By the time of the ceremony, I have a headache from Alice’s shrill voice, but I have to admit that I’m grateful for her preparedness, and especially for her having sourced vintage white fur stoles for us bridesmaids. Already the temperature is dropping, and our silk dresses and open-toed heels aren’t doing much to ward off the chill. We peer out from the living room as the guests arrive. The garden is a Pinterest board come to life – lush flowers exploding from a wrought-iron arch, rows of ghost chairs, a wall of pink roses and, nestled among them, a neon sign spelling out ‘Til Death’, which Alice finds morbid, but Mara and Angus obviously think whimsical.
Once the guests are all seated, and the cellist starts up with ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’, Alice, Paloma and I gather ourselves. At the wedding planner’s nod, Alice sets off at the unnaturally slow wedding clip, and I follow, nerves slightly heightened by the gaze of the crowd and the fear of tripping in my four-inch heels. I pass rows of Mara and Angus’s school and uni friends, workmates, older relatives, James and Kate. As I pass Hans, he turns and smiles at me. The chill in the air sweeps over my skin and seeps through the thin silk of my dress. I lock eyes with him and smile back, and bite my lip to stop it from quivering.
We reach the end of the rose petal-strewn aisle and stand to one side, heels sinking into the damp lawn. I try to catch Angus’s eyes and send a reassuring glance his way, but his gaze is fixed down the aisle.
Mara emerges, flanked by her parents. She is an eclectic vision in a striking white Rime Arodaky jumpsuit with crepe cigarette pants and an embroidered bodice with a lace train. Her hair is threaded with pearls, and adorned with a puff of tulle in place of a veil. With winged eyeliner, a tinge of blush and nude lips, she is at once edgy and cherubic. She floats down the aisle, looking exactly how I wish I could look, but probably never will.
The ceremony is short and sweet. The celebrant does the usual spiel about how, in the few hours that she spent getting to know the couple, she could tell they were meant for each other. Mara’s cousin recites a Pablo Neruda poem that tugs at my heartstrings despite her clunky delivery. When it comes time for the vows, Angus accepts the microphone from the celebrant. I hear him take a deep breath, slightly ragged, and then he speaks slowly and clearly, eyes locked with Mara’s.
‘Mara, you are the love of my life. You are my best friend, and ours is a friendship set on fire. When we first met – bumping into each other at some otherwise unmemorable house party – and from the first time I saw you smile and heard you speak, I knew instantly that my life had changed, and that you were the one for me . . .’
The conviction and adoration in Angus’s voice is unmistakeable; looking out over the rows of people, I note a collective misting of eyes. And yet, I can’t help but think of Mara’s account of their first meeting – of weeks of uncertainty, not knowing whether they could get past the friendzone, whether she could ever see him as a romantic partner.
Tears catch in Mara’s eyelashes as Angus makes his promises to her.
‘Angus, you are the one for me; my true love and soulmate. It sounds corny to say, but I’ve never had a moment of doubt that you are the person I want to spend the rest of my life with . . .’
I keep my smile beatific and find, to my surprise, my own eyes welling up.
Following the ceremony, there are drinks on the lawn. Paloma and I join Mara, Angus, the rest of the bridal party and close family and friends for photos – in front of the rose-covered arch, on the tennis court, spilling down the stairs inside the house. Eventually, we are directed out to the marquee for dinner.
I find my name on the seating chart, noting, thankfully, that I’m a few people away from James and Kate, and head over to my assigned place. I scooch in next to Hans and squeeze his knee. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. There were so many photos – I’m still seeing white spots.’
He kisses my forehead. ‘That’s no problem.’
Paloma and Miles slide in opposite us, and Cameron and Louis beside us.
‘This is insane,’ Miles says, motioning with a champagne flute at the parquet floor, bandstand, circular bar and lush hanging garlands. ‘What do Mara’s parents do again?’
Paloma swipes at him.
‘So what did we think of the ceremony?’ I say, grabbing my crusty bread roll and breaking it open. I realise that in the excitement, I’ve barely eaten all day.
