by Adele Parks
I wake up before Luke and jump nervously. I check the clock, it is 9 a.m., what day is it? I panic. Is it a weekday? Have I slept in? Then I relax as I realize it isn't a weekday. It's Saturday 19 March. Still, something is odd. I quickly turn to look at Luke, to check he is OK. Please, God, let him be OK. Please, God, please. Is he breathing? Of course he is breathing, of course he is OK. He is sleeping soundly wearing that gentle, contented look that he always wears in his sleep. I begin to relax and I lie back down again. Sleep is no longer the given it used to be. Up
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until meeting John I'd always slept soundly, cuddled spoon-like into Luke. After meeting John my sleeping became erratic, too heady and happy at first and then too preoccupied and tense. Regret, disappointment and anger are all awful bedfellows. Suddenly it dawns on me. I realize that is the difference. I have woken up at 9 A.M., not at 2 a.m., or 3 a.m., or 4 a.m., or 5. I have slept a solid nine and a half hours. I feel relaxed. My anger has subsided. I check to see if it is hiding under the bed. It isn't. I think about the other guises anger might be visiting in, but I am neither irascible nor fiery. Nor am I fretful or snarling. Anger has gone and it's been replaced by relief. Actually relief is quite a cheery chappie to have around, easygoing, undemanding, unhurried and amenable. Relief keeps saying, "Well done, Connie, nice job. Potential damage huge but you got away with it. Congratulations. Clever girl." Then relief energetically slaps me on the back.
Fried breakfasts are sexy. I don't know why but they are. It could be that fattiness is associated with indulgence or it could be the association with huge, rugged truckers, like the Yorkie man. Relieved, I cook Luke a fried breakfast and take it up to him. I shyly put the tray down on the bed. The bed. Luke looks at me suspiciously, which is fair enough because I've only made him four fried breakfasts in his life and I have never brought them up to the bedroom. I watch him cheerfully tuck in. He thrusts bacon into his mouth and grins at me. There is some yolk on his bottom lip. On the right-hand side. Impulsively I lean in and kiss it away. It turns into a slow kiss. We keep our eyes open and watch each other throughout. I tilt my head a fraction and kiss him again, gently biting his bottom lip. My breast pushes against his arm, my breathing is quickening, he carefully moves the tray to the floor—the phone rings. We laugh. He nods, indicating that he doesn't mind if I pick it up. We're in no hurry.
"It's me."
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"Daisy." I'm delighted. Daisy and I have had a very strained relationship since she discovered about my affair. Daisy's torn. She loves me but hates what I've done. She cried for a week asking me, over and over again, how could I have betrayed Luke. Sam pointed out to Daisy that it was none of her business and if anyone wanted to call me a "Selfish, wicked, two-faced whore" then it should be Luke. Daisy then changed tack. She railed at me for quite some time as to why I treat her like a child? She insisted that I should have told her as I'd told Sam and Lucy (Rose doesn't count, none of us tell her anything). Lucy intervened by resorting to friendly chastising.
"Connie was trying to protect you. We treat you like a child, because you act like one. Now stop crying, get dressed and kiss and make up." Both Daisy and I are too intimidated by Lucy to object. Daisy reluctantly hugged and said she was sure that I'd understand why I couldn't possibly be her bridesmaid. Relationships have marginally improved since she discovered it was all over; Sam told her that I'd finished it, a little scarlet lie.
"I'm going to look at wedding dresses today. I wondered if you wanted to come." I expect one of the others had asked her to do this, Rose perhaps? It could be that I've been invited to referee Rose and Lucy. Sam is still attending fine art classes on a Saturday so won't be able to make it. Rose and Lucy, who rarely see eye to eye, would not make ideal shopping companions for Daisy, especially when the decision is as big as this. Whatever the reason, I'm pleased.
"I'd love to, Daisy."
Lucy and I wait outside the bridal boutique for Rose and Daisy. Lucy leans against the shop window, smoking. She is wearing dark sunglasses, although the sun will not make an appearance in Britain for at least another three months. She inhales and exhales audibly.
