by Jane Holland
My throat tightens. ‘What suggestion?’
He closes the bedroom door after us and pulls me closer, kissing my mouth. ‘That we should move into their place after the wedding,’ he says in my ear. ‘Where you’ll be safe from whoever got hold of the snow globe and sent it to you.’
I stop, pulling away from him in shock. ‘What?’
‘The top floor of their house is all ready to be turned into a mini-flat for us, your dad said. A bedroom, bathroom and sitting room. He’s been clearing it out.’ Dominic peers at me in surprise. ‘He said he told you about it.’
‘Dad told me he was tidying out Rachel’s old room. But not why.’
‘It’s a fantastic offer. Not only safer for you, but cheaper too. He says there’ll be no rent to pay. And the commute will be far shorter. We can make our own meals. We can be as self-sufficient as we want.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding.’
‘I know it goes against the grain. I know it’s not the way we imagined married life would be . . . You and me together in our cosy little flat. Nobody else around.’ He kisses me on the lips, as though trying to cajole me out of my disapproval. ‘But it’s the answer to everything. You must see that, baby. This way we can start saving for a deposit on our own place.’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘Hey, it’s not ideal, moving back in with your parents. Far from it.’ He gives a half-laugh. ‘But it wouldn’t be forever. And I know how much you get on with your mum. I thought you’d be pleased at the idea of spending more time with her. Aren’t you?’
‘Not if it means we lose . . . this.’ I look around at the untidy bedroom, my eyes misty. ‘This is our place, Dom. We’ve been happy here. So happy.’
‘And we’ll get our own place again in the future, and be happy there too. Even happier, because we’ll be owners, not tenants. Don’t you want that?’
He’s so persuasive, it’s hard to argue with him. And deep down, I know Dominic’s probably right. With everything that’s been happening lately, maybe the best option is for us to move into my parents’ home.
Like he says, it wouldn’t be forever.
I rub a hand across my face, suddenly exhausted. It’s been such a long day. ‘Yes, I suppose so. When you put it like that.’
‘That’s settled then.’
He turns off the light without any further discussion. We climb back into bed and lie together in the darkness, listening to the wind blowing and the muted sounds of traffic below.
Eventually his breathing slows, and I realise he’s asleep.
I lie there, turning events over in my mind, unable to sleep, and can see how Dad sending me the snow globe doesn’t make sense. Not after finding my wedding dress cut up tonight. I can’t imagine my father doing something that vile and creepy. And I’m not sure he’s capable of scaling our rusty old fire escape and climbing in through a bathroom window, and then rushing home to meet me for dinner. Not at his age. The same goes for Mum. And I can’t imagine that Kasia had anything to do with it.
Which means there’s only one person who could have destroyed my wedding dress.
And she’s dead.
Chapter Sixteen
‘You look beautiful,’ Dad says, patting my hand.
We are sitting in the back of the sleek white limousine as it pulls up in front of the Parish Church of Christ the Saviour in Ealing. I can see people waiting by the main entrance, the high steeple soaring above them into a grey, wintry sky. My two bridesmaids, sheltering in the arched stone porch, peek out and wave cheerily at the car. Their limo has parked further up the lane that runs beside the church. I can see the chauffeur leaning against the bonnet, having a cigarette.
My head still hurts from too many drinks last night. I hadn’t meant to go out at all. But Louise turned up at my parents’ house, where I’ve been staying alone for the past few days, with a bottle of wine and some chocolates. And then my cousin Jasmine arrived and all my careful plans for an early night were blown out of the water. An hour later, we were in the pub at the end of the road, playing a drinking game.
I glance up at the sky through the back window of the limousine. It looks cloudy, but no sign of rain yet. It’s forecast for later today though, and everyone outside looks cold. The women are holding on to their hats in the stiff breeze. In top hats and with tails flapping, Dominic’s ushers peer down the path to check I’ve arrived safely, then one nips back inside the church. To tell the organist I’ve arrived, presumably, and give Dominic’s best man the nod.