‘I’m surprised they went so traditional,’ says Paloma. ‘Jumpsuit aside, it was all pretty standard stuff, wasn’t it? I mean, I was expecting a weird drum circle, or a burning of intentions, maybe a lone bagpiper . . . you know how Mara is.’
‘Isn’t the fact that they’re getting married at twenty-five the ultimate indication that they’re super traditional people?’ Miles says. ‘Don’t most people these days put it off until well into their thirties, or just forgo the whole ordeal? It’s not like there’s any practical benefit to getting married anymore – no securing of assets or tax breaks or anything.’
Cameron rolls his eyes. ‘What, are you and Paloma both part of the Anti-Marriage Front? Obviously Mara and Angus aren’t getting married for practical reasons. They’re in love, and they want to celebrate that.’
‘Okay, how about this to strike a balance then,’ says Miles, steepling his fingers. ‘There was this German politician a few years back who argued for a seven-year marriage – it would expire at that point and each person could just walk away, no harm or loose ends, or renew it if they agreed.’
‘Did you hear about this?’ I ask Hans.
‘Yes, but I’m not sure how serious a policy suggestion it was,’ he says. ‘Maybe it’s telling that it didn’t go mainstream.’
‘Well, it makes sense to me,’ says Paloma.
‘That’s exactly what a building and construction lawyer would say,’ I chortle. ‘You love your contracts. Add in a cooling-off period and an option clause and you’re happy.’
She shrugs. ‘Well, it’s a smart idea. How many marriages break up? Why not make it non-controversial; set out the terms from the get-go so everyone knows exactly what they’re signing up for, and cater for the likelihood that it won’t last a lifetime?’
Cameron shakes his head, visibly put out, and loads up his bread with Pepe Saya. ‘But the whole point of marriage is that it isn’t entered into with cynicism. It’s the ultimate suspension of disbelief. That’s why pre-nups cause so much grief, and become this self-fulfilling prophecy. Who wants to start out their marriage on that footing?’
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ says Paloma. ‘Honestly. I don’t understand why people get emotional about pre-nups.’
Miles chimes in again. ‘Yeah, I’m surprised this seven-year marriage idea didn’t catch on. It’s like how they say that people will have eight different careers in their lifetime. Why is that? Because there’s more choice; people have more autonomy; industries have changed. Well, similarly, why don’t people just admit that the institution of marriage is outmoded, and needs to be changed to fit with the way people actually conduct relationships?’
‘You expect to have eight careers and, what, eight significant relationships in your lifetime?’ I say drily.
‘Hey,’ he says, ‘it would only be fair to share all this around.’ He gestures at his body, which admittedly does look great in a crisp grey suit.
‘Well,’ says Cameron, so quietly and seriously that I think I’m the only one who can hear him, ‘realistic or not, I want to believe that I can have a relationship that will last forever. And that if I ever get married, my partner will feel the same way.’
I bump his shoulder with mine. ‘I don’t think that’s too much to hope for.’
As the night wears on, we graze on shared platters of salmon crudo, burrata, roast vegetables, grilled spatchcock and whole fish, and down the champagne that keeps flowing. Between courses, we are treated to speeches – the standard drunken ramble from Angus’s best man, the emotional ream of felicitations from the parents – before people get up and start to make the roun
ds.
‘And now for the first dance.’ The emcee’s voice soars over the chatter and laughter, and Mara and Angus take to the dance floor.
The opening bars of ‘Can You Feel the Love Tonight’ ring out across the crowd. Paloma’s face twitches into a smile. ‘Twee much?’
I swat at her across the table. ‘It’s cute. And just look at them –’ I watch Mara and Angus swirling across the dance floor. Their movements are well practised, their expressions transcendent. Mara’s train floats behind her like an angel’s gown; they are a Botticelli painting brought to life.
Paloma leans down the table. ‘James, weigh in on the song choice for first dance?’
I tense up, and instinctively lean in to Hans, who thankfully is engaged in conversation with Miles across the table. I’ve promised Hans that I’ll keep my distance from James tonight.
James shrugs. ‘Whatever works for them. It wouldn’t be my choice, but hey –’ he smiles at me and drops his voice, ‘Simba wasn’t my first celebrity crush.’
