Virgin

by Georgia Le Carre

  He folds his arms. ‘All right. If it makes you happy and you’re OK with it, then I am too.’

  I laugh. ‘Actually, Jake says since I am pregnant I only need to have a very small sip. A taste were his exact words. You’ll have to drink most of it.’

  ‘I knew it,’ he bursts out. ‘This is to punish me, isn’t it?’

  I’m dying to laugh. ‘A bit.’

  ‘Other men get a stag night with booze and strippers from their brother-in-law-to-be and I get this!’

  ‘We can get some strippers for the ceremony if you want.’

  ‘You find this all very funny, don’t you, Miss Eden?’

  And I can no longer hold back the laughter. Eventually he laughs too. When we stop, he looks into my eyes and his voice is very serious. ‘Jake knows nothing. I’d walk over hot coals for you. Drinking fat, liver, and lung, I could do it every day for the rest of my life if it means having you.’

  ‘I love you, BJ Pilkington. I really, really do.’

  ‘By the way, can they make that article of clothing one of your used panties? It might make the lung, liver, and fat a bit more palatable.’

  ‘Oh, you disgusting man, Mr. Pilkington,’ I scold, but I am laughing and so crazy in love with him, I could pop him between two slices of bread and eat him for lunch.

  Despite the fact that Jake glowers all through the commitment ceremony, it turns out to be something different and more precious than I imagined it to be. One day I will tell my grandchildren about it. BJ’s mother gives me an antique shawl. My mother gives me a gold chain with a sapphire pendant.

  It’s a cold night and we all dress in warm clothing. The moon is very bright, hanging like a lantern in the sky as we drive out to a wooded area and walk to a clearing.

  The shaman is already waiting for us.

  God only knows where Jake found her. She is an ancient creature, straight out of the witches’ scene in Macbeth. Hunched underneath an old, black cloak, her face in the moonlight is craggy with deep grooves and her skin is mottled with coffee-colored spots. Her hair is silvery and surprisingly thick. One eye is completely white, the pupil covered over with cataract, and the other is jet-black and alive with an animal-like alertness. She wears a red rose tucked behind her ear.

  Her body is thin and pitiful, but her movements are as stubborn and headstrong as that of a wild boar. When she extends a withered hand from the inky folds of her cloak, I see that every one of her bony fingers is heavy with an assortment of large and intricate rings. There are ancient symbols carved into the stones.

  She tells BJ and me to take off our shoes, pull our prayer shawls over our heads, and sit cross-legged inside the circle that she draws with a chalky stone. Then she half-squats on a low, four-legged stool and surrounds herself with the tools of her trade. Feathers, a fan, shells, and red and black candles, which she lights and shades with glass coverings. She unrolls a long ribbon and ties an end to both our wrists.

  ‘Are you ready?’ she croaks.

  We nod.

  She starts by inviting and welcoming helping spirits and the spirits of deceased loved ones. She looks at me directly. There is something enchanted and mysterious about her dark, bottomless eye. Her mystique is bewitching. I have the impression that I am staring into the eye of an ancient mystic feline. Timeless and weightless. That my spirit has intertwined with hers in an invisible sublime dance.

  ‘Think of them, all the ones who have left you and they will come.’

  I think of Father and call him to come.

  Her black eye fixes on me again. ‘It is always as forecast and necessary,’ she says intriguingly.

  Then she begins to sing in a language I do not understand, plaintively, as if she is calling to a lost love. Her voice echoes through the night. Afterwards, she burns some sweet herbs and offers rice to the spirits who have come to witness the ceremony.

  BJ and I exchange bracelets made of twine with each other. Afterwards, we make our vows of fidelity and loyalty to each other. First to go is BJ. By the light of the candles, he recites the vows we have both chosen to make.

  ‘I, Billy Joe Pilkington, by the life that courses within my blood and the love that resides within my heart, take thee Layla Eden to my hand, my heart, and my spirit to be my chosen one. To desire thee and be desired by thee. To possess thee and be possessed by thee without sin or shame, for naught can exist in the purity of my love for thee. I promise to love thee wholly and completely without restraint, in sickness and in health, in plenty and in poverty, in life and beyond, where we shall meet, remember, and love again. I shall not seek to change thee in any way. I shall respect thee, thy beliefs, thy people, and thy ways as I respect myself.’

