One Day in December

by Josie Silver

  So here I am, standing in the entrance of the church, the same church Oscar’s mother’s parents married in. I couldn’t argue; I was hardly going to drag everyone back to the suburbs of Birmingham, was I? Besides, this place is ridiculously pretty, especially given the sprinkle of frost on the ground. It looked like something out of a fairy tale when the Rolls-Royce—one of Oscar’s choices—pulled up in the picture-perfect village a few minutes ago, and I had a bit of a moment when I wasn’t sure I could breathe. Dad was a trooper; he just patted my hand and let me take my time, steady as a rock.

  “You’re sure this is what you want?” he asked, and I nodded. I’m as sure as anyone can be.

  “Thank God for that,” he said. “Because, to be perfectly honest, I’m terrified of Oscar’s mother. I had a whisky earlier to be on the safe side.”

  We both laughed, and then I choked up a bit so he told me to pack it in and helped me out of the car, wrapping my gran’s fur wedding stole around my shoulders for the walk to the church.

  And now we’re in position at the head of the aisle, arm in arm, me in my beloved vintage dress, him splendid in his morning suit. He’s not much of a fan of the top hat, but he’s promised he’ll don it dutifully for the photographs later. Mum phoned me last week to talk about the wedding, and she let it slip that he’s been practicing his speech every evening before dinner because he’s terrified he’s going to let me down. I give his arm an extra little squeeze and we share a last “let’s do this” look; I’ve always been a daddy’s girl, and losing Ginny brought us closer still. We’re quite similar, both a bit reserved until we trust someone, both slow to anger and quick to forgive.

  Inside the church is a riot of fragrant, tumbling white flowers, all stunning and slightly less tamed than Lucille would have liked. That’s my doing, inadvertently. I’ve been in to see the florist on several occasions about my own flowers and we’ve become quite pally. She could obviously see the gulf between my own informal choice of bouquet and the far more regimented pieces ordered for the church and reception venue. I didn’t expressly ask her to change anything, but I was truthful when she quizzed me on how I’d really like it to look and she’s worked a little magic to give us both something we approve of. I take a deep breath, and we’re off.

  Either side of the aisle I see faces, some I know and some I don’t. My family have made the journey; aunts, uncles, and cousins keen to get a look at Oscar and the fancy London high-life my mum has no doubt been regaling them with tales of. My colleagues, Oscar’s friends, his ex, Cressida, in a black dress and pearls (Black! What is she, in mourning?), his brother, Gerry, with strait-laced Fliss, tasteful in teal organza. And then I catch sight of Jack. I’m halfway down the aisle, and there he is, shockingly real and smarter than I think I’ve ever seen him. He’s even brushed his hair. I’m not sure what I think of Jack in a suit. But then I can’t think about that anymore because his familiar eyes find mine, and I wish I could grip his hand for even a fleeting second before I become Oscar’s wife. With no Sarah here he feels like the only person who knows the real me. Perhaps it’s as well that he’s too far away from me. For a second I wonder whether Sarah told him anything about our fallout. But they’ve barely spoken since their breakup, and he doesn’t look like he knows a thing. I shoot him the smallest of smiles, and he nods, and thank God my dad keeps walking, because it leaves me no choice but to do the same thing.

  We haven’t written our own vows. Lucille looked as if I’d asked for naked karaoke when I suggested it, and to be honest Oscar wasn’t very far behind her. I didn’t push it. I’d been half joking anyway, but the look on their faces told me the joke was in poor taste. What did I think this wedding was? Some kind of modern affair?

  Oscar still has his back to me as we’d agreed, straight and proud. His mum thinks it looks unseemly if the groom gawks as the bride walks down the aisle, and I’m happy to go along with it so I can be beside him when we first see each other. It’s more tender, more us. We’ve both been so caught up in work and the wedding whirlwind lately, it feels as if we’ve barely had any extended time together; I can’t wait to see him today, to spend all of my time with him again. I hope on our honeymoon we can recapture the magic of those precious weeks in Thailand.