When the first dance melds into the second, I reach for Hans’s hand, intertwining my fingers with his. ‘Let’s dance.’ With some cajoling, and on the promise that we can make a stop at the bar along the way, he gets up.
We drink some more, and dance, squashed on the parquet floor with Mara and Angus’s entire social circles. I lose Hans and the others at some point, and end up back in the house with Mara, helping her out of her figure-hugging jumpsuit so that she can pee.
‘I’m so happy,’ she warbles drunkenly through the crack in the bathroom door. I’m immensely grateful that she eschewed the layers and layers of tulle that would warrant more hands-on bathroom assistance.
‘This is a perfect wedding, Mara. The ceremony, the vows, your obvious love for each other . . .’ She stumbles out of the bathroom and turns around so I can zip her back up. ‘Hey, when you said that you had never had a moment of doubt that Angus was the one for you . . .’ I trail off, unsure how to pose my question.
Mara looks at me over her shoulder. ‘I meant it.’ She steadies herself with a hand on the dresser. ‘Of course there have been times that I’ve wondered . . . but at a deeper level, I know Angus is right for me.’
‘And for Angus, it was pretty much love at first sight?’
‘That’s what he says,’ she croons. ‘I don’t suppose it could be true – I don’t think it works like that – but it’s nice to think so, isn’t it? That he just . . . felt it. Didn’t have to rationalise it.’
I smooth down her outfit and adjust the pearl threads in her hair. When she’s ready, we ramble back to the marquee – a throbbing tent of light across the lawn. A few people are mingling outside. I see a gaggle of girls, including Kate, taking it in turns to pose in front of the wall of roses and neon sign. It really does make for the perfect Instagram shot.
Back in the marquee, Mara gets swept up by a group of her relatives. I grab another drink and scout around for Hans and the rest of the gang. Eventually I spy Hans over at the bar, busy getting drunk with Angus and Miles.
As I start to make my way over to them, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn and meet James’s eyes.
‘Dance?’ he asks.
I demur with a shake of my head.
‘Oh, come on,’ he says with an impish smile. ‘It’s like you’re avoiding me.’
‘I think I’m just going to go get another drink,’ I say. James looks down at my near-full champagne glass. I sneak a look back at Hans – he’s preoccupied, sinking another whiskey. I waver.
James catches hold of my wrist, an inciting touch. ‘Just one dance. It’s a wedding, after all.’
I give in. Just one dance, and then I’ll go to Hans. I drain my champagne, ditch the glass, and follow James into the middle of the dance floor.
‘Come On Eileen’ wraps up, and transitions into the unmistakeable opening chords of ‘Into My Arms’. Caught off guard, we shuffle closer. I rest my left hand on James’s shoulder, the other in his. He smiles down at me and we begin to sway.
‘I love weddings,’ he remarks. ‘Everyone is always so . . . joyous.’
‘They are, aren’t they.’ The marquee is abuzz with beautiful people, well-dressed and done up, made even more beautiful by the radiance of high spirits. It strikes me as an astonishing phenomenon. ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it. All of these people, including the oldies who’ve been through heartbreak and divorce, putting total belief in the idea of marriage. There’s no moderating of expectations; they’re so . . . Panglossian.’ I think about the seven-year marriage debate from earlier. ‘In fact, the only cynical ones seem to be some of our friends.’
James smiles. ‘Maybe the older folks know something we don’t. Something about how even the hope of a soulmate is momentous.’
We move in a blur of colour, and he steers me gently away from the sweaty backs and stray elbows of other spinning couples. I’m acutely aware of his hand on the small of my back, the warmth of his touch. I focus on his shoulders. It’s almost unfair how good he looks in a suit.
‘Mara is lucky to have you,’ he says, breaking my reverie. ‘You make a great bridesmaid.’
‘Ha, you didn’t see me dress shopping. I was distinctly unhelpful. Not as bad as Paloma, though . . .’
He looks me in the eyes. ‘You look beautiful tonight,’ he says simply. There’s no hint of suggestiveness, but still I blush.
‘I’m just glad the white works,’ I ramble. ‘Mara’s mum was worried about us upstaging the bride, but clearly that was never going to happen.’
