1. A Wedding

Debbie Crawshaw, owner of Bunburry’s premier (and only) beauty salon, was wearing her brightest smile.

This was a wedding, and a wedding was one of the happiest events there could be. The parish church was looking particularly beautiful. Marge Redwood had excelled herself with the floral display. Small posies made up of lavender, roses and baby’s-breath were tied to the end of each pew. Tall urns with cascades of hydrangeas, delphiniums and trailing ivy flanked the doors. And there was a gorgeous arrangement of lilies and orchids on the altar itself.

Alongside the fragrance of the flowers was the scent of polished wood. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting colourful patterns on the flagstones. Liz Hopkins was playing something classical but with a nice tune on the church organ.

As Debbie glanced around, her smile grew even brighter. And yet she couldn’t help feeling a trace of sadness, wondering whether she would ever walk down this aisle as a bride rather than simply sitting in a decorated pew.

She gazed at Alfie McAlister as he stood by the altar, tall and slim, looking more handsome than ever in a pale-grey suit, his brown hair flopping over his forehead.

Debbie had once harboured romantic hopes of Alfie, but he had made his choice of partner, Emma Hollis, a police constable. Emma was a very nice person, there was no doubt about that, but Debbie felt she really didn’t make the most of herself. If only Emma would come into the salon. The way she wore her hair was too severe. Debbie would add layers and textures to give her bob a fuller, tousled look, and advise her on make-up. Volumising mascara, and a warm taupe eyeshadow would be perfect, with gold shimmer on the centre of the eyelid. And a smudge of charcoal eyeshadow under the lower eyelash line for a smoky effect.

Emma’s older sister Laura was sitting on the other side of the aisle. There had been no nonsense about guests of the bride sitting on the left-hand side of the aisle, and guests of the groom sitting on the right: people had simply taken the next place in the pews as they arrived. The church was packed: the whole village must be here, eager to witness the wedding ceremony.

Laura was sitting with her partner, Emma’s boss, Sergeant Daniel Angel. He was a permanent fixture now that Sergeant Harold Wilson had taken medical retirement. The new sergeant certainly suited his surname, with his fair hair and his chiselled features.

Miss Radford-Jones, surely ninety if she was a day, sat in the front row in her usual elegant trouser suit, her steel-grey hair in a chignon. One hand rested on the walking stick, which looked more like a stylish accessory than a necessity. Debbie had always thought of Miss Radford-Jones a remote and unapproachable figure in her enormous mansion on the edge of the village. But since the elderly lady had given over part of her home to the community library, she had gained a new lease of life.

Beside her sat Gwendolyn, the librarian, unique in the village for being a Goth. Debbie could only see her from behind, but with her sharp eye for how people were dressed, saw immediately that Gwendolyn wasn’t wearing her usual multi-layered black dress. Instead, she was wearing her extra-special multi-layered black dress, with a heavy silver chain round her neck. Given the occasion, Debbie was sure that the necklace was the one Gwendolyn always wore on World Goth Day, a large red heart surrounded by black roses.

Old Tom sat on the other side of Miss Radford-Jones, his hair slicked down, and his beard newly trimmed. It was touching that people had made such an effort.

Debbie glanced behind her. There was Dr Anderson and his wife, sitting by Nurse Gibb and her family. Mrs Burgess had plonked herself directly behind Dr Anderson and was bending his ear about something. Mrs Burgess was one of those people who could be described as enjoying ill health. There was always something wrong with her, but Debbie was certain that it was nothing that couldn’t be put right if Mrs Burgess watched fewer box sets and took a little exercise. She had suggested this as tactfully as possible when Mrs Burgess came in for her regular massage. But Mrs Burgess hadn’t been entirely receptive. In fact, she remarked that if there had been another beauty salon in Bunburry, she would have taken her custom elsewhere.

Debbie turned her attention away from Mrs B to Sumi Chong and Tara Davies – the Magnolia Inn was going from strength to strength and had enough staff to allow both owners to take time off. Each of them was wearing a magnolia flower instead of a hat or fascinator, although Debbie felt this exotic touch was more suited to Sumi, with her jet-black hair, rather than a blonde like Tara.

