by Polly Young
The Reverend took his place at the front of the church and peered over small, round spectacles.
“Listen carefully to the words of the vows,” he said solemnly. “When you stand before friends and family, you’ll be asked to give your word to love and honour each other. Be sure you have thought those promises through before you commit to making them in front of everyone who loves you.”
Feeling David’s eyes on her, Rosy concentrated on rising up on her tiptoes to recreate the feeling of standing in her Vivienne Westwoods.
“Can’t wait to do this for real,” he whispered and she nodded, unable to speak.
They soldiered through the motions. Charles played his role impeccably, handing Rosy across so easily that Rosy felt like screaming, “I’m leaving you! I’ll be gone soon! On the one hand this was all she had ever wanted. On the other, suddenly nothing on earth frightened her more.
Then it was over. Hope tried to drag out the final bars of Lord of the Dancebut Reverend Scott had to get back to judge the Victoria sponges, so they wound up ‘thank-you’s’ and headed to the Moon.
* * *
David took his brimming pint back to the table where Rosy was absorbed in conversation with a man he didn’t recognise. Their easy laughter rattled him somewhat and he composed his features to project interested benevolence. Things were going well with Rosy as far as he could tell, although sometimes it felt as though each step had six feet of eggshells underneath it. He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or uneasy that she didn’t want to talk about the past weeks at all. She hadn’t brought Angus up and had refused point blank to discuss Jen, too, and so they coexisted in a state of cautious trust. But he would take cautious trust over hostile separation any day.
“Hello,” he said amiably to Rosy’s companion. “Can I get you a drink?”
Tom Mason looked up. “I’m alright for now. You must be David.” He proffered his hand.
“Sorry — David, this is Tom Mason; a good friend of mine,” Rosy smiled, visibly more relaxed than she had been in church.
“Pleasure,” David said forcibly. “I’d like to say Rosy’s told me a lot about you, but ...” he gave her a mildly wintery smile.
She breezed over it. “His children are stars; they performed in the show at Christmas and Toby took a lead part a few weeks ago.”
“A talented woman, your future missus,” Tom said admiringly. “We weren’t too sure to begin with,” he said, “but she’s a bit of alright.”
Rosy turned the colour of her prawn cocktail crisp packet.
Another addition to the ‘I love Rosy’ fan club. His girlfriend’s admirers seemed to span Lytton. Quite how he was going to get to know all these people before the wedding was anyone’s guess, David mused. Perhaps he should have worked a few more names into the speech but that would be hypocritical. These people weren’t his friends. He drank the remainder of his pint too quickly. “Speech rehearsal, everybody.”
“Oh, good!” squealed Hope.
“Oh god,” muttered Rosy.
“My beautiful wife to be,” David announced, “has clearly made quite an impression around here. But then she’s always been admired for her choice in men.”
He waited. Silence. “Buddoom boom, chsh!” he tried. “No? Hmm. Hoping this weekend won’t be as wet as my audience ...”
Tom fixed his eyes on his pint. Rosy was looking at the floor and even Bernie was texting intently. Only Cathy Coaxham seemed to be listening. He struggled on valiantly but, as he plunged further into his cliché-riddled speech, David was puzzled as to why it felt as though he was delivering it to a bunch of strangers. And then he realised he was.
* * *
Later at the bar, because she smiled at him, David said ‘hello’ to the woman whose red hair glowed like a child’s sucked lollipop and whose nose would make for a transformational rhinoplasty.
“Great speech, Mr. Pettigrew.
At last. Someone who appreciated it.
“Really heartfelt. Not many men can put emotions into words like that. Cathy Coaxham. Pleased to meet you.”
“It’s easy being emotional about Rosy,” he said loyally.
She looked at him. “Certainly provoked her fair share of emotion around here.”
David looked quizzical.
“She’s one in a million,” Cathy continued, sipping thoughtfully. “Very dramatic.”
“Yes, of course,” said David warmly. “She’s a natural with kids. I can’t wait until she has ours treading the boards.”
