by Erin Green
‘Nina, Luca’s standing up… Luca’s the groom.’
‘Luca’s the groom…’ I repeat her words slowly as she watches me stare from the front row to the groom and back again. ‘So, who’s the guy that just sat down?’
‘Her brother, I think.’
Her brother?
I want to be sick as my stomach begins to spin.
*
Holly
From the top table, I gaze across the marquee at the fabulous view before me, bedecked with candelabra and crystal droplet centrepieces. Seventy or more guests are seated at white linen tables, all here to celebrate one couple. This is the bee’s knees. I thought the best part about being a bridesmaid would be having a posh frock and carrying fresh flowers but this, this is amazing. I keep glancing over to Isabella, but she’s busy chatting with Luca or fussing over their sons. Once I’m shown to my seat, I quickly locate Alfie’s table, number seven, which isn’t too far from my position on the end of the top table, but far enough that we can’t actually speak. Which might be a good thing, given how gorgeous he looks in his new suit. I watch as his tugs at his collar; he looks uncomfortable, like a trussed-up turkey. I know he didn’t want to wear it, but his dad insisted that it was the right thing to do given the formality of the event. Their table of eight has an empty place setting; I assume that was for Angie – though Alfie said she wasn’t attending. I feigned any knowledge of their tiff when Isabella asked me earlier. I’m not getting involved. Alfie and his dad seem fine just as they are.
Everywhere I look the garlands we made yesterday loop in soft curves; the deep red ribbons glint and shimmer in the light. I didn’t imagine the marquee would look as beautiful as it does; maybe we could have this one day? One day…
My stomach flutters. Is this what Isabella feels for Luca? Or am I just feeling the beginnings of puppy love, as my mum calls it? Either way, it’s not what I’ve felt before.
I look along the table, unsure of what I should be doing; everyone else is nibbling on bread and so I copy. My family are seated away from Alfie’s on table three – we fill the table with eight bodies, some in chairs, others in high chairs.
Alfie catches my eye. I give a little wave. Am I supposed to be paying attention to others or just the bride? I’m under strict instruction from my mum to ignore Alfie until Isabella says I am free to enjoy myself, then I can dance with Alfie as much as I wish, as long as the wedding guest book is taken around on the hour, every hour to capture good luck messages.
I lean to the side as the young waiter collects my empty plate. It feels strange to have someone remove your empty plate from the dinner table. Within seconds another waiter appears and delivers a large oval plate, muttering, ‘It’s hot,’ before walking off back to the mobile kitchens; on the plate sits a mound of beef and gravy. Is that it? I start to eat but notice no one else has picked up their cutlery. I stop. Do I continue or wait for someone else to join me? A large platter of potatoes appears at my ear, and a waitress offers me roast potatoes captured between a fork and large spoon. I ask for loads. Then loads of vegetables from the next waitress and, finally, more gravy.
I tuck in. What a feast!
That’s when I see her.
*
Angie
‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ I whisper, sidestepping through the tables towards table number seven. I squeeze past each chair as the occupant pretends to move it forward an inch in a shuffle style, but they don’t actually move. My stomach and thighs feel the edge of each chair as I make my way through the seated crowd. I dodge a waiter or two, and we do-si-do around each other before continuing.
I know where I’m heading. I studied the beautifully decorated calligraphy-written seating chart in the foyer of the marquee before making my entrance to the dining area. I don’t want to cause a scene and avert anyone’s attention to my late arrival.
I can see the rear of Nick’s head as I near their table, Alfie is pulling at his collar and tie, just as I expected he would. Though his suit jacket fits perfectly. Fancy not taking it off as he sat down to eat, ensuring he is comfortable. Nick never gives the lad guidance, when it’s necessary.
‘I’m so sorry for my late arrival. I do believe this is my seat,’ I say, calmly and casually, on finally arriving at table seven. A sea of startled faces look up from their roast beef and horseradish. Nick’s mouth gapes. Alfie sighs deeply. The lady and three children simply stare and then she instantly produces a warm welcoming smile and the remaining male… My eyes lock onto his. Oh, my God! Never in a million years would I have imagined that face staring back at me.
