by Adele Parks
"I think it was timing. He was exciting."
"Really, I think that he seems a bloody idiot from his fax."
"Yes, he is an idiot, too."
"I just don't understand it." Luke is genuinely bewildered.
"From time to time, every woman wants the same thing. A man that makes her feel she's worth a million dollars, but at the same time has his hand on her best friend's knee."
"Christ. To think women say men are immature. I hope, Connie, that for the sake of the human race you are absolutely wrong. Every woman can't want that. Say this is just you."
"It's just me," I repeat tonelessly.
"Good, at least the tragedy is limited to our marriage."
I don't find that comforting.
"He listened to me. He talked to me. He was fascinated by me."
"But you always say that touchy-feely things nauseate you."
"I lied. To you and to myself."
Silence again.
"So what did you talk about?"
"Dreams, thoughts, films, books."
"But, Connie, I know that your favorite film is Dangerous Liaisons," notes Luke.
I've never felt more ashamed.
"We can't re-create those first few months, Connie. We have," he corrects himself, "we had something much more solid." He is right. We have mortgages, wedding vows, families, history. At one point we even had a future. Question is, do we still? I am a passion junkie. I needed a fix. Oh God. What a mistake. What a huge elephantine fuck-up.
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"Maybe I just needed reminding."
"Reminding of what?"
"That what we have is real. And that real is no bad thing." He says nothing but just continues to glare at me. I will him to comment, or even move his head. Obviously, my telepathic skills aren't up to scratch. I hurry to fill the silence, "You were never here, Luke. Do you know I never had to lie to you when I was seeing him? Because you were never here and you rarely asked me where I'd been." Whoops, I'm dangerously close to blaming there. I pull it back. "Unfortunately, whenever I was lonely I turned to my fantasy. And you, my husband, being real, never had a chance of living up to a fantasy." I pause. "I am sorry, Luke. I do love you. I know that for sure."
He still says nothing. He stares blankly at me. I can't read his expression. I think he's found the valve that allows him to shut down his emotions—lucky sod. I feel like the cow that I am. I decide to cast myself on his mercy.
"Oh Luke, haven't you ever made a mistake?"
He still doesn't answer. We stay still. Motionless. Then Luke stands up. I scramble to my feet. Will he kiss me now? Will he forgive me? I close my eyes and wish very tightly. Then I hear the door close.
I think I can hear a fat lady singing.
iJtre you ready?" Daisy shrieks down the telephone.
"Nearly," I answer helpfully but untruthfully. My hair is still wet and I am dressed in a towel.
"GoodbecauselneedyouhereNOW!" she garbles.
"What's the problem? Calm down, Daisy," I say authoritatively, although my heart is sinking. What can possibly have gone wrong with the wedding now? Daisy is getting married on the last Saturday in July, near enough our second wedding anniversary. On realizing this she had expressed concern.
"Should I change the date, Connie?"
Daisy turned her pretty but anxiety-ridden face to me.
"I don't think it's possible at this late stage," I'd said to her, touched by her concern for me. "The invites have gone out. Really, it's very kind of you to be so thoughtful but Luke and I will be fine."
Her face looked like a freshly plowed field.
"But do you think it's an unlucky date, Con, do you? I couldn't bear it if anything went wrong with Simon and me.
Charming! She gushed this out with her simple honesty and although I wanted to slap her, I resisted. Instead I answered her as positively as I was able.
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"You make your own luck, Daisy. You and Simon will be fine."
Fine, besides the fact that the Best Man and his wife have split up, making it impossible for the said wife to be a bridesmaid. Fine, except that we are a second bridesmaid down because she has run off with one of the ushers, who just happens to be the husband of the third bridesmaid. Luckily, Daisy's latest crisis is a very simple, natural, wedding-day crisis, as opposed to the life-changing crises of the last few months. The florist has called to say that she can't deliver the flowers to Daisy's house, she's burst a tire.
"Don't worry, Daisy, I'll collect them, I'll set off in five minutes. Go and take a tranquilizer and drink more champagne."
