by Beth Moran
“Possibly not. But you are a pretty amazing friend. You have no idea what you’ve done for me, Marilyn. I could be your cleaner for the rest of my life and it wouldn’t repay what I owe you.”
“Well, when you put it like that, you can start by dishing up a plate of that pasta.”
I had been speaking the truth about the help-hole. Sometimes I wondered if it was Sam I missed, or being there for Sam. Being needed. I filled the hole with as much work as I could get, along with making plans for the Grand Grace Gala. I walked nearly everywhere, now that spring had really taken hold, and ate with Perry at his house or the club every few days. For the first time in years I was saving money, scraping together enough pounds each week to begin to ease the tension in my throat. I bought myself a new pair of walking boots and a couple of books. I stood a millimetre taller, breathed a little deeper, laughed a whole lot louder.
The last week in March, Larissa summoned the wedding party for another meeting. I wanted to get to HCC early to sign the contract for the gala, Perry having sweet-talked the manager into giving me a ridiculously cheap rate for hire of the ballroom, with a three-course dinner thrown in, so Marilyn picked me up.
“When are you going to pluck up the pluck to learn to drive?”
I shook my head. “My pluck’s doing fine, thanks. Have you seen how much lessons cost?”
“Bah. You know Perry’ll pay for them.”
“If I asked him, he would.”
“But you won’t?” She stopped to let a couple of children use a zebra crossing.
“If I can’t afford driving lessons, how will I afford petrol, or insurance, or road tax?”
“Faith, who do you think pays for my petrol?” she asked, waving at the children.
“That’s different. You have Nancy and Pete. And you take care of everything while James is away.”
“It’s not different. When you’re married what’s his is yours. You can’t be married and stay independent. The two are mutually exclusive. You can’t keep a back-up plan, the expectation that things might not work out.”
“I know that,” I said, slightly narked.
I did know. I had no back-up plan. That was the whole point of getting married.
Contract gleefully signed, we met Perry and his parents in a small private dining room. After an hour sampling menus, and pre-dinner, during-dinner, and after-dinner drinks, we covered the topics of invitations (design: frumpy; wording: ostentatious; number: verging on panic attack), flowers (bleugh), and entertainment (an opera singer. Not for the service. For the evening reception).
I say discussed. Of course, by “discussed” I mean Larissa read out her plans, accompanied by numbered pictures, Perry agreed they were perfect, and I nodded feebly. My trusty wing-woman Marilyn, on the other hand, grew increasingly red in the face, alternately widening and narrowing her eyes at me and throwing in comments like, “But Faith, you hate fruit cake. Didn’t you want chocolate?”
To which Larissa smiled her sharky smile and shot invisible death-rays across the table, hoping to cremate Marilyn’s vocal cords. “Don’t be ridiculous. If we don’t have fruit cake we can’t save a layer for the baby’s christening.”
Perry turned the colour of a plain sponge. “Mother. Faith is not pregnant.”
“Precisely. You need a fruit cake to last until she is,” she snapped.
“How long does fruit cake last?” Perry asked.
“Oh, a good eighteen months if it’s done properly.”
“Mother…” Perry sounded as though he had some eighteen-month-old fruit cake stuck in his throat.
“Oh, stop fussing. Wills and Kate did it. As did your father and I. We’re not going to be the first ones to break generations of tradition.”
Item seven on the agenda was bridal party underwear. Yes. Apparently my underwear was up for discussion in front of the bride’s future father-in-law as well as the groom.
“Now, this is going to get tricky.” Larissa tapped her pen on the table, to make sure she had our attention. “We need to create a smooth line for the Nottinghamshire Life shoot. However, due to the necessary contour adjustment, I think we go with a full body wrap. Not easy to find in the UK, but Milton’s secretary made some calls and we can import one if we act sharpish. The question is how successful Anton is going to be at reducing your size in the next ten weeks. What are your current vitals?”
