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“Jen!” Alice was fuming. “I should wash your mouth out with soap. This is a haven of romance and dreams. Shame on you. I’m going to fill this space with old romance novels to ward off your bad vibes.” Alice was small but she was feisty and right now Jen was aware she’d riled her, but she stuck to her guns.
“Doesn’t make it less true.” Jen’s mind was set.
“But what does that say about you and Robert then? Why are you apparently engaged?” Alice thought she’d nailed the flaw in Jen’s argument here, but Jen was ready for her.
“Because we’re going to be a sound partnership. That’s what Lydia can’t get her head around. We’re very compatible, like a good business partnership. I’ve known him since my teens and we’ve had a steady six years to see that we meander along at the same pace in the same direction, which in business is a good plan. Lydia seems to think that’s wrong, that we should be bouncing off each other with mad sparks flying. Where’s the harmony in that? Equally, basing a lifetime on someone you met for a mad moment, be it in a pub, on holiday or in a high-octane, life or death scenario, well that’s a madness. Lydia just isn’t old enough to see it.”
“Lydia is twenty-two, Jen, you forget that sometimes.”
“Lyds is a special case, Alice. The leg makes it different.” People didn’t always get this, but Jen knew better.
“Only in your eyes.”
“Well, I know her best. That’s my job.” Jen’s voice had become harder. She bristled when she perceived anyone criticising her parenting. She’d done okay, all things considered.
Alice knew to back off. “Well, coming back to your surprise wedding, Lydia thinks we need to stage an intervention.”
Jen pulled herself up to sitting, so Alice could see she was clearly of sound mind.
“I do not need intervening.”
Alice gave her a long hard stare. “If you say so.” Jen didn’t get the feeling Alice was convinced. That was rom-com fans for you. “Not everyone’s like Danny, Jen,” Alice said, gently.
Danny. There was the most humiliating event of Jen’s life to date and one which generally lived under a universally accepted seal of Don’t Go There. She, Alice and Max had taken a week’s holiday to Ibiza right after her finals, where she’d fallen for fellow traveller Danny, who’d immediately whisked her off her feet, straight from the transfer bus. They’d even had a meet-cute where she’d mistakenly tried to walk off with his matching suitcase, until he twirled a pair of her knickers at her. He came from her uni town and obviously this had been a cosmic sign to forgo all sightseeing and live in his bed for the week. He was a DJ, booked solid around the Balearic clubs for the following week apparently, he’d even waved his Facebook page past her, giving her a quick glimpse of him at various decks, sweaty in the strobe lights, fans’ hands stretching for him in the edges of the numerous grainy shots.
He said he’d never felt this way about anyone before and lulled by the warmth and the sun and the sex, she’d believed him. And yet, once home, her texts and WhatsApps went unanswered. She’d tried to call him, but the number went nowhere. She took a closer look at the Facebook page, a pretty poor marketing job if she was being professionally critical, but also fake when she took a closer squiz at the DJs who, with the benefit of daylight, weren’t quite the same man in each pic. Only then did it dawn on her she’d been duped. The realisation that he’d tapped a false number into her phone was a breath-taking blow.
“You weren’t to know, Jen. We all thought he was for real,” Alice said, seeing Jen running through it all. But Jen was less lenient with herself, because she’d been a clichéd idiot, falling for a holiday fling and believing his invented persona. She was one of those girls who fell for a “shark trainer” only to find out he was a call centre operative from Croydon.
That blow had only been the starter course however. On top of feeling so foolish at the time, all hell had then come at her. While the news of a job in a brewery had briefly buoyed her, the loss of her family had taken her far, far deeper into the pit of grief shortly after. She might have properly dealt with the feelings of being ghosted, had she not had ghosts of her own and saving a sister to contend with. She remembered the humiliation and hurt later, but by then pain was a relative thing and instead it steeled her against getting carried away ever again. Some people just didn’t turn out to be who you thought they were. It wasn’t a mistake she’d make again.
Alice tactfully changed the subject. “How’s your list coming then?” she asked.
“What list?”
“Ha! Don’t give me that, Attison,” Alice’s eyes narrowed at Jen’s deceitful attempt.
“There’s no way you haven’t started a project list for this. What’s the app called?”
Dammit they knew her too well.
