by Adele Parks
‘He’s so very excited about becoming a father. He loved going to the scan. He insisted on coming along. What a tender, wondrous moment that was.’ I don’t know what to say. It’s obvious she’s trying to goad me. ‘Anyway, I’m ringing to make some plans for the actual day. Just five days to go now. I can’t believe it.’
‘Nor can I,’ I mumble.
‘Oh, come on Mel. Don’t be a sore loser.’ She’s enjoying this. ‘I want the girls to come to the hotel before the ceremony.’
‘That’s not necessary. We can meet you there, five minutes before the start.’ I don’t want the experience to stretch on any longer than it must. But then I remember it’s going to stretch on for ever. She’ll be his wife. She’s having his baby.
‘It’s traditional to take some photos before the service. I want the girls in the photos,’ she says with the determined certainty of a monarch.
‘Fine,’ I mutter, resentfully resigning myself.
‘Are you knitting, yet?’ Abi quips. ‘I know it’s all a little back to front but so many couples do it this way, nowadays, don’t they?’ I refuse to answer her question, refuse to indulge her. ‘Aren’t you excited about becoming a grandmother?’ Her voice is gloating. She’s won. The battle, the war. Of course she has. She was arming up when I hadn’t even realised we were enemies.
‘What time do you want us?’ I ask.
‘About ten. We’ve taken over the entire hotel – lots of our guests have rooms because they’ve travelled a distance. We’ll be serving champagne in the reception bar all morning. Do you remember the bar, Mel? It’s sumptuous.’
Every word is like a blow. I do remember visiting the bar, when I was under her spell. Has she chosen that hotel to rub salt in my wounds? I mean, there are other hotels in Northampton. Why get married up here at all? Why not in London? I’d have thought that would suit her media friends more. ‘OK. Ten.’
I’m about to ring off when she asks, ‘Do you have a view about what flowers the girls should carry?’
‘Aren’t they ordered yet?’ It’s late in the day to still be finalising details such as flowers for the bridal party but, I quash the impulse to care.
‘Oh, I’ve ordered both baskets of petals and bouquets of small roses. I just wondered which you thought might work best. I mean, I consider you a quasi-Maiden of Honour.’
I’m clasping the phone so tightly my knuckles are white; through clenched teeth I say, ‘I’m sure whatever you pick will be great. You have good taste.’
‘Don’t I just,’ she says, her tone entirely nudge, nudge, wink, wink.
‘I didn’t mean—’ Obviously, I didn’t intend any innuendo about her having good taste in men. It cost me to pay her a compliment, and I want to bash my head against the wall in disgust that what I said might be taken to have a deeper meaning. I’m nervous. Not thinking clearly.
‘I ordered the flowers from that lovely little florist in Wolvney’s garden centre,’ says Abigail. ‘You know the one. It’s called Bloomin’ Lovely.’
I know it. I also know the woman who owns it; she has a son in Lily’s class. I’m certain I mentioned that to Abi when we visited once, so I doubt her choice is arbitrary; she probably knows the proximity will cause me some embarrassment. ‘You’re getting your flowers there? I thought you might use somewhere in Northampton.’
‘I’m really trying to make this celebration as local as possible, you know, for Liam.’
This doesn’t make any real sense. Traditionally brides try to celebrate ties to their local area, not the groom’s, and anyway, why would Liam care where the flowers are ordered from? I can imagine Abi sniggering to herself. The name Bloomin’ Lovely seems potent, with inferences of fertility, fruitfulness, fecundity.
‘Can you pick up the flowers on the morning and bring them over to me? I mean, it makes sense if you’re bringing the girls over to the hotel.’
I see she’s locking me in, ensuring I don’t change my mind on the day. She doesn’t wait for me to respond but takes my agreement as given. She has me over a barrel.
