by Bree Darcy
My no-bridal-party policy had raised eyebrows at first, especially since I had been shoehorned into Felicity’s big day. But once it became clear that Felicity would be in no condition for bridesmaid duties, Delia quietly accepted my decision.
As the band struck up The Way You Look Tonight, Curtis swept me on to the dance floor for our bridal waltz. I buried my head into his chest as we swayed from side to side, doing our best to hide the fact we hadn’t got around to taking ballroom dancing lessons, as Delia had prescribed on our Bride and Groom Duties list, clause 5, subsection d.
As the song segued into Love Is All Around, Ewan stumbled his way over to us, the buttons of his grey waistcoat straining against his belly. “If I may have the honour,” he said, holding out his hand to me. “My wife is too fat to dance.”
“She’s not fat, Ewan, she’s pregnant,” I replied, watching Curtis in turn ask my mother to dance. Mum looked radiant in a plum empire line gown with spaghetti straps, her wavy blonde hair piled on top of her head. She had been chuffed that several guests had mistaken her for my older sister.
I caught a fleeting expression of hurt on Delia’s face before she resumed her battery of commands to the wait staff, who were distributing coffee and wedding cake as per the Reception Timetable agenda, paragraph 24, item e. If I had bothered to read all those bridal magazines Delia sent me, I would totally know the proper wedding etiquette but I’m guessing Curtis should have asked his mother to dance first.
At our rehearsal dinner last night, Delia had bombarded my mother with all the grandiose wedding arrangements she had single-handedly brought to fruition. Harpist at the church. White Rolls-Royce cars. Candlestick centrepieces at the reception. Pewter bottle openers as wedding favours. Pianist to play classical music during dinner.
I later overheard her telling someone: “I knew Carol would be young but I didn’t realise she’d be a hippie. I do hope she has a proper outfit for the church.”
For the record, Mum hadn’t been wearing flowers in her hair or a tie-dyed peace symbol shirt but I guess she wouldn’t have looked out of place at a musical festival. Delia, meanwhile, looked all set for a Conservative Party convention in her mauve skirt suit with a polka-dot scarf tied into a bow at her neck.
Back in our shared room, Mum fretted that my lack of interest in the wedding preparations was a sign I was having second thoughts.
Flopping on to the four-poster bed under a tapestry canopy, I quickly reassured her that I was more than happy with the way my life with Curtis was turning out.
“As long as he makes you happy. Happier than anyone else has ever made you.” Mum stroked my hair just like she used to when I was little.
“He does. Curtis is great, you’ll see that when you get to know him. He’s sweet and reliable. He’s not only passionate about his work, he supports my career too. And best of all, he understands for sanity’s sake that we need to live at least two-hundred miles away from his mother.”
Mum laughed, before her concerned expression returned. “It’s just a shame you haven’t got any of your friends here to share your big day.”
A couple of work colleagues had come down from Sheffield but other than that all the guests were from the Carmichael side of the family.
“I thought maybe you might have invited Andy?”
“No! Why would I? I mean, he’s hardly likely to break into his world tour to attend some wedding for a distant ex-girlfriend.”
Mum’s silence, as usual, spoke volumes. She draped my veil over a chair, checked again that my shoes were safe in the box and folded a handkerchief into her clutch bag. Finally she spoke up: “You know Andy would always make time for you. That you’d just have to call and he’d be here in a flash.”
“Andy’s the last person I’d want at my wedding. For numerous reasons. One being I haven’t got around to telling Curtis I used to go out with him.”
Mum’s eyebrows shot up. “Why ever not?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Curtis never talked about his old girlfriends, so I didn’t either. Please don’t say anything to him.”
I busied myself laying out my jewellery. Delia had loaned me a neckpiece fashioned out of her mother’s flowery diamond brooch – my something old and borrowed. Felicity had given me an exquisite pair of drop earrings – my something new. And Mum had stitched a blue ribbon on to my lace garter to cover my something blue.
“It’s never too late to change your mind,” she said, too observant to miss my shaking hands.