I had planned to dress with the same amount of care and attention for Daisy's wedding day as I had for my own, because Luke will be there. Initially, I wanted to look drop-dead gorgeous, to show Luke that I am thriving. I rejected this on the grounds that it is extremely difficult to feel drop-dead gorgeous when you don't like yourself. Also I'm not thriving and it shows.
Without Luke's love, and more practically his cooking, I am wilting. I've reached that state which, until now, I didn't believe in. The one when people tell you that you look drawn and tired and that you looked better when you carried a bit more weight. I am skeletal. It isn't that I can't cook. I can't cook. But I could have relied on the freezer and M&S individual portions. Problem is eating without him is dull, I have no interest in food or nurturing myself. I do not deserve gourmet-lasagne-for-one, or the individual portions of summer pudding.
I then considered looking independent, confident and a little bit revised. Unfortunately this look was hard to achieve, too, because when I described it to the woman in the hat sec-
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tion of John Lewis, she told me it wasn't this year's look. Bloody marvelous, I'm not even fashionable anymore. The shop assistant suggested that I go for something with lots of roses in cerise pink. She assured me that the little-girl look was very in. I listened politely, then ignored her. I've been there. Done the Disney ride. I chose a beige trouser suit, accessorized with chocolate-brown shoes, hat and bag.
Now it's academic because my preparation time is brought to a rude and abrupt halt by Daisy's SOS. I don't have the chance to agonize over how I look. I pay no attention whatsoever to earrings or makeup. My hair is still damp and is drying into unruly frizzy ringlets; it looks as though I'm sporting a bowl of spaghetti on my head. Rather fetching, not. I manage to slap on lipstick and mascara but not perfume; I haven't tried on my hat and I've had no chance to select nice underwear. Not that anyone ever sees my underwear these days, but it's still pleasant to feel pretty. In the interest of time I fall back on my old favorites, white cotton briefs and pop socks. Never mind. It's not my day, it's Daisy's, and she needs her bouquet. So does Sam. Sam is depending on catching it.
Five minutes later, I jump into my Golf and swing out of the road. It's not sunny, but we're British and we weren't really expecting sun; it's dry and bright, which is enough. I am pleased to have this task, I feel more involved and purposeful. I understand why I can't be a bridesmaid; this way Luke's and my situation won't create any unnecessary tension, but it has left me feeling rather lonely. I've spent this morning thinking about the other weddings I've attended. Particularly my own but also other friends'. Normally, I'm excited and nervous and expectant. Normally, Luke and Lucy are fighting for the bathroom and pouring champagne. Normally, the mood is buoyant and gleeful. It's just occurred to me why Lucy always insisted on dressing from our house, it's seriously depressing getting
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ready for a wedding on your own. She must have anticipated my mood, as she called me this morning.
"What are you wearing?" I filled in the details. I don't think she was too impressed. "Slate is the new brown is the new black," she chastised.
"Well, I can hardly turn up to a wedding in black, or even the modern equivalent, can I?"
"Why not? I think it would be appropriate." But she's laughing and she doesn't mean it. She no longer loathes t
he idea of marriage because she and Peter are so deeply in love. Only last week, I caught her idly loitering outside the Amanda Wakely Wedding Shop.
"I wondered about sending a gift," adds Lucy. She sounds shy and unsure.
"I advise against it."
She immediately dashes toward her more confident self.
"You're right. Stupid idea. Fuck them. Look, Sweetie, I have to dash, Pete and I are going to Brighton for the day."
"Brighton?" I'm amazed. Lucy has never been a kiss-me-quick-hat and pink-rock sort of girl.
"We're aching for sand between our toes," she giggles.
"We" meaning Lucy and Pete. I shuffle awkwardly, not knowing what to say. I'm happy for Lucy but that emotion is inextricably linked with the sorrow I feel for Rose. So many emotions snarled and embroiled. Lucy and Pete, these three words have rapidly replaced Rose and Peter. The rapidity actually horrifies me. Connie and Luke are rarely said in the same sentence now.