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"So, Connie, how are we feeling today?" she asks.
"Relieved." I grin. "It's not just relief at remaining undiscovered, although that is pretty compelling. It's the relief of remembering that I love Luke. There is a lot I still don't understand—like why I did it in the first place—but I am so relieved that I still love Luke. I think we can fix this."
Lucy studies me. "Relief isn't the end of it," she warns me cheerfully. Damn, Lucy has a load of experience in this department, she's bound to be right.
"I'm really trying to make it up to Luke. It's surprising how quickly we've gone back to our old ways. Buying things for the house, attending work events, throwing dinner parties, making visits to aged aunts. It's amazing how quickly I've forgotten John."
"Not really," she smiles. "You haven't heard from him, then?"
"No, he's insisted on behaving like a real person, not a character in a book."
"What do you mean?"
"No grand gestures, no big bids to win me back, just plain silence."
"Bad luck."
"Yes, isn't it?" I grin, she knows I am joking. "Look at me, Lucy, I've rediscovered my sense of humor." We fall silent. Lucy uses the shop window as a mirror as she checks her immaculate reflection. I rub my shoe up and down the back of my trouser leg, to try to induce a shine.
"You know, I've been thinking about this and in my considered and expert opinion, you could get John back. If you put your mind to it."
Before she has a chance to share her strategy with me, I hear myself say, "I don't want him back." This is news to me. Brain did you register what mouth said? Brain is in accordance. Heart did you hear? Actually heart has never been too
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involved and is therefore happy to agree. Acid test, err, knickers, what are your thoughts on the subject? There is no reaction. No jittering small puppy feeling, nothing. To check I say his name. John Harding. No pang, nothing. Thank God. I don't want him anymore.
"Well, what do you want?" asks Lucy reasonably.
"Nothing. Everything is just perfect again."
"Is it?"
"Of course it is. I don't miss him at all."
"Just be sure you aren't too hasty in wallpapering over those cracks, Con."
I spot Rose and Daisy walking toward us. We move forward to greet the Kirk girls. Daisy hugs me tightly and I think I'm forgiven; perhaps I'll still get to be bridesmaid.
The shop bell trings to announce our arrival. That tring also propels us into another age, although not a definitive era. A time when women, normally extremely independent, can— without surrendering any self-respect—wear long flowing gowns, carry parasols and hide behind heavy lace, being at once demure and provocative. A time when everyone speaks in muted voices. When women manage to be both the center and centered, and men are charming and attentive. By walking into the bridal shop we have access to a romantic Utopia, even if it is only for one day, Daisy's day.
My heart at once hardens and then implodes as I remember my own trip to a bridal shop, only two years before. I remember feeling like a caterpillar entering a cocoon. Knowing that I was about to become something much freer and more tremendous on emergence. An entirely different shop and yet just the same. The same deep-pile carpets that massage feet, the same plush folds of silk and rosettes of ribbon that sway in the draft caused by opening the door. The silk moves slowly but with purpose, like an ocean tide licking a creamy beach. The Love Story theme tune is being piped out of some secret vent and
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although we self-consciously recognize this as an appalling cliche, we all feel woozy with the promise of romance and everlasting hope.
Rose and I exchange glances. Rose looks sad and defeated. She and Peter are squabbling on a more or less continuous basis. I want to squeeze her
hand and assure her that couples do come through bad patches. Perhaps when the twins leave home.
Lucy shows no signs of intimidation, more irritation as the shop assistant asks her to "refrain" from smoking. I watch her stubbing out her fag, I know her well enough to realize that she is imagining it is the face of the shop assistant.
Daisy hasn't moved from the doorway, she daren't. If she moves, it might all disappear, this hopeful, heavenly, possibility of a cleaner, sleeker, chicer self. Not just on the day but forever after. I want to tell her, I want to try to explain, this is part of the game but it is not the home run.
Tentatively, she moves toward the closest dress and is just reaching out to touch the cushion hanger, when a shrill voice trills out.
