Marry Him

by Marina Ford

  I ask Bonnie if she heard anything from Siobhan.

  “No,” she says, sadly. “Gosh, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? I don’t think she’s taking it so well.”

  It’s possible that a few weeks after she got the period she was hoping not to get wasn’t the best time to send her out to look for the tastiest alcoholic beverage in France. To be fair, at the time she seemed in need of a distraction, and I thought she might like being away from everyone’s pitying stares and, what was worse, her best friends’ yummy-mummy get-togethers. Harry was dubious, but I championed the idea, thinking a trip was what Siobhan needed. Perhaps I underestimated just how much she needed it.

  The flower lady keeps ringing me to ask about delivery times and places and to give me updates. I know nothing about the flowers because Harry managed that. Harry managed everything.

  Meanwhile, in the last few days we’d only actually spoken twice: once, a day or so after he landed, he rang me up to check how everything was going. He sounded exhausted, though, so the conversation was short. Yesterday, after I texted him a bunch of times, he rang me back, claiming to be very busy, and apologising for the lack of contact.

  Something isn’t right. I can feel it in my bones. On the phone with him now, he sounds tense and tired, like he wishes I’d stop calling. It’s unlike him. But I don’t get to ask him what’s going on because, after checking in on me, he immediately says he has some urgent business and then rings off before I have the chance.

  Arabella rings up.

  “Hiyah!” she chirps. “How are you holding up, daah-ling? Okay? I was just checking if you told the registrar what time you wanted your ceremony.”

  “Hasn’t Harry told him?”

  “No, he hasn’t. He said he was going to get back on this and then never did. Well? What time do you want to start?”

  I don’t know. I don’t know when weddings start. Besides, it feels ridiculous to be deciding this now, so close to the Big Day. In movies I know it’s always in daylight, but who knows what Harry wants?

  “Er, six?” I venture a guess.

  There’s a silence on the other side. Then she says, dryly, “Want to take another shot at it, daah-ling?”

  She makes me feel like that time when Harry asked me to get us a charcuterie platter and when I asked for it in the fancy boutique butcher’s shop Harry likes, they looked me up and down and asked if I meant charcoal and if I was, in fact, trying to put together a barbeque. Like I’m an uncultured lout or something.

  “What’s wrong with six o’clock?”

  “Well, honey, I presume you don’t mean in the morning, so we’re talking 6 p.m., yah?”

  “Yah,” I mimic her because she’s already annoying me.

  “Well, you wrote on your invitations that you want the guests to arrive at noon. You haven’t got anything planned for them for the following six hours. Unless there’s something I don’t know about?”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” I remember now. “Then twelve thirty should be all right, right?”

  “Are you sure?” she says, in the wheedling voice, like I’m a child who declared that two plus two equals pi.

  “Why? What’s the matter with twelve thirty?”

  “Well, it doesn’t allow much leeway for latecomers, daah-ling, that’s all.”

  “Okay, what time do you think it should be?”

  “How about 1 p.m.? How does that sound?”

  I feel like screaming at her: Then why the fuck didn’t you just say so at the beginning you bloody . . . but I don’t. Because I’m zen.

  “That sounds fab,” I say. “You’re the best.”

  “Thank you, daah-ling. I’ll be in touch. Mwa!”

  I punch a sofa cushion.

  The flower lady drives me nuts. I enlist Chloe to help me with her. She doesn’t know any more than I do, but she’s got cold common sense to guide her, and if it goes wrong, she says I can blame it on her.

  Harry’s dad won’t get back to me about the cars, which, frankly, works out just fine, because as I’m reviewing the situation, I can’t figure out why we need cars anyway. The ceremony is at the same place as the reception. I can’t reach Harry to ask him about this, and now I’m really freaking out. His phone is off. His phone is never off.

  No news from Siobhan. So, we will have a dry wedding.

  Haven’t had a proper night’s sleep ever since Harry left. It’s like going to sleep with the front door open. It’s not right, and I can’t seem to get calm without him in bed next to me. Why is his fucking phone off?

  The wedding is in two days.

