by Naomi Joy
I was rooted to the spot, a little shell-shocked at the fact that my wedding day had just been planned in the space of fifteen seconds, but too delirious in the moment to question it. Plus, I knew it was coming from a good place.
‘Wow, you’ve really thought of everything.’
‘You deserve the best.’
Blog Entry
13th October, 5 p.m.
Anthony strokes my head, rough fingers scrubbing the length of my scalp, as we wait for the doctor. I’m lying on a stretcher, scratchy cotton against bare arms, my knees curled into my chest, the intense smell of antiseptic stinging my nostrils and burning into the grazes that scatter my body. The distant sounds of the hospital reach into the room but other than far off conversation everything is quiet, just Anthony’s measured breathing by my side.
‘Quite the fall,’ the doctor announces, pushing the door wide, startling us both. He’s squat and thick-legged, clad in a sensible suit and tie, hairline disappearing over his forehead, eyes bleary and bloodshot, symptomatic of someone who spends most of their days lost in front of a screen. ‘You’ve cracked two ribs and broken your cheekbone.’ He slaps the X-rays to prove it up against a lightbox with chubby fingers. ‘Not to mention the concussion.’
My head responds, turning foggy and disoriented, and I forget how exactly we came to be here. I look up at Anthony and he smiles to reassure me. I mimic him, just wanting today to be over, wanting to be back. He was right, we shouldn’t have gone out, it was too soon. I wrap my arms tight round my knees.
‘Will she need to stay in overnight?’ Anthony asks, taking charge when I don’t respond to the doctor’s diagnosis.
‘I don’t think it’s necessary, but you’ll need to keep a close eye on the head injury. The ribs and cheekbone are OK – they’ll take time but there’s nothing we can really do about that – but the head… the head is more of a concern.’
I close my eyes. I don’t want to hear this. I want to block it out. I want to be told I’ll be well enough to go outside again soon, to go back to the dig. I want to work, to live.
The doctor lowers his voice and speaks directly to Anthony as I refuse to engage with his assessment of my situation. ‘If she gets any worse, bring her back in.’
‘Absolutely,’ Anthony replies, chatting happily with the doctor about what exactly constitutes worse and how long the symptoms of my concussion are expected to last for.
I lie in the background listening to them talk about me, about how these fainting episodes are becoming more common, about how I’d refused my medicine this morning and how the sudden detox could have contributed to why I fell. I hear the doctor say that it’s not surprising, given my condition, and that he doesn’t necessarily expect things to get better. He reiterates that I am on the transplant list and that I could have the surgery should a match become available or I could continue to live out what time I have left. I am completely hopeless. Tears clump in my eyelashes as I consider my position and I curl myself tighter until I’m ball like and protected.
I already know how tonight will pan out: Anthony will wrap me in cotton-wool arms, placing my head against his chest as we lie in bed, tucked too tight under the covers, an extra blanket round my shoulders. That’s it, darling, the only thing I want you to worry about is getting better. He’ll turn on the electric fire in the corner and a cup of soup will be steaming in my hands. I’ll start to sweat – it’s a pleasant early autumn day and too warm for the fire – but he won’t mind, he likes it, and he’ll pull me closer as my fringe sticks to my forehead and my eyelids droop to close. I’ll notice my laptop is open just a crack as it sits expectantly on the floor, under the bed but not quite. I must push it further beneath, so he’s not tempted to look, to find out what I’ve been writing about him all this time. Later, he’ll change me into a flimsy nightgown as my head lolls in and out of sleep and at some point, eventually, I’ll drift off, part of me wishing I won’t wake up.
*
I dream that night that a girl comes to me, knocking hard on my bedroom window. I pull the curtains wide, blowing dust into my face, then take her in: her eyes are hollowed out and her teeth are crisscrossed and jagged. There’s blood running down her head and she’s telling me that I broke her when I fell. That I killed her. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, hands to the window, begging her to forgive me. She shakes her head, slow, her smile twisting to a crooked semi-circle.
‘You have to get away,’ she pleads. ‘Run.’
Archived Entry
Five months ago – 20th May, 8.35 p.m.