The assistant explains that she is not a shop assistant but a bridal consultant. This distinction is the first of a long list of new vocabulary that is imbued into us. She describes the dresses as "gowns," shoes as "slippers," underwear as "intimate apparel." Lucy lets out a snort, which is ignored. We watch as the "bridal consultant" oohs and abbs her way into Daisy's good nature. Offering at once motherly indulgence and girlie advice. Daisy selects three dresses to try. All of them are slinky, tight-fitting, glamorous dresses. We look on doubtfully. The consultant encourages Daisy to swap the 6 for an 8— "These gowns come out so petite." I am grateful for her tact.
Daisy goes to the dressing room alone. "The next time a friend of mine gets married I'm going to warn her to buy new underwear for this bit," she shouts through the curtain. Rose and I look at each other guiltily.
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"You failed in your duties there," says Lucy smugly, "and to think, Rose, you are the matron of honor."
God, it is cold war between those two at the moment. I wonder if Lucy wanted to be Daisy's chief bridesmaid and is miffed because Daisy picked Rose. Daisy, from behind the curtain, adds, "Wax her legs, buy new shoes, reapply makeup." Her self-confidence has set off on a downward spiral. Daisy has always been described as curvaceous, which is the bane of her life. She is very bonny with creamy white skin, a sprinkling of freckles, red curly hair and huge green eyes. In her better moments she grudgingly accepts her rather individual beauty, but most of the time she longs for a dark, glossy bob, which will look and feel like glass. And no chest. She wants to be elegant and tall with a long neck and large brown eyes. Eyes framed with thick velvety lashes.
Daisy emerges. We stand with jaws hanging open, eyes wider still. The dress isn't exactly tight, it is snug. She'll be fine unless she wants to sit down, or move too much, and it will probably be better if she doesn't wear knickers, to avoid unsightly panty lines. Daisy looks in the mirror and her grin collapses immediately. She hesitates and blushes. The color starts at a small spot on the left-hand side of her neck, grows down her chest and up her cheeks.
"I thought I'd turn into Audrey Hepburn." Daisy tries to giggle but is genuinely disappointed. "Crazy, huh?"
Rose smiles her motherly smile and puts a tender arm around her sister. They both face the mirror and look at Daisy's reflection. They see Daisy in a wholly inappropriate gown.
Lucy rolls her eyes heavenward and I squeeze her arm indicating that she must refrain from comment. "I know, I'm not completely insensitive," she whispers. "Christ, I suppose it isn't Daisy's fault that she's succumbed to the crazy fantasy that is piped out from day one. The big whacko dream for suckers, the Happily Ever After. I blame pop songs."
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Lucy is being so understanding.
"Honey, that dress is for anorexic neurotics with no personality," she grins, "those girls make terrible brides." Daisy tentatively turns to Lucy, unsure (as we all are) of what she will add. Lucy can, when she puts her mind to it, be the most charming and convincing counselor. She bends her knees so that her eyes are level with Daisy's. She takes Daisy's face between her long thin hands and spreads her fingers up to replace a stray piece of hair behind Daisy's ear. I notice the gesture is rather Audrey Hepburnesque and wonder if Daisy thinks so, too.
"Simon loves your curves. He's marrying you. The same you that he's seen in thermals and with greasy hair. This marriage isn't about the wedding day, it's about you and him, not a dress." How come she knows so much about marriage all of a sudden? A small smile from Daisy, sun peeping through rain clouds. Lucy grins seductively. "Go on, admit it, how often has he told you that he loves your hips, your bot? Come on, he hangs on those massive ..." Lucy leans very close to Daisy as she whispers, "tits." Daisy's face immediately becomes fire.
"Shhhhh," she giggles, "we are in a wedding shop."
"Yes, a wedding shop, not the bloody church. I promise I won't say 'tits' or any other profanity when I'm in the church."
Lucy's description is both attractive and accurate. Daisy hastily pulls off the clingy empire line and discards it like a cheap pair of pop socks. She re-selects a gown that not only accommodates but accentuates her hourglass figure.
We leave the shop three hours later and over a thousand pounds lighter.
