55
Roisin marched into Lorraine’s bedroom and threw open the wardrobe doors as if it was a rifle cabinet. The dazzling rainbow of silky fabrics demonstrated where The Mallory’s refurb budget was going. Quite a few things still had their cardboard tags dangling.
She selected a black metallic evening dress that looked like it was made of strips of precious bin liners. It was maxi-length and would encircle her legs in a way that made it not the most practical for mobility, but what the hell.
Back in her room, Roisin had to pull and tug at the zip somewhat, having a similar genetic blueprint to her mother but with a more generous chest and hips. When it finally fastened, it gave her a pleasing hourglass shape: a beguiling mixture of everything covered and provocative slink.
Roisin tied a striped butcher’s apron over the top and laced her boots back on. She was delighted with herself and felt a pubescent-level roar of rebellion. She looked like an It Girl heiress at Glastonbury.
The sensation was only improved minutes later by sashaying her sparkled-black shiny bottom past her mother on the front bar.
She garnered a shout of ‘Ooh la la!’ and a full set of turned heads from the grotty men cabal. And a, ‘WHAT THE! That’s Hervé Léger and it’s NEW!’ from Lorraine.
‘Harvey Leg said it was fine,’ Roisin said, blowing her a kiss.
Outside, taking up her stand, Roisin had completely the opposite problem to the one she feared. She wasn’t standing like a nelly, clacking her BBQ tongs like castanets: she was overrun.
Within an hour of opening, customers poured into The Mallory’s garden, now canopied with vintage bulb fairy lights and ringed with wooden planters full of flowers, thanks to Matt’s efforts. The throng were definitely not The Mall’s usual crowd: shoals of girls with peach-coloured and peroxide hair, fairy wings and heart-shaped deely boppers.
Roisin guessed Matt’s smooth talking on the high street had decontaminated the pub’s rep as one only for the stolid old guard.
Roisin’s meat-free offer proved extremely popular with a village that now contained many more vegans, flexitarians and clean eaters than it used to. Although clean eating didn’t seem to preclude ingesting a river of white rum.
She and Terence were out of produce within two hours.
‘Locusts!’ Terence said. ‘Scenes of unbridled gannetry.’
He had Lorraine’s attitude to people of the world either accepting or declining to spend their money at The Mallory: either way, it was an impertinence.
Matt was busiest of all, with his ‘Five Classic Cocktails, Each A Fiver’ stand, hurriedly hacking limes to pieces and chopping mint whenever he got a spare moment.
‘Want a hand?’ Roisin said, and Matt handed her his ice bucket. ‘Refill that if you would, ta.’
Roisin made a salute.
Terence went inside to help her mother, so Roisin stayed garden side, to roam for empties and play supporting act to Matt. As his platonic friend, she was careful not to reflect or swoon in any way at how he looked with shirt sleeves rolled up, concentrating, a light sweat on his brow.
‘Hiiiiiiiiii, Roisin!’ Grace and Imogen chimed in unison as they lighted upon her.
‘Hello! Very nice of you to come.’
‘Oh we’d not have missed it,’ Grace said, swooping in for a double kiss, Imogen following suit. ‘Not seen you in an age, Roisin.’
Grace and Imogen were always easy and pleasant company, contrary to her mother’s dark mutterings. Roisin supposed Lorraine had long felt banished from genteel society and had made Grace and Imogen erroneously representative of that rejection, as they were also a solo mother and daughter of the same ages. It was as if Lorraine and Roisin were the Slutty Halloween Costume versions of them.
‘This place is heaving. Never seen The Mallory so busy. Love the little spruce you’ve given it. Top sprucing,’ Imogen said, precisely the kind of remark Roisin was glad her mother wasn’t here to bristle at.
Everything was a slight if you were determined to find one.