“I’m pretty sure, according to Delia law, once the quail eggs and beef mignon’s ordered, it’s a done deal. And as I’ve been trying to tell you, I’m over the moon about getting married,” I said, pulling a wide grin. “I love Curtis, I really do. I just want all this wedding palaver to be over. You should be thankful you never had to go through this.”
“There is that,” Mum sighed.
I sat down next to her again. “I always felt guilty that I held you back from finding someone. If it wasn’t for me, you’d have met someone and got married, for sure.”
Mum tutted. “Don’t you ever feel guilty. You were always enough for me. After your father did his disappearing act, it seemed right for it to be only the two of us. And don’t worry, I had plenty of opportunities, there’s just never been anyone special.”
“What! Even that taco delivery guy, the one who was scared of our karate kid?”
Mum laughed. “You know, I always thought you’d end up with that karate kid. You two had such a bond. And I knew that wherever you went in the world, he would always bring you home to me.” Her voice grew thick with emotion and a tear slid down her cheek. “But I guess a mother’s instinct isn’t always right. I trust yours though. If you believe Curtis is right for you, then he most certainly is. Just make sure he brings you home to visit me sometimes.”
We hugged. “Now stop it, or our eyes will be all puffy for the morning,” I said.
* * *
On the day we returned from our honeymoon in the south of France, Felicity gave birth to Harrison. A twenty-one-hour labour, the poor thing. I hoped Ewan felt the full wrath of her agony.
Before heading home, we stopped in at the hospital to see the baby. Delia was excitedly snapping photos, Thomas’ eyes barely strayed from the televised Test match, and Ewan was swaggering around like he was the first man to have ever reproduced. And Curtis, well he seemed a bit down in the dumps. Post-honeymoon blues, I’d expect.
Over the next few years we rarely saw the Carmichaels, just like Curtis had promised that first day.
The few times his parents made the trip north, they would despair at our tiny terrace house. Yes, the grilling plate wouldn’t come out of the oven because years of grease had stuck it in place. Yes, the temperamental showerhead hadn’t quite figured out that if the hot water tap was turned on that meant hot water should be forthcoming, and there was a vivid brown stain on the living room carpet that would have made a fascinating study for forensic scientists. But we were perfectly content. Delia would make snide comments about Curtis needing a good feed and Thomas would bemoan the fact he had to park six blocks away and spent the entire time uptight that his wheels could be missing by the time he returned to his Jag.
So although it would have been nice to hang out with my bubbly sister-in-law, I didn’t shed any tears about living far away from the rest of them. I’d never measured up in their eyes anyway.
Fortunately, right before Ryan was born, Mum won fifty-thousand dollars in the lottery so she could throw in her job and come stay with us for a few months to bond with her grandson. Her lucky numbers were certainly coming up trumps. Only a few years earlier another lottery win enabled her to finally renovate that pokey, outdated kitchen.
Not long after Mum returned home, we found out Ciara was on her way – yes, I did fall for that old wives’ chestnut that you couldn’t fall pregnant while breastfeeding. I was constantly knackered during that pregnancy, and the exhaustion never let up for years. As placid as Ry
an had been as a baby, Ciara was a terror and for most hours of the day I had no one to call on to give me a hand raising two toddlers in a cramped house with no backyard during endless days of drizzle.
* * *
As it turned out, we were eventually sent back to Australia because Curtis took a leak against a hedge.
We were in the Cotswolds for the bank holiday weekend, meandering along some country lane after a lovely lunch at a pub on the banks of a river. Four-year-old Ciara was amusing herself trying to spot rabbits while Ryan was singing along to songs on the radio. He was chanting to Mambo No. 5 when Curtis, having enjoyed a pint or two, realised he’d have trouble waiting until the next village.
“Even Ryan can hold on and he’s only five,” I laughed. “There’s no one around, just stop somewhere and go behind a tree.”
We pulled into a layby and furtively checking for passing traffic, Curtis unzipped his pants and was midstream when a woman in a yellow anorak popped up on the other side of the hedge.