“Oh. I thought ...”
“What?”
“Well, I didn’t think she wanted them.” Cathy looked uncomfortable as David’s expression darkened. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It’s something we’ve talked about but ...” he glanced at Rosy who was playing a complicated game of treasure hunt with Tom’s children. “Look at her, she’s a natural. And marriage means family,” he said confidently.
“Get you another?” Tom slid over to join them.
“Scotch, cheers.” Cathy said gratefully.
“I’ll see what your lovely wife to be wants.”
“Thanks,” David replied, “if you can pry her from those two leches.”
“Ralph and Alan,” Tom said, tight lipped, “are two of Rosy’s biggest fans.”
Of course they were. Quite apart from the dismal reception his speech had received, David’s collar was too tight and he’d burnt the inside of his nose on a candle trying to light his nostril hair in the church during the boring bits. Things were decidedly un-rosy and he was starting to feel decidedly miserable and cross.
But, by the time Tom and Rosy returned with drinks, he’d had come to a decision. Despite the uphill struggle conforming to the Lytton way of life was proving to be, if it was important to Rosy, he’d try.
Tom asked Rosy, who had joined them, the wedding date.
“No last-minute panic? Rushing out to buy something blue?”
“She’s got Storm’s collar as a garter.” David pinched Rosy’s bum.
“Don’t be stupid,” she said crossly.
“First dance?” Tom enquired. “I’ve got a mate who plays guitar.”
“Stuart!” exclaimed Rosy as he arrived on cue. “Just talking about you! Meet my fiancé. David, Stuart Belling.”
The pharmaceutical reception! David shook hands and hoped he’d imagined Stuart’s fleeting look of recognition.
“David was just telling us about their first dance,” said Tom.
“Don’t go for anything cheesy. No Wonderful Tonightsor I’ve Had The Time of My Lifes. You want a bit of class. A bit of spine tingling. How about Something?
“Hear that Rosy? Something’s definitely better than ‘nothing’!” David’s nostrils flared.
She’d already considered it. When Rosy was nine, her father would play the song over and over for Judy as they waltzed backwards and forwards around the kitchen, laughing as they spun.
Somethingwould have been perfect.
But, try as she might, she wasn’t sure if, when they heard the lyrics, “attracts me like no other lover” they would truly believe them. The Beatles had a lot to answer for. She watched David getting drunker, guffawing and wiping his mouth and knew in her heart that although they made a good couple on paper, paper could quite easily be screwed up, torn in half and thrown away.
* * *
He emerged from the gents, struggling with the zip on his flies.
“David?”
He turned. Her face was like marble: perfect and cold.
“It’s wrong.”
“Sorry; don’t think anyone saw. They’re done up now.”
“The wedding.”
She sighed and shadows from the sycamores danced on her cheeks. He tasted defeat before she spoke again.
“I can’t marry you.”
She was louder this time, her arms wrapped around her body. As always, there was something in the way she moved and he averted his eyes lest she see the shock and hur
t he felt radiating like searchlights.
“You can.’
“But I’m not going to. Not ... yet.” She looked down at her shoes and he saw a small splash of hope.
“Yet?”
“Neither of us are in the right frame of mind to walk down the aisle next month.”
He glowed. “So we just need time?”
“I don’t know.”
His heart lurched skywards as he saw his opportunity. He never should have mentioned Lytton. What a disaster Rosy’s last year had been, but he was damned sure it would get better from here on. He hugged her closely and thought about how fantastic it would be when she was back where she belonged.
“Right, we’re going back to London.”
Chapter 22
Rosy supported Vic’s pregnancy-induced love of cheesecake wholeheartedly. Kilburn might not be as famous for its biscuit bases as Baltimore but neither girl had any complaints about A Piece of Cake, a light, bright patisserie run by two beautiful Italian girls and their smouldering partners.
The big issues weighed heavily, as large as Vic’s blossoming tummy, but they dodged conversational minefields over slabs of Key Lime pie.
“How’s Ollie?”