“ChAPPel,” she mumbled, faintly annoyed at being so predictable.
“Show me.” Alice did a karate kid “come hither” hand gesture.
“It’s a surprise,” Jen said, her blush adding a useful, if fake, bashfulness to her bride’s plans.
“Hmmm.” Alice let her off. “There’s your get-out with the sister-in-laws. Tell them you can’t buy in as you’re throwing all your savings at this wedding.” Ooh now there was an idea. “And don’t worry, you can put ‘mates rates’ next to my name for the flowers on your app list there.”
Jen made a grand show of gratefully doing exactly that, keeping the screen close to her chest – supposedly to keep her “surprises” to herself, but really so Alice couldn’t see there wasn’t a single other item listed.
Chapter 6
Jen’s front door swung open before she got the key in the lock. Lydia stood with one pot of Ben & Jerry’s and two spoons and Jen knew an olive branch when she saw one. She plucked one of the spoons out of Lydia’s hand and followed her into the lounge where they performed a perfectly synchronised slump onto the sofa.
Jen dug into the ice cream and savoured her spoonful with her eyes shut. “I hate it when we argue,” she said, quietly.
“Me too.” She had no doubt Lydia was sitting in exactly the same pose. Ice cream had been used to process many things; grief, phantom pains, exam stress and now … well Jen couldn’t quite name this, other than simply disagreement. “I just want you to be happy, Jen.”
“Me too, Lyds. We simply disagree about what that looks like, currently. But that’s okay. I appreciate your concern, and I’ll just have to show you over time that it’s unfounded.”
Lydia didn’t reply to that, but the sisters continued taking it in turns to snaffle a spoonful of the ice cream until the pot was forensically scraped.
“Can’t beat an ice cream dinner,” Lydia said, holding up her spoon which Jen clinked in agreement. Cooking was the last thing Jen felt like facing this evening. An evening curled up, watching TV-tat with Lydia sounded divine.
“Beer?” Lydia asked. Her mood appeared to require one. Jen doubted beer on ice cream was a particularly balanced diet, but it had never stopped them before. Jen moved to go, but Lydia hauled herself up and went to the kitchen, returning with two glasses of Barley Wine. It was a rich pudding of a beer, a perfect fruity toffee-ish chaser to their main course.
“Brewtiful,” Lydia stated after the first sip, and an appreciative groan.
“Kegcellent,” Jen countered with an equally bad pun. Beer puns were another thing their Dad had nurtured and neither sister ever tired of them, no matter how bad they got.
“Hope you’ve got the next batches planned,” Lydia said nodding towards the County Show-bound boxes which flanked the telly like some bizarre mantel. “When that lot sells, there’s hardly any left. The odds and ends shelf is fairly depleted.” Jen had made Lydia responsible for stock auditing as soon as she was old enough to drink, with weekly reporting.
“Mmm,” Jen managed, non-committal. She had a Mild and a Stout going, but after those, well …
“What’s it to be next? My vote goes for a session beer and Charlie said he’d buy a crate next time you did that one.” Charlie, her dad’s old business partner was consistently happy to buy a crate of everything she made next. While she’d waved to him as she left Re:Love earlier, she knew Lydia often stopped in at the Arches to chat to the sixty-year-old.
“How is he?” Jen asked as Lydia started to surf through the channels, bypassing anything involving hospitals, blood, gore or death, finally settling on a wedding-disaster-themed candid camera show. What a comedian. Jen wasn’t rising to that, so ignored it. She was keen to maintain the current truce and besides, the beer in her hand had her ruminating.
“His back’s playing up again, and he’s on about retiring. As if we haven’t heard that before.” Jen mmmm’ed in agreement. “So which beer shall I promise him?” Lydia prompted.
“I um … I haven’t exactly got the next ones planned.”
“Really?” Lydia looked at her in surprise. Jen normally had the next beers chalked up as soon as one was fermenting, both for shopping purposes and to evolve the recipes in her head. In fairness, she had the beginnings of a Golden Ale formulating, but since her discussion with Robert, the impetus had rather lapsed. It dampened her mood and she took another swig of the beer for comfort.