"How was the dress hunt? Bloody?" asks Luke. "No, really very successful. She's chosen one." I kiss him. He puts his arms around me. And gazes at me.
It's a bit embarrassing, it's so intense but I resist breaking away.
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"Look, I hope you don't mind but while you were out I took an executive decision. I called Peter and said that we wouldn't be going over for dinner tonight."
"Did he mind?"
"No, in fact he sounded relieved."
"I don't mind, if they don't. Are you ill?"
"No. It's just that I feel we are on a treadmill at the moment. That we never spend enough time together. I mean alone together." He leans his forehead onto mine and stares at me. "I'm so busy and you're so . . ." He trails off. "Do you know what I'm talking about?"
I put my arms around his neck and grin. "I do, exactly. I think it is a brilliant idea. What do you want to do instead? Should we go to Tesco and buy supplies?"
"No, let's go out." He's a little boy suddenly, excited with his plans and surprises. "I've booked a table at La Belle Epoque. I've heard that it's like eating inside a Chanel handbag. So it might be a bit cramped but very stylish."
I laugh and run upstairs to choose something to wear.
"What are you thinking about, Rose?" I ask, as I hand her a cup of tea. We are sitting in our garden with Henry and Sebastian. It's not exactly warm, but I prefer to risk catching flu than watch the boys actively destroy my home. We are eating cream cakes, they are eating soil.
"I'm trying very hard to remember him wanting me, really wanting me. I'm trying to remember when it stopped. What I did to make him stop wanting me." Rose is in shock. We all are. The night of our visit to La Belle Epoque, Luke and I had stumbled home to find Rose and the twins ensconced in our front room. She'd used the spare key, for which she apologized profusely but explained that it was an emergency. Peter had left her. For Lucy.
The ripples of devastation have lapped at us all. In one
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swift move Lucy has detonated all that was familiar. Naturally there has been a division of loyalties. Luke is not making much of an effort to hide his disgust, Daisy is making none at all and has dragged Simon to her side of the barricades. Sam is walking the front line, seeing it from everyone's viewpoint. I'm ambiguous, but this isn't because I'm generous, I have long since sacrificed my right to the moral high ground. In addition I'm abashed that my self-absorption means that I've failed to notice something so profound in Lucy's life. Lucy's in love with Peter? Lucy's in love with Peter? The girlie gossiping in All Bar One, the dinner parties, the picnics, are no longer possible. We're left without ritual and routine. This, for me at least, is uncomfortable and, strangely, a relief.
"Oh, I'm sure he hasn't. . . stopped," I console.
She looks at me. "Don't kid yourself, Con. Pleasant of you to try to console me but don't waste your time. See things as they really are. He doesn't want me."
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n't contradict her this time. She gazes at the boys. Sebastian is squashing ants and Henry is putting sand in his shoe and then pouring the contents on his head. I remind myself that these violent and dysfunctional behavioral traits were present before the children became a product of a broken home. Henry grins at me. I look beyond them at Luke. He is at the end of the garden, burning rubbish.
"I just wish I could remember when he did want me. I'd like to remember that feeling." Then she sighs and shakes her head. "But what would be the point? I know that he no longer wants me, so the memory is not only redundant but also repellent."
She pauses, takes a sip from her tea and removes a worm from Henry's mouth. I don't interrupt her. I know she needs to talk it through.
"I've been thinking about long-term strategies." She counts her options on her fingers. "I could fling myself on the floor
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and beg him to stay for the sake of the children. I could lie low, ignore him for some length of time, treat him badly. It seems he gets a kick out of that sort of woman. I could see him, but disallow him to touch me," she sighs, "assuming he still wants to, which is unlikely, thinking about what he's been touching recently." Rose pre-empts my polite comments. "Be sensible, Con, look at me and think of Lucy. At my very best I was not half as attractive as she is on a rough day, and I'm hardly at my very best. In fact, I haven't been at my very best for quite some time."
"But you're his wife," I say truthfully, "and you're the mother of his children. You've been together since you were twenty-two. All those years must count for something, Rose."
