by Unknown
I think maybe we might manage. There’s enough affection to see us through and although this isn’t exactly the fairytale ending I was hoping for, I could do worse than marry Scott. He could do worse than marry me. It could be worse.
‘It’s not exactly like I’ve been unfaithful,’ he points out carefully. ‘You and I haven’t actually had sex yet and tomorrow, after the wedding, we will and it’ll be like starting again.’
‘Ben thinks you are only marrying me as a PR stunt. Is that true?’
‘This is why I like you, Fern. Other women wouldn’t care. They’d take me any old way,’ he replies, neatly sidestepping the issue.
I force the point by remaining silent; after what seems like a millennium he admits, ‘It’s part of the reason I wanted to marry you but I could have married anyone. You are a gorgeous girl from a flower shop, but I’m always going to be meeting gorgeous girls from flower shops or clothes shops or some sort of bloody shop – I chose you.’
It is some reassurance, yet we are not in the clear. ‘Ben thinks you’re gay.’
Scott sits up, puts his hand up and cups my chin. ‘Honestly, I don’t know whether I’m gay or straight.’
And I see it there with absolute certainty – he’s telling me the truth. We might not be one another’s first choice but, miles away from where we both started, we certainly seem like we’re all we’ve got. He wants a home, he wants a family, he says that hasn’t changed. Weeks ago, I gave up on Adam. I threw him away. I can’t risk making the same mistake twice.
An orange glow is squelching into my bedroom, the sun is getting up. It’s my wedding day. Or is it? I’m too fractured to think clearly. Too shattered to stand alone. I can’t reason, and with every sunbeam that sneaks through the blinds I’m conscious I’m running out of time. I feel a lot like I did when I was presented with the pre-nup and again when I heard about the tour. I can’t stop the bulldozer. Do I really have a choice?
‘I don’t really care. I just want you to be faithful. Mine. Just mine,’ I admit.
‘Really?’ He looks surprised.
‘Forget the labels. Gay, or straight, or bi, or experimental.’ I offer a minute smile. ‘Or, if you must wear a label, wear one saying “Happy”.’
He smiles. It’s his slow, irresistibly sexy smile. ‘What’s yours say?’ he asks. ‘Doc?’
I sigh and tell myself I’m doing the right thing. ‘I don’t mind as long as it doesn’t say Dopey.’
71. Fern
Scott falls asleep on my lap. Before I know it my entire room is bathed in bright light and birds are singing outside my window. As I haven’t managed a wink of sleep, my eyes sting and my head is pounding, the birds’ gleeful twittering sounds like nails scraping down a blackboard. At six Scott slips away and at six thirty Colleen raps on my bedroom door and bursts in. My personal trainer is with her too.
‘You look terrible,’ says Colleen. ‘I don’t suppose you got any sleep last night – too excited, huh?’
‘Something like that,’ I mutter.
‘Well, don’t worry. The wedding isn’t until eleven, we can fix everything by then.’ I doubt it, but can’t bring myself to squash her enthusiasm. ‘Let’s forget the three-kilometre run, you can have a massage instead. I’ll call Linda and Natalie. Then a bath, exfoliation, a power shower, manicure, pedicure…’ She consults her clipboard. She has a plan that is timed to the nearest thirty seconds and accounts for the next four and a half hours. I’m grateful to be swept along by her momentum.
My room is like Piccadilly Circus at rush hour; even though the place is enormous it’s soon jam-packed, there’s little room to breathe out. Hot on the heels of Colleen and my personal trainer, Saadi and her assistants arrive. Saadi discreetly calls Lisa to update her on my decision to go ahead. She asks her to inform my family and to urge everyone to attend as planned. ‘It’s important for the press,’ she says. The assistants are quickly despatched to complete various essential tasks – such as checking the beading on the napkin rings, measuring the distance between the tealights on the stairwells and ensuring that cones of lavender buds have been placed on the back of each and every seat in the reception room. Linda, Natalie, Joy and a hair stylist arrive to give me a massage and do my makeup and hair; between them they carry enough boxes of hair product and cosmetics to open a chain of salons. I dip my fingers into buttery creams and slosh velvet lotions on to my limbs. It’s somewhat soothing. Two people from Jenny Packham’s studios arrive to help me into the dress. They hang the gown from the top of the wardrobe and everyone pauses for a moment to sigh in reverence. It’s exquisite. Swathes of oyster-hued silk overlaid with vintage organza swish in a relaxed and feminine bias cut. The dress is made unfeasibly glam due to the addition of intricate beading and crystals, hand-embroidered around the hem and neckline. It’s so beautiful I want to cry. Mark pops by and gives me a rare hug. The florists, vicar and jeweller squeeze into my room too – to deliver my bouquet, advice and the two million dollars’ worth of jewellery I’m borrowing for the day.
