Two Weeks Before the Wedding

Two Weeks Before the Wedding

Alice, are you crying again? Molly nudged the door open with her foot, hands full of a shopping bag from which peeked a baguette and a carton of milk. I told you, dont you dare cry without me.

Im not crying. Alice turned toward the window, but her voice betrayed her, cracked and brittle, as if an old floorboard.

Sure youre not. Your eyes are red from happiness, I suppose. Molly dropped the bag onto the old kitchen table, shrugged off her coat and, wordlessly, wrapped her arms around her friend from behind. Out with it, from the start. Marianne from the office messaged me, but I barely understood a word.

Simon called this morning. Alice spoke flatly, as if reciting someone elses letter. Said the weddings off. That he… hes got other plans.

Other plans? Two weeks before the wedding? Molly let go and faced her, hands planted firmly on her hips.

Hes gone to Mrs. Doyle. Alice finally turned around and Molly could see her cheeks were wet, vast shadows beneath her eyes as if she hadnt slept for days. Shes promised him her car. And a post. And her connections. He said hed have a future with her, while with me… with me, he was just stuck.

Molly was silent for a moment, and then slowly sat on the worn stool.

Mrs. Doyle, your boss? Shes fifty, isnt she?

Forty-eight.

Well, that changes everything. Molly shook her head. Alice, Ill tell you something and you better not be cross. Hes a fool. A simple, textbook fool, desperate to sell himself to the highest bidder. Youre lucky it came out now, not in a years time, with you pregnant and living under his mothers roof.

Alice had no reply. She stared out at the grey October garden, the bare poplars, the puddle by the empty swing, reflecting a heavy, sullen sky, and thought of yesterday, choosing wedding linens with Simon. Hed wanted white with gold thread; she, something plain. Theyd bickered and hed laughed, kissed her temple. And this morningone call, and three minutes to erase everything: linens, kiss, two years spent together.

Ill have to leave the flat, Alice said. We rented together. I cant afford it alone.

Stay with me, Molly offered instantly. For as long as you need. My sofas decent.

Molly, your flats tiny…

So what. Were not gentry.

Alice managed a smile, but it was so weary and pitiful, Mollys chest ached with it.

For the next few days, Alice waded through life as if in thick fog. Mornings, she splashed cold water on her face, grabbed whatever clothes were at hand, and went to work. Work was worst of all, because Graham-Partners was a small firm; everyone knew everything. They looked at her with that peculiar pity thats easier to bear in private. Old Mrs. Newton sighed over her like shed died. Jack, the junior manager, studiously avoided her gaze.

And Mrs. Doyle, stalking the office in her new brick-red business suit, gave instructions as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. She never exchanged a single personal word with Alice. Once, she called her into the office, announced curtly she expected professionalismpersonal matters mustnt affect the job. Alice sat on the hard chair, back straight, studying the woman who had calmly walked off with her fiancé as if snatching somebody elses spoon from the table, and felt not anger but a strange emptiness, like a house when the furnitures gone.

Understood, Mrs. Doyle, she said, and left.

Back at Mollys, Alice spent sleepless nights on the sofa, listening to the pipes and passing traffic, replaying everything. How Simon had first asked her out at a mutual friends birthday in Cambridge. How hed taken her to the skating rink, even though he could barely stand upright and fell, landing on his backside. How, after six months, hed turned up with flowers and told her he wanted something real. Shed thought it a blessing, told everyone, drawn up plans in her head for a house with curtains at the windows.

Shed never imagined she could be so mistaken.

Then, something utterly unexpected happened. One dreary November evening, on her way back from checking the empty flat she hadnt yet given up, her phone rangan unfamiliar number, area code from another town.

Hello, Alice answered listlessly.

Alice? Its Granddad. Arthur Bennett. Do you remember me?

Of course she did. Granddad Arthur was from Norwich, hours away by train, and she hadnt seen him in six or seven years, not since Grandma Margaret died. Afterward, a few awkward letters, the odd call on Christmas. Arthur had always stood a little apart from the rest of lifequiet, strong, rough hands, a habit of thinking before speaking. Mum had once dropped that he had his own business, but Alice never knew much more.

Granddad, of course I remember! Where are you calling from?

