Sunshine on a Rainy Day: A funny, feel-good romantic comedy. Bryony Fraser
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had the photo mounted in a frame to match her sweater, and the feeling of her looking over us as we’d moved into that little flat had felt like a blessing she could no longer give in person. She’d died when I was eleven, and I still thought of her almost every day.
‘Right!’ I shook myself. ‘My turn. What’s your dream job?’
‘Honestly? Probably this one. I love the shop. It took me a long time to get it all together, to get Henderson’s to where we are now. So … this. You?’
‘Same. I love my job. I don’t know if I’ll do it forever, but it’s certainly the thing that gives me the most pleasure.’
Jack coughed.
‘Except you, of course?’
‘Better.’
I offered him the list to take his turn. ‘Right. Where would you like to live in the world, if not here?’
‘Berlin!’ I said, without hesitation.
‘Of course. Your favourite.’
‘Would you? Live there?’
‘Yeah.’ Jack thought for a moment. ‘Yeah, I definitely would, although I can’t imagine how that’ll ever come about – I can’t imagine how I’d ever leave the shop. But of all the places in the world, besides London, Berlin is probably where I’d most like to go.’
‘Maybe when we’re old, then?’
‘Deal.’
We carried on with the list for another hour or so, and it was a strangely enjoyable time. We talked about children (we both want a couple, but not for a few years), films (the fact that he picked neither The Godfather nor The Shawshank Redemption reminded me how much I loved him), religion (him: lapsed Catholic; me: pretty agnostic, despite Mum’s best efforts), food (him: my mum’s rice; me: beef wellington followed by chocolate mousse) and houses (we both dream of a magic house with a garden and a big bright kitchen and large windows, and which never raises any concerns about leaky guttering or cracking plaster or subsidence. Like I said, magic). The whole questionnaire forced us into enough of that emotional intimacy stuff that by the time we went to bed, let’s just say I didn’t have to undress myself.
On Saturday, I could hear Jack clattering about in the living room, moving all the wedding gift boxes around.
‘Zo, what are we going to do with all this stuff? We don’t want any of it.’
‘Except the coffee machine.’
‘Yes, except the coffee machine.’ I could hear it humming away in the background as I joined him, and we looked at the endless repacked boxes of someone else’s wedding presents.
‘What if we return all this stuff and find out no one’s bought us anything?’ I was beginning to regret the pact we’d made not to look at what gifts had been picked off our wedding list.
‘Zo, I’m reasonably sure that at least one of your sisters will have got us something. And Iffy. So that’s two. Liz?’
‘Fine. So will you call the place and have them come and collect it?’ I pleaded, batting my eyelashes at him.
Jack winked at me, and a few minutes later I could hear him speaking in his most charming tones to someone in customer services, explaining the confusion about the boxes and how, in all the mix-up, the coffee machine had been opened and used before we’d realised the mistake.
‘Oh, really? Really? Wow, that’s awfully kind. Are you sure? Wow, that’s really, really kind of you. Thanks so much. Yes, tomorrow would be absolutely fine, we’ll make sure at least one of us is in. Yup, thanks so much. Ok. Bye.’ He hung up, and did a tiny dance.
‘Well?’
‘They said we should keep the coffee machine as an apology from them for their error, and they’d make sure all the other gifts and a new machine made it to the other couple.’
‘Sweeeeeeet.’
‘I know. What can I say – the gods were smiling on us for our wedding day.’
I looked at the boxes again. ‘But who is this other couple? How can they have so much need for tweed sofa cushions and garden kneelers and – oh my god. Do you think they’re old?’
‘Uh-oh. Have an older couple married? Ugh, maybe they’re doing it. That’s gross. I’ll call the police – quick, pass me your phone.’
‘No. It’s nice. It’s nice that an older couple might be still so …’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know, marrying when you need a garden kneeler. Optimistic?’
‘Maybe they’re not an older couple. Maybe they’re Tories.’
‘Nah, I don’t have the energy for the sabotage of the boxes that particular truth would warrant. Let’s just imagine they’re a happy couple of indeterminate age who enjoy gardening and rabbits and tweed.’
‘And coffee.’
‘Well, not while we’ve got their espresso machine, they don’t.’
Jack handed me another perfect cup of coffee (by now he’d mastered the art of the coffee machine), and headed off to dress for the shop while I stared at the chaos around us.
* * *
I tried as hard as I could, blinded with rage as I was, but I couldn’t rip an entire catalogue in half. It was simply too thick.
‘What are you doing?’
I looked up, sweating slightly, from where I was half crouched by the table beside the door. I thrust the catalogue at Jack, who had just come in with the Saturday papers.
‘Yes, good, a babywear catalogue.’ He paused, and blinked at me. ‘Wait. What have you got this for?’
‘That’s what I want to know!’ I realised I was shouting, and tried to pull my volume down a notch. ‘I don’t know why it’s here! Why is it in our flat? Why has it got my name on it?’
‘Did you order it?’
‘No, I didn’t fucking order it! Do you not think if I’d ordered it this mystery might have been solved a bit quicker? I didn’t order it, I don’t want it, and I definitely don’t know why it’s in my fucking flat!’
‘Zo. Zoe!’ I looked at Jack. ‘It’s just a catalogue. It’s ok.’
‘It’s not ok! This never happened before we got married! Ever! But suddenly, somewhere, someone’s ticked some “married” box against my name and I’m Mrs Bestwick all of a sudden, who’s into babies and … wicker wine bottle holders and washable floral sofa covers and genuine porcelain models of royal babies—’ I realised Jack was trying not to laugh.
‘You didn’t really get a catalogue of porcelain royal babies, did you?’
I bit my smile back too. ‘No. But I bet it’s on its way.’
Jack pulled me into a hug. ‘That’s grim. I’m sorry they’re doing this.’
‘But it doesn’t happen to you, does it? You haven’t been getting any mail for Mr Lewis, have you? You’re not suddenly getting letters about joining your local Shed Club, are you?’
‘Not … exactly.’
‘Not exactly?’
‘It’s the ads on my computer. I used to get … holidays. And fashion brands. And … I don’t know, cars and shit. Now I get terrifying ads about leaving your family without a will, and life insurance, and health insurance, and mortgage deals. I know it’s not the same, but someone’s ticked a box against my name somewhere too.’
‘That son of a bitch.’