by Nicky Wells
I woke at one in the morning. I was still on my own. Either Dan hadn’t come back yet, or he had returned but had decided to leave me to sleep. I had absolutely no idea which possibility was more likely. I guessed that I could have found out—all I needed to do was to nip across into Dan’s suite. Somehow, though, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to know. If he wasn’t there, he was likely with someone else. Of course, I could be wrong, but I wouldn’t know unless I asked; and if he wasn’t there, I couldn’t ask, and then the paranoia and the doubts would set in. And if he was there, I might feel hurt that he hadn’t come to see me. Or maybe he had popped in and had found me asleep. But once more, I wouldn’t know without asking. If he happened to be there but was asleep, would I have the courage to wake him?
My head spun with my emotional quagmire. I got up and paced about the suite restlessly, without switching any lights on. Eventually, I located a big bottle of water and stood by the window, looking out over the Paris skyline. I got that strange “here but not here” feeling that comes from being up when most people are fast asleep in their beds.
Enjoying the view, I pulled an armchair up to the window and settled down for a good old gaze and contemplation. Here I was, in the most romantic city in the world, having just been the recipient of the most romantic gesture any man could ever make for a woman. Dan’s proposal was second to none. And yet my life was in disarray. Not only was there the small complication of another man—the proverbial “previous engagement.” I had to laugh at the bitter irony of this trodden phrase. But I also exhibited feelings of ownership and jealousy toward Dan that couldn’t be healthy if I were to have a long-term relationship with him. I didn’t want to turn into a bitter old hag, forever checking up on her philandering rock-star husband. But would that be what it would be like if I went ahead with Dan? What would life with Dan be like? What would a future with Tim be like? What would be right for me, and for them?
As there was absolutely no further possibility of sleep, or of coherent thought, I let my mind and my imagination wander at will…a future with Dan? I hugged my knees to my chest and grinned. Let’s imagine a future with Dan…
Chapter Forty
Dan would announce our engagement to the band over breakfast the next day. Dan and I would feature on all the front pages, and it would be weird and amazing to get so much attention. We would move into Dan’s house in Clapham together, and every night, I would hang out with him and the band. Dan and Darren would strum their guitars together softly, sometimes in the lounge, sometimes in the studio, sometimes even in Dan’s huge flagstone tiled, pine kitchen with the big copper pots hanging off the ceiling.
Hm…That sounded a bit like Mum’s kitchen, but I hadn’t been to Dan’s house and so I took a blank check on furbishing it like it suited my little fancy-ride. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes…
Dan and I would settle for a spring wedding in April, and Dan would insist that we would have to get married in Cornwall where his bride hailed from. The parish church would be overflowing with flowers and candles…
Hang on, I pulled myself up short. Why settle for the parish church? Why not go completely crazy?
St. Matriana’s, the gorgeous, small Norman church tucked up high on a headland just by Tintagel would be overflowing with flowers and candles. The sun would shine and the sky would be a stunning azure blue with not a hint of a cloud. The daffodils and the gorse would be in bloom, and we would just be able to make out the thudding of the surf as we gathered in the church.
I paused, giving myself a moment to imagine the scene.
There would be my great entrance. I would wear a long, flowing white silk dress tailored at the waist, with a full-length veil strewn with little diamonds. I would float down the aisle royally, holding my bouquet of red and white roses, followed at a respectable distance by Rachel, who would wear a golden silky dress and have a bouquet like mine, just smaller.
Yes, yes, yes! I hugged my knees to my chest more closely still. This was perfect.
Dan would be waiting for me at the altar, dressed in a morning suit and looking like an eighteenth century gentleman. After the ceremony, a white carriage decked out in roses and drawn by four white horses would take Dan and me to the reception venue...
Ah…what a picture.
The reception would be in a grand marquee set up on Pentire headland with a view of Fistral Bay to the right and Crantock beach to the left. There would be glorious food, dancing, and speeches until late. At night, the marquee would be lit by candles, oil lamps, and fairy lights. It would be magical. The band would play—minus Dan, of course—and it would be quite the wedding of the century.
