by Beth Moran
Before Mack could reply, the other woman’s hand shot out and clutched her friend. ‘Shut. Up!’ She gasped. ‘Jenny, as in Zara’s psychotic sister?’ Her eyes jerked between Mack and me. ‘Does Zara know you’re here? Does Richard? Isn’t there a restraining order? Are you, like, out on parole, for your sister’s wedding? Oh! I get it!’ She pointed at me in delight. ‘He’s, like, her, oh, what’s it called? Her guard. Her escort! To stop her doing a runner.’
‘She doesn’t look like a nutter,’ the first one said, eyes narrowing. When I heard her sneer that word, only Mack’s hand on my arm stopped me throwing my drink in her face.
‘Oh, don’t let her pretty face fool you,’ Mack said. ‘I’d have warned you not to insult her, but, oops – too late. Make sure you lock your door tonight. And maybe wedge a piece of furniture in front of the window? I mean, I do my best, but these government-issue handcuffs can only do so much. And a man’s got to sleep some time. Oh, hang on one second.’ He pulled out his phone. ‘Could you hold this?’ He handed his drink to the first woman before she had time to react. ‘I need to take this call. Keep an eye on her for me, would you? I won’t be more than five minutes, fifteen, tops.’
And with that, he vanished through the crowd. As did the women a split second later. Although they weren’t quite so slick, toppling into a table on the way and causing the heads to fall off a rapidly melting ice-sculpture of the happy couple.
Mack reappeared a minute later. ‘Do you want to get out of here? Go for a walk or something?’
Did I?
Old Jenny – absolutely. Why would anyone in my circumstances want to be here, unless it was to cause trouble?
New Jenny? The woman I was trying to be had made a promise to stop running away. From scary woods, falling-down houses, family problems, unnerving nun-mums or her past mistakes.
Yes, I had lost. The man, my job, my home, my pride.
But, honestly? Zara had kind of deserved that punch. And everyone in this room who knew what had happened knew that too. Most of them were probably jealous that I’d got to tear out a chunk of her perfect, pretend hair. And it wasn’t as if I hadn’t apologised, about forty-seven million times.
No more running. No more hiding. No more excuses. I was here because I’d been invited and I was jolly well staying.
‘No.’ I shook my head.
And then the photographer ruined it by requesting all family members to gather for the next picture.
Mack’s eyes met mine. ‘Best get up there, then.’
Hardly. I couldn’t breathe, or speak, let alone make my way across a slippery parquet floor in six-inch heels.
The bride’s mother appeared and stepped inside a giant snow-globe, the backdrop for all the photographs. Zara mimed for her to remove the black veil but Sister Claire merely smiled.
‘Come on, family members,’ the photographer called again. I shrivelled up against the wall, and tried to appear like just another statue. My complexion surely more stone-like than human at that point.
A gaggle of people who must have been Richard’s family – judging by the swagger and the oversized heads – squeezed into the snow-globe and arranged themselves around him.
‘Wait!’ Sister Claire said, popping her head out of the side of the globe. ‘Jenny’s not here. You can’t take it yet. JENNY?’
Zara tried to yank Mum back, eyes resembling a couple of those glass balls in museums with blue electricity zapping about inside like lightning. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘JENNY?’ she called again. ‘Oh, she must have nipped to the ladies’ room.’
‘What are you talking about? Why would she be here?’
‘Presumably because she was invited,’ Mum said. ‘I’m sure your schedule allows a couple of minutes to wait for your own twin to be included in the photographs. You share the same DNA. Were one person once upon a time. You can’t get more family than that.’
‘She does not share my DNA and we were never one person. We are non-identical twins, Mother. And she was not invited to my wedding.’
‘Oh, crap,’ I breathed.
‘It’s not too late to sneak out the back and pretend we were never here,’ Mack said.
‘Well, you did once share this womb, and these breasts!’ Sister Claire pointed to indicate which womb, and which breasts, she was referring to, in case anyone wasn’t sure.
‘You bottle-fed us!’ Zara hissed.
‘I know you weren’t close growing up, but you lived and worked together for six years. Why wouldn’t you invite her? I expected her to be a bridesmaid, to be honest.’
