by JL Merrow
And anyway . . . it wasn’t a competition. What mattered was that we were there for each other. Speaking of which, Phil’s eyes had fluttered open, signalling his return to the land of the living.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Like crap.” His voice was muffled, which is what swollen lips and a jaw that’s wired together will do for you.
“And they say appearances can be deceptive,” I said, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “Surgery went well. They’re optimistic you won’t have much of a scar, which was a big weight off my mind, I can tell you. It’d be a bugger getting a stand-in for the wedding photos.”
He smiled. Well, gave it his best shot, anyhow. “Love you too.”
“Love you more, you daft git. What happened to always telling the other one where we were going?” I demanded.
Phil had the grace to look sheepish. “Wasn’t really in the mood to give you a call.” Then his eyes narrowed. “So if I check my phone, I’ll see a text message from you with your full itinerary?”
“No, ’cos your phone’s gonna be full up with missed calls from me and Darren. I s’pose I’m the reason it was turned off?”
“Can I plead the Fifth Amendment?”
“Not unless we move to America, no, and for various reasons, I’d rather not do that right now.” I grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Think we could restrict the snits to non-life-threatening situations?”
Phil huffed. “Probably not.”
Yeah, it was hard to argue with that. “And you turned your back on her. What were you looking at, for God’s sake?”
“Social media.”
I gave him a hard stare. “Let me get this straight. You nearly died because you were checking your bloody Facebook?”
“She logged me in to Axel’s accounts. Claimed there might be something on there that could explain things.”
“Huh. And that’s creepy in itself, her knowing his passwords.”
Phil nodded.
“Went both ways, though, I s’pose. Axel lied to protect her, even though it meant dropping his dad in it. Bit of a parenting fail on Lilah and Tarbox’s part there.” I moved on quickly, in case he was tempted to come out with anything like We’ll do better than that by our kids, which I wasn’t at all sure I was ready for. There’s only so many stressful conversations I can handle at once, and that number goes right down after near-death situations. “You can’t blame Axel too much, what with him being a kid and all screwed up about his stepdad.” Phil frowned, and I realised he hadn’t heard the whole story, so I filled him in on Axel’s tearful confession, pointing out the bits that weren’t actually true.
Phil looked thoughtful. “His real dad might blame him once he finds out Axel landed him with a fake motive for murder.”
“Yeah, but maybe he knew Tarbox had an alibi? And anyway . . . Remember your old mate Wayne Hills, back at school?” It felt weird, recalling our mutual schooldays, given just how badly we’d got on in those days, and I went on quickly. “Remember how he used to get all worked up when the teachers didn’t believe his excuses for not handing in his homework? Even though he’d made it all up about his granny dying, his mum having cancer, or the dog getting run over. Again.”
Phil nodded. “Because like he always said, ‘It could have been true.’”
“Yeah. Maybe Axel felt he had a right to be believed, and he was mad at his dad for, you know, not.” I sighed. “You’ve got to feel bad for Tallulah, though. I mean, she was only trying to protect her nephew.”
Phil huffed. “Already done that, hadn’t she? When she sent Parrot packing back to Camden. She didn’t have to kill him. If you ask me, she’d been waiting years for a chance to get back at her sister, and Parrot’s death was as much about that as about what she thought he’d done to Axel.”
“Yeah, maybe. She had to have known what she was doing when she sent that message luring Jonny-boy to the canal using Lilah’s phone. Funny, though, innit? Here Tallulah is, all riled up at Lilah for, as she sees it, getting all the breaks, but it’s Tallulah who ends up with everyone lying to save her from a murder charge. Well, Tarbox and Axel, anyhow. I’m pretty sure Oliver was only keeping shtum so he could blackmail her.”
“And Tarbox killed to protect her from that,” Phil mused. “Think he still loved her?”
For some reason it surprised me he’d said that. Was thinking about it. “S’pose he must have. Or cared, anyhow. Just not as much as she wanted him to, God knows why. He’s a right piece of work. He definitely deserves what’s coming to him.” Even if the man he’d killed had been a blackmailer covering up a murder . . .
