How To Marry Your Husband (4 page)

The woman nodded. “Good idea. The same designer makes a wedding dress that’s an identical ivory. Why don’t you try it on, though the dress itself won’t be what you’re after.”

Olivia does just that. The dress is this time totally unsuitable but the colour is a revelation. It gives a glow to her skin and makes her look younger, she’s sure of it. Not that she’s obsessed with being an ‘older bride’ – she’s only 29 for heaven’s sake – but giving nature a helping hand is always a good idea.

“Yes,” she says in answer to the unspoken question. “Yes, if I can get the bridesmaid’s dress of before in the colour of this one, I think I’m done. And the price is a so much cheaper, isn’t it?”

The woman laughs. “Very true! In my opinion, more brides should opt for a bridesmaid’s dress as it gives them far more money left over to spend on something else, like the honeymoon, for example. Though I suppose, being in the business, that’s not something I should be recommending too often!”

And Olivia laughs with her, though she herself has an idea she’ll probably be spending more money on the cake than on the honeymoon. Anyway, Kieran has promised he’ll pay for the holiday and she’s decided to accept his kind offer gracefully.
Start as you mean to go on
is her motto.

Just over six weeks later, she’s back at Talassio’s, ready to try on the actual dress she’s ordered.

She imagines it will be simple. She has a lot to do in town, including a facial she’s managed to squeeze in – so good for the skin! So Olivia imagines she’ll pop in to Talassio’s, grab the dress, pay the rest of the outstanding balance and then she’ll be out onto her next task.

Odd then that when she opens the door and steps inside the salon, her face begins to tingle and she feels a sneeze developing. Always a sign of stress.

Oh heavens, this had better be right. For the first time, Olivia realises just how much of a chance she’s taken in buying something before actually trying it on properly. What if the colour is wrong after all? What if she doesn’t like it quite as much as she had before? What if she
hates
it?

Before Olivia’s disastrous questions can go any further, the manageress tip-taps from a room at the back, and stretches out her arms in welcome. “Good afternoon to you! It’s always lovely to see a bride come to collect her dress, which I must say is very beautiful indeed. Would you like a cup of coffee, or would you like to try on the dress first?”

“No, thank you,” she replies. “I’ll just try on the dress if that’s okay.”

“Of course.”

In no time, Olivia is in the changing room with The Dress. Putting it on feels like taking a Massive Step Forward in her relationship with Kieran. Which is exactly what she wants to do, so it feels right. Still, as she finally does up the zip at the back, she looks into the mirror and takes a step back, as far as the changing room will allow. She gulps. And gulps again.

She looks beautiful. This isn’t a word Olivia normally applies to herself, but it’s the first word that pops into her head as she gazes at her image. She looks like a grown-up woman about to embark on the adventure of a lifetime, and looking forward to every single damn moment of it.

Gosh.

Unexpectedly, her eyes fill with tears and she has to brush them away. Tears aren’t her thing.

“Can I help you, madam, I mean Olivia?” the manageress’ voice from outside the changing room brings Olivia back to herself.

“No, thank you! I’m fine here. The dress looks amazing.”

“I’m happy to hear it. You’ll get a much nicer view in the salon mirror. The light is better.”

“Okay. I’ll just come out,” Olivia replies.

She shakes herself, gives her reflection a great big smile, pulls back the curtain and walks out into the salon.

The manageress gasps and claps her hands. Olivia has never realised people actually do that, so she swings round with a grateful smile before gazing at her reflection in the bigger mirror.

“You look wonderful, just as I thought you would!” the manageress says. “Absolutely perfect!”

At the same time, the other customer in the shop who must have entered when Olivia was in the changing room gives a whoop of approval. “Goodness! I hope I look as good in my dress as you do in yours,” she says.

Olivia nods her thanks and, really, can’t help but agree. For once in her life, she looks like a woman who is made for wearing a dress. Except even more so. The colour exactly suits her skin in a way she couldn’t have anticipated if she’d shopped for a thousand dresses. It clings to her shoulders, waist and hips in a manner that makes her shape more slim and seductive, and the sleeves skim her elbows with a delicate rose pattern that adds just the right amount of decoration.

