A Day to Remember Read online

  A Day to Remember

  Fiona Phillips

  Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2007

  ISBN 1905170904/9781905170906

  Copyright © Fiona Phillips and Lynne Barrett-Lee 2007

  The right of Fiona Phillips and Lynne Barrett-Lee to be identified as

  the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance

  with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and

  characters are the product of the authors’ imaginations and any

  resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in

  a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means,

  electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying,

  recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the

  publishers: Accent Press Ltd, The Old School,

  Upper High St, Bedlinog, Mid-Glamorgan, CF46 6SA.

  The Quick Reads project in Wales is a joint venture between the Basic

  Skills Agency and the Welsh Books Council. Titles are funded through

  the Basic Skills Agency as part of the National Basic Skills Strategy for

  Wales on behalf of the Welsh Assembly Government.

  Printed and bound in the UK

  Cover Design by Emma Barnes

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 1

  They say bad news, like buses, always comes in threes. Had I thought about this, early, on that sunny June Saturday, I might just have stayed in bed.

  But of course I didn’t think about it. Nothing had happened yet. Instead, I was busy pulling open the curtains and yawning, and thinking how soaring summer temperatures and itchy uniforms don’t mix, however nice the day would be for the bride.

  If you’re chauffeur to a bride, a uniform’s a must. Because if a wedding’s going to be a day to remember, all the little details have to be right. That’s what my firm was called, A Day To Remember, and we provided special cars for special days out. Weddings, of course, but also birthdays and christenings. Whatever, as my ex-husband used to say, the clients wanted.

  Today’s Day To Remember was, as they often were, a wedding. Second marriage, quite small, in a hotel. Three hours work for me, tops, and then I could get home. But before that, I had to get up and get the wedding car ready. Get the ribbons tied on, get the champagne nicely chilled, and then get our elderly Rolls Royce round to the bride’s house in plenty of time. So no time for a lie-in.

  I padded off into the bathroom and turned on the shower, picking up stray items of Josh’s clothing as I went. Teenage sons, I thought fondly, as I coiled up my hair and stuffed it into a shower cap - would I ever get him house trained? I really needed to remind him where the laundry basket was.

  With the shower on at full blast, I didn’t hear the phone. So the first I knew about the first bit of bad news was the sound of Josh’s voice bellowing up the stairs.

  ‘Mum? Mu-um!!’

  I switched the shower off. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Rhys is on the phone.’

  Rhys was a local farmer. We kept our two wedding cars in his barn.

  ‘Coming!’ I reached for a bath towel, still dripping. I trotted down the stairs and Josh handed me the phone.

  ‘Lovely morning,’ Rhys said. I agreed that it was. ‘I was wondering,’ he added, ‘What you had on today. Only Tom’s at a loose end and in need of some cash. You want him to go over the roller for you?’

  Tom was Rhys’s son, and was fifteen, like Josh. And also like Josh he liked to earn himself pocket-money by washing and polishing our two cars.

  ‘Don’t worry about the Rolls,’ I said. ‘Josh only did it on Thursday. But if he’s keen to earn some money, he could give the limo a polish. We’re not going to need it till next weekend, and it’ll be one less job to do.’

  The limo was our other car. We needed both when we had bigger jobs.

  ‘OK,’ said Rhys. ‘I’ll have him do that. When’s it coming back?’

  ‘Back? Back from where?’

  ‘From wherever it is.’

  ‘It’s not there?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Oh, well. I expect Steve’s popped out to get the tyre pressures checked or something.’ Steve was the driver who worked for me part-time. I usually gave him all the evening jobs to do. I’d spent more than enough time over the years working nights. Plus keeping two expensive cars on the road meant there was always something that needed doing. One reason I so looked forward to the time when they were gone from my life.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Rhys. ‘It’s not been here since he took it on Friday morning.’

  ‘Friday morning? It’s been gone that long?’

  This was strange. Where could he have taken it? As far as I knew it hadn’t been used since a prom do last Tuesday, and Steve certainly hadn’t said anything to me. ‘That’s odd,’ I said. ‘Are you sure it’s not there?’

  Rhys laughed his big laugh. ‘Not unless it’s sneaked off and hidden behind a haystack! No, I promise you, Jo, it isn’t here.’

  By the time I’d dressed and driven up to the farm to get the Rolls, I was mystified. What was going on? I’d tried Steve on both his mobile and his house phone, and failed to get him on either. What had he been doing taking the limo out on Friday morning? We definitely had had no bookings for Friday. I’d double checked. I was actively turning away work at the moment.

  With only a month left in college (where I was training – very proudly – for my certificate in floristry) I was taking only a few new bookings till the autumn, when I was going to put the cars and the business up for sale and get on, finally, with the life I wanted to lead. But that was then and this was now, and my limo and my driver had both vanished.