Sod it. The only person coming out of this smelling of roses, as far as I could see, was Hazel. Poor kid. I hoped she and Axel would get over it all. “You ever see Wayne Hills these days?” I found myself asking.
“God, no.”
I stifled a laugh at the force in his tone. Wayne Hills had been a vicious little shit. He’d been there the day I hurt my hip too. “Good.”
I sat there holding Phil’s hand for a mo. Enjoying his continued presence in my life. Also, if I was honest, putting off what needed to be said. Then I told myself to man up, and got on with it. “Listen . . . Sorry I flew off the handle about the honeymoon. I was short on sleep, I’d just had Mum and Dad bending my ear . . . Point is, I might have overreacted a bit.”
“No. You’re right. I should’ve asked you first.” He gave me a weak, lopsided smile. “It really was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”
“Of all the times to develop poor impulse control . . . actually, you know what? You can book a dozen bloody holidays without my input if it stops you running off to get your head smashed in.”
“Same goes for you, you know.”
“Oi, who’s the one lying in the hospital bed with his jaw held on with wire? Some of us know how to duck.”
“Don’t push it, Paretski.”
I gave up the struggle to keep my face straight at the way my surname came out sounding. “Wouldn’t dream of it. So where are we going, then?”
“Southern Italy. Sorrento.” He had to say it a couple of times. “I remembered you saying you wanted to go.”
He did? I wasn’t sure I could. “When?”
“Last summer. After the fire at the Dyke. We were on our way back from hospital in the cab, and you said, ‘Let’s go and see Pompeii.’”
Oh. Now he mentioned it, it did ring a faint bell. It’d been the early hours of the morning. I’d been weary to the bone and light-headed with exhaustion, and we’d just sorted things out between us after a bit of an iffy period. I’d barely known what I was saying. The next day—or the same day, technically speaking—had been my thirtieth birthday, and Phil had gone down on one knee and asked me to marry him.
Was it any wonder all thoughts of holiday destinations had vanished from my brain? But Phil, with his copper’s mind, had been taking notes.
“And it’s close to the Amalfi Coast,” Phil was saying, “so we’ll get to drive that coast road you see in all the car ads, and there’s those blue skies and lemons trees you were after. And the beaches to laze about on when you’re fed up with poking around old ruins.”
My conscience got all stabby at that point, ’scuse the pun. ’Cos now I could remember going on about all that—the lemons, I mean—back when we’d been talking about Cherry and Greg’s honeymoon in cooler climes. And another time, when we’d been watching the telly: I’d made an offhand comment when the car ad came on that I wouldn’t mind zipping past those sheer drops and (hopefully) cheating death by a whisker on the hairpin bends, then parking up on the cliff for a Cornetto. “Oi, I’ll never get fed up with you,” I joked weakly. “And you shouldn’t talk about yourself that way.”
Phil managed a chuckle, which was more than it deserved. “It was supposed to be a nice surprise.”
“Well, uh, it was. A surprise. And, you know, nice. Just not both at the same time.” I kissed him again, feeling like even more of an ungra
teful git. It had been a bloody touching thing to do, above and beyond the call, and I’d gone and stomped all over it in my size nines. “But, uh, thanks. For being so thoughtful, and, you know, actually listening to the guff that comes out of my mouth. You realise I’m going to be watching what I say from now on, don’t you? In case it gets taken down and used as a romantic gesture against me.”
“No. That’s your lot. One romantic gesture per marriage.”
Yeah, right. Like I believed that. “It was a good one. Despite one of us being a wanker about it. I should probably let you get some rest,” I said reluctantly, because I could tell it was costing him to keep talking.
“Wait a mo. There’s something I wanted to say. I know you’ve been thinking about us having kids, lately.” Phil stopped, possibly because I was staring at him, open-mouthed.