“I have no idea,” I mumbled, avoiding everyone’s eye. Did brides normally have this sort of conversation with their family? If my mum was still alive, would she be asking me these questions? Or would we spend a giggly shopping trip trying on bras and knickers together and making jokes about my wedding night?
“What did you wear, Larissa?” Marilyn asked. “I didn’t think boob tape existed when you got married.”
“I graduated from the Lady Rosalind Institute. I don’t need additional support. I am merely being considerate towards Faith’s different physique.”
“I think underwear is the least of Faith’s challenges when it comes to this wedding. She’s perfectly capable of choosing her own bra.”
“Excuse me.” I pushed back my chair, unable to leave fast enough to avoid hearing Larissa say, “I think we can all see that isn’t the case.”
I dived into the ladies’ room, locking myself in a stall for a few moments and leaning my head against the wall, deep breathing, Hester-style.
I squeezed back the ache in my eyeballs, all too aware I had no frame of reference when it came to family, no idea what the boundaries were. Confused, slightly overwhelmed, I allowed the grief to wash over me. Grief for my mother, and for my absent brother. I felt hopelessly alone.
Someone opened the main door, moving across and tapping on my stall.
“Are you okay?” Marilyn, of course.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you leaning on the door and trying not to cry?”
“Maybe.” I smiled, despite myself.
“Would you like to lean on me instead?” She poked her fingers around the crack at the side of the door.
“If I do that, I’m definitely going to cry.”
“Open the door, you muppet. I want to show you my impression of Milton when Larissa started talking about underwear.”
I blew my nose and pressed the palms of my hands into my eye sockets until the pain became bearable, then opened the stall door to find Marilyn, arms twisted together in mock horror, pulling the strangest expression of confusion, glee, and disgust as her eyes rolled about in their sockets.
I couldn’t help laughing as she then straightened her features and peered at me down her nose. “Agenda item one hundred and sixty-five. Consummation of the wedding vows. Now, traditionally the Upperton males have used the position demonstrated by Milton’s grandparents in diagram seven.”
“Stop it!” I giggled. “I’m trying really hard to respect Larissa. She’s put a huge amount of effort into this.”
“What? She doesn’t respect you. She’s being downright mean.”
“I don’t think she meant to be.”
“Don’t be naïve, Faith. Everything that woman does is calculated.” Marilyn folded her arms.
“Is she trying to drive me away?” I asked, all trace of laughter gone.
“Possibly.” She pulled a wry face. “But that could mean even greater public humiliation than if you stayed.”
“Public humiliation: a fate worse than death to all true Uppertons.”
Marilyn turned round and began examining the profile of her stomach in the mirror. “I think wielding such wedding power unchallenged may have tipped her over the edge into megalomania.”
“I have a suspicion she’s always been like that, and this wedding has just brought it to the surface. Perhaps they teach passive-aggressive control freak lessons at the Lady Rosalind Institute.” I moved next to her and turned on the cold tap, splashing some water on my face.
“If they did, I think she must have failed on the passive part. She needs to be stopped
before things get even more out of hand.”
“I’m not sure they’ve reached out of hand.” I turned the tap off, and pulled out a paper towel from the super-expensive dispenser. “I don’t actually care about the colour of the writing on the invites. It’s not as if I’ll be needing that many.”
“Faith. Nobody lets their mother-in-law choose their wedding ring.” Marilyn stopped examining herself and turned to focus on me. “The Ghost Web is for one dreadful day. You have to wear that ring for as long as you stay married. As your friend, I’m rooting with you that it’ll be a long, long time. Please choose your own ring. And flowers. And first dance. Only you can slay the beast. She’ll thank you for it in the long run.”
I took a deep breath. “I’m not being awkward? They are paying for it all.”
“It is not awkward to want to choose what pants you wear to your own wedding! Hooten tooten, woman. You just negotiated eighty per cent off the price of a swanky banquet. Get out there and wield some personal power!”
And guess what? I did.