  I’m there at last, and as I draw level with him he finally turns to look at me. His mum said he should lift my veil at this point; tricky, because I’m not wearing one. I should have told them, but I didn’t want to be railroaded into something that isn’t me for the sake of convention. I’ve opted instead for a delicate 1920s hair vine that the hairdresser has wound into my hair along with tiny fresh flowers, a serendipitous find in the same shop as the dress came from. It’s the prettiest thing, fine gold wire scattered with jeweled sea creatures: a seahorse, shells and, of course, a starfish. To the untrained eye it just looks suitably bridal, but I hope Oscar will see it as an intimate nod toward our history.

  Regardless of the fact that I don’t have a veil, Oscar’s hands move to lift it; he’s practiced every step of today in his head, and he looks momentarily wrong-footed that there’s nothing there until I smile and shake my head a tiny bit. “No veil,” I mouth, and he laughs softly.

  “You’re beautiful,” he whispers back.

  “Thank you.” I smile, and his dark eyes flood me with love. He’s a world away from cut-off jeans and T-shirt right now, but that’s what I see when I look at him. My Robinson Crusoe, my rescuer, my love. I don’t think he’s even noticed that Sarah isn’t behind me. I don’t think he’d notice if the reverend flung off his cassock and performed an Irish jig around the altar, because he has eyes only for me, and those eyes are full of wonder and joy and love. However hard Lucille has tried to plan our wedding like a military operation, she hasn’t counted on these moments, and they are the ones I’ll remember long after my brain jettisons the salmon mousse for taking up too much space. He looks so dashing, every inch the groom. Everything about him is perfect: the artful flop of his hair, his shiny black wedding shoes, his dark, intense eyes as he looks at me for the first time. Has any man ever made a more picture-perfect groom? It’s as if all of those tiny grooms perched on top of wedding cakes across the country were modeled on him.

  I wonder what HRH Lucille is making of my veil-free attire; she’s probably got a spare one in a bag in the vestry just in case. No doubt she’ll try to force it on me the second we get out of here.

  When the priest asks whether anyone has knowledge of any lawful impediment I wonder, fleetingly, about Sarah; will she crash through the church door and tell everyone what I’ve done?

  This doesn’t happen, of course. In what seems like a few seconds I find myself walking back down the aisle wearing Oscar’s diamond and platinum band on the third finger of my left hand, the church bells ringing out. We walk hand in hand and everyone applauds. Just before we step out into the pale winter sunshine, Oscar carefully ties the ribbons of my fur stole, then kisses me.

  “My wife,” he whispers, cupping my face.

  “My husband,” I say, then turn my face and kiss his palm.

  My heart is full to bursting and I feel a pure joy at the simple truth of it; he’s my husband and I’m his wife.

  * * *

  The photographer has had his work cut out gathering our two families together for the pictures. Oscar’s mum seems determined to be art director; my lovely mum even took me aside at one point to tell me she might throttle Lucille before the day is out. We had a little laugh about it and mimed choking her, and then straightened our faces and went back inside to pose for the pictures.

  My family have been the only thing keeping me sane. Oscar’s ex, Cressida, mistook my brother for a waiter and complained that her champagne wasn’t chilled enough. So he remedied it with ice cubes fished from a nearby water jug. When she caught him doing it and threatened to have him sacked he took great delight in telling her he was my brothe
r, in his strongest Midlands accent of course. He’s still in “wet the baby’s head” mode after the recent birth of my gorgeous baby nephew, Thomas, who looks so angelic today that he’s almost upstaged me as the center of attention. Daryl took me aside for a little heart-to-heart earlier and asked if I’d like to be Tom’s godmother next summer—talk about making a girl cry on her wedding day! I love my family so much, never more so than today when we’re so badly outnumbered by Oscar’s side.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the speeches.”