From across the table, Anthony is about to make an announcement, and the side of his champagne flute rings in tinny echoes as he taps it with a knife. I look over, hoping he won’t have realised how nervous I’ve been this evening. Our rehearsal dinner. He spots me looking and smiles.
‘On behalf of my soon-to-be wife and I…’ he begins, leaving a little gap for a reaction, promptly filled with polite cheers and applause and, to a few guests’ surprise, a tone deaf whoop from my father. ‘I’d like to thank you all for making the time to be here tonight. This is a fresh start for Emelia, and for me, and we’re delighted to share it with you. To new beginnings!’
We raise our glasses and I take the opportunity to look over at my dad, give him a thumbs-up, then knock back the rest of my champagne, the bubbles exploding behind my eyes in effervescent fireworks.
My dad probably won’t realise he’s done anything wrong, which is just as well, but it is slightly perturbing to be confronted with a real life example of how I’m the rough to Anthony’s smooth and unblemished upbringing. I was raised in a normal home in an uncharacteristically grey part of Kent. Anthony and his friends, in contrast, come from a world I didn’t realise existed; these are people who don’t ever have to worry about money, who can do whatever they like without a second thought as to how. Anthony’s parents are grotesquely successful antique dealers who’ve left him a bottomless apology fund to make up for their ineptitude with everything else. It’s this money that’s paying for our high-society wedding – with its rules and etiquette and regimented cutlery arrangement.
Unfortunately for them, and for me, my parents are sat at a table with Anthony’s mother and a splattering of ‘older’ guests – God knows how they’re getting on – and I’m sitting at a table of people that, save for two, I’ve never met before. To make matters worse, the two I have met absolutely hate me. They’re all Anthony’s friends from college. Our friends, he’d called them, which had irritated me at the time because they most certainly weren’t our friends, they were his friends. However, sitting here now, without a single one of my own girlfriends in attendance, I decide I need to make an effort. My own friends have all but forgotten about me since I met Anthony, their initial interest dampened as soon as they realised I was moving to London. Dulled further still when they accepted my relationship was here to stay and that I was happy, no longer the lonely love-sick woman they could see every so often to make them feel better about themselves. Of course, I’d invited my old friends to tonight’s festivities but each had voluntarily erased themselves citing the usual excuses – baby, marriage, baby, work, baby, holiday – and, though I could be worried that my new life in London is isolating me, I’d been trying to see it as an opportunity to start afresh, to rise to the occasion of being Anthony’s wife.
‘Are you nervous?’
I turn to the voice that’s speaking to me, recognising it immediately, dreading the conversation that’s about to follow. There’s a space in between us, where Anthony will sit, but even from here my nose is thick with her musky perfume.
My eyes move to the label at her place setting: Heather.
Deep breath.
‘A bit,’ I reply, honestly.
Heather and I haven’t seen each other since we met after Anthony’s talk at the Natural History Museum and, though she’s sent overly enthusiastic well-wishing cards and presents to our home, I’ve been wary of seeing her again. Anthony is very keen
for us to bond, though, so I must try.
I take her in: tall and skinny with a striking nose that a different woman might have felt pressured to have had ‘fixed’. I like that she hasn’t, though, it suits her. I hope Heather will be able to forgive me for falling in love with Anthony, and wonder if we could become friends down the line, but, as I look up, I see that the smile has already disappeared from her face and she’s flitting her lashes in the opposite direction. Anthony’s walking over, his divine proportions fitted into a tailored suit, about to take his seat between us – our wedding planner insisted on a man-woman-man-woman seating plan – and, by the looks of things, she’s desperate for him to save her from interacting with me. Oh dear. I curl my toes inwards, my skin crawling with anxiety. I tease the tassels at the base of my white cocktail dress with nervous fingertips. I’d chosen this dress when I’d been under the impression tonight would be fun, but now the tassels just feel inappropriate and frivolous.
Forget about Heather, I tell myself. Don’t let her ruin tonight for you.