Seemingly unperturbed, the lady chatted away to a mortified Curtis. Then she looked over to the car, where the children had their faces pressed up against the window, and invited us all back to her cottage for a nice cuppa.
Martha’s home was as warm and inviting as she was. Crocheted throw rugs covered faded floral armchairs, while a collection of miniature teapots took pride of place in a wooden display cabinet.
After dishing up scones and clotted cream and bringing out crayons and paper to occupy the kids, Martha fired a series of questions at us. She was delighted to discover that Curtis had a science degree in common with her only son Jonathan, who worked in the pharmaceutical trade.
“He’s in Australia,” she said gesturing towards a portrait of a bespectacled young man on the wall. “He married a nice Australian girl he met in a London pub and they have settled in Sydney.” She paused and chuckled to herself. “Actually I lie about her being nice. She’s as coarse as a brillo pad.”
Ciara sneezed three times before wiping her snotty nose down her sweater sleeve.
“So,” Martha continued. “You should have a word to my son. He could find you a job out there. It’s the perfect place to bring up a family, so Jonathan tells me.” Martha’s smile faded. “Perhaps that’s why he hasn’t been back to visit for years.”
Before Curtis could politely turn her down, she bustled him into the kitchen to call her son.
As the two men talked, Martha returned with a photo album of her three grandchildren. “I haven’t seen Toby since he was three,” she said. “And I’ve never met Ben or Rachel. Do the children have grandparents here?”
“They do,” I said. “But we don’t see them very often.” I whispered behind my hand. “I don’t get along with the mother-in-law.”
Martha nodded. “Well I think it’s been very fortuitous I met you. Not only have I not had a man whip out his pecker in my presence since Derek died …” – her wicked chuckle returned – “… but Jonathan is always complaining how difficult it is to find the right staff.”
It was dark by the time we made our way back to the motel, the kids asleep in the back seat, clutching the crochet rabbits that Martha had given them. I rested my head against the car window and closed my eyes. I must have dozed off until the sound of Andy’s voice, singing this week’s No. 1 song, jolted me out of my slumber.
Curtis, noticing I was awake again, flicked off the radio so we could talk. He planned to call Jonathan again next week because his company’s job prospects sounded very promising.
“A research job in Australia – how perfect would that be,” I sighed.
“It’s not research,” Curtis admitted. “It’s sales.”
“Sales? But you’re a scientist, not a salesman.”
“I could be if I wanted. I know how much you miss your mum. And you have to admit Australia is the ideal place to bring up kids. When you weigh up the pros and cons, swapping to sales doesn’t seem like too bad an idea.”
“You’re really serious about this?”
“I want to give you a better life than we have here.” Curtis took a hand off the steering wheel to reach for mine. “But of course it’s up to you. Keeping you and the kids happy is what matters most.”
The night, snuggled into Curtis, I dreamt of our family paddling at a beach, white sand at our feet, the hot sun on our backs. I’m sure I had a smile on my face the whole night.
Within the year I was back in my homeland.
Curtis’s decision to hang up his white lab coat and don a salesman suit meant more money – a lot more money. It meant we could buy a snazzy house in Sydney’s eastern suburbs.
It was undoubtedly the happiest time of our lives.
Then two years later, Delia and Thomas followed us – Delia thought escaping the cold, damp climate would help her husband’s wheezy chest. They bought an even snazzier house a few suburbs away. It meant I could go back to work knowing I had back-up babysitters. But it also meant there was no longer a two-hundred-mile Delia exclusion zone.
And Curtis adapted so well to being a salesman that he was promoted to regional sales director and his job got a lot more stressful.
So yes, the kids and I spent a lot of time paddling at the beach. But Curtis was soon far too busy to join us.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Morning everyone.” Zara breezed past, the goodie bag from the ViolaBlue swimwear brunch gripped between her bony fingers.
“I’m popping down for a coffee,” I told Adele. “Want one?”
Adele grabbed my arm. “Don’t leave me,” she said, not taking her eyes off our boss’ office.
Three seconds later came the anticipated explosion.
