by Jane Moore
The following weekend he drove, Brian-less, to Southampton. Whatever excuse he gave, it wouldn’t be easy and he felt nauseous even thinking about it. Worse, when he arrived at her parents’ house, Jenna jumped excitedly into the car and told him she had a surprise for him. Directing him to a mansion block about a mile from the city center, she got out and waved a set of keys. “I decided I wanted a bit more freedom so I’ve rented my own flat. It also means we get lots more time on our own.”
That night, Mark couldn’t bring himself to broach the subject of separation. Instead, he made sure his visit was platonic, claiming that exhaustion and stress meant he wasn’t interested in sex. He didn’t want to take advantage of Jenna, and, anyway, in his heart he was already moving on.
The next weekend, Jenna had bought him a cashmere sweater, then cooked a wonderful meal in her new flat. Again, he chickened out of telling her, playing the too-stressed card to avoid sex.
Fortunately, Jenna finally took the initiative herself and a long Dear Mark letter arrived on the following Wednesday morning. She wrote that she had sensed an increasing distance between them since his departure for university and that one of them had to address it. She suggested they take a month’s break then call each other to discuss whether it was worth carrying on: “Otherwise we’ll never get on with our lives.”
Mark spent what he saw as a respectable day moping, then picked up the phone to call Kate.
“It’s over,” he said, and in his mind, it already was. As he saw it, the month’s break was a cooling-off period before he called Jenna and told her that her instincts had been right; they were better off as friends.
In the meantime, he threw himself headfirst into a life of heated, idealistic debates and passionate sex with the feisty, opinionated Kate.
At first, Brian felt aggrieved that this new woman was encroaching on quality curry-and-football time, but it soon became clear that Kate was as close to an OK-with-your-mates girlfriend as it was possible for a woman to be, without actually being a man herself.
She had a great sense of humor, and even enjoyed watching soccer in a darkened room that smelled of last night’s cigarettes and lager. Better still, she didn’t seem to mind when Brian dragged Mark off on a boys-only drinking session.
Life was good, for a while.
Friday, June 28
3 p.m.
Woozy from too much lunchtime champagne, Adam had slunk off for an afternoon nap. Faye contemplated doing the same, but as she always woke up grumpy after a daytime snooze she decided against it. Instead, she locked her door and went to her mother’s room.
Like most parents, Alice could drive her to distraction with her “little ways,” but the older Faye became, the more clearly she understood how much her mother had sacrificed to give her a happy, secure upbringing.
She tapped on the door marked “6.” Seconds later Alice opened it, looking flustered. Her usually neat white bobbed hair was sticking out at one side and her brown eyes were perplexed. “Oh, hello, dear. I’m glad you’re here. I can’t seem to operate my radio.”
Her mother was of the radio generation and, when she wasn’t watching soaps, she had Radio Four playing all day in the background.
“You won’t get Radio Four here, you know,” said Faye, peering at the digital radio next to the bed.
“Yes, I assumed that. But what about the World Service?”
After a minute or two, pressing “mode” and “search,” Faye cracked it, and a posh English voice was talking about the Middle East crisis.
“That’ll do nicely.” Alice beamed. “Just turn it down a bit.” She walked across to her suitcase and started to unpack.
“What are you wearing for the wedding?” said Faye casually, flicking through the hotel’s amenity book.
“I’m glad you asked that.” Alice lifted a floral dress out of the suitcase and held it up. “This.” She laid it on the bed. “I wanted to ask your opinion before we came out to France, but I didn’t have a chance.”
Alice had rung Faye several times to ask if they could meet up to discuss outfits, but Faye had been so busy with her own preparations that she’d only managed it once. She felt guilty.
“I’m so sorry, Mum, but it looks like you made the right choice anyway.” If she’d met up with her mother beforehand, Faye would probably have persuaded her to wear something plain but she wasn’t going to say so now.
“I also have a couple of things in here for you,” said Alice, rummaging down the side of the case. She pulled out a little box and handed it to Faye. “It’s something old.”