I clear my throat, squeeze my right hand with my left and look up. I run my eyes round the table, tracking the six people we’re sitting with. There are the three R’s – Rupert, Roger and Richard – belly laughing in wacky ties. Then there’s Harry, sitting to my left, his fingers deep in a bowl of crisps that he’s brought over from the snacks table – he’s now more of a work colleague than a college chum – who’s collaborated with Anthony on a number of recent projects and who I’ve met several times before. There’s Carla – the other person at this table who likely despises me, and married to one of the R’s, though I forget which – and, finally, Heather, her eyes swivelling back towards me now, her lips sucking their way round a tart tasting olive that, from the looks of it, is about as bitter as she is.
‘So, if you’re nervous, I guess it’s not true what they say, then?’ she asks, her voice slightly dozy. ‘That your wedding day is just the happiest of your life?’
I pick up on her prickliness – it isn’t exactly veiled – and consider her feelings. I bet she’s sick to death of The Woman Who Insisted Her Relationship With Anthony Lyon Was Strictly Professional Then Married Him Six Months Later. Emelia Thompson – the poor, impoverished journalist who muscled in on her man, and who I bet she thinks must have rushed the wedding in order to get her greedy little mitts on Anthony’s money. Anthony’s parents’ money. Money, money, money – jealousy always loops back to money in the end.
‘I’m very happy,’ I reply, not rising to the bait, just as Anthony leans in to greet us. He kisses Heather’s cheek first but I don’t let it bother me. He’s a kind man and wants to be mindful of her feelings; to let her believe she’s still the number one woman in his life, that I’m just a passing fancy, a phase, something that will blow over. ‘And very lucky,’ I add, not wanting to rub my marriage in her face any more than it already has been.
‘Are you nervous?’ I ask Anthony as his hand lingers at the nape of my neck.
He nods. ‘Not at all, tonight’s a dream come true. I’m marrying the woman of my dreams. My best friend.’
I cough uncertainly – perhaps he isn’t particularly aware of Heather’s feelings – and take a long sip of my champagne.
Heather’s his best friend, not me – our roles have been long established.
Anthony doesn’t pick up on his faux-pas and finds himself distracted by Harry, sitting to my other side. I wonder if Heather might want to talk about work – we’re both historians, we have plenty to discuss besides Anthony, but she’s squawking again about relationships before I have a chance to swerve the subject.
‘If only it were as simple as marrying someone who’s perfect for you!’ Heather guffaws, sarcastically. ‘My perfect man would have to be Roman Catholic to satisfy some deep seated need for parental approval but, crucially, agnostic in reality; a historian – obviously – ideally with a special interest in the Middle Ages; above six foot one, if possible; full head of hair, preferably. Think you could find him for me, Emelia?’
I fake-laugh for her benefit – she’s just described Anthony – and watch her eyes move to the beautiful engagement necklace round my neck, seething, then pour another drink.
*
Heather’s slurring by the time dinner’s served – generous helpings of lamb shanks and pearl barley, served with petit pois and buttery kale. I’ve asked her where she’s from, if she still enjoys what she does for a living, if she’s happy in her personal life – which she is, of course, though it may very well be a lie – but I haven’t had any questions back and she’s been cooing over Anthony all night instead, whispering asides into his ear, laughing a shade too enthusiastically at everything he says. However, I sense things are starting to sour between them now and I watch her face drop as Anthony puts his hand over the top of her wine glass, preventing the waiter from refilling it.
‘Hey!’ Heather chides. ‘Whassat for?’
‘Saving you from yourself, darling, as ever,’ Anthony bemoans, rolling his eyes as I listen in on their conversation. ‘Do you remember that night in halls, just after you’d embarked on a new direction as a stoner?’
‘Ohh,’ groans Heather. ‘That was embarrassing.’
‘You had a pot overdose. I’m still amazed there’s such a thing.’
She touches the top of his arm. ‘Almost as embarrassing as the time I did too many Jägerbombs and you rushed me to hospital, said I was having a heart attack… I’m telling you, if you grow up Catholic, that’s what happens when you’re left to your own devices at university.’