“What the fuck is this?” Zara stormed out, waving Reach magazine in the air. “‘Buff Brodie and Sweet Caroline share their exciting baby news.’ How the hell did this happen!”
We’d all seen the coverline. Brodie Hagerty, the captain of the Sydney Stars rugby club, had married the daughter of TV icon Ed Chambers six months ago. In this Reach exclusive, they revealed they were expecting a Valentine’s Day baby.
“Well Zara, what happens is he takes his little Brodster and sticks it…” Bethany whispered in my ear, before being cut off by an enraged Zara ripping off the magazine cover, balling it up and throwing it against a stationery cupboard.
“You were on Caroline watch!” Zara spun around to face a quivering Adele. “This should have been MY exclusive.”
“Well to be fair,” I interjected, “Caroline did go to school with Becca’s younger sister.” Becca Brightwell was Reach’s features editor. “It was a miracle Adele got their engagement news first. You know they weren’t happy we leaked it before they told their parents.”
Someone had told a friend of Adele’s that she’d seen the pair out ring shopping, and a rather indiscreet jewellery salesman confirmed the purchase of a four-carat radiant-cut diamond on a diamond pave band.
“What will be a miracle is you lot keeping your jobs if we continue getting scooped like this. Don’t think I’ve forgotten the debacle over the Jennifer Aniston pregnancy rumour either. Now scram, I want you all working on a hot story, something I can take to the management meeting this afternoon and shove in Amanda’s face. Find me stories about illicit affairs, dirty divorces, secret love childs, passion between co-stars. We all know that sex sells, that readers can’t get enough of it. So give me sex. Lots of it. I WANT SEX ON MY DESK THIS AFTERNOON.”
Lenny, who only caught the tail end of Zara’s rant, coughed nervously as he hovered near the entrance.
“And don’t think I don’t have my eye on you, mister,” she eyeballed him across the room. “With your Wednesday afternoons on the Reach floor. For all we know we could have a traitor in our midst.” With her two fingers, she made the universal gesture of I’m watching you before stomping back to her office.
“Dare I ask what that was about?” Lenny pulled a raffle book from his trouser pocket. I grabbed my purse, happy to support his latest ca
use, the kidney foundation.
“Two words, Lenny. Reach and magazine.”
“Oh, she’s mad about the Hagerty baby?”
“Got it in one.” I filled in a couple of ticket stubs and handed over five dollars.
“Who’s that?” said Lenny, pointing to a new photo on my pinup board. Dawn had found it in an old album while clearing out her shed. It was of us and Nikki at a party the year after we left school. It was a Seventies theme so Nikki was in a Wonder Woman costume, Dawn was in flares and a waistcoat, and I had raided my mum’s wardrobe for a paisley jumpsuit.
“That’s me at eighteen – at a costume party, I didn’t normally get around looking like a cast member from Hair.”
“Your hair was really blonde,” he commented.
“Hmmm, there’s a photo of my mum wearing the exact same outfit. It’s freaky how alike we were – you’d swear we were twins.”
Lenny pulled a photo out of his wallet. “That’s me around the same age.”
I took in the boy with thick black glasses and scrawny beard, wearing a black turtleneck and beret, a cigarette between his fingers. Very Beatnik.
“Looking suave,” I said.
“It was the year before I joined the navy.”
“I didn’t know you were in the navy.”
Adele swung past singing the Village People’s ode to seamen.
* * *
“I thought my mother-in-law was bad,” I said, skating my chair over to Adele’s desk to swipe a mini banana and chocolate chip muffin after my phone interview with Tanisha Montgomery. She was an American actress who had fallen head over heels for a British aristocrat and apparently his mother was so unimpressed with the union she tried to bribe him to call it off, then wore black to their wedding and refused to pose for photos with the bride.
Tanisha was refreshingly honest about her stoush with her mother-in-law, perhaps recognising it as ideal publicity fodder for her upcoming psychological thriller with Matt Damon, in which a deranged woman was hellbent on killing off her daughter-in-law by making it look like an accident.