  Staring into his eyes, I repeat the same vow and it feels as if my heart will burst with the love I have for him.

  Then it is time to drink the thick brown brew. It is truly disgusting. Even the tiny little sip I consume coats my tongue and makes me feel downright queasy. BJ is the real hero of the piece though. He drinks it all without fuss.

  Later he whispers in my ear. ‘I’m gonna need to forget this taste. Get ready to have your pussy in my mouth for a very long time.’

  I try to suppress the giggles, but I am not very successful. I feel a great wave of love wash over me for this wonderful man.

  ‘Jeez, Layla, don’t look at me like that unless you want me to drag you behind some bushes and rape you.’

  ‘Do you ever wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t gone into your bedroom and tried to take your tiepin?’

  He shudders. ‘No.’

  EIGHTEEN

  LAYLA

  After the ceremony my life becomes a whirl of frantic activity. There are so many things to decide: locations, bridesmaid dresses, shoes, music, caterers, invitations, photographer, the cake, videographer, invitations, stationery, rings, favors, transportation, and, of course, my dress. BJ hires a wedding planner. She is so brilliant that I can’t even imagine doing it without her. It’s a great comfort to simply call her if I have a query or worry and know that she is already on top of it.

  My mother makes an appointment with Thelma Madine, the dress designer. Thelma Madine is exactly how she is on TV. Warm, talented, and a practical businesswoman to the core. She would have made a good gypsy.

  ‘How big do you want your dress to be?’ she asks.

  ‘Big,’ my mother says. ‘She’s my only girl. My Princess.’

  ‘Oh, Ma,’ I say. ‘It’s a shotgun wedding. I was thinking of a simple mermaid dress.’

  ‘Simple!’ my mother explodes. ‘Where’s the fun in that?’ She throws her hands up animatedly. ‘This is a once-in-a-lifetime event. Who are you to deny yourself the best and most beautiful wedding dress possible on your big day?’

  My mother is right. A wedding should be fun. Every gypsy wedding that I have attended, even the tackiest, most over-the-top ones with white stretch-limos and chocolate fountains have been far more enjoyable, exciting, and dramatic than any of the elegant, color-coordinated, chair-covered, non-gypsy ones. And when I think back, a sedate wedding is classy and admirable, but it is the big gypsy weddings that are unforgettable.

  I look at Thelma. ‘You know what, I will have that big ball gown after all.’

  But Thelma is not the queen of the gypsy bridal dress for nothing. ‘I can do you a mermaid wedding dress and make your mother happy too,’ she declares confidently.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  And she is as good as her word. The very next day she comes back with two sketches. Ma and me agree on a fit-and-flare design with a sweetheart neckline, pearls on the bodice, and hundreds and hundreds of taffeta handkerchiefs sewn together to make the billowing skirt and train. It comes with a little bolero for the church. The whole ensemble is in shades of oyster.

  In a week Thelma calls me for my first fitting. The three of us drive over to her shop. It is exciting and frightening. I’m not sure if she can really pull of a big mermaid dress.<
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  ‘Come in,’ she says. I can tell she is eager to show us her creation. She takes us quickly to the back of the shop. In a move that is pure drama, she pauses in front of a closed door, and with her hand on the handle, turns to us and asks, ‘Are you ready for this?’

  My mother, Maddy, and I nod. While butterflies flutter in my stomach, she theatrically flings open the door.

  The dress is on a stand, its train of thousands of taffeta squares spread out like an enormous fish tail behind it. I gasp and stare in amazement. My mother squeals like a young girl and Maddy claps her hands with delight. Any fears I had that it would be tacky or too My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding are laid to rest forever. The dress is amazing. Totally and utterly spectacular. It is a masterpiece, pure and simple.

  The days pass in a blur of hectic activity and excitement. Only moments shine through with full HD clarity. Those rare moments I look at in amazed wonder, sometimes disbelief. So this is my life. A week before the wedding, I give up my apartment, transport most of my stuff into BJ’s home, and move into my mother’s house. At this point BJ and I are no longer able to see each other alone and the separation is pure torture.