  I’m not in a good place right now. Everything in the flat is making me nervous, so I go out a lot and try to keep myself busy. I texted Harry three times today and got no response. He’s not back, and I don’t know what time he’s coming back. Something tells me that’s not normal.

  It’s as I’m sitting in a coffee shop, doodling and trying to keep my nerves at bay, that I realise I’ve just drawn a familiar profile. Frowning, I look up from my notepad and scan the coffee shop more consciously. Then I jump up, shocked. It’s Gabriella!

  This is the woman who has taken down Frank bloody Brodie. I should do something. Say something. But what?

  She sees me. For a moment we stare at each other. Then she waves, shyly.

  She rises from her seat, excusing herself to the person she’s with—a man! A bloody man! Frank is going to kill himself if he ever finds out—and walks over to my table.

  “Hey,” she says. With all the anti-Gabriella propaganda that Frank and I have been indulging in, I forgot how nice she is. Somehow, this makes me more resentful of her. I mutter an unintelligible response, meant to indicate that I have nothing to say to her, out of solidarity with Frank.

  “How have you been?” she asks.

  “Fine.”

  “Oh, okay.” She nods, waits for me to say something, but as I don’t, she says, “Okay,” again, and prepares to turn around.

  “Wait,” I say, quickly. “Wait. I want to talk to you.”

  I don’t want to talk to her at all. I don’t know what I’m saying. She’s surprised too, but pulls a chair forward and sits down. She’s dowdier than I remember her from her time with Frank. In fact, she doesn’t look well at all. She’s all pale and pasty-skinned. She’s not wearing any makeup.

  “How have you been?” I ask her, suspiciously glancing back at her table.

  “Oh, well, you know . . .” she says. I’ve never seen her this serious before. Her smile seems so forced, it’s like a grimace.

  “Frank’s miserable,” I say. Probably this is not something I should be telling her, but I can’t help it. I want her to know. It’s not right for one person to cause another this much pain and not even know about it. “He’s the worst I’ve ever seen him.”

  She’s surprised. “Really?”

  “What do you think? He doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t eat. All he does is swear and drink. He doesn’t know what happened. You don’t go to the meetings with the lawyers. He never sees you. Why would you do this to him? What’s the matter with you? How could you?”

  I didn’t intend to start harassing her, but it comes bursting out of me.

  Her skin loses more colour with every accusation I throw at her.

  “Gosh,” she says, folding her hands nervously. “I—I didn’t know. I didn’t think it would be this bad . . .”

  I clench my jaw. What’s wrong with people? How can she not know it would be this bad? What did she think? That it was going to be good? If you’re going to leave someone, at least have the bloody balls or ovaries or whatever to tell them to their face!

  I think of Harry. But no, Harry isn’t leaving me. He’s just on a work trip to Sweden two days before our wedding and keeping a very romantic and completely appropriate radio silence.

  This is about Gabriella and Frank.

  “What happened?” I ask. “Was he mean to you? Abusive? Neglectful? Did you fall out of love? Is there somebody else?” I turn my
attention, again, to the bloke at her table.

  “No,” she says, horrified at the suggestion. “No, of course not. I love him so much, but . . . but I can’t go on pretending. You wouldn’t understand. You don’t know how frightening, how tiring it is . . .”

  She bites her lip.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” she says, rising to her feet. “Look, if you see him, tell him . . .” She stops again. “I’m really sorry. I’m sorry he’s sad and unhappy, but I hope it will get better. And if it helps, I’m not happy either, and I don’t think I’ll ever be again.”

  I stare up at her, completely speechless. I mean, what the fuck does that mean?

  “I’m going away,” she says. “I’m going to teach with the Bible Institute in Chapada, Brazil. So, if he complains about my not being there, at the meetings, that’s why. You can tell him. It might help.”

  Then she turns, dramatically, and walks out of the coffee shop. Her companion rises and follows her out. I send him evil stares, but I don’t think he notices.

  Bonnie is the one who drops the bombshell.

