by Emma Grey
Scared that being scared will keep me small and safe and hiding from my own sunlight until there’s no sunlight left inside me . . .
Belle puts down the phone. She can barely read it. Seeing Tilly exposing her own vulnerability is tearing at Belle’s. She can see for the first time who Tilly really is, and how strong she is. Stronger than Belle has ever been. She’s an uncomfortable mix of impressed and wistful.
No spin. No make-believe. No idea what I’m doing.
No more waiting to be ready to face the world – or for the world to be ready for me.
#ThisIsReal #ReadyOrNot
Chapter 61
Tilly heaves her suitcase into the back of a London cab, paid for out of the money she earned from her blog post. Since she rejected Jack’s book deal, she caught the attention of the editor of a teen magazine, who commissioned some articles. It might be her involvement with Reuben and Belle that first got her noticed, but it’s her genuine talent that has kept her in demand. And she’s loving it.
She’s been living in a tiny share flat, with one bedroom and a fold-out sofa bed. There’s dodgy internet and a broken hot water system, but lots of laughs with her flatmate, Megan, who’s in second year at the University of the Arts. What she lacks in a full-time wage, she makes up in a part-time job behind a bar at the local pub, and every Thursday night she runs a book club which is the new highlight of her week, and great inspiration for her writing, encouraged by her new friends.
But now that the wedding day is here, it’s time to go home. She misses Caitlin. And she’s ready for uni, now. Newly confident that she can do the hard stuff.
Going to the airport in a cab means she won’t have to contend with more staring and questions on the Underground. She instructs the driver to take her to Heathrow, and requests that he change the radio station to something not covering the royal wedding.
‘It’s on every station,’ he argues.
Her phone rings again. That’s three missed calls from Henrietta! Three phone messages, too. Each is more desperate than the last.
‘Tilly, please call me before you leave for the airport. Your hashtag’s going viral! People are using it to expose all kinds of secrets and truths and it’s genius! It’s totally taken off! I need to speak with you!’
Tilly smiles and plays the next message. ‘Henrietta again. #ThisIsReal is blowing up! This is the PR dream story of the year! We need to talk.’
The third message really gets to the point. ‘Don’t leave the country, Tilly. I’m begging you. #ThisIsReal has officially overtaken the royal wedding hashtag on the wedding day. None of us has ever seen anything like this. It’s a global phenomenon! You are a global phenomenon. For the right reasons, this time. We want you back.’
Tilly deletes the messages. No way is she going back to PR, and certainly not to work with Henrietta, no matter what she offers. She stares out the window as London’s streets flash past. A radio announcer interrupts the royal wedding coverage for a special bulletin.
‘We need to talk about a truly bizarre situation unfolding today online. #ThisIsReal, the hashtag sweeping the world, was started by Reuben Vaughan’s ex-girlfriend, Australian writer Matilda Maguire, after a heartfelt article published widely today, which commentators are praising as the perfect example of grace under pressure . . .’
She snorts. The cab driver frowns in the rear-view mirror like he’s trying to work out if it’s really her. She doesn’t want to have this conversation with a stranger, now.
‘No official response yet from the palace, but we like to think the princess couldn’t help but be personally affected by her love rival’s message, now going viral. As for the pop-star prince, we have it on good authority . . .’
The driver changes the channel abruptly. Now?
‘I was in love once,’ he says slowly, in the kind of gravelly voice that suggests years of smoking. ‘I let her get away. Always regretted that. Wonder what she’s doing now? Been wondering that for the best part of fifty years. That’s a lot of regret . . .’
Tilly shifts uncomfortably in her seat. What does he want her to do? Yell at him to turn the cab around and head for the church? Break through the security barricade and clatter in at the back, run up the aisle in her jeans and Docs and give Reuben a good reason why he shouldn’t marry Belle?