Faye opened it to find a dainty silver pendant in the shape of a heart. The chain was exquisitely fine. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured.
“It was your grandmother’s. It was the only thing she left me. Your auntie Clara got everything else.”
Faye fastened it round her neck and looked at herself in the mirror. “In that case, I’ll just borrow it for the ceremony.”
“No, I want you to have it. I don’t feel sentimental about Mother. My life began on the day she died,” said Alice matter-of-factly.
Faye enveloped her in a hug.
“What was that for?” She looked surprised.
“For being a wonderful mum, despite having a lousy one of your own.”
Her mother smiled. “You don’t know how much it means to hear you say that.” Her face brightened. “Now, then, have you got something borrowed and something blue? Obviously, your dress can be the new bit.”
Faye pointed to a large aquamarine ring on her right hand, a present to herself after a particularly lucrative modeling job a couple of years ago. “This is the blue, and Adam has loaned me a pair of his earrings to wear.”
“Adam? Earrings?”
“Yep. He has one pierced ear, but often has to buy earrings he likes in pairs.”
“Is it hygienic?”
“Mum!” Faye laughed. “He hasn’t got any diseases.”
Alice looked dubious. “But isn’t he . . . you know?”
“Gay? Yes, he is.” She raised her eyes heavenward. “And, no, it’s not contagious. And he doesn’t have AIDS either.”
It was at times like this when the chasm between Faye and her mother was at its widest. Although Alice was only in her late forties, her sheltered life had given her the mindset and demeanor of someone much older. Describing her once to a friend, Faye had likened her to “a vicar’s wife,” serene and kind but old-fashioned.
“Well, I hope you know what you’re doing,” said Alice, returning to her unpacking. She placed the latest John Grisham novel on her bedside table.
Faye decided to change the subject. “There are lots of lovely walks around here,” she said, knowing how her mother loved to ramble—in every sense of the word.
“Yes, I thought I might explore a bit in the morning, maybe after breakfast. Fancy it?”
Faye knew that The Good Daughter’s Guide would advise her to say yes, but she just couldn’t face it. Long walks weren’t her forte. “I haven’t any suitable shoes with me,” she lied, “and I suspect I’ll be in a bit of a tizz in the morning, making sure everything is going according to plan.”
“Are you nervous?” Alice zipped up her now empty suitcase and looked straight at her.
Thrown by the question, Faye stumbled: “Er . . . no . . . not exactly. Apprehensive, maybe.”
“What’s the difference?” Alice’s tone was light, not antagonistic.
“Um . . . I suppose apprehension is more something you feel when you want everything to run smoothly.” She frowned, editing her words as she went along. “Nerves would mean you were worried about the decision to marry in the first place.”
“And you’re not?”
“Not what?”
“Worried about the decision.”
“No. Not at all. Quite the contrary, in fact.”
“Good.” Alice took a hairbrush from her toilet bag and ran it through her fine hair. Several loose strands fell to the floor.
“Why do you ask?” Faye said.
“No reason. It’s just that people always say you get last-minute nerves on your wedding day . . . not that I’d know.”
Faye felt herself relax. “Yes, they do,” she said. “I suppose it is a bit nerve-racking, having to make a decision you’re supposed to stick to for the rest of your life.” She looked across at her mother for a reaction. There wasn’t one, but she could tell that Alice was listening intently. “I mean,” continued Faye, “it’s a bit like being asked to choose the car you’ll drive forever, or the house you’ll live in forever.”
Alice pursed her lips. “I know what you’re saying, but at least in this day and age you can get out of marriages easily if you feel you’ve made a mistake.”
“Yes, but that’s not the point, is it? I’m marrying Mark tomorrow on the basis that we’ll be together forever. Otherwise, why bother?”
The question hung in the air between them, a conundrum to which neither woman had the solution.