I sighed. What a prospect. But what next? What would happen after the big day? I fast-forwarded to our future.
Five years later, Dan and I will live in a big mansion house somewhere in the green belt outside of London. He will have his own studio in our house and a lot of the time, the band will work there. We will have two…no, three kids. Two girls and a boy: Emma, Emily, and Tom. Dan will be the most adoring husband and will bring me flowers every night when he comes home. I will be a happy stay-at-home mum, and I will also be Dan’s muse and inspiration. Whenever possible, the kids and I will go on tour with the band, and when it isn’t possible, Dan will call every night before and after the show. We will talk by video link. We will be happy, successful and blissfully married, and life will be an endless fairy tale of golden days and romantic nights and delightful lovemaking.
I sighed again, caught in the rapture of my imagined future with Dan. Life would be perfect. Love, adoration, excitement, and romance until I grew old and grey. Until we grew old and grey together.
I shifted position in my armchair, and then got up to grab the duvet off my bed. It was December, after all, and the night was chilly. There was still no chance of sleep, particularly not now that I had gotten myself all razzed up imagining my future with Dan. I felt ready to abandon my life as I knew it, to jump in with both feet and seize this opportunity.
And okay, I acknowledged to myself, there would be a lot of hurt and raised eyebrows—notably by Tim (who would be the hurt party) and his parents (excellent eyebrow raisers). But Dan wanted me and I wanted him. And what I wanted from him—this mix of love and excitement, domestic bliss and jet-setting—I wouldn’t get from anyone else. Certainly not from Tim.
Ah yes. Go on, I told myself, let’s have a look at a future with Tim. I closed my eyes, trying to make the mental switch from Dan to Tim. I had to be fair and honest. No point in skewing the whole thing against Tim just because my mind had run away with Dan already.
Oh, but it would be hard work. For starters, I had to banish any comparison between Tim’s proposal—romantic as I thought it had been at the time—and Dan’s proposal. No, this wasn’t a good starting point. Tim wouldn’t stand a chance. I would have to try harder. If the proposals didn’t compare well, perhaps I should start with the wedding. What would my wedding day with Tim look like?
Tim and I would get married in…
Oops. More difficulties. He had his own definite views on where to get married that hadn’t agreed with mine. I compromised.
…we would get married in a lovely old church in Egham, Tim’s hometown. I would have the church decked out in candles and flowers and it would be lovely. Really. I would be wearing a lovely, white, satiny dress. I would carry a bouquet of red and white roses…
Finally something that went to plan.
…a bouquet of white and red roses, and Rachel, my bridesmaid, would carry the same bouquet, just smaller.
The ceremony would be lovely: a proper Church of England marriage, probably, with the ancient text and lots of thous and thines.
Hmm, that was nice. I liked old-fashioned wedding ceremonies.
After the wedding ceremony, Tim’s dad would drive us round to the reception venue in his Mercedes with a wreath of roses attached to the bonnet and white ribbons to the car doors. The reception would be in the local hotel.
I stalled. It would probably be in the local hostelry because it was close and affordable-ish. But couldn’t we go somewhere just a little bit grander? I bit my thumb in agony. This future-with-Tim-scenario wasn’t working out well, and I was trying very hard. I really was. I just kept on running into practical, real restraints at every step of the way. The wedding was obviously a no-go affair. The prospect actually depressed me so much, I decided to skip ahead a few years to examine what our married life might look like. On with those rose-tinted glasses, Sophie, I commanded myself.
In five years’ time, we will own a little semi in the suburbs. No, actually, make that a Victorian semi somewhere in pretty Fulham. Three stories of beautiful red brick with white trimmings around the artfully restored sash windows. A blue front door with stained glass windows and clematis growing around the frame. Big, fat, wooden flowerboxes on the window sills overflowing with a riot of colorful blossoms. Inside, there would be muslin curtains at all the windows, original and highly polished floors in every room, colorful rugs, and a Shaker-style kitchen with lots of stainless steel appliances.