Luke and I have been living apart for fourteen weeks. He has a solicitor. I do not. He wants to divorce. I do not. My attempt to win him back was disastrous. Never again will I rely on the absence of underwear and subliminal messages from mawky pop songs. I am left with no alternative but to rely on "time being a great healer" (Sam's advice). I already know that
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this situation is so serious that I am likely to hear her say that "there are plenty more fish in the sea/pebbles on the beach." I know I've blown it with Luke forever. I know it with cruel, permanent certainty, but I still want to see him. Just to rest my eyes on him. Just to have him in the same room as me will be thrilling.
I pick up the flowers and deliver them to Daisy's house. Bedlam. I take a few snaps of rows of ballet slippers and flowers. Then I retreat, rather hastily, leaving Sam and Rose to divide up the half-dozen small bridesmaids. They are trying, but failing, to pull them into some semblance of order. I wave cheerfully and suggest bribery.
I drive to the church, still feeling decidedly spare-partish. I kill forty minutes taking photos of the guests arriving.
"Tarn!" I yell across the crowds. He is skulking behind a gravestone, having a quick smoke.
"Darling." We air kiss. "Dramatic stunt to avoid wearing a bridesmaid's dress," he said, rolling his eyes. "Connie, darling, I know that you take sartorial elegance seriously, but don't you think that your actions were a bit drastic? Even for you."
"Go inside and save me a pew. Stop being irritating or I'll tell Daisy's mum that you have a crush on lesbian Liz. She can never understand why you are both single."
Suitably scared, Tarn enters the church leaving me alone again. Hundreds of children from Daisy's school arrive. How cute. She'll regret it, of course. It looks sweet in Brides and Setting Up Home: photo after photo of smiley children. However, fact is, photos are silent, and children are not. Also none of them will bring a decent present. How many chocolate oranges does a girl need? The guests file past looking stunning; the women in hats and the men in tails. It is awesome, with all the general cynicism regarding marriage and the particular upheavals that our gang have gone through this year, that everyone still wants to celebrate with Daisy and
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Simon. Sam, Rose and the six mini she-devils arrive. Sam winks at me and Rose flashes a smile. I'm glad to see that she isn't wearing a pink tulle caftan, which has been a fleeting possibility now that she has become Renaissance Rose. The vicar tries to get me to go inside but I insist on waiting for Daisy.
It is worth it.
She steps out of the car, her petticoats and veil swaddling her.
"You look beautiful," I mouth. Which she does. She looks elated, not in the slightest bit nervous. I start to madly click away, trying to capture this moment of intense possibility. I kiss her and then run inside the church. I'm violently happy, amazingly ecstatic for her. For them.
My high heels click loudly on the worn, enameled tiles. Everyone in the church turns to watch my late arrival. Everyone, that is, except for Luke. He is at the front with Simon. I see him and someone kicks me in the stomach. My feeling of exhilaration vanishes. Simon turns around and nods to me, he whispers something to Luke. I pause wondering if he'll turn round and acknowledge me. He doesn't. It is utter torment. He doesn't stir, but continues to resolutely stare at the altar. I slip into the pew, next to Tarn. Tarn smiles and whispers, "Chin up, darling."
I can't drag my eyes off Luke. Even if it is just the back of him. I burn up his big, strong frame. He looks sensational in tails, all men do, but he does particularly. His blond, sporty, handsome face and stature provide a nice contrast to the formal gear. Yet, even knowing that he always looks good in tails, I hadn't expected to be so affected by being near him. What had I expected? What had I imagined? That he'd turn round, see me, run down the aisle saying that he would forgive me? That it has all been a horrible mistake?
No, of course not.
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Yes, of course.
In the deepest, darkest, recess of my mind I had held that glimmer of hope. The disappointment is ferocious. I feel a pulling and tingling in the roof of my mouth and in my nose. Tears threaten. I am so sorry. Luckily the organ music starts and everyone assumes that my misty eyes are due to the entrance of Daisy.