She’s considered it! But no. If anyone’s going to make a grand gesture and be the hero here, it has to be Reuben. Secretly, she has a fantasy that he’ll bolt from the wedding and meet her at Heathrow Airport. He’ll hurdle that security barricade just as she’s boarding her flight. He’ll tell her this was all some sort of massive mistake. It’s been her all along he wanted. It’s all very closing scenes of Love Actually in her mind.
The driver turns the radio up again. ‘. . . and now a cheer erupts as Reuben Vaughan and Angus Marsden arrive at the Abbey. Scenes of hysteria from the fans who’ve waited days to catch a glimpse of their idol . . . Look at him. That smile . . . a picture of calm. He doesn’t disappoint, does he?’
But he does. He disappoints deeply.
‘Another smile, and a laugh with Angus. Piercing squeals from girls who’ve imagined this very scene for years, but with themselves in the leading role, no doubt. There’ll be some hearts shattered in a few minutes when this one’s officially taken off the market —’
Tilly rolls her eyes at the radio commentary, except that only seems to encourage the leaking of tears, and she doesn’t want to start now, when she’s about to attempt an airport check-in without attracting further unwanted attention. Surely she was right in thinking all eyes – and cameras – would be on the wedding when she’d bought her plane ticket home. She’d vowed not to give up until he took his vows, but . . .
‘It’s not too late, you know,’ the cab driver says as he pulls up at the kerb outside Terminal 3. Just her luck to get the most romantic cabbie in London. But he’s wrong. It is too late.
She tucks her hair into a cap and gets out of the car. She knows she’s letting the cabbie down by not allowing him to fulfil his fantasy of his car being her chariot back into the heart of London on a desperate mission to interrupt this wayward fairy tale and set it straight. But creating a massive scene is not her style. Well, it is, but only by accident. No way would she ever make a spectacle of herself on purpose, and risk the most public rejection ever. She’s not stupid! ‘Graceful’, the radio commentator had said. Graceful under pressure. She lugs her bag into the terminal, with another slung over her shoulder, hugging the laptop, and her wallet, and passport, and tickets . . . wondering why other people seem to be able to travel in such an organised way.
In the queue to check in, she realises with horror that all around her are giant advertising and TV news screens, beaming the very same event that she’s avoiding. It’s inescapable. This would never happen in Love Actually.
She keeps her head down in the queue, reading a book on her phone. She’s taken all her social media apps off it. Too painful. By some miracle she gets an airline official who seemingly hates his job, and processes her boarding information like a robot, with no care at all about whether or not pictures of her are all over the tabloids.
She takes her paperwork and moves towards the security queue, which is the only part of the airport not playing coverage of the wedding. In front of her in the queue is a little girl with a sparkly princess backpack. Tilly becomes disproportionately incensed and wants to drag it off her and deliver a lecture on the ‘happily ever after’ lie she’s being fed. Without thinking about it, she glances back every few seconds, waiting. For what? Reuben to come bounding in, in his posh wedding suit, causing a security uproar as he carries her out of this queue and positively begs her not to leave? She’s as bad as the tiny wannabe princess in front of her!
She’s finally processed by the passport-control people and spat out into the departure lounge, into a maze of glamorous designer stores and the scent of perfume samplers. In the centre, surrounded by eateries and bars, is an enormous column with a digital adver
tising display . . . beaming a close-up of Reuben’s face, standing at the altar.
Her heart drops in her chest. He’s not coming. He has no intention of coming. He’s standing there, determined to follow through. Waiting for Belle.
Chapter 62
The horse-drawn carriage doesn’t have far to go, which is a relief because Belle’s face hurts from all the smiling. She’s so well-practised at this: making it look like she’s happy in her skin when she absolutely isn’t. The saddest part is that she could be, if only her parents weren’t so backwards, or if she was more courageous about it. #ThisIsReal is great when you’re a gap-year student hanging out in a foreign country, and not carrying the weight of half the world. It’s not so easy when the world watches your every move and has done since you were born, and when there are certain expectations . . . She stops thinking for a second as the towers of the Abbey loom into view, and she feels ill. It’s like she’s being led to the death chamber, and not for the first time she is indescribably grateful to Reuben for what he’s doing here. He’s her hero.