It’s not until nearly ten that Jess and Lisa finally arrive; I was wondering whether they’d decided to stay away. They look pale and fraught but they dutifully start their own preparations for the wedding. I’d wanted them to get dressed with me. I’d imagined the scenario for ages; I’d thought we’d elegantly sip champagne through solid silver straws and chatter excitedly as we scrambled into our dresses. In fact they both desperately glug from bottles and huge silences stretch awkwardly between us, like unsuppressed yawns at a recital. I’m glad the jeweller insists he has to stick around until my hair is finished so he can examine the drop of the stones in relation to the curve of my neck; it makes it impossible for my friends to speak their minds openly. Instead they have to confine themselves to hissed, panicked whispers.
‘You cannot be going ahead with this wedding,’ says Jess.
From the look of disbelief and horror on her face I know Lisa has filled her in on the gory details.
‘Yes, I am.’ I keep my eyes on my own reflection and pretend to be totally absorbed in what Joy is doing with my makeup. Quite brilliantly, she’s managed to hide the black shadows around my eyes. I make a mental note of what cosmetics she’s using, it might be useful to know for the future.
‘You must really love Scott,’ murmurs Lisa. I doubt she means this, she probably thinks I’m marrying him for his money, but as it’s my wedding day she’s too polite to say so.
Colleen continually runs through a checklist of the details of the day; she’s clearly suffering some sort of verbal incontinence. She yells, ‘Has anyone seen the crates of customized silver foil white chocolate coins? They’re monogrammed! I said heart-shaped marshmallows, these are more oval. The candelabras are all wrong. The ribbons and crystal butterflies should create a sweeping effect, this is more of a swooning effect!’
I don’t involve myself with any triumphs or disappointments but concentrate on remaining calm as I dress. I think about putting on my stockings without laddering them. I focus on straightening my hair-clips and I think about whether my mascara is waterproof. Waterproof enough.
The room begins to settle. I’m told that guests have arrived at the venue where the service is taking place; I’m assured Scott is already waiting for me. The people who have fussed and fawned over me all morning vanish; suddenly I’m alone with Lisa, Jess and Colleen.
‘You look beautiful,’ smiles Lisa. As she fiddles with my veil for the hundredth, unnecessary time.
Jess nods, her eyes brimming with tears. She leans close to me and for a moment I think she’s going to whisper something urgent and profound; maybe something like, ‘You don’t have to do this.’ But she doesn’t, she just drops the lightest kiss on my cheek and says, ‘Yeah, you look really gorgeous.’
I gather my veil and my thoughts, buckle up the most dainty, most beautiful strappy, diamanté sandals and step outside where I find a waiting horse-drawn carriage. All six horses are white; their coats are sleek and worthy of
an appearance in any fairytale. The carriage is entirely covered with colourful peonies, gerberas and fat, loose roses, as I specified. The road is strewn with petals, as I’d dreamed. Crowds of Scott’s fans line the streets, as I could never have imagined. Most are screaming their good wishes, some girls are sobbing or their mouths are twisted in disappointment and fury. I don’t know whether to wave at them or ignore them. Lisa and Jess are sat opposite me but they don’t look at me; they stare at the flowers and the crowds but neither makes any comments. I suppose I’d always thought Mum and Dad would escort me to my wedding ceremony but Colleen didn’t think they’d look as good as Jess and Lisa in the photos; besides, I’m not even sure they are still coming to my wedding now and I daren’t ask.
After a few short minutes, we pass the media scrum and leave the press and disappointed fans behind security barriers. The horses’ hoofs stop click-clacking as we draw to a halt.