“Fine; I think he’s moved out of his student place and in with some girlfriend.”
“Think?”
Rosy sighed. “I can never tell with Ollie. One minute he’s definitely moving in, then he doesn’t want to be ‘tied down’...”
Vic changed the subject. “Jo’s just gone back to college to become a nurse. Remember her? She used to wear suspenders when we got changed for PE? Anyway. She’s nearly thirty two.” Rosy blinked.
“And Katie P’s husband has just run off with a stripper,” Vic forged on. “She always was a bit too interested in money; just goes to show — marrying someone rich doesn’t always make you happy.”
Rosy shot her a look.
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s fine.” Rosy sucked her fork assiduously and gazed out at the pewter sky, hanging low over the fabric shop opposite. Gulls scavenged in the bins opposite the bus wall. Sweat pricked her neck inside her new chiffon blouse. “Let’s go, before it rains.”
They scudded out into the darkening afternoon. Rosy’s new Lillidiva handbag hung limply as they walked arm in arm down the hill. A motorcyclist roared towards them as they crossed the road and they clutched each other, cream cheese curdling in Rosy’s throat.
“Bloody London,” she muttered under her breath. She looked up at the gulls swooping and circling.
Vic frowned. “Come on, darling. It was your choice to move, remember? I’m worried about you. And I didn’t come all this way to spend a wet weekend with someone with a face like one.”
“Sorry.”
“And stop bloody apologising.”
Looming estates gave way to rows of half-a-million pound terraces with stainless steel plant holders, cats on the windowsills and rainbow-coloured doors, lined up like spectators at a Royal wedding.
“Nearly there,” Vic urged her on and they turned the corner onto Rosy’s pretty street. They tumbled through the door with the first fat drops of rain. Dizzy with heat and sugar, Rosy shot to the kitchen and held a glass of water to the light, watching filaments dance and settle.
“Hard water does my head in,” she complained. “It’s not like Lytton.”
“No,” said Vic seriously. “It’s not. London’s not like Lytton. What’s going on? Because this is the crux of it, babe: you aren’t in Kansas any more.” She did a small shuffle and clicked her heels. “We’ve established David’s millionaire potential. Doesn’t that make you happy?”
Rosy concentrated on the rim of the sink and was back in Angus’ kitchen. He would know what to do about limescale.
Vic had had enough. “Tell me what’s going on, Rosy,” she repeated. “I can’t take this much longer.
You call off the wedding; give the honeymoon to David’s sister and her new boyfriend and then clam up. I haven’t heard from you in weeks. I get it: it’s tough upping sticks again but for think about WHY you’re doing this: you and David have a future together. I thought that’s what you’ve been working towards. It was jolly sensible to call the wedding off if you ask me, but now you’re free to make a life for yourself without the pressure of seating arrangements and bridesmaids.”
“He wants children,” Rosy said shortly and walked past Vic into the small sitting room to launch an attack on the cushions.
Vic’s benign gaze infuriated her further.
“And I should want them too!” she fumed. “I’m thirty. I have a suitable career. I am fit and healthy and would make a good mother.”
“You’re not an advert on Auto Trader.”
“David’s the ideal father figure: good job; excellent prospects; a full head of hair and makes good cheese on toast,” she raged.
“Do you love him?” Vic asked quietly.
There was a flash of lightning.
“I love the idea of him,” she said. “I love the idea of us. I’m in love with ... “
“Convention.”
Rosy looked at Vic and knew that somewhere between the tummy and the cheesecake and the thunder and the cushions Vic was right.
* * *
Sadly, clarity has a funny way of blurring if you don’t seize it. Vic and her bump left for home on Sunday evening. David came back to the flat, bearing armfuls of French underwear and a grin like a Cheshire cat on acid and the mess of Rosy’s emotions distilled like one of Judy’s sauces; seeping instead into the all-consuming annual celebration that was David’s birthday.