Despite being only Roisin’s age, Imogen was in a padded headband, blazer and loafers. She was rather gorgeous in a Ralph Lauren Polo sort of way. Everything about her was either the colour of caramel or the minky-pink of a worn ballet dancer’s shoe. Her mother had the highlighted, layered hair of someone who made weekly salon trips, and a navy dress with a corsage at the waist and a knife-pleat skirt. She twitched at Roisin’s apron and said, ‘Is there some sort of marvellous gown under that? Take it off, let us see!’
‘Oh … I was protecting it from corn cob splatter …’
Roisin unlaced her apron, pulled it away and made a little ‘gameshow hostess girl’ curtsy.
‘Oh my goodness! We don’t often get to see you dolled-up – you look like a real vamp!’ Grace said, approvingly, as Roisin stood slightly sheepishly in her robbed finery.
‘Love those body-con bandage dresses,’ Imogen agreed. ‘People said they were of their time, but they’re a classic now. You’ve absolutely got the curves for it. I’d look like a plastic safety-wrapped suitcase.’
Roisin laughed and felt relieved that Lorraine wasn’t here to fume at any of that.
‘That guy over there. He works here?’ Imogen said, looking over at Matt.
‘Oh, Matt’s my friend,’ Roisin said. ‘Helping out.’
Despite Lorraine’s terrors of their predatory nature around the menfolk, she’d not actually expected this to come to pass.
‘He’s frightfully good-looking, isn’t he?’ Imogen said.
‘Oh, if I was twenty years younger!’ Grace said. ‘I do my Kegels. Immo got a Gwyneth Jade Egg!’
‘Mum!’ Imogen barked. ‘How’s Joe?’
She was still looking at Matt, and Roisin caught the implication easy enough.
‘Fine!’ she said brightly.
‘We loooooooved SEEN,’ Grace said. ‘Immo and I were glued to it, weren’t we? We never guessed the courier had cosmetic surgery! Very clever chap, your man. Any chance of making your mother the happiest woman in Cheshire and doing a bit of DUM DUM DE DUM, DUM DUM DE DUM …’ Grace glanced around – ‘Look at the space here!’ – and winked.
‘I’m not ready to get married yet, Grace. I’ve not sown enough wild oats,’ Roisin said, as she knew Grace did ‘bawdy’.
‘Oh! Heavens above!’ she shrieked.
‘She thinks I’m joking,’ Roisin said to Imogen, who also screeched.
‘You are the funniest, Sheena,’ Imogen said. ‘I always say that to Mum.’
Grace and Imogen were exactly the kind of people to produce a nickname for you out of nowhere and apply it liberally.
They moved on to circulate, and half an hour later, Roisin glanced over and saw Imogen almost bent double with laughter at something Matt had said. She straightened up, put the back of her hand to her mouth and the other on the small of his back, and Roisin felt a sharp stab of an unexpected, unnamed emotion.
She looked at Matt, and he saw her. His eyes travelled down to her dress, and suddenly it felt two sizes tighter and considerably more revealing than it had done before.
Terence tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Have you seen that fat cat? I’m due to clock off but some American tourists want a photo with it. They seem to think it’s a celebrity, God help us. Has Elvis left the building? He’s a candidate for dying in the same way, that’s for sure.’
‘Meatball was under that picnic table last I saw,’ Roisin said, pointing. ‘Want me to retrieve him?’
‘Much obliged.’
Terence liked cats even less than her mum.
Imogen grabbed Roisin as she passed her on the way into the pub, halfway through her mission.
‘Heading off now – wonderful day, thank you! We MUST go for some bubbles back in Manchester soon, give me some dates.’ Then, leaning in, she said, ‘Can you do me a favour and forward your pal Matt’s number? He’s cute as hell, isn’t he?’
‘Hah, sure,’ Roisin smiled, over Meatball’s bulk, knowing full well that Imogen only spontaneously craved Proseccos with raspberries in order to pump her for information about McKenzie.
‘Thank you!’ Imogen said, making a heart shape with her hands, fingertips pressed together, which almost made Roisin change her mind.