  Oh God! I completely forgot that Sarah was going to make a speech. She had it specially timetabled in as the first one, and her absence is going to screw up Queen Lucille’s carefully scheduled program. It would have helped if I’d remembered to tell her, but I didn’t, and now the red-faced toastmaster has just asked everyone to give the maid of honor a hearty round of applause. People are clapping, but it’s that slow, scrappy, confused kind of clap when the crowd know that something is amiss and aren’t quite sure what to do. Christ, don’t the staff in this place communicate? You’d think the fact that the top table had to be hastily rearranged when we arrived would have alerted them to the fact of Sarah’s absence, but no, he’s calling her name again now and looking toward us expectantly. Oscar, bless him, looks horrified, as if he knows he should do something but has no idea what, and Lucille leans forward and gives me a “do something right now” stare. I look out at the sea of faces in front of me and start to get to my feet, wondering what the hell is going to come out of my mouth. Lying to people one by one about Sarah’s absence was excruciating enough. I’m not sure I’ve got the bare-faced cheek to lie to all of these people in one go. But what else am I supposed to tell them? That Sarah discovered I once loved her boyfriend and now she can’t stand the sight of me? My heart starts to race and I feel my face going red. Then there’s the sound of someone scraping their chair back on the parquet and clearing their throat to speak.

  It’s Jack.

  A murmur ripples around the room, a low buzz of anticipation that this might be about to get juicy.

  “As Sarah isn’t able to be here, Laurie’s asked me to say a few words instead.” He looks at me, a question in his eyes. “I was lucky enough to play third wheel to Sarah and Laurie for a fair few years, so I’ve got a good idea of what she’d have liked to say if she were here.”

  I very much doubt he has any idea what Sarah would say if she was here right now, but I nod my head at him quickly and take my seat again. I don’t know why I’m even surprised that Jack’s role in my wedding just became more significant; he seems to have been there at every important event in my life, one way or another.

  “You see, me and Sarah were together for a while—until quite recently, in fact—sorry, you don’t need to know that, erm…” He looks at the woman sitting next to him as a couple of titters start up from the far corners of the room.

  “And when I say I was the third wheel, I mean it in the loosest sense, obviously. I mean we were close, but not that close…” He trails off again as people start to laugh. “Sorry,” he says, glancing at me and pulling a bit of a grimace.

  “Okay,” he says. I only realize that he’s nervous when he rubs his palms down his thighs. “What might Sarah have wanted to say about Laurie? Well, that she’s a good friend, obviously, that goes without saying. I know Sarah always said she’d won the roommate lottery at university—you two have a once-in-a-lifetime kind of friendship. You’re the gin in her tonic, Laurie. Sarah loves you very much.”

  A few people clap, and my mum dabs her eyes. Oh God. I hold myself together and pinch the skin on the back of my hand. Pinch, release. Pinch, release. Pinch, release. I daren’t let even a single tear slide out, because if I start crying I don’t think I’ll be able to stop it from developing into full-on body-racking sobs. I’ve missed Sarah so very much today. My precision-planned wedding has a Sarah-shaped hole in it, and I’m scared to death that the rest of my life will too.

  Jack sighs, taking a breath. You could hear a pin drop in here.

  “You know, even if I’d known I was going to speak today I think I’d still have struggled over what to say, because there aren’t really any words to explain what it is that’s special about Laurie James.”

  “Ogilvy-Black,” someone heckles. Gerry, I think.

  Jack laughs, pushing his hand through his hair, and I’m sure I hear the entire female contingent of the wedding party sigh. “Sorry. Laurie Ogilvy-Black.”

  Beside me, Oscar reaches for my hand and I shoot him a reassuring little smile, even though my new name sounds clunky and strange on Jack’s lips.