She feels like a woman on the way to getting married.

“Thank you,” she says to no-one and to everyone. “This is
so definitely
the one.”

Chapter Six: Hair and Beauty

Olivia isn’t confident with make-up. Whatever she puts on her skin ends up making her something other than herself and she doesn’t like it. It always astonishes her how skilful other women are with make-up. During her commuting years (and the less said about that particular horror the better …), she’d once watched a young woman on the train put on all her make-up from scratch on the journey into London. She’d done a brilliant job too, in spite of the train’s constant rocking, and looked like a million dollars when she stepped on to the platform at Charing Cross. Olivia had wanted to give a round of admiring applause but thought it would probably be too much for the English sensibilities.

She’s never forgotten it. So what Olivia needs now is a make-up artist who can transform her into her own version of that million dollars for her wedding day without breaking the budget, and she’ll be more than happy.

She doesn’t want to look orange, and she doesn’t want her make-up to be so heavy that Kieran fails to recognise her at all. That would be truly horrific! He’d be entitled to ask for his money back or return her to the Fiancée Shop, or wherever ex-fiancées go, and this is the last thing she wants. Kieran probably has a view though – it’s his wedding too and she’s determined to ask him.

The opportunity comes after a trip to the cinema the following night. Olivia isn’t paying much attention to what they’re watching – it’s some war film Kieran is mad keen on and she’s lost any sense of plot after the first two battles. She therefore spends her time seeing how many men she can count on screen with moustaches. As the film is set during the American civil war, this is actually quite a lot and she keeps losing her tally. She’s never been very good at numbers, or indeed war films. She thinks it may have ended up being about forty moustaches, but some of those could well have been attached to the same man. It’s hard to tell.

In any case, she’s told Kieran she enjoyed the film but then ruins it by wishing out loud there’d been more romance in it. At least she makes him laugh – their tastes in films have always been different.

At home, Olivia switches on the kettle and waves the coffee jar at Kieran. “The usual?”

“Please,” he says. “Might grab a yogurt too. Unless you actually have biscuits…?”

She rolls her eyes at him. He knows perfectly well she’s trying not to put on any weight before their Big Day and so biscuits – and, even worse, chocolates – are off the menu. If she buys any of either, she will end up eating them herself and having to do an extra five minutes on the exercise bike. Such a thought is terrible. The fifteen minutes she already struggles through on the bike in the mornings before work are bad enough.

Once they’re in the living room with two coffees and one yoghurt pot – strawberry as Olivia isn’t too keen on those and Kieran doesn’t mind – Olivia smiles brightly at her fiancé.

“Ah,” he says, putting the pot and spoon down on the table. “You have a question …”

“How do you know? I could just be smiling.”

“Oh yes, you could be, but it’s the type of smile which means you’ve got something to ask me. So go ahead, but if it’s anything too girly, I reserve the right to flee the room in a manly fashion.”

“Ha! I’d best bar the door then,” Olivia replies. “I’m in the process of thinking about wedding hair and make-up, and I wondered if you had any particular opinions. I’m planning to get my hair done. I’d like to add a few curls in so I need to try a new hairdresser. I don’t have one I always use at the moment as it is, so I’ve got free rein. And in terms of wedding make-up, I’d much rather go natural rather than be over-the-top. What do you think, about both of them, I mean?”

Kieran’s eyes contain a look of existential terror. “Um. You’re beautiful, whatever you decide, so I don’t mind.”

Olivia gives him a quick hug. She always loves a compliment. Who doesn’t? Still, she wants to make
absolutely
sure. “Okay, I’ll try for a few soft curls for a hairdo then. But, really, what’s your opinion on make-up? Is natural the way forward or should I be a glam queen?”

Kieran, by now primed for pre-marital battle, rises to the occasion like the trooper he is. “You’re always a glam queen, to my eyes. But you like the natural look and it suits you, so I think it would be nice. Just don’t ask me to give any more beauty opinions, please. I love you how you are!”

He holds up his hands as if fearful of a further grilling but Olivia decides enough is enough. “I promise that’s all I’ll ask,” she says as she kisses him. “Natural it is then.”