‘Angie!’ says Nick.
‘Mum!’
‘Angie!’ says Fabio.
‘Angie?’ asks the lady with the warm smile, which is rapidly dissolving into a quizzical stare. Her three little boys stare absently on hearing her startled tone.
‘Hi, sorry I’m a little late,’ is all I can muster as I quickly take my seat between Nick and the now scornful glare of the mother of three. I quickly attract the attention of the young waitress and explain my late arrival, trying to stall the three adults who are waiting to interrogate me, while my son ignores me. The three children sit nibbling at their fish-finger dinners.
‘I didn’t think you were coming?’
‘Do you think this is fitting, Mum?’
‘Angie? Is this the Angie?’
‘Are you friends of the groom’s side or the bride’s?’
I don’t answer any of them. Instead, I busy myself tearing open my wholemeal batch, locate the dish of perfect butter curls and slowly spread the thick creamy delight. If this is to be my afternoon from hell, I’ll make sure I’m well fed and inebriated. Mid-mouthful, as they continue to stare, I reach for the white wine and pour myself a large glass. It would be rude not to under the circumstances.
‘Eat up, now… your main courses are getting cold,’ I say, as my heart rate continues to soar, while I calmly sip my wine. I hadn’t bargained on this!
One by one they each collect their cutlery and resume eating.
This will be OK. I will be polite to each guest, rise above any accusations made by the wife and ignore any come-on from Fabio. In fact, Nick owes me an apology for his lack of support, before we continue our little tête-à-tête, so there’ll be none too many pleasantries in his direction.
‘Are you married?’ asks Marcia, as her place-setting card informs me, as she leans around me to speak to Nick, who is struggling to communicate to Alfie to ‘leave it’.
‘No. Not now, but, yes, we were… once,’ he replies, politely.
‘Why… is that important?’ I say, as the waitress delivers my hot plate. ‘Thank you.’
Marcia stares, open-mouthed.
‘You’re Angie… the one that…’ Marcia continues in Nick’s direction. ‘You know they had an affair, don’t you?’
Alfie chokes on his dinner, grabs his napkin and blushes profusely.
Nick looks from me, to Fabio, and back to Marcia, whose warm and welcoming features are pinched and instantly pained.
‘Angie?’
I give a nod.
‘This is Fabio… the one I mentioned.’
Alfie is open-mouthed and staring, his fork suspended in his hand.
Wow, what a life lesson for a sixteen-year-old.
‘Marcia?’ interjects Fabio, trying to hush his wife’s tones.
‘Seriously, it’s taken us five months to hold our marriage together and then, as brazen as you like, she pops up at your niece’s wedding… Is this for real?’
I don’t answer. I don’t know who the question is aimed at but assume it isn’t me.
‘I can only apologise for—’
‘Don’t you dare, Nick. I was single, with no attachments, and as far as I was aware Fabio was single also, or that’s what it said on his dating profile… so where did I mislead anyone? I didn’t.’ I turn to Marcia to continue. ‘And the moment I knew he was married with a wife and three children I called it off… so
please save your annoyance for him, not me. I was tricked as much as you were.’ I feign an overly friendly tone, as not to upset the little ones as they munch their ketchup covered chips.
‘Now, hang on a minute… I never said—’ interrupts Fabio, his harsh whisper being killed with a death stare from Marcia.
‘Would you like me to upload your current profile and show her?’ I ask, bravely pulling my mobile from my handbag. ‘Would you?’
Fabio sits back, his shoulders sag and his olive skin pales as his wife’s pinched features turn into a venomous stare.
‘Seriously, you can check out his current profile on SinglesFun.com,’ I add, tucking my mobile back inside my clutch bag. ‘Alfie, darling, could you pass me the gravy boat, please?’