“Me? You’re the one who keeps bringing the subject up and who’s suddenly acquired an encyclopaedic knowledge of Disney films.” Apparently we’d be having that stressful conversation after all.
“Yeah, and you’re the one who gets this hunted look every time kids are even mentioned in passing.”
Oh. He meant that kind of thinking about it. As in, second-thoughts thinking about it. “I do want them,” I said quickly, and swallowed. “But I think we ought to have a couple of years to ourselves first.”
I braced myself, but Phil squeezed my hand. “We will. I’m fine with waiting. I just . . . I was worried you’d thought better of it altogether. Decided your independence was too important to you.”
Heady relief made me grin. “Oi, I’ve got two cats. How much independence do you think I’ve had the last few years?”
“Kids are a little bit more of a commitment.”
“I know. And I want to do that. With you. But let’s get the wedding over first, yeah?”
“I never meant to rush you into stuff,” Phil said. “With the moving in . . . It kept dragging on, and in the end I thought maybe you’d find it easier if I just went ahead and did it.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not wrong. Sometimes I need a kick up the bum, that’s all. You’ve never rushed me into anything I didn’t really want.” I stroked his hand, probably looking all kinds of soppy and not giving a toss. “And I can’t wait for you and me to get hitched, penguin suits and all.”
“Even though you didn’t get to choose the honeymoon?”
“Oh, I’m especially looking forward to the honeymoon.” I sent him my best come-hither smile. “Well, as long as they get those wires off your jaw by then.”
Five Months Later
I was back in Mum and Dad’s house, and my dad was helping me get dressed. It was like being a toddler again, only without the risk of impending temper tantrums and/or toilet accidents.
Although mind you, Dad was getting on a bit.
Gary had managed to convince us that there would be dire karmic consequences if me and Phil were to lay eyes on each other on the morning of the wedding. We’d agreed they’d mostly consist of Gary bringing it up in tones of doom and gloom every time one of us so much as stubbed a toe, but that was bad enough to persuade us to go along with it. So I’d moved back into Mum and Dad’s for the night so Phil could have our house to himself, his mum’s place not having enough spare room to fit in a hamster. Christ alone knows how him, his sister, and his two brothers managed to grow up there with both parents still alive, although I had a fair idea that his mum’s wardrobe had expanded exponentially since those days. On that hopefully far-off day when she finally departed this mortal coil, Phil would probably be able to open his own branch of Primark.
At least it meant I didn’t have to struggle into all the gear unaided, Dad having rather greater experience with formal wear than I did. He adjusted my cravat, gave my buttonhole a jiggle to make sure it was secure, and stood back. “You look very smart.”
“Yeah, you too.” We grinned at each other for a mo.
Then he stared down at his feet. As his shoes had been new for Cherry’s wedding and not worn since, and had been freshly polished last night, I didn’t reckon he was finding fault with his footwear. He coughed. “I want you to know, it never made any difference to me.”
“Uh, it didn’t?” That was what I said out loud. Inside it was more like, What? That I never went to university? That I’m gay?
“That you’re not . . .Well. Who your real father is.”
Oh. That. “You are,” I said, my voice coming out a bit thick for some reason. “You’re my real dad. You’re the one who brought me up. Taught me how to shave and . . . and all the other stuff. You’re my dad.”
I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, which felt bonier than you’d think in his posh suit, and squeezed him tight.
Only for a moment, mind. Then we both backed off and cleared our throats while checking out the carpet.
“Shouldn’t we—” Dad said, just as I started with, “Think we’d better—”
Then we both looked up, and I’m assuming my face was as red as his. “Right,” I said decisively. “Here we go, then.”
So we went. Down the stairs, out the door, and into the posh car with a ribbon on the front that’d take me to get hitched. Picking up Mum on the way, obviously. She’d have been a bit miffed if we’d left her at home.
What can I say? If you’ve been to a wedding, you know what it was like.