  Rhys was out in the yard giving the concrete a hose-down when I arrived. Tom was following with a broom. Time was getting on and I still had the ribbons to put on the car. I grabbed the roll of ribbon and the cool box from the back of my ancient Fiesta and locked it. It always felt a bit ridiculous to be stepping out of my battered old tin can and driving away in something so posh.

  ‘Still no sign of it, I suppose?’ I asked, as I made my way across the yard. Rhys shook his head.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘And you’ve not seen anything of Steve? He’s supposed to be working tonight.’

  Rhys shook his head. ‘Not since Friday morning, like I said, and I didn’t really see him then. He just waved as he left. You not heard from him at all?’

  No, I hadn’t. But one thing was for sure. When I did he would have some explaining to do.

  The bride wore ivory. A slinky, off-the shoulder number with a tight boned bodice and a fishtail skirt, all of which made it something of a challenge for her to get in and out of the car. The groom sweltered in a morning coat and wobbly top hat, and looked like he’d rather be at home in front of the telly. If I ever got married a second time, I thought, I would wear something much less uncomfortable. Something simple and feminine and soft. Having attended my first wedding trussed up like Bo Peep, I was pretty much decided on that.

  As was usual, I had an hour’s wait between the service and the photos, which they were having done on the beach down near Barry. I u
sually spent the time doing something useful. Sometimes reading a book, sometimes writing stuff for college. Or making shopping lists or making plans. Though sometimes, if the wedding was held at a church I didn’t know, I spent much of it looking for a Ladies loo. And, more often than not, failing to find one.

  Today, though, I sat in the car and fretted. Where on earth were Steve and the limo? If what Rhys had told me was true, this wasn’t the first time he’d taken it without asking me. Could he have been involved in an accident? What if he was hurt? What if he was lying in a hospital bed, unable to call because he was unable to speak?

  Once I’d taken the couple to Barry, I drove back to the farm mentally crossing my fingers. Perhaps he’d be back now and all would be well.

  But there was still no limo at the farm, and no word from Steve when I got home. No response to the many messages I’d left him. I called him again, even so. If he didn’t show soon, I would have to get the Rolls out again. We had an anniversary do booked for seven. A job which I’d already booked Steve for and which I’d now have to do myself.

  Josh wasn’t in, so I phoned him as well. As usual, he was on his skateboard at the skate park.

  ‘Yo, Mum,’ he said.

  I told him I’d have to do the booking, which didn’t bother him much. These things never did. He was much too busy having fun. ‘But your tea,’ I explained. ‘I’ll have to get it for you now. I’ll have to leave before six.’

  ‘I’m not hungry, Mum. I’ll get myself something later.’

  ‘Even so, I need to know you’re home before I go.’

  He sighed loudly. ‘Mu-um! I’m fifteen!’

  ‘Yes.’ I sighed too. ‘I’m well aware of that, Josh. But I can’t go off to Cowbridge without knowing you’re home safely.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll get a lift. Hang on –’

  I hung on, for some time. ‘It’s all right,’ he said at last. ‘I can get a lift off Owen’s dad.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. Mum, chill. I’ll be fine.’

  Chill, indeed. If I did the amount of chilling Josh was always telling me to, I’d have to be stored in a deep freeze. But I did put him out of my mind. He was right. He’d be fine. He always was, wasn’t he?

  So much for a mother’s intuition.

  Two hours later, I’d delivered the anniversary couple to their party, put the Rolls back in the barn, and was just driving back down our road when my mobile rang. I still didn’t think of Josh. I assumed that by now he’d be home. I thought it might be Steve, at long last. But no. It was someone else. Owen’s father. Calling with my second bit of bad news…

  Chapter 2

  ‘He’s done what?’

  I was still sitting in the car on the drive as I spoke, and there now seemed no point in getting out.

  ‘Broken his arm, I think,’ said Owen’s dad, who was calling me from outside the accident and emergency department of the hospital. He’d driven Josh down and would now wait until I arrived. ‘Doing some stunt or other,’ he added. ‘But it’s nothing serious so don’t worry. It’s just that there’s a bit of a wait, what with it being Saturday evening. Boys will be boys, eh?’

  Hmm, I thought. And mothers will be mothers. I’d give him a hug, of course, and say ‘there, there’. But then I’d give him a very large piece of my mind.

  But in fact, I didn’t, because Josh looked so sorry himself when I got there. And also as if he was trying very hard not to cry. We waited, as predicted, for a good couple of hours. I spent some of this, in my motherly fashion, pointing out the importance of elbow and knee pads. Josh, in his fifteen-year-old fashion, reminded me that they wouldn’t have stopped him breaking his arm.

  As it turned out, it wasn’t his arm but his wrist that was broken. A neat and clean break that would be easy to fix. They put it in plaster, which pleased Josh enormously, and then we were free to head home.

  It was dark when we emerged from the A and E building, and a light rain had started falling. The sort of rain that looks harmless, but actually gets you very, very wet. Still, at least the day had cooled off a little. We hurried to the multi-storey car park and I shoved coins into the pay machine. By the time we were in the car, I was almost dropping with tiredness. I was very much looking forward to getting home, getting out of my uniform, eating something, opening some wine, and putting my feet up in front of the telly before anything else could happen.