Mothers rush towards tsunamis to save their children. They find the strength to lift cars. They run back into burning buildings. I know, because I’ve spent a lot of time Googling acts of heroism that mothers have performed for their children. In each case the mothers say it’s not heroism, it’s more basic than that. It’s instinctual. There was one Canadian mother I read about who threw herself between an eighty-eight-pound cougar and her child. She took a mauling but they both survived. The irony isn’t lost on me. I feel thwarted. It’s a stark reality but the only way I can show my son how much I love him is by doing nothing, saying nothing, appearing to accept what he’s chosen. It’s strange to know this and yet to want to kill her. I mean, not for real but, well, almost. For the first time, I understand what people mean when they talk of crimes of passion. When things just get out of control, when you can’t stop yourself. You’re not planning it. You just can’t not do it. You can’t do the right thing. You no longer know what that even is.
I imagine her being gone. Not pushing her under a bus exactly. Just her gone.
‘Yeah, I’ll pick up the flowers.’
‘Excellent. That’s settled then. Look, I haven’t got time to chat any longer. I should go. I’m meeting Liam for dinner. See you on the big day. Do text if there are any problems with the dresses.’
Then she hangs up.
I throw the phone at the hall wall. It makes a satisfying dent. I can’t believe I once painted that especially for her arrival. More sensible preparation would have been barricading the door, heating tar, sharpening knives.
53
Liam
Friday 22nd June
Dan is snoring and farting. I know it’s tradition that the Best Man stay over the night before the wedding but I’m seriously regretting sharing the hotel room with him. It’s not just that he’s considerably less fragrant than Abi, it’s just . . . I dunno. I wish he was awake and talking, instead of sleeping. Normally he talks a lot. Non-stop. That’s why I asked him to be BM. Subject matters of choice: football, drinking, and shagging. He does two of those things a lot, the third, not so much. A lot of wishful thinking, artful bullshitting. Abi has been really worried about his speech. She made him write down what he was planning on saying and show her it, then she edited it like an English teacher. Well, to be precise, she paid some professional to re-write it completely. I think Dan was a bit put out – he’d really worked on his speech – but Abi says his chatter redefines banal. I guess he can talk a lot of nothing. It’s what I like about him. He’s not heavy.
Everything seems heavy in my life right now.
I check my phone. Snapchat is full of messages from mates. Most are just memes taking the piss out of marriage. You know, pictures of hot brides with think bubbles: ‘Now I can get fat’, or words of wisdom like ‘Marriage – a deck of cards: starts with hearts and diamonds, ends with you wanting a club and a spade.’ I’ve been receiving similar since we sent out the invites. They normally make me laugh.
Today, they sort of piss me off. I’m not sure why.
Abi has sent a Snap of her tits. They’re great. They cheer me up. Not that I’m uncheerful. Nervous, I guess. That’s it. It’s to be expected, right? We only ever Snap now, after the whole thing with that twat Rob threatening to post the video Mum sent him. It bothers me that he has that. I know he’s promised not to release it now they’re divorced, but as Abi says he could change his mind at any point. It’s a good thing I don’t want to go into politics anymore; he could hold it over us for ever. He’s obviously a total bastard.
Dan wakes himself up snoring too aggressively, then turns over and goes back to sleep again. It’s five a.m. I can’t expect him to be up – we were still drinking just four hours ago. Austin would have been up with me, though.
I check my texts. Mostly, it’s just Mum and Dad who text me, so I’m not really expecting anything at all. It’s not likely that they’ll suddenly start sending ec
static parental advice and greetings. But. Well. I’m just checking.
Then I look at Facebook. There’s a message from Marsha, Tanya’s bezzie. I like Marsha. Well, I used to. We got on well enough for a boyfriend and a best friend. Obviously, we’re not exactly harmonious right about now. Her message, posted at two a.m., reads: You are a fucking wanker. Do you know what you have done? Tanya is destroyed. I bet she was drunk. I delete the message but I still hear the words. They’re true enough to hit home. The thing is, Tanya and I were good together. I did really care for her. At the time, I thought I loved her. I never meant to hurt her. But then Abi came along. It wasn’t as though I was comparing like for like. Abi was on a different stratosphere. The sex, London, the hotels and now the baby. It’s a wild ride. I do sort of miss Tanya, though. She’s cute. We used to have a laugh.
I send Abi a Snap but she doesn’t respond. I guess she’s asleep.
The room’s stifling. Dan switched off the air-con last night, says it gives him a bad throat.