By the end of the following day, Olivia has an appointment with a local beautician whose website advertises wedding make-up and shows a variety of pictures which give her hope that some kind of miracle can be performed on the day. It’s the only one of the websites Olivia has surfed through that actually mentions the ‘natural look’ and so she’s put it at the top of her list at once.

One week later and Olivia is at a village near her mother’s home, relaxing with a soothing hot chocolate in the front room of a freelance beautician whose name is Debbie. A hot chocolate is not very good for the skin but Olivia thinks she deserves it just this once. Only the one sin can’t alter her waistline too much, can it?

While Olivia sips, Debbie is studying her face as if she is an interesting sculpture she has plans for. Olivia doesn’t mind this, as Debbie isn’t scarily beautiful so therefore not too terrifying. There’s nothing worse than having to deal with blonde women with perfect skin, perfect figures and a generous dose of smugness – which as a rule they nearly always have. Debbie on the other hand is petite, plump and with wild curly hair and freckles. Her skin is suitably creamy but not overpoweringly so and she obviously knows her make-up. But all this only gives Olivia an essential feeling of reassurance so she doesn’t flinch while Debbie continues to gaze at the various aspects of her appearance. Finally the beautician steps back.

“You’ve got a great face shape,” she says. “I love how green your eyes are. I’ve got some fantastic eye shadows that will be perfect for you.”

“Okay,” Olivia replies. “Sounds good, but as I said on the phone, I don’t want anything too heavy. I want to look like myself when I get married, not like someone nobody recognises.”

Debbie takes a drink of water. “No problem. I specialise in the natural look for brides. But do bear in mind that when I say ‘natural’, it won’t be the kind of natural you’d do yourself with your make up, as you need to add a little extra for the photographs. Otherwise you’ll end up looking washed out.”

Olivia can understand that. Because of Kieran’s love of photography, she knows a fair amount about colour and light. Just as long as she doesn’t end up looking like some kind of mad party-goer, she’ll be fine.

For the next half hour, Debbie experiments with a variety of looks on Olivia’s face. Olivia is happy enough with the creamy foundation and (thank God!) concealer, as well as the subtle drift of soft pink blusher on her cheeks – even though she never uses blusher herself. She prefers the pale and interesting look, but accepts Debbie’s argument about pale and interesting not looking great in the pictures. She even likes Debbie’s choice of taupe eyeshadow and brown mascara and nods her approval at the image in the mirror. Each time, she agrees something works on her, Debbie writes the information onto a pad on the desk for saving on her client record.

Olivia likes having a client record. It makes her feel vaguely important, which is nice, if unusual.

The one thing she and Debbie have problems with is the choice of lipstick. Olivia isn’t a keen lipstick wearer and she doesn’t have any lipsticks at home which are less than a year old. Yes, she knows she should throw them away, but as she only ever uses them when a posh party comes round, which is once in the proverbial blue moon, then there doesn’t seem any point. She hates waste and so far her lips haven’t exploded into terrible sores as a result of her beauty faux-pas. Must be the same as all the nonsense about sell-by and use-by dates on food. Maybe lipsticks are the same as yoghurts, in that sense.

So, from instinct, when Debbie sets out an array of lipsticks to choose from, Olivia goes for something dark. She presumes her fair complexion and auburn hair will need a lippie with some oomph to set off her wedding look.

Debbie frowns. “Are you sure?”

“It’s similar to the ones I have at home, though I don’t wear them often,” Olivia replies. “So let’s give it a go.”

Debbie duly layers Olivia’s lips with the chosen colour and steps back to take in the effect. She’s still frowning. “You know, I really do think you could use something lighter. Have a look.”

She whirls Olivia back to face the mirror again, and Olivia gives her completed face a good once-over. She looks more or less how she does for a night out on the town, although Debbie’s foundation and eye make-up choices are a definite improvement. She will have to take down the names of the products the beautician has used for the next mad social whirl. Still, Olivia has to admit Debbie might well have a point about the lippie. Maybe it doesn’t quite fit with the rest of her.

“Hmm, I see what you mean about the lipstick,” she says after a few moments. “What sort of colour do you suggest?”