  But we’d just reached the bottom of the last exit ramp when my third bit of bad news showed up, with a totally unexpected, ear-splitting thump. The car that had been following us out of the car park had slammed straight – and very hard – into the back of my car.

  I leapt out, as you do, almost refusing to believe my Saturday could have got any worse. Yet, seeing the damage, it clearly had. And how!

  ‘Bloody hell!’ observed Josh, who had got out as well.

  ‘Language!’ I snapped. But ‘bloody hell’ was right. We were both in a state of utter shock. The car behind – or, more correctly, the one now rammed up against my Fiesta – was a big blue Mercedes, and its owner, who was obviously even more shocked than we were, had not yet got out. In fact, he seemed to be involved in some sort of tussle inside. Was he having a fight with his seat belt?

  One thing I did know was that if he wanted a fight I could give him one. I marched up and was just about to rap on the car window, when he all but exploded out of the driver’s door. I jumped back, alarmed. He was a crazy man, clearly.

  Just how crazy soon became clear, because he then started frantically tugging at his clothing. His shorts, to be exact, which were dusty and dirty, and which he promptly pulled down, shouting ‘Ouch! Owee!’ as he did so. Josh and I looked on, astonished, but he didn’t seem to notice. Once the shorts were down – he was wearing red boxers – he stamped his feet out of them, picked them up and shook them out. Then he made an inspection of the inside of his thigh, said ‘bloody hell’ and grabbed at something with his finger and thumb. Only then, finally, did he seem to notice our existence. The whole thing had taken mere seconds.

  ‘I’ve been stung!’ he announced. ‘Look!’ He thrust his hand out towards me. There was something tiny and black between his finger and thumb. The sting, I supposed. ‘Look at the size of it! God, it’s still pumping!’ He threw it away in disgust.

  Being in a dark empty car park with a man in his underpants isn’t something I have much experience of, so at this point I was speechless. I was glad when Josh came around to my side of the car. He may have only been fifteen and with his right arm in plaster, but he was at least a foot taller than I was. The man then grabbed his shorts and started putting them on again, which was a relief.

  ‘Um –’ I began, feeling very slightly braver.

  ‘Oh, God,’ he said, before I could get another word out. ‘Look what I’ve done to your car!’

  He zipped up the shorts and went to inspect the damage. ‘God,’ he said again. ‘I am so, so sorry. It all happened so quickly. Just – zing! It was like a red hot poker going into my leg. And then my foot must have slipped off the brake.’ He rubbed again at his thigh, then squatted down to take a closer look.

  I was beginning to feel bolder by now. ‘And landed on the accelerator, judging by the way you slammed into us,’ I noted crossly. ‘Look at the state of my bumper!’

  He winced again. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘What a mess. Oh, I am so, so sorry.’

  He stood up again and pushed his hand through his hair. It was curly and longish and just a little on the scruffy side, and not at all like the sort of hair you’d expect to find on a man who was my sort of age and drove such a posh car. But then I guess the same might be said for me when I was working. Though not right now. My own car was worn out, exhausted, and very much the worse for wear, and so, I felt grimly, was I.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘Really. But I didn’t mean to do it –’

  ‘Even so, you have,’ I said, ignoring the fact that he was rubbing his thig
h again with a pained expression on his face.

  ‘And I’ll obviously pay for the damage and everything…’

  We all turned then, hearing another car approach. It stopped at the top of the ramp.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘We’d better get these cars out of the way, hadn’t we? Then we can swap details and so on. Yes?’ I nodded miserably. What else was there to do?

  But my car being where it was (a couple of feet further forward than it had been before he hit it), I didn’t have space to move it out of the way unless he reversed his up the ramp first. Josh and I got back into the car and waited, and before long heard the noise of his engine starting up. And seconds after that another noise. A tearing sound. Before we’d even turned to look, it was followed by another. A clatter this time, of something hitting the floor.

  ‘Oh, God. What on earth was that?’ I asked Josh.

  He turned around to see. ‘Not exactly sure, Mum. But something tells me it might well be your bumper.’

  As any woman will tell you, there are times when a situation simply has to be taken in hand. This was one such, so I took prompt action. I immediately burst into tears.

  ‘Don’t cry, Mum,’ said Josh, placing his good hand on my shoulder and patting me a bit. ‘It’ll all be okay. You’re just tired.’

  Which would normally have snapped me out of it . There’s nothing that makes you smile quite as much as your children coming over all caring. But seeing the man with the Mercedes holding what was indeed my bumper, I felt less like smiling and more like ramming the thing up his nose. I shoved the car into reverse and moved it out of the way.

  Still snivelling, I got out again. The Mercedes man had put the bumper out of the way and was now moving his own car. Which, I noted furiously, was hardly dented at all. He parked alongside us and got out once again.