She stared at the TV screen, as the grainy home video showed a reader in a church reciting bible verses, just before fainting and landing face first on the stone floor, with a sickening slap and copious canned laughter. She’d heard the same passages at every wedding she’d ever been to and always wondered who these Corinthians St Paul was writing to were. Each time she determined to investigate when she got home, but then promptly forgot during the reception drinking. But here it was again, and she found she almost knew it; the “love is patient, love is kind” bit and then the next bit about putting away “childish things” when growing up. A creeping recognition drew over her; she was about to be a married woman and the brewing, much as she loved it, was a childish thing.
“Jen? Hey Space Cadet, you’ve zoned out.”
“What? Sorry. Yes. The beer. Right,” she said with a shake. “I’m going to start trapping it down, Lyds. Bring it to an end.” Jen kept her eyes fixed on the telly, but saw Lydia’s jaw drop from the corner of her eye.
“You’re doing what?”
“It’s time. Time to move on. I’ll have a wedding to plan and a new life to build.”
“But it’s what you do, Jen.” Lydia’s voice, rather than the explosion Jen had been expecting, was raspy and confused.
“There’s all sorts of things I can do. There’s other creative outlets out there. I could bake for example.”
“Pff,” Lydia scoffed. “Cupcakes? Do me a favour. You’re more badass than that. You love your beer, Jen.” Now Lydia was getting het up, but so was Jen.
“And I’ll find something else to love instead.”
Lydia drew a sharp breath to blast her, but suddenly, remarkably, let it go. The silence between them was both hostile and awkward. Jen, not wanting another fight, took the initiative and diverted the subject back away from the beer.
“Look, you might not be up for this, knowing how you feel about the entire wedding thing, but I’d hoped you’d be my Best-woman and maybe give me away. Alice and Max could be lady-ushers, because there’s no way Max will wear a frock, but Alice and her sewing machine will make them match somehow …” Jen saw she was beginning to ramble in her panic about Lydia’s response. What if she said no? “… so anyways that is what I was hoping.”
“You want me to give you away?” Lydia’s expression wasn’t giving anything away itself, but when she said it like that, Jen instantly knew it sounded bad.
“Yeah, so no, not dispense with me. What I meant was, I was hoping you’ll walk me up the aisle as part of Team Jen, and head of my girl squad. You won’t ever be able to give me away, we’re like this.” Jen twisted her index and middle fingers together in front of Lydia’s face, and then poked them up Lydia’s nose to punctuate her point.
“Girl squad?”
“Head. Of.” Jen confirmed.
“All right.” Lydia took a mouthful of beer and went back to watching four hammered grannies dancing to YMCA at a reception, the deal apparently done.
“You will?” This had been much easier than Jen had expected. She’d foreseen a diatribe about principles and Lydia not taking part in an event she didn’t support.
Apparently that was not the case.
“Not that I for one second believe in this marriage,” Lydia stated clearly, “but I will always be your wingman Jen, so if leading you to the pit of doom is something you want, then who am I to deny you?” Cow.
“Well, thanks for that, I think.” Jen would take what she could get.
“Of course, it means I’m in charge of the hen-do.” On cue, the footage switched to a group of women, dressed in clashing and outdated bridesmaid dresses and paint-balling masks, shooting the hell out of each other in a muddy forest.
“Oh God, no. I don’t want anything.” Jen couldn’t think of anything worse than being paraded along the promenade in a Learner-plated veil pinned with condoms. There was a conveyor belt of those every weekend in town and she was too old and too sensible for it.
“Um, sorry. Not your business,” Lydia lorded grandly. “My domain.” Jen sighed. This was not a battle to have now. Not when she already had a bomb to drop into the mix.
“Yes well, on that note,” Jen pulled out a sheet of folded paper from her pocket and handed it to Lydia. Unfolding it Lydia’s eyes scanned the memo Ava had pinged Jen, neatly listing dates convivial to her and Zara’s diaries for the hen-do. Jen braced herself for the fireworks.
“Oh. That’s handy. Thanks,” Lydia said, refolding the paper into her own pocket. Weird. Lydia really was becoming harder and harder to read.
Saying no more, Lydia turned up the sound on the wedding disasters, just as a gust of wind lifted a bride’s entire meringue skirt and a big comic-book X, complete with klaxon, was superimposed to cover her lack of knickers. Oh, how the surrounding groomsmen laughed! As did Lydia.