Faye sighed, puncturing the silence. “Best not to think about things too deeply, or I will get nervous.” She stood up. “I’m going to go and check that everything’s in place for dinner tonight.”
Alice stifled a yawn, and sat down on a hard-backed chair near the window. “Who’s coming?”
“Well, apart from you, Mark’s parents, Auntie Ethel, and a couple of Mark’s other relatives, there’s Adam, Mark’s best man, Brian, a couple of Mark’s exes, and a couple of mine.”
Alice raised her eyebrows. “Any exes I know?”
“There’s Rich,” said Faye. “You remember, the policeman . . . He dropped me home once and came in for a cup of tea.”
Alice frowned as she dredged through her memory. Then her expression changed to recognition. “Ah, yes. A very nice boy. And who’s the other?”
“Nat, a male model. You never met him.”
“Why not?”
“He’s not really your type. He’s rather . . . How shall I put this? Colorful.” Faye winced as she said it.
“Well, now I’m intrigued. I can’t wait to meet him.”
“Believe me,” muttered Faye. “You can.”
Lolling around on a bright-red, lip-shaped sofa, Faye glanced at her watch for the umpteenth time. It was two o’clock and the photo shoot for the Christmas 1999 edition of Elle had been due to start an hour ago.
“Where is he?” she asked the flustered fashion editor, who was clutching a clipboard as if her life depended on it. “Has anyone tried ringing him?”
“We have to go through his agency, we’re not allowed to contact him direct,” said the girl, looking as if she might cry. “They said he’s five minutes away.”
“From where, New Zealand?” said Faye. She stood up and stretched. “I hope he’s worth it when he gets here.”
“Oh, Nat’s a fantastic model,” said the girl, dreamy now. “He always looks brilliant in pictures.”
“It helps to turn up, though, doesn’t it?” said Faye, and realized that her sarcasm was lost on a woman who was clearly depriving a village somewhere of its idiot. She walked across to the window, which overlooked the litter-infested canal to the rear of the studios. Two swans were trying valiantly to cleave a path through the discarded cardboard boxes, drink cans, and occasional item of clothing.
It was two years since she’d ended it with Rich and, apart from a couple of non-starters, she hadn’t been in a relationship since. Now she was tired of being alone.
Her job meant she was invited to the opening of every door in town, but Faye longed for the normality of staying in with a boyfriend and ordering pizza. But not just any boyfriend: she wanted someone to whom she was attracted and who stimulated her mentally. Sadly, Rich hadn’t fitted into either of those categories. He’d taken it pretty well, though, considering he’d professed undying love to her.
Faye had used the age-old get-out clause often favored by those who wish to cushion the blow. She told him she needed a break to think things over. “It’s not you, it’s me,” she’d said, quoting from the well-worn script of gentle brush-offs. “I’m just not ready for a serious relationship. I need time to think.”
His brown eyes softening with sadness, Rich had resembled a spaniel whose bone had been taken away. But all he had said was, “Let me know when you’ve decided what you want.”
Faye knew already, of course, but she’d left it four weeks before she wrote to him saying she thought it better that they parted for good.
I don’t know what I want, and you’re too good and kind a man for me to drag down with my indecision and inability to commit. You’re a wonderful person, Rich, and I know you’ll find someone who’s perfect for you. Someone loving and uncomplicated who’ll give you the care and attention you deserve. Sadly, I’m incapable of that right now.
She believed what she’d written, but she wondered whether she would always be incapable of commitment. Married friends had said, “You’ll know when you meet the right man,” but Faye hadn’t come close yet. She had met men to whom she was sexually attracted, and she had met two or three, like Rich, who were pleasant enough to date for a while. But a man she wanted to marry, have children and sit on the porch with in old age? She couldn’t imagine it.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a door slamming, then a loud voice. “Sorry I’m late. Let’s get this show on the road.”
She turned to see Nat Finch fling his leather jacket onto a chair and plant a kiss full on the lips of the awestruck fashion editor. He was even more devastatingly handsome in the flesh than in his photographs.