I sit tall as Alfie looks to his father for instruction, before slowly offering the gravy boat across the table.
I keep my eyes glued to my plate and, for the first time ever at a wedding, pray that the speeches are lengthy with numerous hecklings from attending guests.
*
Nina
I stand alone in the darkness, staring out across the lake. The reflection of the night sky is picture perfect on the water: moonlight cascades upon the surface and a beautiful arc of untouched snow nestles in the distant backdrop.
The only disturbance is the muted tones of the wedding party a distance behind me, separated by a bank of spruce. I imagine the dance floor filled with elderly relatives, and little boys doing knee slides to ruin their trousers, having a great time amongst the celebration.
What would my dad say if he were here, now?
I watch the ripples skitter across the water and know that somewhere high above my head he is there, beyond the smoky clouds, watching me stand and stare across the lake. I’d prefer him to stand beside me, but I can accept a lengthier distance just knowing he is there.
Within seconds, my fat robin lands upon a nearby rock.
‘I wondered where you were,’ I whisper, as his tiny head bobs and twitches in my direction.
This is probably the closest he has ever landed to me. I’m tempted to reach out my hand. Inquisitive to see if he’d let me touch his deep red breast, but the fear of losing him restrains me.
I linger at the water’s edge. Tonight, I’m not planning to skim stones but to honour dad’s memory by doing the final job I need to do. As heartbreaking as it seems, alone in the dark, I know his anniversary is the right day.
I clasp the wooden box into my frame, my arms tightly wrapped around its polished edges. On Saturday, I’d spilt silent tears retrieving it from under the staircase at home, carefully packed it within my suitcase, and brought it along to the cabin. But now, I must say goodbye. Forever.
I gently remove the lid from the wooden box; the lip needs forcing before it gives and releases. A gentle billow of ash lifts, thanks to my heavy-handed jolt. Here, he’ll be in heaven, surrounded by nature’s beauty.
I haven’t practised any lines. I don’t know many prayers. I’m unsure of what I should say… only one memorised poem fills my mind.
Slowly, I recite the words.
‘Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning’s hush, I am the swift uplifting rush of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there… I did not die.’
I kiss the lip of the box before I kneel and gently upend the wooden casket, allowing the soft grey ash to slide onto the surface of the rippling water.
‘You’ll always be my diamond glints on snow,’ I whisper.
Instantly, the tiny waves lift and separate the mass, slowly fanning the ripples of ash across the surface of the lake. I stand, replace the lid and watch as the watery cloud spreads further and further away from me.
*
‘Nina!’
His voice brings me to, standing alone in the darkness at the edge of the lake, clasping the empty box. The grey watery cloud has disappeared, and so has my robin.
‘I hope you’re not contemplating a skinny dip at this time of year,’ jokes the voice through the darkness. ‘I won’t be joining you if you do.’
I turn to see the silhouette of broad shoulders framed by the spruce trees as the moonlight illuminates his rhythmical stride.
Mr Stomach-flip?
He nears the water’s edge, stands and stares out across the lake to the distant backdrop of firs. His presence portrays a significance and warmth that crackles in the air.
‘Hi,’ I mutter, unsure how long I’ve been standing here.
‘I didn’t mean to intrude but…’ He peers at my features. ‘Have you been crying?’
I don’t answer; instead I clasp the wooden casket a little tighter to my body.
‘Nina?’ His voice is mellow yet firm. I can’t ignore him.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Bruno.’
Bruno? My mind repeats.
‘Bruno Ferraro,’ he adds, when I don’t speak.
‘I thought your surname was Romano,’ I say, looking up into his surprised face.
‘No, my brother-in-law is called Luca Romano… and today my sister became—’
‘I get it,’ I say, looking away across the water. What a fool. Luca Romano – wrong name, right bloke.
‘Are you all right? I saw you earlier behind the spruce at the ceremony but haven’t laid eyes on you since and—’
‘I’ve had a free afternoon. I wasn’t needed to staff your wedding... their wedding.’