‘Why wouldn’t I invite her?’ Zara’s voice was bouncing off the baubles hanging from the rafters, all thought of who might hear forgotten. ‘Do you recognise this nose, Mother? I’ll tell you why there is no reason on this earth that could have persuaded me to invite that jealous, lowlife maniac to my wedding day! Last year, she—’
‘I’m here!’ I practically screamed, wobbling on my tiptoes and waving my hands about. I don’t think either Birkenshaw twin wanted that titbit broadcast across the hall. Richard certainly didn’t, judging by the way his eyes were bugging out of their sockets.
He spent the eternity it took me to reach the staircase whispering in his wife’s ear, presumably reminding her who else had been invited and was therefore witnessing this scene, and asking if she wanted her wedding day to be remembered for the bride going ballistic.
Which was how I ended up jammed beside Zara, doing everything I could not to cringe under Sister Claire’s hand resting on my shoulder, pretending to ignore the frantic gossip zipping up and down the room like a swarm of wasps and trying not to faint from the unbearably stuffy heat caused by cramming into a giant glass ball in the height of summer.
As soon as the photographer had finished, I stumbled off towards the ladies’ room, head down, whole body trembling.
Before I reached it, a hand from behind gently pulled me to a stop. Turning, expecting to see Mack, instead I found myself face to face with my ex-boyfriend.
‘I’m so glad you came,’ he said, voice low.
‘I’m not sure Zara would agree.’ I looked down at his hand, but he didn’t take the hint.
‘She’d have regretted it later if you weren’t.’
‘No. I really don’t think she would have. Why would you invite me without telling her?’
He hunched his shoulders. ‘I thought it would be a good chance for you to make up. You must miss each other.’
‘No. We don’t. We didn’t exactly get on even before… what happened. There’s no making up to do.’
‘I wanted to apologise for that.’ Richard slid his hand down to my wrist. I yanked it away and tried to avoid gagging. ‘How it all happened. I really, really liked you, Jenny. And your sister, she kind of put me in a difficult position. You know what she’s like when her mind’s set on something. But I never meant to hurt you.’
‘Mmm-hmm.’
‘I’m glad you came, though.’ He twisted up his mouth in what I knew he considered to be his sexiest smile, because he once asked me to rate his smiles in order. ‘I’ve missed you. And you look amazing.’
‘You are kidding me?’ I laughed then. The whole situation was preposterous. I knew Richard was only hoping to keep his ego fully inflated by watching me melt beneath sexy smile number three. ‘Thank you for your apology. Duly noted, but really not necessary. You hooking up with Zara was the best thing that ever happened to me. Have a nice life, Richard.’
36
Mack and I decided to give the carol singers with bagpipe accompaniment a miss, instead opting for a pair of huge armchairs at the back of the library, and more tea and crumpets. We did attend dinner, having correctly guessed we’d be at an obscure table at the back, with a few of Zara’s lesser acquaintances and the now infamous nun.
‘The house is beginning to take shape,’ I said to her as we ate our starters. ‘I’ve done loads of work on it. Clearing it out, sprucing up the bits I w
ant to keep.’
‘That’s very nice. I’m glad you’re making a home. But please don’t fall into the trap I did and start placing your worth in what you own, not who you are.’
‘If I did that, I’d not consider myself worth very much.’
We finished our salmon in silence. I waited for the roast venison to arrive before pressing on.
‘What was it like, living there?’
Sister Claire carefully chewed and swallowed. But in her sidelong glance I saw the first real glimpse of my mother since she’d arrived. ‘I left, aged seventeen, and never went back. I think that tells you enough.’
‘Why?’
She put down her knife and fork and dabbed her mouth with a napkin. Bent her head for a long moment.
‘Please, Mum. Why did I never get to meet my grandmother?’
Another minute or two ticked by. While the rest of the table tucked into the Brussels sprouts and chestnut stuffing, chatting, clinking crystal, tipsy hands gesticulating wildly, my mother and I sat in some sort of bubble.