We went through it all at the wedding rehearsal. Twice. It should go like clockwork, the vicar said, assuming no last-minute problems.
So far, so good.
I’m nervous, all the same. Not sick-nervous, thankfully. But my knees are a little shaky, and the distance between the limousine and the church door suddenly looks like a long way.
Dad studies my face. ‘You okay, darling?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Sure?’
‘It’s my wedding day, Dad. Of course I’m fine.’ I manage a tremulous smile. ‘Better than fine, in fact.’
My lips are numb though, and it feels as if all the colour has drained from my face. Probably last night’s excesses still having an effect, even after several large glasses of water and some pick-me-up Alka-Seltzer. Or the chilly weather. This new wedding dress, while not as elegant or clinging as the mermaid style, is almost as flimsy. And mid-December is not exactly the right weather for short puff sleeves and a low-cut bodice.
‘I can ask the driver to take us back home, if you’ve changed your mind,’ he tells me, his voice low and earnest. ‘It’s not too late. We wouldn’t be cross.’
I stare at him. ‘Changed my mind?’
‘You look so pale . . .’
‘I told you, there’s nothing wrong.’ The chauffeur has come round and opened the door next to me. I gather my flouncy white skirt in one hand, my bridal bouquet in the other. The delicate white roses smell amazing. Wind tears at my hair arrangement and I fear for my silk rosebud tiara, carefully pinned in place by the hairdresser less than an hour ago. ‘Come on, let’s get inside before we get blown away.’
I climb out and the smartly liveried chauffeur gives me a helping hand, his smile admiring.
‘Lovely dress,’ he says.
‘Thank you.’
My father appears from the other side of the car, still looking uncertain, and takes my arm, guiding me towards the entrance porch. The wind drags on my skirt, but I just laugh. My nerves are still there, my legs trembling, but I’m excited now, too. ‘You look gorgeous, love!’ somebody shouts from the street, and I turn but can’t see who it is.
One of the ushers is talking to my father, but in such a low voice I can’t hear what’s being said.
‘Problem?’ I ask nervously.
My dad squeezes my hand. ‘They’re ready,’ he says in my ear, ‘if you are.’
‘I’m ready.’
My bridesmaids come running up, giggling. Louise looks skinny and smashing as always, her face rosy with cold. She hugs me briefly, then whirls aside, and there’s my cousin Jasmine, grinning too.
‘You make a fantastic bride,’ Jasmine tells me. She sniffs my bridal bouquet enthusiastically. ‘Oh, those roses and freesias smell amazing. Super combination.’ She does a quick twirl. ‘See, not a spot of dirt.’
I was worrying before she and Louise left the house earlier, after the visiting hairdresser had finished with us, that Jasmine would get her bridesmaid dress dirty. She’s got the most spectacular looks, dark-skinned and stunning, with a fabulous afro crown teased to perfection; her father is originally from Jamaica, her mother one of my mum’s cousins. But, by her own admission, she’s a bit of a tomboy. She nearly tore the hem of her dress running downstairs too quickly this morning, and I was fretting by the time she left in case she shut the dress in the door of the limousine, or caught it on one of the vast holly bushes near the church door.
‘I’m impressed,�
�� I tell her.
‘So what’s up? You look a bit peaky.’
‘Just nervous.’
Jasmine mock-punches my arm. ‘You’ll do brilliant, babe.’
I smooth out the skirt of my new wedding dress, wishing I still had my other one. It shimmered, and clung in all the right places, and made me look thinner than this one does with its big white lace flounces. But I push that thought aside. I’m not going to let the memory of what happened to that dress darken my wedding day.
‘Is he here?’ I ask in a whisper.
Louise, adjusting her bridesmaid’s tiara, looks round at me, perplexed. ‘Who?’
‘Dominic, of course.’
‘You bet. In fact, he insisted on getting here a full hour early, Richard said.’ Jasmine laughs, throwing her head back. ‘They couldn’t believe it when I said we were out on the razz last night. They had pizza and watched an action film on the telly, then got an early night. Apparently Dominic was terrified of oversleeping.’
I smile.