  “Laurie and I have been friends for a few years now, good friends even, and right under my nose you’ve turned from Sarah’s clever, unassuming friend who once forced me to watch Twilight into”—he pauses and holds his hands out toward me, even though he’s three tables back—“into the woman you are today, someone with such incredible poise, someone spectacularly kind; you have a way of making every single person feel like the most important person in the world.” He looks down, shaking his head. “It’s no exaggeration to say you once saved my life, Laurie. You saw me at my very worst and you didn’t turn your back on me, even though you had every reason to. I was revolting and you were lovely. I’d lost sight of who I was, and you made me remember. I don’t think I ever said thank you, so I’m saying it now. Thank you. You tread lightly through life, but you leave deep footprints that are hard for other people to fill.”

  He stops and takes a slug from his wineglass, because he’s speaking as if we’re the only people here and I think he realizes that he’s veering close to too personal.

  “So there you have it. You’re bloody wonderful, Laurie. I miss you now we’re on opposite sides of the border, but I’m glad to know you’re safe in Oscar’s capable hands.” He raises his glass. “To you, Laurie, and you too, of course, Oscar.” He pauses and then adds, “You lucky bastard,” making everyone laugh, and making me cry.

  Jack

  “Jesus Christ, Jack. You may as well have just shagged her over the top table and been done with it.”

  I stare at Verity, who right this second resembles an angry feral kitten. Pretty, but she wants to scrape my eyes out. We’re in a corridor of the hotel, and I gather that she didn’t appreciate my impromptu speech.

  “What the hell was I supposed to do? Let Laurie die on her ass at her own wedding?”

  She fires bullets at me with her eyes. “No, but you didn’t need to make her out to be fucking Wonder Woman, either.”

  “She doesn’t wear her knickers over her jeans.” I know it’s a mistake as soon as it leaves my lips, but I’ve had three glasses of toast champagne and I don’t like being mauled on my home turf.

  “You’re clearly on intimate fucking terms with her knickers,” Verity snarks, her arms crossed over her chest.

  I relent, because she’s here as my guest and I can see that it must have been slightly irksome hearing your new boyfriend praise another woman quite so fulsomely. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? But you’re wrong, Laurie and me truly are just friends. It’s never been anything more than that, I promise you.”

  She isn’t ready to soften yet. “What was that crock of shit about big footprints?”

  “I was being metaphorical.”

  “You said she was wonderful.”

  I check there’s no one else in the corridor, then press Verity against the wall. “You’re more wonderful.”

  Her hand snakes around and grabs my backside. She doesn’t mess about, Verity. “Don’t you forget it.”

  I kiss her, if only in an attempt to stop that conversation going where it was heading. In response she bites my lip and starts tugging my shirt out of my trousers.

  Laurie

  “It was good of Jack to step up for Sarah.”

  I smile at O
scar, even though his words have sharp edges. “It was.”

  We’ve retired to our suite to freshen up in that lull between the wedding breakfast and the evening reception. I think “freshen up” is supposed to be a polite term for having sex, but that isn’t what Oscar and I are doing. He’s been tense since the speeches, and I’m desperate to work out how to clear the air because we should remember today forever for the right reasons.

  “Where’s Sarah again?” Oscar frowns and pinches the bridge of his nose, as if he’s struggling to remember the details of her absence. That’s probably because I didn’t provide him with many, a bad attempt to minimize the lie.

  “Back in Bath.” My tone is deliberately flat, and I turn away because my cheeks are flaming. I don’t want to argue, so I cast around for something to distract us and spot a gift bag standing on the hearth of the grand fireplace. Everything about our honeymoon suite is grand, from the size of the sunken bathtub to the four-poster bed that has a boarding-step beside it because it’s so “Princess and the Pea”–like.

  “What’s this?” I read the tag on the gift bag aloud. “To the happy couple, with love and gratitude from Angela and all of the wedding team. We hope you’ve had the day of your dreams.” I turn back to Oscar. “Ah, that’s lovely, isn’t it?”