We were having the ceremony outdoors, in the very extensive Cottonmill Hall gardens—they’d assured us they had contingency plans for the likely event of rain, but for once the British weather smiled upon us. Chairs were set up in the traditional his and his sections, divided by an aisle, down which we would be walking any minute now towards a gleaming white gazebo housing a beaming (and also white, as it happened) registrar.
Phil was waiting for me at the back of the chairs. Always easy on the eye, in that suit, on our wedding day, he was . . . bloody hell, I had to pinch myself to be certain it was all real. That this bloke, Phil Morrison, my crush since I’d been a spotty teenager and he’d been so deep in the closet that his best mates were talking animals, was actually getting married to me.
I kind of wanted a time machine so I could go back and tell both our past selves about it. Then I thought better of it—past me wouldn’t believe it, and past Phil would probably throw a punch at me.
“You look gorgeous,” present Phil, the one I much preferred, whispered as I joined him.
“You too,” I said, my voice hoarse. There was only the faintest trace now of where Tarbox (currently banged up awaiting trial, where I hoped they’d throw the flippin’ book at the bastard) had hit him. He filled out his posh togs like he’d been born to wear them, top hat and all.
“Ready for this?” he asked, with a hint of a smirk.
“Whoops, no, changed my mind—joking, all right?” I swallowed down a stray bit of sentiment and added, “Never been more ready in my life.”
It seemed to go down pretty well.
Greg, being a Church of England bishop-elect—yeah, he’d got that promotion—wasn’t allowed to officiate at a same-sex wedding, which he’d been good enough to apologise for. Weird to think he was now in a position where he might be able to do something about that. So instead, we had the Deputy Registrar for St. Albans come out to do the honours. She was a jolly middle-aged woman who dressed like the Queen: everything matching and everything thirty years out of fashion but still looking lovely on her.
Mum sat in the front row in her brand-new Country Casuals frock, dry-eyed but smiling, holding Dad’s hand. Cherry, wearing something shapeless and navy blue, bawled her eyes out, which was frankly worrying, while Greg held her hand. Phil’s mum (tight pink skirt and matching jacket) blew her nose loudly, while Leanne (who was in a posh white dress and got herself mistaken for the nonexistent bride more than once) did that flapping motion women do to try to stop their mascara running. It worked, which goes to show the benefits of professionally applied makeup.
Phil’s brothers, Jase and Nige, were squeezed into M&S
suits and clearly uncomfortable—whether with the formal wear or the occasion in general, was hard to tell. We hadn’t been certain Nige would come all the way back from his North Sea oil rig to watch us get hitched, but we hadn’t reckoned with Phil’s mum. My brother looked like he’d shined his bald head especially for the occasion, but fair dues, it was pretty warm. Mike Novak and his wife and son were sitting in the row behind Mum and Dad, which I’m sure didn’t make the two women involved feel uncomfortable in the slightest. Their ramrod-straight posture was almost certainly down to some particularly vicious shapewear. Mike and Dad, of course, had greeted each other like old friends. Maybe by the time I’m attending my kid’s wedding, it’ll have stopped weirding me out.
Phil and I didn’t go in for any of that write-your-own-romantic-novel vows bollocks, because we’re way too British for all that. And there were no words I could have come up with would have done justice to how I felt. This was it: me and my bloke, standing up in front of all of our family and friends, and it was the act, not the words, which was important. We kept it simple, promising our commitment to each other in a few short sentences and swapping the rings over from our right hands to the left.
Okay, I might have thrown in an off-the-cuff “I promise to always come and rescue you when you go off to get yourself murdered,” and Phil might possibly have added, “What he said.”
There was a loud sniff from Cherry’s direction at that point, and she disappeared entirely into one of Greg’s voluminous hankies when we turned round after being pronounced “Husband and husband” (we’d reckoned partners for life didn’t have enough of a married vibe).
Then it was confetti and photos. And further photos. I suspected Dad of having a word with the photographer, quite aware he’d never get me this well-dressed ever again. Although some of it could have been down to the ridiculously photogenic venue.
