Four Weddings and a Fiasco. Catherine Ferguson

Venus. You know. That nice but slightly batty woman who’s started coming to yoga?’

      I nod, still feeling weirdly spacey.

      Ah yes, the yoga class.

      It’s been a bit of a turning point for Mum.

      In the time since Dad died – coming up for three years now – she’s really been through the mill. For a long time, she refused to even consider selling the family home, even though it was clear she couldn’t go on paying the huge mortgage herself. Then about a year ago, I took her for a drive to Clandon House, an old country estate that had been modernised into apartments. And incredibly, she loved it.

      Since she rented her two-bed flat there and moved in last March, she’s actually started to get back some of her joy in life, which is a huge relief for me.

      Two of her new neighbours, Grace and Annabeth, have become good friends, which seems to have really perked her up. And they’ve introduced her to yoga, which she loves.

      Last Tuesday, when I was at Mum’s for afternoon tea, they were all talking about someone called Venus. They kept referring to her as ‘the new girl in class’, which made me smile, bearing in mind their average age must be about sixty.

      ‘Katy? Are you still there?’

      ‘Yes. Sorry, Mum. Go on.’

      ‘Forgotten what I was saying now.’

      ‘Venus. And her – um – demonic entity experience?’

      ‘Ah yes. Nice woman but decidedly odd. Claimed she was just minding her own business, shopping for kitchen roll and kippers, when this huge force entered her and she felt she was being possessed by Satan. I mean, really. Have you ever!’

      ‘It does sound a bit unlikely, Mum.’

      ‘You’re not wrong there, love. But anyway, when I was telling you about it on Tuesday there, you were actually drifting off. You know, you really are working much too hard these days.’

      ‘Mum, when it’s your own business, you have to work all the hours.’

      Not that she needs reminding of this. She was, after all, married for thirty-six years to a serial entrepreneur. Dad, bless him, was forever pursuing one business idea or another, with varying degrees of success.

      Mum sighs. ‘I know, love. But it must be so difficult having to do absolutely everything yourself. Now that your sister …’

      My grip on the phone tightens.

      Mum trails off, knowing she’s straying into forbidden territory.

      ‘You’re very precious to me, Katy.’ There’s a break in her voice. And her unspoken subtext hangs in the air: Especially now that your sister is living so far away.

      Tears prick my eyes and, for once, I don’t dash them away.

      It’s so hard for her, I know. She must miss Sienna terribly, and the last thing I want is her worrying about me, too.

      Mum thinks I work silly hours because it’s my business and I love the work, which is partly true. But she knows nothing about the stomach-churning fear that dominates my life; the debts that hang over me and routinely keep me from sleeping properly at night; and why working seven days a week is something I just have to do, because then at least I’m in with a chance of keeping my head above water. A chance to avoid the thing I most dread – losing the business and having my little house repossessed.

      I open my mouth to try and reassure her again that I’m perfectly all right, but nothing comes out.

      There are times in life when nothing but a hug from your mum will do.

      And for a second, I find myself wishing desperately that Mum were here. Sitting on the sofa next to me, absently playing with the lump of rose quartz on the chain round her neck and delving in her homemade raffia bag for the little bottle of foul-smelling anti-stress tincture that Annabeth gave her to ‘balance her system’. I don’t know if she uses it, but it goes everywhere with her. (It smells like something died in her handbag, which makes her slightly embarrassing to go shopping with.)

      I stand up, as Mum talks on, and walk through to the small conservatory, which is bathed in an eerie semi-light from the full moon.

      I know it’s a mark of how concerned she is that she bravely brought up a forbidden subject and risked me hanging up on her. I just wish she could understand that the days of Sienna and I being as close as sisters could be have gone forever.

      I do not need Sienna’s help. We may have worked together for the first six months, but I’ve managed to keep the business afloat all by myself since Sienna left, almost two years ago.

      And as far as I’m concerned, the day she left for Paris, leaving me with an avalanche of debts, was the day she relinquished all rights to being my cherished baby sister. Let alone my business partner.

      I will do this alone.

      Without help from anyone.

      I know that Mum has weekly phone conversations with my sister and, at times, I can tell she’s itching for me to ask her how Sienna’s getting on. But I don’t because I’m really not interested.

      After Mum says her goodbyes, I stand there in the conservatory, staring out into the inky blackness, clutching the handset to my chest. I feel silly now for having reacted so violently to the ring of the phone.

      Angry tears prick my eyes.

       I will not live in fear of Dominic!

      An owl hoots and my heart leaps into my mouth.

      Suddenly the shape of the hawthorn tree, in my little patch of back garden, looks ghostly and sinister – a black, looming figure with clutching hands reaching out towards me …

      I close the door on the darkness beyond the windows. Then I go round the rest of the house, swishing curtains shut and turning on lights until the place could seriously outshine Blackpool Illuminations.

      But only once I’ve unplugged the phone and checked that the doors are locked can I finally breathe easily.

      Barricading myself in makes me feel safer.

      But as I kick off my shoes and start chopping salad for supper, the spectre of Dominic and his threats still hangs over me.

      Turning a key in a lock is not going to banish him from my life. If only it were that simple …

      Next morning, I’ve got my meeting with Miss Polar Ice Cap, aka Cressida and her groom-to-be, Tom.

      They’re getting married in June.

      So far, I’ve only spoken to Cressida on the phone. But today I’m meeting them in person to get to know them and chat about the wedding arrangements.

      Cressida made it clear that strict schedules – and people being on time – were a top priority of hers. Which means spotting the white meter van out in the street just as I’m about to leave for our meeting fills me with double panic.

      I can’t possibly leave now and risk having my meters read, so that means I’ll be late for Cressida.

      Feeling sick, I scamper up the stairs before meter man has a chance to spy me through the glass in the front door. Then I rush into the bathroom and peer cautiously out through the frosted glass.

      Evading meter readings is a vital part of my life. It’s not that I don’t pay my gas and electricity bills. Of course I do. But the thing is, my direct debit amount has been way too low ever since I moved here.

      Before I arrived, there was an oldish lady living here who obviously didn’t use much power because the estimated monthly bill was very small. And some glitch in the system meant I carried on paying this tiny amount each month, while thanking my lucky stars for old Mrs Jennings and her frugal nature.

      I always knew they’d catch