  We’re going through the order of service—not a thing I expected to have to deal with, since we’re not doing a church wedding—when I mention to her, half-jokingly, that perhaps there should be a point in there about Kieran bursting in, crying out Harry’s name like in The Graduate.

  Bonnie says, “Oh, you don’t have to worry about him. He’s in Sweden at the moment.”

  I go entirely rigid. Something inside me catches, my heart stutters.

  “Sweden?” My mouth feels dry and my tongue unwieldy. “N-now?”

  “Oh yes. I have him on Facebook, you know? Very handy to keep track of people. He’s been there for the past two weeks, I think. Extended holiday. So you don’t have to worry about him bursting in on you or anything. He’s safely away.”

  She gives me a reassuring smile. At least I think she does, because I see spots in front of my eyes.

  I tell myself that it’s nothing. A coincidence. It happens. Like when Kieran was in Ireland just when Harry and I were in Ireland. A coincidence. A damn inconvenient, infuriating coincidence.

  I ring up Maya.

  “Hey!” I say, sounding positively chipper. “I’ve been trying to reach Harry, but am having a hard time. Is he in touch with you?”

  “Harry?” She seems surprised. “No, why should he be? He’s taken time off for the wedding. I haven’t heard from him since last Friday.”

  “He’s supposed to be meeting a client in Malmö. I thought maybe he was in touch.”

  “Malmö?” She says it like she’s never heard of the place. “We don’t have any clients in Malmö. What did he say the client’s name was?”

  He didn’t give a name.

  “Must have been a misunderstanding,” I say, though by now my voice is trembling.

  You know how they say that before you die, you see your entire life flash before your eyes? Well, now I’m seeing my entire relationship with Harry flash before mine.

  What if it isn’t a coincidence?

  I ring his number, but it goes straight to voice mail. I leave a message.

  “Harry? It’s me, Joe. Er, I don’t know how to put this, but, er, I know that Kieran is in Sweden right now, and you’re there, and you’re not picking up your phone, and it’s starting to freak me out. The wedding’s in two days. If you don’t ring me, then . . . then maybe there is no wedding. I don’t know. I don’t know what to think of this. I just—” I take a deep breath. “Just give me a ring, okay? At least to say you’re all right. Anything else we can discuss when you get back.”

  He’ll come back. Definitely.

  Four and a Half Years Before the Big Day

  It had been six months since Harry chose Kieran.

  My date’s name was Ralph, and he was ten years my senior and worked as a business analyst for a financial consulting company. He was handsome, in a Gary Cooper-ish sort of way, and charming. The entire date, he tried to convince me to go to Cornwall with him. He had a summer house there and he said it would be a nice break from the city.

  “I’d teach you to fish,” he said. “Even if you don’t like fishing, just the views alone are worth the early rise.”

  He smiled suggestively. I remembered to smile back.

  “Do you surf?” he asked.

  “No, I never tried.”

  “I can teach you. It’ll change your life, trust me. Do you want more wine?”

  I did, but I shook my head. The way he was undressing me with his eyes made me wonder. I could sleep with him. I didn’t want to, but that was part and parcel of my being hung up over Harry. And Harry was having sex. Lots of sex with his boyfriend. He probably wasn’t sitting there looking at a complete snack in front of him, offering him wine, Cornish surfing, and a boisterous shag, thinking about me.

  My phone rang.

  “Excuse me,” I said to Ralph and hurried away from our table to pick up. It was Gabriella. She sounded out of breath.

  “Oh Joe, oh please, please help me!”

  “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  “It’s Frank’s birthday. I’ve no idea what to do! First I thought concert tickets, then I thought a trip to somewhere . . . but I don’t have any money, and I’ve no idea how he usually pays for all the things he does, and last year he wrestled on TV on his birthday and how am I supposed to compete with that?”

  “He won’t care about that. Just invite us to the pub, that’ll do.”

  “That won’t do at all!” she insisted, sounding genuinely panicked. “Please tell me what I should get! And for the love of all that is holy, don’t tell him I asked you!”

  I told her I’d come around to her place later that day to discuss Frank’s birthday. It was only after I hung up that I realised I’d cockblocked myself.