Kings Cross, he said serenely. Arrived just now. You about?

Alice froze.

Youre here?

Arrived the usual way, by train. Your mum gave me your old address. Can you meet me?

They met outside the old Morrisons on the high street. Granddad, with a modest wheeled case, old dark coat, and the battered tweed flat cap she remembered from childhood. He hadnt changed, save for his white hair and more wrinkles, but he stood straight and watched her with shrewd eyes.

Grown up, he said, enveloping her in a real, bracing hug. Where to? Got a place to chat?

They went back to Alices half-packed flat. She put the kettle on, found biscuits. Granddad settled at the kitchen table, taking in the surroundings.

Go on then. Your mum rang me last week. Said you were in a right messweddings off, boys gone, you cant find your feet. That about right?

Alice slid his mug across and sat opposite.

Thats about it, Granddad. Spot on.

Well, tell me the lot. Im not going anywhere.

So she did. Everything: Simon, Mrs. Doyle, the flat to vacate, working in the same place as That Woman, the sleepless nights. Granddad listened, not interrupting, sometimes nodding. When she finished, he gave a sigh of his own.

You did nothing wrong. Remember that.

But Granddad

No. He picked money and a job because thats who he is. Nothing you could have done. You might have been cleverer, prettier, richerhed still have lied to himself and left. You werent the problem.

Alice stared at him, and for the first time in days, felt someone had told her the plain, blunt truthnot comfort, not pity.

Will you stay at that job? Granddad asked.

Not sure. Its grim there.

Good. Listen, I didnt just pop down for tea. I have a proposition, after my cuppa.

He finished his tea, set the mug aside, and looked her straight in the eye.

You know I live in Norwich. Twenty years ago, I started a bakery there. Tiny at first, six of us. Bread, buns, jam tarts. Grew a bit, added cakes. Now forty-two people, three shops, deals with local cafes. Ive run it myself all this time. But Im seventy-two, Alice. Im spent. Fancy some peace at last. Get me?

I do, Alice said quietly, unsure what was coming.

Ive a flat here in London. Two beds, nice spot. Me and Margaret bought it ages ago, for a possible movenever happened. I want you to have it. Not forever, but while you need it. No more crashing on others settees. He smiled. And, second: the bakery. I want you in the business. Not everything at once; shadow me, learn the ropes. Youre an accountant, right? Good with numbers. The rest youll pick up.

Alice opened her mouth and shut it again.

Granddad are you serious?

When am I not?

But Ive never, well run anything.

I once just baked bread, didnt know an invoice from a hole in my shoe. Got by. He stood, never removing the coat. Wont be easy. But itll be yours. Different thing altogether.

The next two weeks were strange. Alice handed in her notice at Graham-Partners, and Mrs. Doyle signed without a word, only a brisk flicker of those sharp blue eyes. Alice swept her desk clean. Mrs. Newton came out and hugged her without a word. Jack gave a quiet, heartfelt, Good luck, Alice.

Granddad stayed with her a week. They went to see the London flatan old building on a leafy street, third floor, big windows looking out at lime trees. It smelled faintly musty from disuse, but the rooms were spacious, sunlight striping the parquet floor.

Ill have it shipshape, Alice said, inspecting the corners.

You will, Granddad agreed. Fresh paint and curtains, youll see.

Granddad, why me? Dad and Uncle Johnwhy not them?

Granddad watched the leaves ripple.

Ive got sons. Your dads busy up in Manchester; hes made his way, not interested in my old business. Johns a good lad, but not his thing. You, AliceI see it in your eyes: you want to do, you can work. Life just hasnt let you stretch yet. Ill give you that chance.

She went up to Norwich at the end of November, when frost had dusted the ground. Granddad collected her in his ancient Land Rover, guiding it gently. The bakery was a low, nondescript building on the edge of town, warm inside, full of that unmistakable mingled scent of yeast and cinnamon and hot pastry.

This is my lifes work, Granddad said softly. Yours now, if youll take it.

Alice spent her first month simply observing, taking notes, asking questions. Granddad showed her the suppliers, accounts, contracts, who did what and why. The staff watched her warily. Mrs. Chapman, the head baker with twenty years kneaded into her hands, was stiff at first, silent for days. One morning, Alice arrived at six, beat Granddad in, hauled flour sacks and helped unload, not shying from the grunt of the job, and Mrs. Chapman thawed a fraction.