‘This is it then.’ I beam at my friends. They nod and force smiles that bunch up their cheeks but they can’t push the smiles as high as their eyes. This is it. Or at least, this is as near it as I’m ever going to get.
Lisa helps me out of the carriage; she still looks unusually white and drawn, the professional makeover doesn’t seem to have done its job. I turn to Jess. I always imagined my friends giggling and beaming and making jokes about the wedding night. I guess that’s a tricky one now, under the circumstances.
Jess stares resolutely at the floor and blurts at the gravel, ‘You are so obviously still in love with Adam.’
‘He didn’t want me. Nothing’s changed there.’
‘Yes, it has.’ Now she does meet my eye but I can’t see happiness or confidence, just concern and sincerity. ‘He’s grown up such a lot. He has the band and he’s bought a –’
‘I know he’s changed and grown up in many ways but he still doesn’t want me. That hasn’t changed.’
‘I think he does want you.’
‘No, he doesn’t. I asked him.’
‘Oh.’ Jess and Lisa look crushed by this news. The hems of their dresses flutter so prettily in the light breeze. We look gorgeous. I wish it was a more gorgeous moment.
I spell it out. ‘I don’t have a choice.’
‘There’s always a choice,’ insists Jess. I love Jess in this moment because she is taking an enormous risk. She’s being brave and honest. I’m breaking her heart by making what she considers to be the wrong decision. I feel duty bound to cheer her up.
‘Scott’s not a bad man. He’s just complex,’ I assure them.
‘Gay?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Oh, Fern.’
‘Don’t, Jess.’ I hold up my hand. I can’t hear any more from her. I can’t give up Scott. And it’s not the clothes, shoes and lifestyle that are pulling me. He’s my only option. ‘You’ve been great, Jess. You’ve done everything you could. You brought Adam here. You tried to make me jealous. You’ve pointed out how he’s grown and his new successes. You’ve been the best friend. But –’
The ‘but’ is swallowed by a click of the camera as the reportage photographer captures the moment.
‘I love the moment the bride soars into the service,’ he calls with a grin. ‘It’s a moment of such exquisite loveliness, a moment of intense possibility and unblighted hope. Isn’t it?’
No one answers him.
72. Fern
I glide up the aisle and it is all so breathtakingly beautiful. The pews are packed with faces I recognize and even one or two people I know. As I get closer to the altar I smile and nod to neighbours, friends and family. My family have turned up, after all. I wonder whether they have accepted and approve of my decision to marry Scott or have just decided to support me because that’s what family do – and besides, they all like a good party. I have no time to decide, as in a few short steps I’m face to face with Scott.
He looks wonderful. He’s wearing a tailor-made Versace suit; it’s a deep aubergine colour with a lime green lining. I’m not sure whether I knew this and had forgotten or whether I’ve ever shown much interest in what Scott was going to wear today. This man, this beautiful and complicated man, is about to become my husband and I’m so lucky. I really am. Ask Amanda Amberd.
Saadi stands up to do a reading. I’m surprised – it was supposed to be my sister, Fiona, who was going to do the first reading; she must have stage fright. I know she’s here. She’s sitting a few rows back in a pew to the left; I heard her crying when I walked down the aisle. Scott chose the reading and it’s been kept a secret from me. I did insist that it wasn’t Corinthians chapter 13. It’s not that I have anything against that reading, it’s just that I’ve heard it one hundred times and know it so well I no longer know it. I wanted Scott to choose something meaningful and unexpected so that I’d listen fastidiously. As Saadi painfully enunciates every word, in that overly precise way people do when they read aloud in church, I take careful note. The reading is called Why Marriage?
She coughs and looks my way. ‘Why Marriage, author unknown. Why Marriage? Because to the depths of me, I long to love one person, with all my heart, my soul, my mind, my body.’ Saadi glances at her notes; she clearly hasn’t been given much notice about doing the reading – I bet she’s irritated. She’s a professional; I know she’d have wanted to read this fluently and without prompts. She coughs and then carries on.
‘Why Marriage? Because I need a forever friend to trust with the intimacies of me, who won’t hold them against me, who loves me when I’m unlikeable.’ The words are shockingly poignant. I prick up my ears. Scott chose this reading. Scott wants this from me. He’s talking to me. ‘Who sees the small child in me, and who looks for the divine potential of me.’