  Ralph’s smile faded when I told him I had to go.

  “Call me when you’re done?” he said in his deep, raspy voice.

  “Sure, I’ll try.” I knew I should, but as I was leaving the place, I felt no regrets. In fact, relief made my steps lighter and quicker.

  Gabriella was in a worse shape than even her panicked phone call had suggested. She’d researched Frank’s past birthdays and decided that nothing she could ever plan would live up to any of them.

  “I mean, for Christ’s sake, three years ago he adopted a cheetah!” she cried. “How does he even come up with this stuff?”

  I laughed, remembering the morning he found out about the cheetah.

  “We were drunk and we thought it would be funny,” I said. “Look, he doesn’t want you to remake that Hangover movie for him. He just wants to spend time with you.”

  She shook her head. “No, I need you to give me ideas. I know. I’ll . . . I’ll give him a horse!”

  “What?”

  “No, you’re absolutely right, horses are expensive. There’s stabling, insurance, vet fees . . . Oh gosh, I—I don’t know! I don’t know!” She shook me by my shoulders. “A dolphin?”

  “Why does it have to be an animal?” I asked, bewildered.

  “I don’t know!”

  I made her chamomile tea and forced her to take a seat, and then we talked through sensible options.

  “Ballooning? Clown school? A parade?” She showed me the list of ideas she’d prepared.

  “Crikey,” I said, leafing through them. “You do know it’s his birthday, right? He’s not being crowned King of Thailand.”

  She stared at me desperately.

  “Okay, okay, deep breaths,” I said. “Some of these aren’t as, er, silly as the others. Hot-air ballooning for example. That could be done, and I’m pretty sure Frank’s never been.”

  She let out a shaky breath. “Really?”

  We looked up prices and booked us in for a consultation.

  I thought this would chill Gabriella down, but when she lifted her mug of tea up to her lips, her hand was a little shaky.

  Frank came home from work just as I was leaving. I was
near the door, putting on my coat, checking the messages that had come in from Ralph while I was helping Gabriella out, when the door opened and Frank’s grin came in, followed by the rest of him.

  “Joe!” he cried, overjoyed to see me.

  We hugged and I explained I was on my way out.

  “Nonsense! Have ye eaten? I can see ya haven’t. Stay. Chloe said we needed to feed you better. Gabriella? Light of my life?”

  Gabriella came bouncing from the sitting room. I startled a little, because the transformation was so remarkable. There were the shiny cheeks, the dimples, the twinkling eyes again. Only a moment before she was chewing on her nails and her foot wouldn’t stop tapping. She hugged and kissed him in greeting and then Frank patted his stomach and declared he could consume a walrus.

  “Actually,” I said, waving Ralph’s text messages in front of him, “I’ve got a date.”

  “Oh!” Frank’s eyes went wide. “A date, eh? What’s his name? What’s he like?”

  Ralph was easy to talk about, I realised, because he might as well be made up, that’s how little I felt about him.

  “Tall, dark, and handsome,” I said. “Wish me luck.”

  I was getting much better at pretending to be fine. Outside, I texted Ralph to inform him I was having dinner with friends. Thus escaping the clutches of both a happily married couple and a man who wanted to tackle me and drag me to his house in Cornwall, I went to a pub, found the darkest corner, and nursed a pint of ale on my own.

  It wasn’t the same pub where Harry and I’d first hooked up, but it did make me think of him. Why lie, everything made me think of him. Every blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves, every crooked smile, every kebab, every time I had to shower, he was there, poking me in the chest.

  I rubbed the place that ached and leaned back in my chair. This was what forever was going to feel like.

  Over the past four years, I have periodically had this nightmare in which Harry suddenly doesn’t love me. Each time it plays out differently, but each time there’s this empty feeling I get, like my heart’s been ripped out of my chest because he’s looking at me but he isn’t smiling. He’s completely indifferent, cold. His gaze, when it is fixed on me, is emotionless, blank. As though he were looking at a stranger. Sometimes he goes away with someone else. Sometimes he just completely ignores me. Each time, I wake up feeling like the world’s ended.