They sat side by side on a sunny Tuesday evening, in a post-gastro pub stupor, outside The Duke of Cambridge, nursing cocktails and unspoken words. Their friends had finally dispersed and as Rosy watched the waitress clear the dirty plates away, she found herself wishing thoughts of weddings and Angus could disappear just as easily.
“What’s the plan now?” He licked his upper lip lasciviously. He was randy and her heart sank.
“I thought we could catch a film. I haven’t been to the cinema in ages.”
David lay back and stretched. “Not much culture in Lytton. Apart from your shows, obviously darling.”
She caught a waiter and ordered shots. David looked hesitant.
“We haven’t had a proper night out in ages. Tequila’ll hit the spot.” She hoped her voice didn’t sound as hollow as she felt and held out a square package.
“Another present!” He clawed at the paper excitedly. “Oh.”
She followed his eyes over the cover of the travel guide. What the hell. She pushed the boat out. “I’ve always wanted to go to Argentina. I thought we could go together.” There was a long silence.
“Next year, perhaps?” She watched the oars slip from the rowlocks and sink without a trace.
The waiter returned. David’s drink disappeared soundlessly.
“What about a family?”
“We have one,” she nodded at Storm, whose head nestled in the crook of Rosy’s knee. “I think it would be good to leave it a while and ... reassess.”
“You mean delay the wedding even further until you find someone better,” he said bitterly, and she knew she had gone too far.
She looked intently into his eyes and prayed to God that things would work out for both of them. “I love you, David. I love you ... but I’m not sure I can give you what you want.”
“You will.”
“Perhaps,” she downed her tequila and alcohol flooded her veins.
She looked around the courtyard. Lemon mint burgeoned in the manicured flowerbeds, lush, green and fragrant in the July sun. It was Jamie Oliver style heaven and a year ago, this would have made her happy. Now, all she could think of was Lytton and Angus. Being in love with two men was impossible, wasn’t it? She felt like a crazy person. Most people made decisions and ended up with the expected result. Why did she have absolutely no idea what to do?
David stood up. “I’m going
. You need to think.”
His expression made her want to curl up and die. “You know I love you, Rosy. We’re lucky that we love each other; lots of people never have that and love isn’t always the tie that binds. You know I want you to be the mother of our children. But if you really, truly believe that you will never want a family, we need to go our separate ways. I know what I want. I don’t understand why you don’t.”
And, still, neither did she.
* * *
As a Last Fun Week together, Vic and Roger were taking a first class trip to New York before the baby was born, so Rosy had insisted on a Last Fun Girly Weekend together too.
But Vic obviously had other ideas. The Baby Place in Maida Vale was her idea of hell.
Rosy had reluctantly agreed to visit the toddler Mecca on the pretext of ‘research’ for Vic’s unborn, but both knew it was just as much about encouraging Rosy to get broody. They walked through an arch smothered with pastel coloured rabbits to the sound of ‘Ring-a-roses’ and clapping. Cath Kidston cowboy print drawstring bags with appliquéd initials swung from pegs and the place smelled of crayons and milk. “Gosh, what fun,” Rosy quipped, as a large toddler lurched into his friend, head butting him like a goat.
A matronly woman bustled up reeking of rusks. Her hair was falling out of its bun cap and she had white smears all over her blouse but she looked as serene as Angelina Jolie in an OK shoot. “Hello darlings. Olivia. What are you after?”
“We’re just here to look,” Vic’s blooming gestation protruded proudly from her Boden dress. “If it’s alright with you. If we’ve any questions, we’ll ask.”
“Of course,” Olivia fluttered. “But please sign the visitor’s book. We can’t be too careful nowadays.” She cooed encouragingly at a noisome child, “Tarquin, don’t spit at Harrisa.”
“Isn’t that a bean?” Rosy whispered to Vic.
“Probably,” Vic whispered back. “These mothers are very proud of their organic boxes.”
Rosy stifled a giggle. Vic answered her phone, moving to the corner of the room and covering the handset surreptitiously. Rosy turned her back to the zoo to stare into a gymnasium-style room filled with devoted-looking couples rocking.