Dominic’s best man, Richard, is one of his work mates from the hospital. He’s a big guy with a bushy brown beard and hardly any hair, despite only being in his late twenties. I can just imagine him and Dominic sprawled on the sofa at our flat in front of a film, discarded pizza boxes everywhere, reminiscing about good times as single blokes.
‘Time to go,’ Jasmine says.
The wind whips Louise’s hair into my face and I blink, suddenly nervous again. Of course I’m fine. That’s what I told my father in the car. But is it true? Am I ready to marry Dominic? Marriage is such a huge step.
I peer inside while everyone is fussing around me. The parish church interior is vast and surprisingly ornate. It’s a Church of England service, but quite High Church. There are painted ceilings, and fluted pillars on both sides of the carved wooden pews, and the glow of candlelight is everywhere, augmenting the dull December daylight that comes streaming through the stained-glass windows. The pews to the back are empty, but further forward several rows are full. Mostly Dominic’s friends and work colleagues, by the look of it, though I recognise his aunt and uncle from photos. Since both his parents are dead, and he’s an only child, he was only able to invite a few members of his family to the wedding, which breaks my heart. Though my own family is hardly well-represented either, and he more than makes up for it with his friends, who are numerous and noisy.
Georgia and some of the others from my book club have come along too, even though I haven’t been recently. And I spot Petra and Sharon seated together near the front, heads bent, presumably reading the order of service pamphlets that are on all the pews. Unless they’re on their phones. Online shopping while they wait for the bride . . .
The organist has been playing an upbeat tune to keep everyone happy while they wait. We heard it from outside while the bridesmaids were getting into position behind me. But as I step through the porch door on Dad’s arm, there’s a short, pregnant pause, then the organ strikes up with the familiar opening bars of Wagner’s Bridal Chorus . . .
I see my mother, in the front pew, turning to look at us. Her face lights up under the cream brim of her hat.
Tears come to my eyes, and I stumble over the worn stone step.
‘Careful, darling.’ Dad clutches my arm. Then he asks again, hanging back slightly, watching me, ‘Are you sure you’re okay, Catherine? Do you need a minute?’
‘I’m fine,’ I repeat fiercely.
He gives a nod and we start the long walk to the altar. I only hope it’s true and I’m not kidding myself. Because if I trip up out of sheer nerves, and fall on my face going down the aisle . . .
Then I see Dominic, waiting for me in front of the altar. Everything comes rushing back into focus, like a zoom lens suddenly tightening on one vital spot. To my relief, the numbness vanishes and I can feel again. All my love for him, all our adventures together since we met, all the excitement and passion of our lovemaking, even the tender way he kissed me goodbye before I left for my parents’ house a few days ago.
I find myself breathing fast, my heart thumping wildly as if I’ve been running.
‘I love him,’ I gasp.
Dad jerks his head towards me. ‘What’s that?’
I shake my head silently.
‘I’m here for you, Catherine,’ he says. ‘Just lean on me.’
But I don’t lean on him. I stand straight and walk firmly, arm in arm with my father, towards the man in the grey-striped morning suit who has turned now to look at me.
I smile.
Dominic smiles back, his mouth broadening with pleasure as he looks me up and down. By the time he takes my hand, I’m no longer trembling. His own hand is cold, almost clammy. But his touch is reassuring.
Our eyes lock.
‘I love you,’ he mouths.
I want to say it back, but I’m too nervous in front of all these people. I feel a sense of purpose though, listening to the vicar as the marriage ceremony begins. A sense of destiny, even. This wedding is the start of our new life together.
I glance sideways at Dominic, and he turns his head, meeting my gaze. He looks so solemn, suddenly pale against the white of his formal shirt.
Is he nervous, too?
‘I love you,’ I mouth back at him, his anxiety making me braver.
His hand squeezes mine and he shoots me a grin. Back to the old, mischievous, loving Dominic.
All the same, I think, I won’t take his surname.
And I won’t promise to obey.