“Don’t worry,” Debbie chips in, now looking triumphant. “I know exactly the thing.”

With that, she wipes Olivia’s lips clean and snatches a lipstick from her collection on the shelf. A few moments later, and Attempt Number Two is in place. This time when Debbie steps back, she’s smiling. “Perfect! Now, you look.”

Once more, she swings Olivia round to the mirror to view the full effect. Olivia gasps. It looks pretty damn good! The lighter and subtler pink of her mouth somehow lifts her complexion all over so the whole of her face seems different, and in a good way too.

“Gosh,” she says. “That’s brilliant. That’s definitely The Look and The Lipstick to get married in. What’s it called?”

Ten minutes later, Olivia has booked Debbie in her diary for another practice run a week before her Big Day, and also an appointment on the morning of her wedding itself so she can get the full works once more. She leaves the salon smiling and with her handbag complete with two Rimmel pale pink lipsticks. Life is good.

Next stop is the hair problem. Olivia isn’t a fan of hairstyling. The best she manages to do is blow-dry the whole caboodle whilst leaning down dangerously close to the floor to give it some body and then pin it back so it doesn’t get in her eyes. She likes to see the world at all times. You never know what the world will be up to, and she isn’t the hiding type. Still, she has to admit it probably is slightly mad to spend so many minutes trying to put body into her hair in the morning and then pin it back anyway. But she likes the way this routine makes her hair feel and there’s nothing wrong with that.

But an expert opinion can’t do any harm, and so Olivia does what any self-respecting woman in her late twenties would do. She asks her mother. Olivia’s mother owns two hair brushes and a styling comb (whatever this is …) and so no doubt possesses secret hair knowledge.

“Hairdressers!” her mother says, eyes glinting, when Olivia asks her one Saturday morning in the local coffee shop. “Now there’s a question. I wouldn’t recommend the lady I use, even though she works miracles on my hair every week, as she specialises in old bats like myself and she’s a one-woman business. But I’ll ask her to ask around and let you know what she says.”

“Thanks, Mum. You’re a star.”

“I know. Oh and there’s also a woman from church who works in one of the local salons. She might be able to do something for you. Her name’s Bernadette. Bernie for short. She’s lovely. I’m sure you’ll get on. I shall ask her at the very next service.”

Olivia’s mother is as good as her word and a week or so later, Olivia picks up the phone to find soft-spoken Bernadette (call-me-Bernie) on the other end of the line. She may have been Irish, like her name, but Olivia isn’t sure. She’s no good at accents and had once declared to her friends with every confidence that Billy Connolly was definitely Welsh, wasn’t he? She’s never been allowed to forget it. Her ear is not attuned to Celtic differences.

Three days later, a Wednesday evening, Bernie arrives at Olivia’s mother’s home to discuss hair options. Olivia has decided it will be nicer all round to suss out the situation concerning her hair at her mother’s who may well have some good ideas and who will at least be able to see what she looks like from behind. Those mirrors hairdressers hold up when the job is done aren’t really helpful. That said, she has to smile when she remembers what Kieran told her about the last time – several months ago! – he’d been at the barber’s.

“You know, it’s weird at the barbers, isn’t it?” he’d said one evening when they were watching Midsomer Murders on the video together.

“Oh? Why?” Olivia replied, making the mental leap from ‘barber’ to ‘hairdresser’ on the understanding that the word ‘barber’ hadn’t been used since 1899, or thereabouts.

“At the end, they always hold up a picture of some bald bloke I’ve never seen before behind me and ask me what I think of him. I can’t see him clearly anyway as I don’t have my glasses on but I think he’s a slaphead. Of course I’m far too polite to say that so I just say I think he looks great. Weird, isn’t it?”

Olivia had a moment out of time when she attempted to process what nonsense he was trying to tell her – she was primed to believe his every word of course – when he gave her a wink and they both burst out laughing. That of course led to kissing – did that happen with all couples or was it really just them? – and Midsomer Murders was entirely forgotten so Olivia never did discover who had murdered the old man in the wheelchair with a bow and arrow at the village fete or why.