  But suddenly, before I know it, my wedding day is upon me. I wake up early, a bundle of nerves, and lie very quietly in the dark. Already, I can hear my mother and aunts moving about the house. I put my hand on my stomach. It’s still flat, but my baby is growing inside.

  ‘We’re getting married today,’ I whisper, and a thrill of excitement runs through me.

  Maddy is the first to arrive and we eat breakfast in my bedroom together. We speak in whispers and giggle quietly as if we are children on a midnight adventure.

  The hairdresser arrives at seven. Ma makes her a cup of coffee and she sets about separating my hair into two parts, gathering the top half into a bun at the back of my head and putting corkscrew curls into the lower half and leaving them trailing down my back and shoulders. She fits a princess tiara over my head, and the make-up artist takes me on. She spends an hour on my face, painting, dabbing, drawing, brushing, and then gluing on individual spikes of false eyelashes.

  By now the house is crowded with friends and relatives bringing presents. Gypsies are generous gift givers and the pile of presents soon fills the dining table and spills onto the floor, and still more well-wishers are flooding through the doors. Ma breaks into the stack of champagne cases and the house heaves as if it is a party.

  Then the dress arrives.

  From my window I watch Thelma and her two assistants carefully carry it into the house. They bring it upstairs to my room and Thelma and her assistants help me into it. My heart is racing with nerves.

  ‘Oh, oh, oh,’ exclaims a delighted Maddie. ‘You look stunning.’

  When I have been laced into the dress and the veil fixed into place, I walk over to the mirror with bated breath.

  And … almost do not recognize the person in the mirror. I look like I have stepped out of a page of a fairytale. Ma, who has changed into a pretty grey-blue dress, has tears in her eyes. She dabs them away carefully with the edge of a tissue.

  ‘You look absolutely beautiful, Layla,’ she says.

  ‘You were right, Ma. The dress is perfect.’

  My mother smiles through her tears.

  Thelma and her assistants pick up the train and hem of the skirt as I go through the door, preventing me from stepping on it and falling headlong down the stairs. They carry the train as I go down the stairs in my pearl-encrusted slippers.

  And then I am standing in front of Jake. He looks gorgeous in his grey morning suit. His eyes are so bright and full of pride.

  ‘Oh! Layla. If only Da could see you. You’re the princess he always said you were,’ he says.

  Lily smiles. The confinement thing has really worked. She is glowing and beautiful. ‘I always knew he would get you.’

  ‘You did?’

  She nods. ‘He’s a good guy. I’ll never forget what he did for Jake and me. I’m so happy for you. Be happy always, Layla.’

  Then Dominic and Shane come to kiss me. They look incredibly handsome in their new suits. Dominic nods approvingly, and even Shane forgets to be a smartass. ‘You look truly beautiful,’ he says sincerely.

  As I walk to the front door, everybody takes pictures and videos.

  Gingerly, I step out of my mother’s house and scream. I can’t believe it. I don’t know whether it is Jake or BJ who has arranged it, but it is the last thing I am expecting. A glass carriage is waiting on the road. It is dainty and ornate and quite simply magical, something you would see in a Disney movie. It has two grooms in livery and two white steeds with plumed headdresses.

  ‘BJ insisted on it,’ Jake says.

  Jake gets in first and then Thelma helps me into the carriage so that I am sitting opposite him and my train is coiled between us. The door closes and we are off, with passing cars tooting their horns at us all the way to the church. Complete strangers hang their heads out of their cars, smile, wave, and wish me well.

  By the time we get to the church, we are 30 minutes late and the bridesmaids and flower girls are all lined up and waiting. Maddy winks at me. Jake reaches over and squeezes my hand.

  ‘Thank you, Jake. Thank you for everything,’ I say. My voice sounds shaky.

  ‘Never mind that. Don’t ruin your mascara,’ he says, his voice is gruff.