Yes. That was more like it. This would be exactly what Tim would want to assert his status in the accountancy community. And while it wasn’t a mansion in the green belt, I had a definite weak spot for grand old Victorian houses. I would simply love to live in one of them. Finally I got somewhere here in imagining my future with Tim.
We will have two kids—a girl and a boy, Emma and Martin—in precisely calculated distances after the wedding—one year, then one-and-a-half years after that. I might want another, but Tim will think ahead to schooling and such things and will decide that two kids are enough. I will be a stay-at-home mum purely because Tim will want me to, and Tim will be the CFO of some major company somewhere. There will be plenty of money and plenty of status symbols. The nanny…
A nanny? I paused. We probably would have to have a nanny, if everyone else in the neighborhood had one. But, I asked myself, why would we need a nanny if I was a stay-at-home mum? Probably to entrust the early education of the kids in capable, trained, and certified hands. Of course, my incapable hands wouldn’t be quite good enough. So what would I do?
My job will be to look after the nanny and after the kids in a roundabout fashion. I will put dinner on the table for Tim every night, and wait patiently if he comes home late because a meeting has run over. I’ll be lunching with other mums, while our nannies look after the kids. I’ll be involved in a lot of charity work; “quite the done thing.”
I shuddered. Where was I going with this now? Was this really accurate or was I being cynical? I reflected for a moment. I recognized what I was doing: I was describing Tim’s mum’s life. There was nothing wrong with this, per se, of course. It just wouldn’t be for me.
So okay, I’ll be a stay-at-home mum minus the stay-at-home-mum duties, but surely I can find some recompense here somewhere? I’ll have lots of time to myself; I could maybe even write that book that I’ve always dreamed of writing. I’ll have a doting husband, two adorable kids, and lots of friends. My life will be a mad social whirl without any financial worries.
And then, of course, there was my relationship with Tim, which would grow and flourish like tomatoes in a green house. We would call each other “honey” and “darling” and we would be the model couple. We would have sex twice a week.
I paused again. That really didn’t ring true. Sometimes, just sometimes, it had been difficult working up romantic fervor already. Admittedly, we had had some lovely encounters just after the engagement, but a lot of the time, I had secretly come to think that our lovemaking had become just that little bit too formulaic, too unadventurous, too automatic. Particularly Saturday nights. Shouldn’t I be taking a more realistic view of proceedings here? What would Tim and my sex life look like after five years of marriage and two kids?
We will have sex once a month, but I’ll have to have a bottle of wine first to work up the courage to confront his body, and mine. Whereas sex with Dan, even after five years, would still be delicious.
Hold it right there. What was going on? Dan had no place in this scenario. Why the heck did he keep creeping in? But, more disturbingly, my revised assessment of what bedtime married life with Tim might look like felt a lot more accurate. He had never been very inventive between the sheets. I cringed and blushed at admitting this to myself, but since I had confronted this truth at Mum’s, I hadn’t been able to shake the thought. But would I have known this had I not slept with Dan? Probably not, I reluctantly conceded. How could I have, without the comparison? So was it fair to bring this into my considerations here?
Well, yes—I had slept with Dan and I did have the comparison—and, I suddenly realized that there was no going back from that. I would be bored and frustrated with Tim unless he changed dramatically.
I stopped myself from further musings and decided to take stock instead. Apart from finding a lovely home, my future scenario with Tim was abysmal. Not the slightest resemblance to what I wanted from life.
Had it always been like that, or just since Dan appeared in my life? I couldn’t rightly tell, but I had certainly noticed it more since Dan had brought color and spark back to my existence. But Tim was a good, solid man. I had made a commitment to him. That was all I had wanted for the longest of times. Why would Dan be able to push me off the rails quite so badly and so effortlessly? Why did I find myself backing out? Did I simply have cold feet?