Well, two could play at that game. Jen dug out her phone and opened ChAPPel. She added Bridesmaids to the top of the list above Flowers, typing Lydia as confirmed and Alice and Max as additions below. Lydia tried to sneak a look, but Jen pulled the phone closer. Her sister could stew.
Looking at the app and its meagre contents, Jen expected the ideas to start sparking. Nothing came. She considered taking a step back and using her mind-mapping app to see if a spider diagram jogged anything. Taking glimpses at the clips on the TV screen, there were many weddingy things she knew she didn’t want. Balloon arches could do one, for a start, and those sugared almond favours could go too – you never knew which of them represented fertility, and not everyone might want that one. She did list Favours though and then Jen experienced a small spark of joy; there was the thing she’d thought of already; her wedding favour beer. And suddenly her fingers were racing as she listed ideas for what she wanted in it and how best to brew it. She might even name it Wedding Beerlls. Her dad would have approved. Finally, she thought, looking at her app with a smile, she was off. Looking up, she saw Lydia sneaking a peek at the screen, and wearing a smug smile Jen couldn’t quite fathom.
*
In hindsight, Jen should have investigated the sound from the office entrance, but engrossed in her incontinence data, she’d assumed it was just Aiden returning. He forgot something every evening, and given it was Friday it made sense he’d return for it. Eager not to get into conversation with him, she didn’t even turn around to check. So the black fabric bag over her head did come as a proper surprise, and she did scream in a way befitting a kidnapping.
The giggling took the edge off somewhat, but she still didn’t know what the bloody hell was going on.
“Shhh,” soothed Alice’s not-remotely disguised voice. “Chillax. You’re being abducted.” Yes, yes she’d gathered that bit. She just didn’t know why.
She heard the computer being shut down before she was manhandled to the door, where she had to talk them through setting the alarm. This was not her usual standard of “locking up” protocol.
Thankfully they took the hood off her when they’d set off in the van – it had been rather air-starved under there. Getting her in had been interesting, given the too-many cooks scenario, but they’d only banged her head off the door frame once, so she considered that a win. Alice and Max owned a Mazda Bongo campervan, which doubled both as Alice’s delivery van and their weekend love-nest. They’d had it sprayed hot-pink with Re:Love written down the side, which was always an ice-breaker for them on campsites, though they now avoided lay-bys at night after a close call with some inquisitive doggers.
Lydia sat next to Jen in the passenger seating, with a self-satisfied smirk. Alice was hanging over the back of her seat, also wearing Smug, and Max was driving, looking very serious, but then the milk-bottle lenses of her round glasses always made her look comically studious and her buzz-cut afro hair left no room for frivolity.
“Right, you loons, where are we going?” Jen sighed, resigned.
“Hen-do. Weekend away. Hurrah,” Alice sang.
“Nooo,” groaned Jen. “I didn’t want a hen-do.” She thought Lydia had let go of the idea. She hadn’t mentioned it at all in the ten days since it had been broached.
Lydia leaned towards her and reminded her with a touch of menace, “My domain.”
Oh crap.
“But what about the shop?” Jen asked, weakly. “Maxine, tell these two children this is mad behaviour.”
“Alice’s mum’s covering the flowers, my dad’s got the salvage,” Max said, though even her calm Mauritian lilt was unable to relax Jen, “Alice is thinking the two of them might get it on. Wouldn’t that be lovely?” Jeez, there was that rom-com thinking again. What was the matter with everyone?
“We’re going somewhere you’ve always wanted to go,” teased Lydia, bursting to tell.
“You’re taking me to a CAMRA event?” Lydia had always said No to the Real Ale association dos. Too many beardies. She was surprised Alice and Max were up for it as well. The only events they attended were swing dance related.
“Nope, even better than that.” Lydia sounded exceptionally pleased with herself.
“Think further afield,” Alice chimed in, “we’re going on a plane.”
“A plane? Wait, what?” Jen hadn’t packed anything.
With an evil smile Lydia extended her pointy finger at four cabin bags in the corner. Argh, no. They’d packed for her. Jen was very meticulous about her packing. She had various pre-devised packing lists for trips on her laptop, neatly divided by location, season and duration, but they didn’t work if she didn’t actually get to pack.