I turn over my pillow to find a patch of coolness. Mum always tells me to do that. I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep. It’s like I can hear her voice saying stuff: ‘You have a long day ahead of you, try and get some sleep, you’ll enjoy it more then.’
My mum’s voice. How weird is that? It’s not like I’ve heard her actually speaking to me for ages and even when I did, she said nothing but vile stuff that I didn’t even want to listen to. Abi is a saint to have forgiven her over the sex video and all the other bitchy things she’s done. Abi just has me front-of-mind all the time. She’s always saying that she only ever wants what will make me happy. That’s why she was so against me inviting Mum to the wedding. She said, of course she knew it was the right thing to do, because I was worried that one day I’d regret not inviting her, but she tried to stop me because she didn’t want to see me hurt if Mum turned down the invite. Abi’s right. That would have hurt like hell. She didn’t, though. She’s said she’ll come. Abi keeps warning me not to get my hopes up. She says even if Mum does come, it doesn’t necessarily mean we’ll find our way through this. Abi treats me like an adult. She admits some things can’t be fixed.
I dunno if Mum will come or not. She just can’t get her head around us being a couple. Abi told me they always had a peculiar relationship. She said Mum was always jealous of her. That they were continuously fighting over boys when they were younger. That messes with my head. Can’t go there. Abi says Mum sees me as the last one in a line of boys they fought over. That’s just fucking weird.
But. Well, I sort of hope she does come. I know Dad will and the girls, but I’d like Mum to be here too.
She’s nuts and annoying and totally controlling but she’s my mum.
54
Melanie
The first thing I do when I wake up on the big day is check my phone. I’m hoping there’s a text from Liam saying he wants to call the whole thing off. There isn’t.
Ben stirs, turns to me and sees me holding my phone. ‘At least you have his new number now.’
‘Yes.’ Although in fact he texted Ben, not me, so he didn’t exactly give it to me, Ben did. But yes, yes I have it. A means to contact my son. A lifeline.
It’s a hot morning. Not a breath of a breeze. The sun is flooding through the curtains, making the still air stale and showing the dust on every surface. The phrase ‘Happy is the bride that the sun shines on’ pops into my head. Maybe so. But in my view, today is far too hot for a wedding. Eyelids and flowers will droop, hair will tend to frizz rather than curl, people’s throats will be dry and they’ll drink more champagne than is sensible. Tempers will be a little shorter. It is a day to be at the beach. Bright blue skies buttressed against the curl of waves; it is not a day to be in a city. I wish I could run away.
I get out of bed and fling open a window. I breathe deeply but feel I’m suffocating.
‘Do you remember his Ben Ten phase?’ I ask Ben. ‘He had a Ben Ten bucket and spade. Do you remember, we bought it at Frinton on Sea?’ I’d give anything to be a normal family, piling towels and deckchairs into the back of the car, squabbling about who is sitting in which seat, moaning that the traffic is too slow, anticipating ice-creams.
Ben is lying with his hands behind his head. He looks handsome and capable. I can’t remember why I thought my family wasn’t enough, why I thought I needed to have Abi stay with us to make our lives more interesting. ‘Absolutely, I do,’ Ben replies with a wide, gentle grin. ‘He had a Ben Ten lunchbox and bath towel too.’
I smile at the memory. ‘Underpants, cap, tent.’
‘Beanbag.’
‘He loved him because he had your name.’
‘Or maybe he loved me because I had Ben Ten’s name,’ laughs Ben.
‘Do you remember how we’d be going about our business when suddenly he’d stand dead still and then start hitting his wrist.’
‘His Omnitrix,’ Ben corrects. ‘And he’d yell “I am Heatblast. I am Diamondhead.”’
I laugh, impressed. ‘How do you remember their names?’
‘Easily, it seems like yesterday.’
And it does. That’s the problem. I can still see his little body quivering with excitement. I can still feel the weight of him on my lap, lips pursed as he mouths the words of his reading books. Ben must be having similar thoughts because he asks, ‘Do you remember how he liked to sit on my shoulders when we were walking down the street?’
‘He did that for far longer than he should have.’
‘Yes, probably.’
‘I thought you were going to develop disc problems!’
