The Ballroom Class by Lucy Dillon Read Free Book Online Page A

because she didn’t say anything.
    On the other hand, she could tell she was brooding about something too, on account of the occasional little sigh escaping from her.
    Lauren racked her brains for a way of currying favour.
    ‘Do you want to go round to the big Tesco’s while I’m in the car, Mum?’ she asked, as inspiration and guilt struck at the same time. ‘It’s my turn for the shopping, isn’t it? And I think we’re out of cereal. And crisps,’ she added.
    Before Chris and Lauren got engaged, they’d been sharing a house on the outskirts of the town with two friends from school, but in an attempt to save up for a deposit of their own, Lauren had moved back into her old room at home, while Chris had moved in with his mate, Kian. Lauren missed cuddling up on the sofa, but if she was being really honest, the thrill of 24/7 sex was starting to be balanced by 24/7 cleaning duties. Happily, the old frisson of illicit quickies had returned, just in time to make the wedding seem even more romantic and old fashioned, and Chris certainly made it clear how much he missed her then.
    Plus, her mum was mad keen to spoil her, as usual, which Lauren didn’t object to at all. There were a few bumps, of course, what with Bridget seeming to think she was thirteen sometimes, not twenty two, but on the whole it wasn’t so bad, considering she’d been living away for a few years now. Lauren thought she was pretty lucky to have such a good relationship with her mum and dad. The longer she spent going over wedding plans with Irene, the more Lauren understood why Chris had been so quick to take up Kian’s offer rather than go home himself.
    ‘No, it’s all right,’ said Bridget, as Lauren had known she would. ‘Your father and I’ll go late-night Thursday. You know what he’s like now he’s retired – he likes to take charge of something.’
    ‘Well, let me give you some money, then,’ Lauren persisted. ‘Towards it.’
    Bridget flapped a hand. ‘Get away. You’re barely eating anything anyway. You need to save up, don’t you?’
    She wasn’t saying anything odd, but there was a funny edge to her voice: a sort of tightness. The outward show of normality wasn’t quite covering something beneath, especially when Lauren knew her mum so well.
    ‘Mum,’ she said, ‘what’s wrong?’
    ‘Nothing’s wrong.’
    ‘There is. I can tell.’
    Bridget sighed, then said, tetchily, ‘Since when did we start calling weddings Special Days ?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Is it one of these non-denominational PC things? If Irene refers to it as “Your Special Day” one more time  . . .’
    ‘Mum, it is a special day for her. She’s only got Chris left, and this is the only wedding she’ll get to help with.’ Lauren looked across with some surprise at her mother. It really wasn’t like her to be catty. ‘Can’t you give her a break? She was showing me photos of her own wedding the other day – poor Irene had a register office do, in 1978, in Guildford. Pink suit, a bridesmaid with massive glasses, Babycham, and ten guests. She just wants me to have what she didn’t.’
    Yes, but Irene isn’t paying for it, thought Bridget. And it’s not her wedding .
    Instead, she said, ‘Lauren, this is your day, not some re-run of hers. I don’t want you to end up agreeing to some three-ring circus, just because you’re too nice to tell her to, I don’t know, calm it down .’
    ‘Well, maybe if Ron was still alive, she’d be able to have some kind of vow reaffirmation, but she can’t.’ Lauren paused, not liking the feeling of her mum sounding jealous. ‘Mum, you’ve got Dad, you’re lucky. And you know I’ve always dreamed of a lovely wedding.’
    Bridget sighed. ‘I know, Laurie. I want you to have a lovely wedding.’
    ‘Well, then, let’s just be grateful I vetoed the contract she wanted the ushers and bridesmaids to sign. Fines for unauthorised weight gain, tattoos or hair colour changes? And that was just the