Youre the real thing, she grunted. Thats what matters.

Gradually, the fog in Alices mind lifted. Hurt didnt vanishit drifted deeper, less keen. New concerns filled her head: a catering contract for the coffee shop; new packaging for mince pies; stocking up on dried cranberries ahead of the holidays.

It was on a supplier visit that she met George Turner.

He was tall, sturdy, all of thirty-five, with a clipped beard and the level gaze of a man used to plain speaking. His warehouse smelled of nuts and raisins. He asked brisk questions, offered better terms than the old supplier.

Hang on, said Alice, running through her notes. Are you lowering the price?

I am. You order steady volumes, I like consistency.

Why didnt Granddad ever push for this?

George gave a rare, wry smile.

Your granddads brilliant, but hates haggling. Says times more precious.

Hes right, Alice said. Though moneys good too.

They shook hands, and as she was letting herself out he asked,

Are you settled here for a while?

Not sure. Still learning. Maybe for good.

Good, he said simply. Norwich is small, but theres heart to it.

After that, George called in often. One afternoon, he dropped into the bakery, checked how supplies were stored, and lingered for tea with Mrs. Chapman. Soon enough, Alice found herself anticipating his visits, for reasons that left business behind. One chilly evening, they walked the riversidehis suggestion, her acceptance not out of duty but genuine want.

He spoke of his wife calmly, without drama. Cancer, three years ago. Their son Tom was five then, eight now. They managed with help from his mother-in-law.

Are you cold? he asked as they neared the bridge.

Not really. She tucked up her collar. George, werent you afraid? To start again, I mean?

He considered.

I was. For ages. ThenI stopped being. Not because I forgot, but life carries you, ready or not. Best to go along with it.

Alice looked at the ink-dark water and recognised that here was someone whod learned something she was just starting to grasp. And instead of sadness, the thought gave her quiet peace.

Granddad left for Norwich in February, content Alice was steady on her feet. That last evening, they sat with mugs of tea, as always.

Not scared? he asked.

No, she replied, surprising herself with the truth.

Good. He laid his large, work-rough hand over hers. Call me! And when you marry, do it for trust. Dont rush. But dont put it off forever either.

Granddad! Alice laughed.

Dont Granddad me. At your age, I had a smallholding and a child he quipped. But his eyes smiled.

In spring, Alice, George and Tom visited the Sunday market. Tom was grave, self-contained, his father in miniature, but when Alice bought him a bag of roasted seeds, he turned to her and said, Thanks, Alice. Come to ours again, would you?

George, overhearing, just took Alices hand.

They married in June, without fuss. Molly came specially to witness, and Georges cousin signed too. Mrs. Chapman baked so much, the table overflowed. Granddad turned up with a bottle of fine wine hed saved for the right occasion.

The right time, he toasted. Nothing more needs saying.

Life went off-script, but in a far better way than Alice had imagined months ago, weeping on Mollys sofa. Reality rarely matches daydreams, and perhaps thats a blessing.

The bakery flourished. Within a year, they launched a fourth branch, took on two new bakers. The next, George suggested expanding the stockroom and selling frozen pastries to restaurants. They debated it long and well, after Toms bedtime, and at last tried it. It worked.

Alice worked harddifferently than before, not frantic or desperate but with purpose. She came into the bakery before sunrise, checked the night shift, had coffee with Mrs. Chapman, now more like family. Evenings, shed return to warmth and Toms tales of school over dinnera happiness so simple, shed pause in the hallway just to revel in it.

Later came their daughter Claire, then, a year and a half later, their son Toby, born with a determined squint so fierce Mrs. Chapman declared, That onell run the lot one day, mark my words!

They built a house in the countryside, no hurry, proper planning. George oversaw the build, Alice chose floors, windows, kitchen, making it both practical and cosy. The May they moved in, they threw a housewarming. Granddad visited and stayed a fortnight.

He sat reading the Telegraph on the veranda with his tea, content as could be. Claire clambered onto his knee; Toby brought him treasures from the garden. Fourteen-year-old Tom joined him sometimes, grilling Granddad about baking, and Granddad answered plainly, like one adult to another.