About six foot three, he had shoulder-length dark brown hair, swept back from his face in a sexily unkempt style. With the chiseled jaw of a romance novel hero, he cut an imposing figure. Trouble was, he clearly knew it.
As he moved round the room, he charmed, cajoled, and complimented every man and woman in it, until his late arrival had been forgotten. Then he turned the headlights on Faye. “Yowza! You’ve really come up trumps with this one!” He took Faye’s arm and swiveled round to show the fashion editor he was talking to her. “She’s a beauty.”
Faye slapped away his hand. “I’m not a bloody exhibit,” she snapped. “And where the hell do you think you’ve been? You’ve kept us all waiting an hour.”
The fashion editor paled and disappeared into a changing room. For a fleeting moment, even Nat looked thrown. But he quickly recovered. “Ooh, a feisty one!”
Faye scowled. “Christ, it’s d’Artagnan. Any minute now, you’ll be slapping your leg and jumping on your horse.” She took a step back and pretended to study him further. “Still, it explains the hair.”
He held out his hand. “Hi, I’m Nat. Remember my name, you’ll be screaming it later.” He was grinning from ear to ear, enjoying winding her up.
She did not take the hand, but allowed herself a small smile, then turned her back on him and walked to the photographer. “Ready? I’m sure we all have lives we’d like to get on with.”
The shoot was for the catalogue of a new Italian designer who specialized in men’s clothes. Nat was every designer’s darling and had appeared in high-profile campaigns for Gucci, Armani, and Ralph Lauren. Faye had been booked as his appendage, but found it hard to achieve the required look of adoration.
“Look at him as if you think he’s the most wonderful man you’ve ever met,” said the photographer, peering at a Polaroid to check the lighting.
“I’m a model, not an Oscar-winning actress,” she muttered.
“You’re funny. I like that,” said Nat.
“Two hours, three outfits, and several rolls of film later, the photographer announced it was “in the bag.”
“Thanks.” Faye beamed, keen to ingratiate herself with the team and thereby ensure future bookings. She rushed off to change.
Throwing her outfit over a hat rack in the corner of the cubicle, she stood in her bra and pants and began to wipe away the thick layers of foundation and eye shadow that had transformed her
into a smoky-eyed siren. Sensing someone behind her she twisted round to see Nat leaning nonchalantly against the door frame. He was staring openly at her breasts. “You look great in the Polaroids.” He held up three.
“Thanks.” She extended her leg and nudged the door so that it closed gently in his face. She pulled on her shirt rapidly in case he reappeared, and smiled to herself. Nat was arrogant, but she nevertheless found him disturbingly attractive. Unlike many of the “pretty” male models she’d worked with, he had an appealing rugged look and “get into my bed right now” eyes. He was also a bit of a bad boy, a type she usually avoided, but her Siberian love life made it difficult to resist.
When she’d dressed and combed the sticky mousse out of her hair, she went back into the studio. Nat was nowhere to be seen and the assistants had returned to their usual stance of sniffing and slouching. They barely looked up as she bade them goodbye.
Outside, the sun was shining but it was a crisp, blustery day. Faye pulled her fake-fur coat tightly around her and set off for the tube station. As she turned out of the side street in which the studio was located, she heard a car horn. She ignored it, but when it became more persistent, she turned.
Nat was driving an eye-catching Aston Martin in British racing green and wearing a baseball hat with “69” on the front. “Hello again,” he shouted, above the engine noise. “Fancy a lift?”
“No, thanks.” She was desperate to hop in. “I’m going on the tube.”
He switched off the engine. “Where do you live?”
“In a house.” She meant it as a quip, but it had come out more firmly than she had intended.
His brow furrowed. “Are you always so unfriendly?”
She pursed her lips, but her eyes held a friendly twinkle. “Only to men who keep me waiting for over an hour.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. I had a couple of things to sort out. Come on, hop in. I don’t bite, you know.”