And suddenly, with blinding clarity, I had an absolutely certain realization—Tim wasn’t right for me. Never had been. Or maybe I wasn’t right for him. It didn’t matter. We weren’t right for each other. He often corrected me, tried to better me somehow. He was keen to stamp out the wild traits in my character. I, on the other hand, was eternally frustrated with his prim, proper, righteous attitude toward things. His eagerness never to set a foot wrong. His horror of making mistakes. Never taking risks. I couldn’t live like that.
I had wanted to, perhaps. Perhaps I had been attracted to the very security he had exuded. Perhaps I had fallen in love with the idea of building a life with this man. Maybe I had been in love with the idea of being in love with this man. But all this time, I had been trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. Sure, we had had great times. We had laughed and sometimes loved. But mostly, our good times had been more like those that friends might share, not soul mates. How could I have been so blind?
I sighed. It looked like Rachel, with her sharp eye and sharper tongue, had been right all along. Suddenly, I had an overwhelming urge to talk with her. I paced the room furiously. It was two o’clock in the morning, which would be one o’clock in the UK. On a Sunday night. Could I dare to ring her, now? Would she be on her own?
Chapter Forty-One
I found myself dialing her number before I could give it any further thought. I was desperate. This was an emergency.
She answered after the fourth ring, sounding sleepy and anxious.
“Rach,” I burst out. “I’m sorry to wake you. I’m desperate. Girlie emergency. Can I talk to you?”
All of a sudden, I cried again. All the pent-up anxiety and frustration came out without warning, and the relief at having caught Rachel on the other end of a phone line didn’t help matters either.
“Sophie,” she mumbled, suppressing what sounded like a monster yawn. “What time is it?”
“About one, your time. It’s two here. I’m in Paris. In a hotel. On my own, for the moment.”
“Right,” came her sleepy response. “What’s up?”
“I’m engaged to be married,” I announced. I needed to wake her up, and fast.
“I know that,” she muttered, now sounding slightly cross. “Except I thought you were having second thoughts?”
“I’m engaged to be married,” I clarified with emphasis, “to Dan.” I paused. “To Dan, as well as to Tim.”
There was a clatter and a shriek at the other end, and then some frantic clawing noises and a suppressed swear word. If my
interpretation was right, she had just dropped the phone and knocked over a glass that had sat innocently on her bedside table.
“You. Are. Kidding.” She was finally back on the line and, as I had intended, now fully awake. “Please tell me you are kidding.”
“I kid not.”
I gave her an edited version of events and I could sense her excitement through the wire.
She kept a long silence after I finished. Eventually, she asked the million dollar question: “Now what?”
“That’s why I’m calling,” I informed her. “I don’t know. But I’ve just realized something.” I paused dramatically. “And I need your advice.”
“Go on,” she coaxed.
“You’re going to laugh at me. After all this time, you are going to laugh at me,” I warned her.
“What is it?” she demanded.
“I’ve just realized that I don’t love Tim. Never have. At least, I don’t think I ever have. I don’t really know. I think I was in love with the idea of him, the idea of our relationship, the idea of our life together. Does that make any sense?”
Rachel did me the favor of remaining completely serious.
“Absolutely. That makes a lot of sense.” There was not a hint of “I told you so” there, and I welled up again in gratefulness for having such a wonderful friend.
“But,” I continued, “I don’t know if I love Dan, either. I mean, how could I ‘know’, I mean?” I didn’t talk much sense, so I tried to put more coherence into my thoughts.
“After all, I have lusted after this man since I was nineteen, never mind he’s ten years my senior. Because that’s what teenagers do. He was like a dream. And when I first met him, it was like a dream come true. Having him woo me, romance me, and make love to me…that, too, was like a dream come true.”
I halted. “You still there?”
“Sure am,” Rachel confirmed. “Just listening.”
I took a deep breath. “I think Dan obviously gives me something that Tim isn’t giving me. And whatever that is—I haven’t quite worked it all out yet—but whatever it is, it’s obviously important to me. But does that mean I love him? How do I know?” This last bit came out like a long, desperate wail.