Arriving at the entrance minutes later, Belle takes a moment before stepping out of the carriage. Like all the royal brides before her, she knows this first step onto the ground outside the church is a massive one. It’s not just that every second person in the world is suddenly a fashion expert, ready to devour every last detail of her spectacular dress. It’s that they might see beyond it, to the miserable young woman standing right in front of them, in plain sight.
The bells peal. She takes a deep breath and places a foot on the step of the carriage, taking her father’s hand as she alights, and people buzz around her, adjusting her skirt and train and veil. She looks imploringly at her father, silently begging him to put a stop to this, aching inside that he’s prepared to lead her towards the altar, forcing her to capitulate to the charade of being someone she isn’t, and never will be, on such a primal level. He doesn’t look her directly in the eye, and she knows in that moment that this is hard for him, too. Just not hard enough to end it right now like she wishes he would.
‘Olivia would be proud of you,’ he whispers, just as they step off together towards the vestry of the church. A vision of her sister springs to mind, and she tries to imagine her at this age. Tries to envisage her, helping Belle with her dress and veil and passing on sisterly encouragement to calm her nerves. But as they walk into the Abbey itself and start making the long trek up the aisle, Belle can’t for the life of her picture Olivia walking down the aisle with her.
Heads of state and endless rows of VIPs, some of whom Belle doesn’t even recognise, beam widely as she floats past. Olivia always did the right thing as a young princess, Belle thinks. Surely she’d be supporting this. Wouldn’t she?
They cross into the last section of the church and Reuben steps forward into view. He’s absolutely gorgeous – even Belle can appreciate that. And she appreciates him, too. For what he’s about to do for her.
The last few steps seem the hardest, like she’s climbing a mountain at high altitude and running out of oxygen. The dress feels increasingly heavy. Her heart races as her father passes her hand into Reuben’s and, in that moment, when Reuben looks directly at her, squeezing her hand for support, she knows she’ll never have another friend like him. Not this loyal. Not anywhere near it. Just the action of his fingers squeezing hers like that brings up a memory of when she was with Olivia right near the end, in the hospital. They’d been holding hands, too. Holding on. Olivia had said something funny to break the mood and Belle had asked her to stop because there was nothing funny about her twin sister dying.
‘Lighten up, Izzie. This is how I handle it. With humour. We’re twins but we’re different, okay? This is me, being real. You be real too.’ She’d paused then, and added, ‘I know all your secrets.’
Everyone waits for the service to begin, and she starts to feel faint with all the attention, and the heavy dress, and the strangely prophetic statement her sister had made years ago, which suddenly seems so apt for these circumstances. What secrets had Olivia known? She’d only had one. She looks at Reuben. Is it her imagination or are there tears in his eyes?
Can she really do this to him? Put him through this?
More importantly, can she do this to herself?
All these people. All the world’s attention. All those centuries of history when not a single royal person jilted someone at the altar, because they were gay. The idea of buckling now, at this late stage, is unfathomable.
She notices Jack, in a pew near the front, which is for family and closest friends. He’d weaselled his way into that part of the seating plan, of course, with more blackmail, and now he’s watching her. Smiling, smugly.
‘Do it differently, Izzie.’ It’s not even a memory this time – it’s like Olivia’s voice has broken through from another world somehow. Or could it be her own voice that she can hear, at last?
Belle swallows. Is she completely losing her mind? The final chorus of the opening hymn is nearly over. Jack winks at her, like he’s won.
She shakes her head almost imperceptibly at Reuben. He frowns almost imperceptibly back. Cameras are zoomed on their faces. Psychologists are probably debriefing the body language on the TV commentary as they speak . . . And what they’ll notice is that Reuben will never, not in a million years, go back on his word. So she’ll have to.