Marilyn and I strode into the dining room like Thelma and Louise. I stood behind my chair, back straight, chin up, and announced that I wanted giant daisies in my bouquet, would rather perform the can-can than dance to opera, and the only person who was going to choose my underwear was me. Before Larissa had time to close her gaping mouth and respond, I swung my bag over my shoulder and marched back out.
Sweeping down the corridor and through the main bar area, swinging my arms in time to the Rocky theme tune playing in my head, I kept the smile on my face subtle enough to hide the fireworks popping in my ventricles. Go me!
I swished through the foyer, tossing my hair over my shoulder and throwing out a confident glance that said Yes, I am an awesome woman who rocks to the three men waiting to be seen by the receptionist. Wow. It had been too long since I’d stood up for myself. London Anna was back. No. This was new, post-London, post-HCC Faith. London Anna could stand up to sleazeballs. Post-London Faith could stand up to rich, crazy sleazeballs. Da da duuuuh, da da duuuuh!
I winked – yes, winked – at one of the admin staff, Luke, as he spotted me from across the room, too go-getting and poised and cool to slow down and check out his response.
Decisively pulling open one of the grand front doors, I barrelled through, colliding with a man who had been about to enter from the other side. Caught up in my mini power trip, I failed to notice his face. Then he spoke.
“Watch it!”
The Rocky tune screeched to a stop, replaced by deafening silence. I think my liver nearly jumped out of my mouth.
After a horrifying moment where his red, wrinkled, menacing eyes met mine and held me there, survival instinct kicked in. I pushed past the monster that was Kane, stumbled down the entrance steps, and fled for my life.
Chapter Seventeen
Marilyn’s car caught up with me halfway down the HCC driveway, assuming my trembling, half-frantic state was due to having confronted Larissa. Perry called a few minutes later, as Marilyn drove me home. Struggling to be coherent, my mind spinning with thoughts of Kane, I babbled an apology, blaming pre-wedding nerves combined with pre-five o’clock wine tasting. The next few days were a plummet back into nightmares and constant nausea, and yes, I did spend one evening weeping in the back of my wardrobe.
I left a rambling message for Gwynne.
She called back the next day. Kane had attended his latest parole meeting. He had no car, a minimum wage job, no means of gallivanting about the country terrorizing past victims. Could I be sure it was him, after all this time? Could my fear have taken the splintered memories of a man I hadn’t seen in twenty years and superimposed them onto someone else? Could I accept the possibility I had been mistaken?
Yes. No. Maybe. Urgh. Yes.
No.
Having asked Marilyn for a lift to choir practice that Wednesday, I fumbled my way through the new songs we were learning in preparation for October’s national final. Hester had asked us to pick songs that made us feel strong. That evening they simply reminded me of how vulnerable I felt.
Songs about independent women were banned, on the basis we were “fools” if we still hadn’t realized we were stronger together. Ebony shyly played us a country song: “This One’s for the Girls”. It was snappy and fun, and Hester could hardly refuse lyrics about being beautiful the way you are, standing your ground when everyone is giving in, and dreaming with everything you have. She probably would have written that song herself if Martina McBride hadn’t got there first.
There was an overwhelming vote in favour of Katy Perry’s “Roar”, but then an argument broke out about whether we needed a song with some spiritual context. Yasmin stole Millie’s bobble hat (red, in the shape of a strawberry), and in the ensuing scuffle no one noticed the new arrival until she reached the front of the room and whacked the music stand with Hester’s baton.
“Hey.”
Polly. A tiny, scrunched-up baby strapped to her chest.
“Where did you come from?” Uzma asked.
“Marilyn’s house.”
Marilyn coughed. “Ahem!”
“Sorry. Our house. I wasn’t sure if she’d finish her feed in time, so Marilyn left me the money for a taxi.”
We crowded round to see the baby, still unnamed at a month old. If Polly waited any longer, she’d have to register her as “Baby”, like the girl from Dirty Dancing. We petted and aahed, asking all the usual questions. Yes, Baby was putting on weight, no she wasn’t sleeping well, yes Polly was eating properly and resting enough, no she wasn’t going to miss the national finals.