Across the aisle sat Rakesh Choudhury. It was still a shock to see him without his wife. Debbie’s salon was opposite Rakesh’s restaurant, and she rarely went in for a mango lassi or a portion of chana masala without chatting to Saroj. It was difficult to accept she had gone. Rakesh’s two cute little boys were scrambling about in the pew, despite their Aunt Nithya trying to keep them in check.

And there was Noah, now in secondary school, but still a mainstay of the community library. He saw Debbie looking round and gave her a wave, then hastily put his hand down, obviously worried that he wasn’t supposed to wave in a church. His mother Sonia was sitting very close to her boyfriend, hunky Neil Walker, the outdoor survival expert.

It seemed that everyone was pairing off, everyone but Debbie.

But this was ridiculous, she told herself. She shouldn’t be thinking about herself. Today wasn’t about her, it was about joining together a man and a woman in holy matrimony.

The groom was surreptitiously glancing at his watch and the vicar went over to him and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

Debbie was close enough to hear the vicar’s words.

“It’s the bride’s prerogative to be late. Don’t worry, I’ve never known one not to turn up.”

Someone near the front said a little too loudly: “There’s always a first time,” and there was a ripple of laughter. Debbie pursed her lips. This was neither the time nor place for childish jokes. Of course, the bride was going to turn up. Wasn’t she?

An instant later, the organ music changed to the Wedding March and the guests all rose to their feet, turning as one to see the bride.

Even though Debbie knew what to expect, she gave a gasp of delight as the bride took her first step into the church, on the arm of Mr Harper, followed by her middle-aged matron of honour. The wedding dress was perfect, ivory satin in an A-line shape, fitted at the bodice and gently flaring to the calf-length hem. It was a particularly flattering style given that Dorothy from the post office had – Debbie searched for the right word – womanly hips.

An hour previously, Debbie had been preparing to do Dorothy’s wedding make-up.

“I’ve got everything ready,” she said. “A hydrating primer, a lightweight foundation and just a touch of concealer.”

Dorothy had given an uncomfortable giggle. “You’re making me sound like a rundown shack.”

“Not at all,” said Debbie earnestly. “We’re simply enhancing your natural beauty. Peach blusher, a satin lipstick that has such a sophisticated effect, and a spritz with a setting spray to make your skin look gorgeously dewy. He won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”

She had been right. Harold Wilson was gazing at Dorothy in adoration, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. The recently retired police sergeant seemed so dazed that it was just as well Alfie was there as best man to keep him upright.

Debbie hadn’t realised that ex-Sergeant Wilson and Alfie were friends, something she mentioned to Liz and Marge when they were in the village hall, once all the speeches had been made and the wedding feast was being served.

“Friends?” snorted Marge derisively as she tucked into another cauliflower bhaji. “Don’t be daft!”

Seeing the senior citizens together, Debbie reflected, you would think Liz was the force to be reckoned with, taller and bulkier and possibly even the older of the two. Marge was small and birdlike, with a mop of white curls which Debbie longed to dye metallic lilac. But she would never dare suggest such a thing. Liz was always placid and gentle, but you never knew when Marge was going to react badly to an innocent remark.

“He made a lovely speech as best man,” Debbie pointed out. “It was just that I’d never seen them spend much time together. Any time together.”

“I would hope Alfie had more sense than to be friends with Harold Wilson,” said Liz as she ripped apart a stuffed paratha, neither placidly nor gently. “Remember that dreadful time Harold arrested Alfie and locked him up without any justification whatsoever? Thank goodness he’s taken medical retirement. He’s been nothing but a tin-pot dictator, a disgrace to the police force.”

Too late, Debbie remembered that the ex-police sergeant was the one topic guaranteed to infuriate Liz. As Emma’s great-aunt, Liz was firmly convinced that the sergeant had given Emma ninety-five per cent of the work and then taken ninety-five per cent of the credit. If there had been traditional seating in the church, Liz would definitely not have been a friend of the groom. But then, neither would most people, Debbie thought. It was Dorothy’s wedding they were there for. The cheerful postwoman always...