Finally, she gave a slow, determined blink, and turned to me. ‘Your grandmother and I did not get on. She was a… difficult woman. Controlling. Rigid. I thought she blamed me for your grandfather leaving. I blamed her for driving him away. And I couldn’t forgive her. So instead I spent the next thirty years trying to forget.’
She wiped away the tear running down her cheek. Speechless, I handed her a napkin.
‘Thank you.’ She blotted her face, took a couple of slow breaths. ‘I have made my peace with God, but I can never make peace with her. And I must live with the pain I caused. The unanswered questions.’
She clenched her hands together in a fist on the table. ‘Whatever has gone on between you and Zara, please sort it out. Whether we like it or not, family matters.’
‘I take your point, Mum. I’ll try and talk to her before we go. Maybe not on her wedding night, though.’
I sat back, unable to eat any more. Braced myself.
‘I don’t want that to happen to us.’
Mum frowned. ‘What to happen?’
‘I don’t want us to end up never seeing each other again. I want to be able to forgive you.’
I picked up my water glass to take a gulp, the contents sloshing as my hand shook.
‘Forgive me for what?’ Sister Claire had gone. Isobel Meadows, proud socialite, stared back at me.
‘Don’t you think that the damage caused by your childhood might have affected me and Zara? Mum, I can’t ever remember you telling me you love me. Giving me a proper cuddle. When I was ill or upset you mostly told me to grow up and get over it.’
I had more to say, so much more, but the hot pain in my lungs and throat was too much to bear. I pushed back my chair. I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t handle the rising panic. Then Mack, laughing with the woman on his other side, took my hand in his and gently squeezed it, coaxing me back towards the table.
‘Excuse me one moment.’ He turned to me, keeping hold of my hand, and bent his head close to mine. ‘You’ve got this,’ he whispered, the kindness in his eyes so deep and beautiful it struck my very soul.
After the longest, tensest, most despairing silence of my life, my mother slowly reached out and took my other hand, pulling it up between us on the table.
‘You’re right. And I’m sorry. I have not been a wonderful mother. I perhaps failed you in more ways than most. But I knew no better. And all I can do now is ask for your forgiveness.’ She took a long, juddering breath. ‘I love you, Jennifer.’ I managed to meet her eyes for maybe a fraction of a second before the pain got too much. ‘I love you. With all my heart. Surely you knew that?’
No, Mum, I didn’t know that. I would have been surprised to find she loved me with a teensy cranny of her heart.
We sat in frozen silence through dessert, and then the speeches, which I didn’t hear a word of, although Mack later assured me that was probably a good thing, and the choreographed first dance to Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You’, interrupted by one of the bridesmaids starting to bop in the corner with her husband, at which point Zara stopped the music, screeched for seven minutes about how it was her day, and no one was going to steal her limelight however jealous they were, then insisted on starting again from the beginning.
‘I need to tell you something else,’ I managed to croak out, once the Celtic band had got under way. ‘Can we go somewhere quieter? Maybe the library?’
And there, I told my mother about the brother she’d never known. More tears spilled over as I tried to explain what I’d learnt about Charlotte from the diaries.
We wept for secrets untold, the brother never mourned – the family that could have been, had Charlotte Meadows got support, spoken up, talked to her daughter, been brave enough to dare to love her. We wept most of all for the bright young girl who became a lonely old woman, unable to let go of a single memory, a scrap of her past, as if surrounding herself with things could replace what she’d lost, those who had abandoned her. Dying as she had lived: alone, unloved, estranged.
And we wept for a family still here, yet utterly broken.
As we sat together on a sofa, my mother leant over and hugged me and, however much I’d pretended I didn’t care, it was the hug I’d been waiting for my whole life.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled over my shoulder, both of us too awkward to meet the other’s eyes.
‘I know.’ I leant my head against hers. ‘You did the best you could.’
‘That’s not good enough.’
‘No. It’s not. But hearing you acknowledge it helps.’
‘Will you come and visit? We have so much more to talk about, and my taxi will be here soon.’
‘Come to the convent?’
She pulled away, laughing gently as she wiped her face. ‘It’s not called that, but yes. I’m in charge of the goats.’
‘You hate animals.’