I sit silently at the table, redundant, less than shocked at Heather’s supposed ‘rebellions’ as they reminisce about old times, desperate for these private jokes and the retelling of decades of shared memories to come to an end. I sip thirstily on my drink, in dire need of every drop, and, when it’s finished, don’t have to wait too long for the waiter to pour me another. As he moves away, I notice their bodies closer together, Heather’s arm stretched long across Anthony’s shoulders, the fact that I’m even here seemingly forgotten.
‘So,’ Harry announces from my left side, breaking me out of my daze. ‘Humour me. Carla and I have a bit of a bet going.’
I shuffle awkwardly in my seat.
‘What’s the bet?’ I ask, forcing a pleasant smile, thoughts of what they’re about to ask flashing through my mind. Did Anthony cry when he proposed? Did you?
‘Where did Anthony take you on your first date?’
Harry’s pot belly jiggles as he shifts his weight in his seat, leaning closer, pleats forming up his legs as his trousers stretch tight over his thighs. Where are they going with this?
My mind loops back to the beautiful Italian restaurant – Casa Maria – Anthony had taken me to for our ‘official’ first date. It’d smelt like fresh basil and roasted tomato and we’d eaten blue-crab tagliolini, served exclusively for us by the chef. It was Anthony’s favourite and the fact that it wasn’t on the menu any more hadn’t mattered. I’d fallen in love at some point during our second bottle of wine and, on the walk home, our bodies had shivered together as we’d prolonged the evening as much as possible, both reluctant to leave, our shadows hunched together, heart-shaped, as we’d kissed on the embankment.
‘Uh… An Italian place,’ I say, twisting my hands nervously, waiting for the punchline. ‘On the river.’
Carla’s eyes widen and she thumps Harry on the back. ‘I told you,’ she cuts in, smug.
‘Casa Maria?’ Harry asks, sheepish, squinting out of the corner of his eye.
‘Yes,’ I reply, quiet. ‘Care to fill me in?’ I add, when the details of their bet aren’t forthcoming.
‘He takes all his first dates there,’ Carla explains, red lips moving fast, a spaghetti strap falling loose down her shoulder. ‘But it’s not a bad thing, it’s just Anthony, he’s a real creature of habit. He took Heather there too, back when…’ She hikes her strap back up, purses her lips. ‘You know.’ She turns away; done with me
now.
‘I should have known,’ Harry laments and I sink back into my chair, stressed and tired and ready for tonight to be over. At that moment, my chest responds to my dissatisfaction, pain nudging out of the sides.
‘Everything all right?’ Harry asks, concerned, as I grip my napkin tight in my palm.
‘Fine,’ I reply through gritted teeth.
‘You don’t look fine,’ seconds Carla.
‘I was born with a heart defect,’ I pant. ‘Sometimes the pain hits and just takes a—’ I wince as the pain crests, then falls, ‘moment to pass.’
Their eyebrows rise.
‘Gosh,’ says Harry.
‘I’ve probably had a little too much to drink, which doesn’t help.’ Not to mention the fact that everyone here’s trying to break up my marriage before it’s even begun.
Their eyes widen for a second, as though worried about me, but they don’t know what to say, and I can tell this information about my heart condition is new. Before I can say another word, they’re engaged in a new conversation I’ve not been invited to join so I swivel back to my right, sighing, only to be met with the sight of Anthony’s back, angled towards Heather, deep in animated conversation.
It hits me then: the extent to which I’m an outsider in this exclusive group, all rich kids born and raised in London who went to similar private schools then off to the same redbrick university, their lives homogenous and cliquey, reluctant to let in outsiders who’d muddy their insular world views. Even if it wasn’t for Anthony’s unfortunate history with Heather, the rest of the table are unashamedly upset that their friends didn’t end up together and that they’ve had to welcome someone new into the fold. It hadn’t taken long for them to dismiss me: they’d assessed my less than ideal background and had swiftly relegated me to the much maligned position of middle England moron, a hobbit lost in their beautiful elfin city of Rivendell. Yes, that’s exactly it, that’s why none of them are talking to me: they think I’m Frodo. No, worse, they think I’m Samwise, and the only reason I am here is because of the borrowed ring on my finger. I snort to myself, champagne fizzing fast through my nose.