Chapter 63
Angie turns up the volume on the TV that’s been set up in the groom’s room at the Abbey. They’re almost up to the vows, but something’s definitely not right. She knows Belle and she knows Reuben. They’re looking weirdly at each other. Even more weirdly than Angie’s been expecting, given the madness of the situation they’ve placed themselves in.
Reuben begged her to come, even though there’s a limit to how many mistakes you can watch a person make, and he has totally gone beyond it. But when she got here, she couldn’t do it. Sitting helplessly in the pews and actually watching him marry Belle . . . she just can’t. And if either of them knew how she felt, they wouldn’t expect her to. She did swallow her pride enough to agree to wait with him before the ceremony. She would just stage her one-woman protest against it by not actually entering the church. Which is how she comes to be watching the TV now in a back room, with a member of the royal security detail, mesmerised by the wedding despite herself.
A camera zooms in on Belle’s face. Angie watches as her expression literally changes, right in front of everyone. The archbishop is droning on about why they’re there and Belle is a million miles away. It’s extraordinary that the commentators haven’t noticed and said something. Maybe they’re so far invested into this shambolic fairy tale, they’ve lost perspective.
She watches as Belle closes her eyes, just for a second. When she opens them again and looks at Reuben, everything has changed.
In the Abbey, everyone sits down and attention turns to the archbishop standing between Reuben and Belle, who nervously clears his throat. Reuben braces for it: the vows. The promise he’s about to make to Belle, ‘forsaking all others’. It seems so permanent.
Belle loosens her grip on Reuben’s hand. He tightens his grip on hers. She loosens even more, then lets him go completely.
The archbishop is getting on with more throat-clearing and nervous twitching and seems just as surprised as Reuben when Belle breaks away from their little huddle, pulls her veil back over her face and reaches to grab a free-standing microphone that was surreptitiously picking up an audio feed for the recording.
‘I’m sorry, everyone,’ she says, her voice shaking. She looks determined. Exhilarated, maybe. Whatever it is, she’s actually as steady as a rock.
‘This is not real,’ she announces.
There’s a loud gasp that seems to ring out of the church and echo for miles. Surely she can’t be doing this – in front of billions.
‘Belle . . .’ Reuben says, reaching for her.
She shakes his hand off her arm, gently. She won’t be deterred.
&
nbsp; ‘I am not in love with this man,’ she admits, simply.
The gasping goes into overdrive. There’s instant, intense, delighted screaming from Reuben’s legions of fans outside the church. Angie can’t believe what she’s watching.
‘I’m not in love with any man,’ Belle explains further.
What?
For a few seconds, there’s complete, pin-dropping silence then confused whispers. Reuben refuses to look at anyone but his friend, and now she reaches out for his hand and pulls him next to her. He’s looking at her like he’s never been prouder to stand beside someone in his life, and when a peal of supportive cheering begins to ring out from strangers outside the Abbey and echo through Westminster and beyond, into the streets of London, he wipes a tear away. As does Angie, glued to the broadcast.
Belle waits for people to settle down so she can speak. ‘I’m not in love with any man,’ she reiterates, ‘but I am in love.’
Hushed silence, followed by full-blown hysteria outside.
And a rising case of hysteria, or something like it, inside Angie.
Chapter 64
It’s hard to hear now with everyone having broken into a babble of astounded chatter inside the Abbey, and chaos erupting throughout the city. Belle’s parents are surrounded by inquisitive relatives, and she uses the distraction to grab Reuben’s hand.
‘Come on!’
He follows as she leads him out of the transept, past horrified heads of state and other dignitaries, tut-tutting and shaking their heads and fanning themselves with their orders of service while they attempt to wrap their minds around the uncivilised events unfolding here. The increasingly happy couple are joined at the door to the East Walk by several security personnel. A couple of rogue cameramen break away from their positions inside the Abbey to follow the action, which continues to be beamed on big screens outside, throughout London and across the globe. The agents escort Belle and Reuben out of the church into the cloisters, deep inside the Abbey grounds.
