time they’d done something like this, Lauren had been twelve; the last time, in fact, she let Bridget buy her clothes.
Lauren nodded, and sighed happily, tucking her long blonde hair behind one ear. ‘I felt like a real princess in there! It’s amazing, those corsets, and net and all that. And the head-dresses and tiaras and veils . . .’
‘But you don’t want the dress to be wearing you, now, do you?’ said Bridget, tactfully. ‘Less is more, you know.’
‘Not on your wedding day, Mum,’ said Lauren, looking at the menu. ‘When else can you have a train? Might as well go for the dream dress.’
Bridget watched the diamond on Lauren’s engagement ring – so much bigger than her own modest sapphire – glint in the sun as she raised her hand to attract the waitress. Lauren’s wedding was something she and Frank had started saving for as soon as she’d begun rehearsing it with her Bridal Barbie, but even with that money set aside, Bridget wasn’t sure they were going to have enough. Not when Lauren seemed to be getting most of her inspiration from Hello! magazine, rather than the local paper.
Still, she thought, as Lauren ordered for them, most of it’s that Irene, putting stupid wedding show ideas in her head. Lauren was a sensible girl, with a job. She’d understand about being realistic, now she was over the initial thrill of it all.
No time like the present, Bridget told herself, as Lauren got out her white satin notebook.
‘Laurie, love,’ she said, hesitantly. ‘I’ve been wanting to have a chat with you . . . about the wedding.’
She looked up from her ‘favour inspiration’ list. ‘Mum, don’t tell me – you’ve promised your whole class that they can be involved. That’s fine with me, honestly. You know, maybe you could get them to do a big dance with ribbons, like they did for the summer concert.’
‘Well, not exactly. It’s about . . .’
Lauren’s phone rang on the table in front of them and her eyes turned straight to it, her fingers already reaching out.
‘Mum, can I just answer this?’ she asked, already answering it. ‘Chris was going to get back to me about his numbers. Hello? Oh, hello, Irene.’
Bridget held her breath and tried not to think uncharitable thoughts.
‘Mmm,’ Lauren was saying. Her wide blue eyes were skating round the deli, trying to work out what to say. ‘Yes, we are in town.’
Bridget knew Lauren was incapable of telling fibs. It was one of her most endearing traits. She also knew what Irene’s questions would be on the other side of the conversation.
‘Um, with Mum . . .’ Lauren was saying now, her eyes falling on her mother. ‘Yes, we are on a dress mission, actually . . .’
Bridget shook her head, trying to communicate ‘this is us time!’ without looking insane or selfish. Lauren, understanding for once, pulled a face.
‘We’re just having lunch . . .’ Her voice changed and relaxed,
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