The ceremony is stunning. Daisy and Simon hit the correct note of austere respect and obvious jubilation. I want to roar, to bay. I do cry but not much, in case I'm removed from the church, like Henry. But then he is only nineteen months old, he has an excuse. Everyone cries at weddings (I'd often heard Lucy argue that there is reason to) but it isn't just the emotion of the big day. It is only two years since I skipped down the aisle to "The arrival of the Queen of Sheba." I know I've lost him and it is the hardest lesson of my life.
Soon it's "Joyful Trumpets." I try to catch Luke's eye, as he leads Rose back down the aisle, but he studiously avoids mine. Rose gives me a sympathetic smile. This is kind of her but it's like placing a Band-Aid over an amputated limb. Sam is chatting animatedly with one of the ushers. I trail out behind them, holding Sebastian's sticky hand.
The reception is idyllic. We drink champagne on the lawn, basking in the hot sun shining down on our new hats, and listening to the string quartet. Jugglers and those awful people that paint caricatures for a living create some amusement. Daisy has thought of everything, even Sam is stuck for suggestions on how to improve the day, which is remarkable considering the man-hours she's put into designing her wedding. I listen to the amiable chatter of the guests.
"Isn't she lovely?"
"Such a long day."
"Poor her having to endure it."
"Desperate for it for years."
"Isn't it perfect?" asks Rose, who has sidled up to me. She is sipping champagne.
"Yes." It is. But I've never felt worse. Inadvertently, I glance across the lawn to where Luke is standing having his photo taken.
"He looks well, doesn't he?" comments Rose.
I nod. Because it is true. He does look well. He looks fabulous. I am depressed that it's so obvious that he isn't missing me.
"I was just thinking about when I met him. He was wearing tails then—"
"My wedding," adds Rose.
"I'm sorry," I stutter, blushing. But Rose hushes me with a big grin. I think she knows she'll be happier without Peter. She squeezes my arm; we both know I'd be happier with Luke. Sam suddenly explodes onto the scene, interrupting my moody self-indulgence.
"Connie, can I have a quick word?" I nod, not moving. "Urgently!" she squawks through gritted teeth, "and privately."
I excuse myself from the group.
"What is it? Problem with the caterers?"
Whatever it is, it is serious. Sam is breathing very shallowly, her chest moving up and down like a pantomime dame's.
"He's here," she gasps.
"Jason, I know. I was talking to him earlier."
Sam really is acting very peculiarly. Yes, it is unusual for her to bring a date to a wedding. Commitment-ph
obics don't usually hang out at weddings, but it isn't so remarkable.
"Not Jason." She waves her hands dismissively. "John." My face asks who? "John Harding!"
"You're mistaken."
Sam looks at me pityingly.
"Do I make mistakes when it comes to spotting exes at inopportune moments?"
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Good point. She is undisputed queen of that particularly embarrassing situation. There was that time when she spotted one of her exes as she was going into the sexually transmitted diseases clinic, and to make matters worse he was with his mother. On another occasion, she was shopping in Bond Street and she saw an ex of hers come out of a jeweler's. Wrongly assuming he was buying her a love token, she tongued him. At that point he introduced her to his fiancee. I suspect that this was the shortest engagement in history. Sam has a habit of bumping into her exes at drying-out clinics, funerals, their weddings, gay bars, monasteries.
"Where is he?"
"At the bar."
Ah. Naturally.
"But I was taking photos of the guests when they arrived. How come I didn't see him?"
"He was late. His date came to the church alone."
"Who is he here with?" Sam will have done all the essential inquiring.
"Apparently, he is going out with one of Simon's cousins. He's here with her."
"Andrea is Simon's cousin?"
"No, that wasn't the name. Daisy said Bella, or Belinda, or something."
We stare at one another. Sam is trying to gauge my reaction. So am I.
"Bloody hell," I swear.
"Exactly," agrees Sam. "Look, Con, there's something else I'd better tell you. Luke heard me making investigations. He knows who John is."
"Bloody hell," I swear again. "Bloody, bloody hell."
"Stay calm," instructs Sam. But she is as white as a sheet and says it in a manner not unlike Basil Fawlty's.
Daisy had wanted an intimate wedding for her close
friends and family, all five million of them. I am now very grateful.