James looks as if he is going to say something, then seems to reconsider. ‘Well, if they have to worry about anyone upstaging the bride, my bet’s on that girl.’ He motions with his head, and turns me slightly so that I can get a look.
I see one of Angus’s relatives, incarnadined from head to toe with a giant poppy print. Enormous red rosette earrings explode from each side of her head. I stifle a giggle. ‘Looks like she won second place in two events,’ I say.
‘One of them was definitely the Getting Dressed in the Dark competition.’
I can’t quite fight back a laugh.
We keep swaying as a plangent croon – a pretty good Nick Cave impression – wonders about the existence of angels.
‘Isn’t this a bit morbid for a wedding?’ I wonder.
‘Isn’t it a love song?’ says James.
‘Yeah, but it’s also about loss, and sorrow . . .’
James looks at me. ‘Maybe that’s why it strikes a chord.’ The music pulls us closer. I can almost see his breath, feel my skin prickling with the heat and alcohol. Our faces are so close, though I can’t tell if either of us is leaning in. I can feel my heart beating, blood pounding in my ears, the warmth radiating from his skin. There is nothing slow or reasoned about this. My limbs feel like phantoms and all of sudden, I feel like I’m falling, forgetting myself . . .
‘Hey!’
Out of nowhere, Hans’s shout splits the air. I see him approach, knocking into a man with a full glass of red wine as he does. A deluge of crimson soaks my white dress and skin.
I yelp and break away from James.
Hans’s eyes are narrowed, his face contorted. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ He looks between me and James.
‘Hey mate, calm down,’ says James.
‘I’m not your mate,’ spits Hans.
The air is thick with tension. I crumble internally; I cannot watch this unfold. I shake some wine drips from my arm and push past the gathering onlookers, out of the marquee and towards the house. Hans follows as I run inside.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Hans shouts after me. Blood still pounding in my ears, I ignore him and run up the stairs. I make it to Mara’s bathroom and get the water running. I try splashing it onto the dress, but it just causes the stain to blossom, and soaks me even more. I pump some hand soap onto a facewasher and start scrubbing at the delicate silk.
‘Romy, what the hell’s going on? Did you kiss him?’
Hans hovers just behind me.
‘No.’ I shake my head furiously, still trying to process what just happened. It’s easier to focus on the wet silk in my hands, the ugly crimson stain. ‘We were dancing. It’s a wedding.’
‘Were you about to? It sure looked that way.’
We were too close, I know that. Our lips might almost have grazed. But it’s all a confused haze in my mind. ‘Nothing happened,’ I say. My voice is hollow. ‘Nothing is ever going to happen.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
I stop scrubbing and look at Hans. His face is flushed, and deadly serious.
‘I told you I wasn’t going to put up with this. I’m done.’
He steps back, hands raised in anger, or defeat, or disgust. With one last look, he turns and leaves. I’m left standing over the basin, water pooling around me. I sink down onto the cold tiles, my sodden dress clinging to me. It feels like a moment of disaster, like my world is falling down around me, chunks of iceberg calving off into the sea. And with it, a single moment of clarity: I’m not sure I ever loved Hans, or ever could have.
26
I awake to muffled cooking sounds and the smell of warm, buttery baking. My mouth feels dry and cotton-woolly, my throat like sandpaper. I throw off the bobbled blanket that’s covering me; I’m on the verge of overheating.
On the other side of the study, Paloma is fast asleep, sprawled on a camping mattress. Mara’s dog, Pepper, is curled up beside her, their bodies rising and falling in unison.
I wipe the drool from the corners of my mouth, roll off the sofa and stumble over to my overnight bag to find some fresh clothes. I see my dress from last night hanging over a desk chair – streaked pink and crimson, still slightly damp. It’s unsalvageable. I feel my chest constrict. Just get through the day, then you can process, I tell myself.
Out in the kitchen, Angus is already cooking up a storm.
‘It’s officially your honeymoon,’ I croak incredulously. ‘And it’s not even 9 am. Shouldn’t you be off duty, nursing your hangover?’
Love, in Theory Page 22