‘Theirs, not mine!’
‘I saw the clipboard papers. I read the wedding details – you came on the visits with her and I thought… I thought you were the groom!’ I blurt.
‘Me, the groom? No way! Of course, I attended. He works away for weeks on end, she’s my sister – I couldn’t let her struggle with the two lads and plan a wedding alone, could I?’
‘But I thought…’
‘Well, you’re quite mistaken,’ he says, gently clasping my forearm and turning me towards him. ‘Do you think I’d have returned several times to the farm… if I’d been about to get… if it wasn’t to see you?’
‘I thought you were just being kind, being a loyal son buying a Christmas tree or taking your lads to visit Santa.’
‘My nephews, actually,’ he corrects. ‘And I was being kind to everyone, but mainly myself.’
‘Nephews?’
He slowly nods. His body is close, almost touching but for the box clasped in my grasp.
‘What’s this?’ He points to my hands.
‘It’s a long story… one I’d rather not explain, not tonight anyway.’
*
Angie
‘What the hell did you expect me to do, stand up and walk out like a scarlet woman?’ I ask, as my heels sink and snag upon the soft snowy ground. Darkness surrounds us, so I’m unware where I am heading.
‘No, but have some bloody respect for the poor woman – she’s pregnant, if you haven’t noticed,’ says Nick, hastily following me along the uneven pathway that leads from the marquee. I survived the formal reception by staying schtum but before long Nick requested a quiet word.
How the hell am I supposed to notice such details when Marcia is seated with a cloth napkin draped across her lap?
‘To hell with the lot of you, I say. I try my best to rebuild what we had, you string me along thinking that we were on the mend, on the same page rekindling this relationship, and then bam! You let me down big time.’ I gulp down the lump in my throat. ‘Don’t cry, don’t cry’ is the mantra circling my head.
‘Angie, wait!’
I quicken my pace. If he wants to talk to me he’ll have to catch me first. I kick it up a gear and stride quickly along the path, stumbling as I go, and come upon a large lake secluded from the marquee by mature spruce.
There’s nowhere to
run; the shoreline literally halts my stride. I have no idea if I’m standing on shale or mud, but stand I do, staring out across the water and taking a keen interest in the embankment on the far side – in which I have no real interest, but I know if I don’t, I’ll need to look at Nick. And looking at Nick right now is not an option. I am mad. I am sad and I am slightly drunk from two too many white wines, but even so I am not going to cry!
‘Angie…’ His voice is soft, tender and beside my ear. ‘Please, just stop.’
I intensify my stare across the lake.
‘We need to talk. I was as surprised about that fella as Alfie was… and the poor wife, well, what did you expect her to do, stand up and shake you warmly by the hand? She’s five months pregnant, for crying out loud.’
I quickly calculate dates. Bastard!
We stand in silence. Nick staring at my profile, me studying the distant embankment, wondering how old the spruce might be.
‘Are you not going to talk to me?’ he finally asks.
I shrug. I know it’s childish, but I want him to feel some of the frustration that I felt the other night. I spot a couple in the distance cuddling by the water’s edge. Obviously happy, in love, sharing a moment together beneath the moonlight. When did we stop looking like them?
‘OK, if that’s what you want… there’s nothing more to say. I asked for months if we could try again but you insisted it was no, we were over. I’d accepted that, Angie, honestly I had. I focused my attentions on Alfie and had accepted your decision. But when you phoned… ah, you don’t know how happy that made me. These last few weeks have been great… as if we’d returned to the old us of our uni days when we actually—’
‘So that’s it, you’re quitting?’
‘Quitting? I have no choice if you’re not going to communicate with me. I’ve left my teenage son sitting at a table watching over our drinks in order to follow you.’
I can hear the exasperation in his voice. Is this what I want? To call it quits and return to what I had a few weeks ago? No Nick? Very little contact with Alfie?