I do, I do. I glance at Scott and we lock eyes. His green, sparkling, soul-slicing eyes are drilling into mine. I care for him, so much.
‘Because marriage means opportunity to grow in love, in friendship. Because marriage is a discipline to be added to a list of achievements.’
Even if he’d written these words himself they could not have been more appropriate and moving. The aching disappointment that he did not write the Wedding Album songs for me is some way salved. He does care. So much.
‘I promise myself to take full responsibility for my spiritual, mental and physical wholeness, I create me.’ That part is a bit new age-y for my tastes, but it’s still good. ‘Why Marriage? Because I take half of the responsibility for my marriage. Together we create our marriage because with this understanding the possibilities are limitless.’
Saadi sighs with relief at getting through the speech and then quickly returns to her seat. I play the words over and over in my head. ‘I take half of the responsibility for my marriage. Together we create our marriage.’
Two of the little bridesmaids start to whisper and giggle. I don’t know who the culprits are – maybe my nieces. Scott flashes an indulgent grin in their direction; even so, Saadi’s third assistant leaps up and whisks them out of the service. I bet she’s gutted to miss out on the ceremony.
The vicar is talking about how sure he is that Scott and I will have a marvellous day today, supported by all our guests. A prayer is said. A hymn sung. I float above all this. Breathing in the heavy scent of lilies and lavender, catching the odd, muffled ‘oh’ or ‘ah’ from the congregation, feeling the weight of my bouquet and my friends’ concerned glances.
I take half of the responsibility for my marriage.
The vicar calmly intones on and on. He talks about the peace Scott and I have found in one another, but it doesn’t resonate. Scott is offering me many things – peace isn’t one of them. The vicar talks about hope and about life’s quests – that makes more sense. I’m going to need buckets full of hope, and quest is another word for hunt, expedition or mission, isn’t it? He goes on and on and on until –
‘If any one of these people here present today knows of any reason why these two may not be joined in lawful matrimony, may they speak now or forever hold their pe
ace.’
And I stop breathing.
I wait. I wait and I wait. I wait for my brain to make the connection as to exactly what it is I am waiting for. What? Am I waiting for the nail-biting moment to pass so that we can carry on and seal the deal? Or, truly, am I waiting for an interruption? Suddenly my head is full of sizzling messages that somehow won’t compute; instead they scream mindlessly, causing greater confusion in my spaghetti-like mind.
I know.
I know what I want but I can hardly bear to acknowledge it – to feel it, even. I take half the responsibility for my marriage.
I know. I want my mum to stand up and tell them she never saw me living the kind of life where you can’t find the loo door and you have to clap your hands to turn on the taps.
I know. I want Ben to stand up and tell them he loves Scott and that maybe Scott’s gay and the wedding shouldn’t go ahead. I look for Ben. He’s nowhere to be seen. Where are you, Ben? I need you.
I know. Above all, what I want, what I really, dearly want is for Adam to stand up and tell them – tell me – that he loves me and that the wedding can’t possibly go ahead. Is Adam even here? I couldn’t see him among the bobbing heads as I walked down the aisle. I turn a fraction and try to sneak a glance at the congregation out of the corner of my eye. He’s there! I see him sat next to Charlie. He’s wearing a smart suit and a grim expression. But he’s not standing up. He is not crying, ‘Stop, this can’t happen.’ He’s resolutely staring at the ceiling.
No one stands up for me. I look around and everybody looks beautiful. Everybody looks buffed and gleaming, and preened and pampered, if not a little uncomfortable.
Mark coughs; he wants the vicar to carry on but the vicar’s noticed I’m crying and we’re not talking a quiet little tear sailing gently down my cheek. An elegant single tear is expected from a bride, almost de rigueur for a Hollywood bride – quite fetching – but I’m sobbing. I’m sobbing hard and heavy tears are starting somewhere deep in my gut and exploding out over the vicar and through the congregation. I’m sobbing because this isn’t my dream. I am not living the dream. At least not the one I wanted. I didn’t dream of a thousand-guest wedding, I was going to do my own flowers.