There were some non-usual questions we didn’t ask but wanted to. Was she still pressing charges? Had she seen Tony? Was she going to? Did her bashed-up hand and cracked ribs still hurt? Was she getting a divorce?
She offloaded a twitching Baby to Melody and waited for us to stop fussing. “I heard you’re looking for a song. How about this?”
And then she started to sing “Listen”, the Beyoncé song. About not being at home in her own home, and being more than what he made of her. Starting again, moving on, writing your own song.
Whew. We had not heard Polly sing like that before. Could breastfeeding affect your vocal cords? Could unwrapping the fear and anxiety and secrets and shame that wound so tightly around your whole body do it?
Of course we cried. Some (me) more than others. Cried, even as we joined in, stood with Polly, held her hand, rocked her baby, believed her, and believed in her. Sang her song.
A tentative answer to the biggest unasked question: Polly would make it. One day, she would be okay.
I grabbed a coffee at break time. Barely able to force down sips, I skulked in the corner, wanting Marilyn and Polly to hurry up and finish chatting so I could get home and stop having to fake being fine, wanting the evening to last all night so I didn’t have to go home to a house empty save for dark crannies, mysterious creaks, and ominous shadows.
Eventually, Dylan extracted himself from the flock of broody women cooing over Baby and made his way over.
“Not into babies?”
I managed a crooked smile. “I love babies. Especially Baby. But I had a big cuddle when I minded Nancy and Pete yesterday.”
“Marilyn’s still training with Anton?”
“Twice a week.”
“It looks like it suits her.” He gestured at her grinning with Leona by the serving hatch.
“She’s lost nearly four stone.”
“No. It’s more than that. She looks… happier. More comfortable in her own skin. When she first came along, Marilyn was mostly bluster. Now she seems like Marilyn.”
“She did get a bit lost for a while amongst all those sleepless nights and nappies.” I nodded at him. “You’re a pretty perceptive man, Pastor Dylan.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice.” He looked at me and smiled, blue eyes softening. “So you won’t dodge the question when I ask what has you so rattled?”
I studied my
feet for a minute, unable to handle his gaze. “If I talk about it, I’m going to start blubbing. Or screaming. Either way, it’ll make a scene. And you know how I feel about scenes.”
“Do you want to come into the office? They could be passing Baby round for a while yet.”
“No.” I flapped a hand in the direction of everyone else. “If they caught me in the office with the minister I’d never hear the end of it.”
“You mean Marilyn would want to know what was up.”
“That too.”
“What can I do to help?”
I shook my head and shrugged.
He gave my arm a fist bump, gentle enough not to spill my tepid coffee. “If you think of anything, or just want to talk, you know where I am.”
The next day, I spent two hours on buses getting to a hotel that would have taken me forty-five minutes to reach along public footpaths, and then spent the whole journey on the verge of panic anyway. At least if I was walking I could run away. The thought of being trapped on a bus with Kane gave me palpitations. I waited nearly an hour for a taxi to show up at the end of my shift, and then forked out most of my tips on the fare.
As I climbed out of the taxi, the red car glinted in the evening sunlight. I stopped and looked at it for a moment. It had sat there useless on the road for months now. Was I being an idiot, resisting Perry’s overindulgent present? If I daren’t walk anywhere, that heap of shiny metal might end up being the only way to keep my independence. I bet it had really good safety locks to keep killers out. I marched inside, kicked off my work shoes, dumped my bag on the kitchen counter, and picked up my phone before I could change my mind.
Perry set up a driving lesson for me the next day with a guy he’d met at a business conference. Bob Chase, a forty-something instructor wearing a crumpled pair of shiny trousers and a Formula One cap, turned up in a Vauxhall Corsa. His eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw my car. He had a change of heart about my first lesson being in his specially modified vehicle, spending the first twenty minutes driving the sports car to a suitable location to start me off (I suggested a few quiet roads and empty car parks nearby, but for vague reasons he picked one a good few miles further away).