‘I used to hate a lot of things I’m learning to love.’
‘Okay, I’ll try. But it won’t be for a while. I’ve loads to do on the house first. I’ll send you the journals, though.’
‘Thank you. That would mean a lot to me.’
‘And one day, you should come and see the cottage for yourself.’
‘Yes. One day, God willing, I’ll be ready to go back.’
Mack wandered through not long after that, surreptitiously checking if we’d finally stopped blubbering.
Sister Claire adjusted her habit and frowned at me over the top of her reading glasses. ‘Now what are you doing still here? There’s a party going on – you can’t spend the evening sitting with your mother. Go and dance.’
‘I’m not really in the mood. I think I might just—’
‘Jennifer, that man has been nothing short of an angel all day. The least you can do is give him a dance.’
‘I don’t think Mack’s into dancing. He’s not really the type.’ I glanced up as Mack reached our sofa.
‘Whatever made you think that?’ He peered down his nose, fake Scottish accent so over the top it was barely comprehensible.
‘Oh, I don’t know. The grumpiness, the miserly existence and refusal to socialise with anyone, ever? The complete lack of anything resembling fun, or frivolity, or joy in your life?’
By this point, Mack had yanked me off the sofa, through the doorway and onto the dance floor. He pulled me up close to his chest in a classic ballroom hold. ‘What are you talking about? I’ve got you in my life, haven’t I?’ He raised one eyebrow, ever so slightly, tweaked a soft smile, just enough to cause the sides of his mouth to crease, and, honestly, if he’d not been holding me so firmly I might have melted onto the floor right then and there. In my defence, it had been a long, emotionally exhausting day. I’d not slept much and I was probably dehydrated from all that crying.
‘Now, shut your wee mooth, stop thinking so damn hard and dance with me, woman.’
So, instead of making a smart remark about his woeful accent,
I shut my wee mouth and I danced through the firework display, the arrival of Santa, complete with reindeer, the impromptu Highland Games on the front lawn and the arrival and departure of the three ambulances. I danced until the band strummed its final note.
I shouldn’t have been surprised at Mack being an awesome dancer. He seemed to be good at everything. What made my heart sing, and groan, both at the same time was that, in his arms, I didn’t seem so bad myself.
I knew it was wrong. Utterly wrong. I could shut my eyes and pretend the state of Mack’s marriage was nothing to do with me. We were only dancing, as friends. Mack was helping me through a difficult day. He looked at me like that because he felt concerned. My eyes kept being drawn to his face because I was still getting used to it without the beard. Joking, laughing, nuzzling into his shoulder as he rested his chin on my head didn’t count as flirting, did it? And if our hands lingered a microsecond too long once the last dance finished (and they did, believe me, I noticed) it meant nothing. Not to him, anyway.
Someone flicked the main lights on, blinking us back to the harsh glare of reality. Dancing with Mack might be okay. How I felt every time he touched me, looked at me, spoke, stood in the same room, was not. It was time to get a grip on myself. Or, at the very least, go to bed and try to figure out a way to possibly manage to do that.
Mack carried my discarded shoes as he walked me to my door. Kept a careful distance as we rode up in the lift. Checked I still had my room key and dipped his head to say, ‘Goodnight, neighbour. Sleep well,’ disappearing into the next room before I could pull my wits about me enough to say, ‘Goodnight, and thank you for helping what should have been one of the worst nights ever become the best.’
Which was probably a good thing. Who knew what would have popped out on the end of that sentence?
I was torn between wanting to get back home, where Mack had a wife and I had a brain plus a conscience and I didn’t love Mack, and wanting this evening to last forever.
37
Breakfast the following morning consisted of strong coffee and a few mouthfuls of porridge, if the creamy, sweet and salty bowlful of heaven we ate could be called porridge. Mack and I spent breakfast talking about everything except what an amazing time we’d had, or how, having hated Christmas my whole life, this year I’d already had two and because of him both of them had been wonderful, or how I’d never laughed so much in one night, or how totally right I’d felt in his arms, or whether he could see the kiss that never happened hovering between us too, and whether that meant we couldn’t be friends any more.