Chapter Seventeen
The reception afterwards is a simple ‘do’ above a pub off Ealing Broadway, because I refused to let my parents contribute to that too. They’re already paying for the honeymoon – a week in the Lake District, at Dominic’s suggestion, far from the demands of our work – and I hate the thought of being any more beholden to them. It’s bad enough that we’ve agreed to move into the top floor of their house. Though Dominic’s right to say it gives us a chance to save up towards a deposit for our first home.
Mum and Dad are standing near the bar, looking uncomfortable. They’re more used to expensive hotels in Kensington than something this informal.
But it’s not that bad. The staff have made a real effort, with a gorgeous finger buffet, and champagne already being handed out on our arrival from the nearby church. Plus, there are sprays of green and white flowers everywhere, courtesy of Louise, who has been kindly helping out with arrangements.
After the inevitably rambling speeches and toasts, someone puts some soft rock music on and Dominic grabs my hand and whirls me up into an impromptu dance.
‘My beautiful bride,’ my new husband whispers in my ear, spinning me round and round until I’m dizzy. ‘I can’t wait to get you into bed, Mrs Whitely.’
‘Miss Bates,’ I correct him, breathless.
‘Oh God,’ he groans. ‘I forgot. You want to keep your maiden name and stay your own woman, not take on the heavy chains of patriarchy.’ His hand tightens around my waist and he pretends to leer down at me. ‘Though maybe it’s not such a bad idea. Now I can be a married man and still see Miss Bates on the side.’
I laugh. ‘Bad man.’
‘Your bad man.’
‘I’m just glad you went through with it and didn’t run away.’
Dominic tips his head to one side, perplexed. ‘Sorry?’
‘You should have seen your face. I thought you were about to faint.’
‘When?’
‘In the church.’
‘That’s another lifetime ago,’ he says. ‘Bloody place was freezing, anyway. And you were late arriving.’ He pauses. ‘I did get cold feet, though.’
My heart almost stops. ‘What?’
‘Yes. I thought my toes were going to develop frostbite, I was sitting in that damn pew so long.’
I laugh and breathe again. ‘Sorry about that. The hairdresser took ages.’
‘I was beginning to wonder if I should prepare a little speech. Just in case you didn’t sho
w and I had to tell the congregation to go home without their finger buffet and champagne.’
‘I hope you would have kept the pressies, though.’
‘Absolutely.’ He grins at me. ‘We’re not giving anything back. Not even if we split up tomorrow. Have you seen that big parcel with the gold bow?’
My heart stutters, glancing towards the large pile of presents arranged at the back of the room. ‘The one with . . . with polka dot wrapping paper?’
‘That’s it. From Jasmine, apparently. I hope it’s a coffee machine.’ He leers again. ‘Hey, you never told me your cousin was so sexy. Bloody hell. I nearly had to beat the groomsmen off when she turned up at the church with Louise; she was getting mobbed. And once I’d had a peek, I could see why.’
‘Hey.’ I shove at his chest, mock-annoyed. ‘Married, remember?’
‘Oh yeah.’ He makes a face. ‘Damn.’
We both laugh and keep dancing. But I suddenly have two left feet, it seems, and Dominic has to stop me from colliding with the buffet table.
‘Careful,’ he whispers, and steers me back across the room.
His best man, Richard, is dancing with Louise. They make way as we sweep past, no doubt afraid I’m going to knock into them.
I’m not usually this clumsy.
Dominic was only joking, I tell myself, and try to calm down.
He’s mine now, I have to remember that.
All mine.
The reception is starting to wind down for the evening; the room is a little less crowded and my parents have already gone home, taking our wedding gifts with them for safe-keeping. Louise has called a taxi to take us to the hotel where we’re staying tonight. A little romantic interlude before we take a train up to the Lake District tomorrow, for a week at a rented cottage near the shores of Lake Windermere. I’ve been looking forward to it for ages.
I look across the room and see Dominic talking to Jasmine. It’s silly but I can’t help feeling ludicrously jealous, especially when he touches her arm, and she touches him back at once, smiling with genuine amusement. As if she is the bride, not me.
You never told me your cousin was so sexy.