‘Dad, Dad, make me the king of the castle.’ Ben repeats the phrase that Liam used to yell.
‘Yes! That’s what he’d say. And you could never refuse him. I had to have Imogen just so you would make him walk,’ I add, laughingly. We both fall silent. Lost in the memories. Safe there. I sit back down on the bed. Not ready to start the day. Not sure I’ll ever be ready.
Ben kisses my forehead, tenderly. ‘You should text him.’
‘What would I say?’
‘Something good.’
I wonder whether Liam is feeling nervous, excited, lonely even? Have they observed tradition and slept apart last night? If so, where did Liam sleep? Who is he with now? I hope he’s at one of his friends’, maybe Dan, he’s a funny, easy-going lad. He’d be good company. I hope he has someone.
My phone rings. I grab it without even checking who is calling. Hoping that I’ve somehow conjured Liam by thinking about him, longing for him.
‘Liam,’ I say anxiously.
‘Erm, no, it’s Jennifer.’ For a moment, I have no idea who Jennifer is. I can’t place the voice. The caller obviously realises this and helps me out. ‘Austin’s mum.’
‘Jen, of course. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking straight.’ Ben jumps out of bed and takes the opportunity to nip into the shower. We’re going to need to be efficient this morning, if we’re to get the girls prepped and at the hotel by ten.
‘Busy day?’ asks Jen, as though she is in the room and witness to Ben’s speedy retreat.
‘Well, yes. I suppose.’
‘I won’t keep you. I was just wondering if you knew anything about the policy on confetti.’
‘Confetti?’
‘I didn’t want to call the hotel because they are bound to say it’s not allowed at all if I ask, and I really don’t want to hear no. Sometimes there are questions that are best not asked. I love confetti, don’t you?’
‘Well, I suppose.’ I can’t quite catch up with the conversation.
‘But I thought maybe the bride might prefer petals or even rice; some girls don’t like confetti nowadays, do they? The dye gets on their dresses. I’m in Paperchase, at the station, right now. They have a great range. I was wondering petals, pink or white? Or satin hearts? I mean, is it a full-on themed and coordinated wedding or can I just take a punt?’ Jen sounds excited. Happy. It’s been so long since I heard either emotion in her voice
that I hardly know how to respond. Since Austin was killed her voice has been thick with grief. Sore. Flat.
‘You’re coming to the wedding?’ I ask.
‘Well, yes. We were invited.’ Jen immediately sounds less happy, less certain and I realise her confidence is tissue thin. I feel dreadful.
‘Absolutely, of course. I’m so glad he invited you. So glad.’ And I am. Because there’s something about this gesture that shows Liam is still Liam. Kind, thoughtful and, importantly, connected to his old life. ‘It’s just I haven’t had much to do with the wedding planning. I didn’t know,’ I confess. ‘It will be lovely to see you and Matthew. Really lovely.’
Jen immediately realises something is a bit off but tries to quickly gloss over any possible problems. ‘Wedding planning tends to be the bride’s domain, doesn’t it? I guess her mother has been quite hands on, has she? Since they’re so young, they’ll need some guidance, I should imagine.’
If only that was what I was dealing with here – a competitive in-law. ‘It’s a bit complicated,’ I admit.
‘How so?’ Jen asks this calmly. Her manner suggests nothing can surprise or shock her. I suppose it can’t, not anymore.
‘He’s marrying a friend of mine, someone I’ve known since university, actually. A woman my age. She’s pregnant,’ I blurt.
‘Oh, I see.’
‘It’s not what I imagined for him.’
‘No, I don’t suppose it is.’ Her voice is soothing, accepting.
‘We’ve rowed about it. He’s dropped out of college. He won’t be going to university.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
She’s so tranquil and composed that I find myself adding, ‘Abi, the woman he’s marrying, was married to his father.’
‘I’m sorry, you’ve lost me now.’
‘His biological father. Liam doesn’t know.’
‘Does she?’
‘No. I don’t know what to do. If I tell Liam now he’ll think I’ve chosen this moment in the hope of stopping the wedding, but if I don’t tell him, and it comes out later, there will be more trouble and he’ll never forgive me.’