All thisthe laughter, the ordinary, imperfect joywas six years on from that wet, hopeless October and Mollys sofa.

Alice hardly ever thought of Simon. Not because she willed herself to forget, but because hed settled into the past, somewhere painless. Like a scar you know is there but never see.

And then, one unremarkable September afternoon, struggling out of the grocers with two bulging bags, she saw him by the automatic doors.

She knew him at once, though hed changed. His hair had faded and thinned, bags under his eyes, cheap old coat too loose in the shoulders, looking a decade older.

Alice, he said.

She stopped. No lurch of the heart, no pain; just a face from long ago. Time to settle an old account.

Hello, Simon.

You look well, he said, with something in his voice that made her uncomfortablefor him, not herself.

Thanks. How are you?

Oh, you know… He shrugged awkwardly. Not great, if Im honest. Heard youre in Norwich, running things?

I am, she answered evenly.

Well done. He paused. Alice, youwell, I want to say, I realise I handled everything abysmally. Really. None of it was your fault.

I know, she said.

He blinked, off-balance.

Me and Mrs. Doyle… well, I suppose youve heard. Didnt turn out. She chucked me in the end. Ive floundered since, work and all that. Things are tight. Look, its awkward, butcould you lend me a bit? Not much, just until the end of the month. Ill pay you back.

She felt no anger, not even the sympathy that tugs you back into someone elses problems. Just calm clarity.

No, Simon. I wont.

Alice, I just

Wait. She stopped him. I dont hold a grudge. Thats all long gone. But my lifes not just mine. It belongs to others nowmy husband, my children, our work, Granddad. I cant take from them and give to you. That wouldnt be fair.

He gazed at her, baffled by this answer. Hed expected rage, or tears, or perhaps forgiveness. But she just stood there, telling the plain truth.

Right then, he said quietly. I understand.

All the best, Simon, she said gently.

She hoisted the bags and walked to the car, not looking backnot to make a point, simply because there was no need.

The drive home took twenty minutes. Beyond the city, real September was beginninga bright, fierce gold as if the trees wanted to dazzle one last time. Alice thought of telling George they needed firewood in before the proper cold set in, of how Toby wanted to see the bakery that weekend, and that Granddad had muttered about his back that morningshed better remind him about the ointment.

She reached home, and Toby, pedalling furiously, rounded the corner and shouted,

Mummys home! Dad, Mummys here!

George came to the porch, drying his hands on a tea towel, fragrant from whatever hed been frying. Claire poked her head from the upstairs window.

Mum, did you get the milk?

Got it, Alice called back.

On the veranda, Granddad Arthur was in his favourite chair, The Telegraph in hand. He looked up at her steps.

Youre late.

Just met someone, Alice said, climbing onto the porch.

George took her shopping, his look querying.

Who?

Simon.

He was silent for a second.

And?

Nothing, she said, heading into the kitchen.

Granddad folded his paper and followed. They sat at the table; George put the kettle on. Claire hurried in with a book and wedged herself on the sill. Toby abandoned his bike by the fence and fetched up beside Granddad, eager to tell him about the frog hed found by the brook.

Now then, hush, Granddad rumbled good-naturedly. Let your mum speak.

Alice poured her tea, warming her hands on the cup. The kitchen was snug, outdoors scented cool and appley through the open window, pies cooled on the sideboardGeorge had baked them this morning from Mrs. Chapmans legendary recipe.

He looked rough, Alice said. Asked for money.

Did you give him any? Granddad asked.

No.

He nodded, nothing more, and picked up a pie.

George took the seat opposite, hands splayed on the table.

How are you?

Im fine. She hesitated. You know, I thought itd feel painful or awkward. But it was just nothing. Like it wasnt even my story anymore.

Because it isnt, he said. Its someone elses tale now.

Yes, she smiled.

Granddad finished his pie.

Only this, Alice: life doesnt give you what you deserve. Life gives you what youll stand for. If you get up and go on, it walks with you. If you stay down, it leaves you behind.

And you got up? Alice asked in a hushed voice.

I did, Granddad nodded. So did you. And thats why were here.