  Thelma and her assistants help me out of the carriage. I step out into the sunshine. It is a beautiful, still spring day. There are strangers gathered all around watching the wedding procession. And suddenly I have an attack of nerves. I turn blindly to Jake. I’ve been doing that since I was child. Always Jake. Fighting all my battles.

  ‘I’m with you every step of the way,’ he says, holding his hand out.

  I take it, and just like that I am no longer nervous that I will trip, fall, or make a mistake. I am excited by the future that awaits me in the church. We walk up the steps to the church, my fingers resting lightly on his forearm. The sound of the wedding march floats out the double doors.

  We make our way to the entrance, instantly I see my bridegroom. All in white. So broad and tall and wonderful. In the periphery of my vision I can see my mother, my brothers, my friends, acquaintances, and even strangers lining the back pews. In a flash of white, BJ turns and everyone else disappears. Our eyes meet and we’re alone in the church. Only him and me.

  ‘Wow,’ he mouths silently, his eyes blazing possessively.

  Then my brother is moving forward and my legs follow his lead. I can feel the heavy train trailing for yards behind me, hear the swishing of the taffeta, smell the sweet perfume of the bouquets, and sense the solid muscles of my brother’s arm under my hand, but I am in a total daze. My eyes never leave BJ.

  My brother takes his arm away and I look at him stupidly. He smiles and I turn my face back to BJ. He puts out a hand and gently pulls me towards him. He is so big and beautiful, I cannot believe that he is really mine. The tiepin that had started everything glints on his cravat, catching my eye. It doesn’t match and yet is perfect.

  The vicar begins to recite our vows and I follow, repeating every word carefully, in awe of the sounds that leave my lips. For they come directly from some deep, unknown place inside my being.

  ‘I do,’ I say.

  BJ slips the ring onto my finger and the vicar pronounces us man and wife. He doesn’t have time to give BJ permission to kiss the bride. BJ has already leaned over the yards and yards of material separating us and found my mouth. The congregation erupts: cheering, clapping, and whistling. We are a rowdy bunch, us gypsies.

  Thelma leads me to a small room at the side of the church. Carefully, she removes the veil and the bolero. The hairdresser touches up my hair and they help me out of the door. I stand for a moment at the entrance of the church. Then I see a brilliant flash of white and the crowds part to let him through. BJ stops in front of me and stares transfixed, his eyes devouring me. The dress has been laced up too tight to take a deep cal
ming breath so I take quick shallow breaths through my mouth. He takes my hand.

  ‘You ordered one princess?’ I whisper.

  ‘I did. And you ordered one love-sick husband?’

  ‘Husband,’ I repeat. The word lands onto my tongue as light as a butterfly. I find it to be a familiar word that brings peace to my entire body. As if I was always meant to be Mrs. Billy Joe Pilkington.

  NINETEEN

  LAYLA

  After my ultimate wish-upon-a-star, fairytale wedding, BJ whisks me off to Tuscany for our honeymoon. We stay in a magnificent palazzo near Maremma’s woodlands. For four passion-drenched, slothful days we do nothing but explore each other. Once we wake up at dawn we ride into the outstandingly beautiful and wild countryside.

  BJ is a strong rider, but so am I and it is exhilarating. When we stop we are both flushed and aroused. In the clear fresh morning air, we tear each other’s clothes off and indulge in the delight of outdoor sex. At the end of it, I’m startled by an audience. A pair of beautiful roe deer wearing their reddish summer coats are looking at us curiously. We freeze, BJ still deep inside me, and stay still until they amble away.

  ‘Wasn’t that beautiful?’ I whisper.

  ‘Everything with you is,’ he says.

  Everyday we discover new things about each other. I now know that BJ doesn’t have breakfast. He has eight raw eggs blended with a banana and some milk. And he knows that I like a selection of warm pastries from the village woman. And that I’ll quite happily drink chilled, raw goat’s milk with them.

  In the afternoon, when it is too hot to do anything, we swim lazily consuming countless ice lollies by the pool. At night, we eat thin-crust pizza cooked in a traditional wood oven, or even barbeque fish we bought from the outdoor market on the terrace. Once BJ makes us a pasta pomodoro with steak. I discover he’s not a bad cook.