by Celia Hayes
He looks at me in befuddlement. ‘What things?’
‘You looked at me as if I was… And then you said, “Who? Her?” Something like that… As if you couldn’t care less about me. As if what had happened the day before was just a mistake.’
‘And it never crossed your mind that maybe – just maybe – I simply didn’t want the world to know how awful I felt?’ he replies sadly.
Each of us takes refuge in our own thoughts until, after a while, Thomas looks at me as though expecting something. A comment or a gesture. But I have a strange feeling of incompleteness and suddenly I no longer want to do anything. I can’t change the way things are. Nothing can take me back to where I want to be, to where I should be, so that I don’t make any more mistakes. So I don’t speak. I just stand there, immobile, and decide to let him leave without getting in his way.
‘You’ll be late…’ I mutter, as he stands there, torn and unable to make a decision.
He seems to weigh things up. He reflects, then looks around doubtfully, take a deep breath and climbs back up the steps that separate us.
‘I’m already late,’ I hear him whisper as he slowly approaches me.
He’s standing in front of me outside the door, where I’m tugging my coat around me against the cold. At that moment a couple of motorbikes whizz past in the street. Instinctively we turn around and watch them disappear into the distance with rapt expressions. When silence returns, Thomas asks me, ‘Sandy, can we really have such different memories of that kiss?’
His irritation of a moment before seems to have vanished, giving way to something that I cannot decipher.
‘Come on, Thomas. Look, I know exactly what happened.’
‘I do too, believe me, and try as I might, I really don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he says, dropping the bag on the ground with a careless gesture. ‘Unless I’m mistaken, first I held you close to me,’ he says, pulling me to him. He embraces me gently, resting his hands on my waist, and I stupidly hold my breath. ‘My heart was pounding and I could feel your body under your swimming costume,’ he whispers in my ear. ‘Then I kissed you,’ he whispers, cocking his head to press his lips to mine. ‘For the first time I tasted your lips and I could hardly breathe for the excitement. At that point, you opened up your lips and I caressed you with the tip of my tongue,’ he continues, passing the tip of his fingers over my mouth. ‘I was dying to sink my hands into your hair, but I was afraid that my watch strap might catch in it, so I decided not to, thinking that it wouldn’t be the last time, that I’d have all the time in the world to hold you tight to me,’ he confesses, smiling. ‘It was so nice to think that it was the beginning. It hadn’t even occurred to me that it might also be the end.’ And he kisses me again, this time taking my face in his hands.
‘Sandy, why are you crying?’
‘Because I’ve lost you again. I’ve lost you forever and it’s all my fault,’ I reply, my voice now reduced to a faint whisper.
‘My love, I’ve always been right here…’ he says, and pulls me to him.
Epilogue
And so, ten years later, in a charming chapel in the verdant county of Kent, with a wave of his chubby hand, Father Declan declaims solemnly, ‘Do you, Sandy Price, take as your lawfully wedded husband present here Thomas Clark to love, honour and obey, in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, till death do you part?’
Silence falls.
An inopportune cough echoes from the back rows. All eyes are on me and it feels as though my answer is anything but certain.
Yes, that’s right… We were right here.
Same church, same floral decorations. My mother still dabbing non-existent tears with the tip of an embroidered handkerchief and my obligatory bridesmaids, even though this time Rufus has taken Jennifer’s place. No, I can’t face going over all that again now, it’s all we’ve talked about for weeks, but where would I have found a replacement at the last moment? And anyway, he looks fantastic in his pink morning suit. I mean, absolutely fantastic… God, I can hardly bear to look at him. Every time I do, I start laughing. Serves him right! All those horrible blind dates… It’s his karmic just desserts.
I imagine you’re wondering how we got from the front door to the stairs of the church. Well, what can I say? We already had the wedding rings. It seemed such a shame to throw them away. And the favours… And the placeholders …
After the reception, we set off immediately for the honeymoon. The Doyles had invited us to Ireland, but after discussing it very calmly, Thomas had decided he wasn’t interested in furthering his friendship with that extremely kind family and, more specifically, with their delightful daughter. Rumours went around that it was my irrepressible desire to abandon country life for an immediate return to London that was ‘decisive’ in the purchase of two tickets for France, but I don’t really want to confirm that. No. Thomas has just always loved France. Just like I’ve always loved Persian cats. The strength of our union lies in our on-going search for a balance between our irremediable congenital differences and our respective aversions. When we come back from Paris, we’re moving to Canterbury, except for brief excursions into the city for work, and (hopefully) not too many quick trips to his office, where my initiative in favour of monk seals continues to be very successful.
And anyway, country life is starting to grow on me. Because, let’s face it, the estate is amazing. There’s the stables, the pool, the greenhouse, the tennis court and a new addition, a sauna with a Jacuzzi. Sure, it’s full of annoying people, including him – yes, him, my personal nightmare who, as time passes, does more and more to try and always be perfect, flawless and annoying. Oh, you don’t believe me?
As if I didn’t know what you were thinking – you shameless hussies!
I’m right, though. Want an example? For one thing, he organizes his clothes by occasion, colour and fabric, and insists on sharing the wardrobe so that it’s obvious to all the staff how incapable I am of subdividing my joie de vivre into sad little compartments like him. He condemns himself to a life of disgustingly early mornings basically so that he can call my mother at six and tell her triumphantly that I’m still sleeping. Things like, ‘What, at this time of day?‘ ‘Yes, as usual.‘ See what I mean? And at that point he runs to wake me up, passes me the phone and I’m forced to sit through two hours of ‘What on earth are you doing with your life?‘ and ‘Do you mean to tell me that you haven’t even made him breakfast?’ And believe me, it’s no use reminding her that we have more staff than Queen Elizabeth. No. He is the poor martyr, and I am Cruella de Vil. I’ve given up. I no longer even try to make everyone understand what a Machiavellian schemer lurks behind those adorable smiles. They’re all blind. Is that really possible? Yes, I can confirm that it is. But it won’t work with me. Oh no. And, since we’re at it, let me mention another thing that we never sorted out a few years ago. I don’t…
‘Errrr…’ says Father Declan, a worried look on his face, ‘Sandy, at the risk of sounding repetitive, do you take as your lawfully wedded husband present here Thomas Clark to… In sickness and in health and all that? You ought to know it by heart.’
‘I…’ I start.
‘Sandy, don’t you dare…’ whispers Thomas, threateningly.
I laugh.
‘Well… Yes, I’d say that we can give it a go!’
And they lived fairly happy, moderately quarrelsome and very much in love ever after.
~
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About Celia Hayes
CELIA HAYES works as a restorer and lives in Naples. Between one restoration and another, she loves to write. Don't Marry Thomas Clark reached no. 1 in the Amazon Italian Ebook chart.
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Addictive Fiction
First published in Italy in 2015 by Newton Compton
First published in English in the UK in 2016 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Celia Hayes, 2016
Translation © Richard McKenna
The moral right of Celia Hayes to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
The moral right of Richard McKenna to be identified as the translator of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (E) 9781784977467
Aria
Clerkenwell House
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