“Relax, Jen,” Lydia said, knowing full well Jen hated surprises, yet blatantly appearing not to care, “We’re taking you to Copenhagen. We’ve packed your bag, we’ve got your passport, you don’t need to think about a thing. We’re totally in control of this.”
OH. GOD.
Chapter 7
In Jen’s experience hen parties normally stuck together for activities and yet the next morning Lydia, Alice and Max were keen for Jen to enjoy the Kronegaard museum alone. Apparently they weren’t as excited about experiencing over a century’s worth of global brewing dynasty as Jen was. The museum had for years been firmly top of her “Copenhagen Trip” list, a list Lydia had inexplicably never asked to see in spite of planning this hen-do.
“We’ll disturb your homage,” they insisted and suggested meeting up again two hours later. Jen suggested four, allowing for travel time, in accordance with her VisitCopenhagen app. The others immediately and unanimously agreed. Jen suspected their hangovers were pushing them away from the more cultural pursuits. There had been some lively bars just over the bridge from the hotel Lydia had booked for them; a converted boat moored in the harbour that ran through the city. They might have visited one too many. Not that Jen was going to let a seething hangover stop her. She knocked some paracetamol back with Berocca and ventured out while the others psyched themselves for their shopping with more sleep. Scarfing down a kanelsnegl cinnamon swirl as she beelined through the streets, Jen considered how ridiculous this hen-do was. But then, if it helped Lydia come to terms with things …
The red-brick brewery building was everything Jen had hoped for. Its location on the wharf was impressive, and while actual beer production had expanded out to the suburbs now, there were still parts of the business running from the majestic old buildings, along with the museum. It was exactly as she’d imagined a nineteenth-century factory to look, but without the smog-billowing chimneys. The cobbles remained, as did the grand wooden gates with their carved Kronegaard crown emblem at the entrance. Walking through them caused her to pause and run a hand across them with a lament for something beyond her reach. She shook off the thoughts, keen for nothing to spoil this, and took a brisk look around to check no one had seen her wobble. Apparently not, and thankfully nobody was batting an eyelid at her attire either. Lydia had packed her a weekend bag of charity shop wonders, including the purple sequined Converse knock-offs on her feet. They garishly complemented the yellow peasant blouse and elastic-waisted orange gypsy skirt. Her office clothes had mysteriously vanished during the night. Copenhageners, who had designer styling nailed and exclusively wore black and grey, were clearly used to all sorts from visitors.
As she followed the course of the displays with the Chinese tourists and the English stag parties, the story of Kronegaard unfolded, from way back in the 1800s when Henrik Krone started brewing in his home and then expanded to his outbuilding. Jen couldn’t help but feel a link with this man. He’d then started selling to the inn at the end of his street and within fifty years was the biggest exporter of lager on the planet. Hello global domination. And here was the thing that surprised her: disparaging as she might – regularly – be about Kronegaard beer being unexciting blandness for the masses, once, way back, Henrik had been a craftsman. He’d developed a beer people liked and would buy, he’d been a hobbyist like her.
Jen emerged, having sampled more than she perhaps should have, utterly swept up the story; the humble beginnings, and the drama of the choices that had to be made, the holding onto standards and the compromising of principles. Surely there had to be a TV mini-series there? It had all the ingredients. Not that the family had done badly, not by a long shot. They were the next step to royalty now, and certainly well entrenched in those circles; regular private dinner guests at the palace as friends, not just as captains of industry at the state bashes. The family had become celebrities and icons of how a sound work-ethic could get you places. Jen was sure she detected PR spin in the museum boards, but that was marketing, wasn’t it?
“All beered out?” Lydia asked as she met them for a late lunch. The restaurant was very old and purported to serve the best smørrebrød open sandwiches in the city. Jen’s was a roast beef on rye bread extravaganza, loaded with yellow remoulade, pickled cucumber and crunchy onions. (Lydia had had a eureka moment at that – “They’re crunions, Jen,” she’d hooted, passing Jen a second schnapps – or snaps as the Danes called it – from the waitress, ready to be downed in one, “you can call the crocheted tampons Crampons!” Jen had ignored her, unwilling to let work taint her weekend of joy.)
“It was culture, Lyds. And yes thanks. It was unbeerlievable.” Lydia gave her a flick for that one. “You should have come. You could smell centuries of hops and malt.”