by Ali Harris
‘Ahhh,’ our guests sigh appreciatively.
I glance at the table next to us and see Eliza Grey’s delicate features tighten. She is Adam’s beautiful, blonde childhood sweetheart and she’s here because she’s Robert Grey, George’s business partner’s, daughter. I’d rather she wasn’t here to be honest, and I made that clear to Marion when she was doing the guest list, but she just told me to stop being so silly and sensitive. ‘Adam and Eliza have a long history. She’s a lovely girl, the least you can do is offer her an olive branch for stealing her future husband!’ Marion had laughed, but it was a tight, forced sound.
I’d acquiesced only because I felt sorry for Eliza, which is ridiculous really. I mean she’s stunning and successful, but I know from Jay that she’s constantly living in hope that she can rewind her life and get Adam back.
I re-tune into the speech. ‘But even though Adam was sure from day one that Bea was The One it took Bea a while to be convinced.’ Jay pauses and looks around the room. ‘A long while.’ Another pause as he looks at me and winks. ‘A really, really long while.’ He looks over at Adam. ‘How many times did you propose again, mate? Six? Seven times?’
‘OK, mate, thanks for that!’ Adam grins and throws a cork at him. It’s true. He did propose to me many times. I just kept putting him off. We were too young, I said. I wasn’t ready. Why spoil something perfect? All the usual excuses – except the real one. I didn’t deserve him.
‘If you must know, Jay,’ I call, ‘playing hard to get was my ultimate game-plan!’ This is not strictly true but I can’t bear anyone to think that I wasn’t sure about marrying Adam. ‘And it worked!’ I force out a laugh as I lift up my left hand and the whole crowd laughs along with me.
Everyone except Eliza. And Marion.
‘Smile!’
Adam puts his hand over mine and we lean in to each other and beam at the photographer as we cut into the gigantic, white, five-tier cake. Each layer has been monogrammed with intricate pearl and fleur-de-lis decoration as well as an iced version of the family crest that Marion had designed especially for this wedding. It has been on all the invites, the order of service, the napkins, the tablecloths. I raise a piece of cake to Adam’s mouth and he takes a bite before covering my mouth in sweet, icing-covered kisses as everyone applauds.
Then the band starts to play and he runs his fingers through his black hair as he backs away from me towards the middle of the dance floor. Jay and some of the guys gather behind him and begin to click their fingers and step in time. I recognise the song instantly. It’s ‘The Best Is Yet To Come’ by Frank Sinatra. Adam winks at me as he dances across the room with suave, sliding moves like a latter-day Dean Martin. I laugh as Milly comes and links my arm and then leads me slowly towards him and I bashfully swing my dress to the music before he lifts me up and twirls me around. He mouths the words of the song whilst lowering me to the floor. He leans me back, kisses me lightly on the lips and then swings me commandingly across the dance floor. I throw my head back and look up at the canopy of fairy lights twinkling like stars and it is then that I know with every ounce of certainty I have that as long as I am with Adam I will see that sunshine place Sinatra is singing about. And it will be far, far away from the shadows.
And Kieran.
At midnight and on the verge of a new day and the dawn of our new life, Adam and I wave joyfully at our guests who have all spilled out onto the drive and I throw my bouquet into the waiting crowd. It’s caught by Loni, who screeches like it has burned her.
‘It’s a sign, Loni!’ I shout. ‘You’ll be next!’
‘Only in some strange parallel world, my darling!’ she calls back. ‘I’ve done my time!’ I push away thoughts of my dad and watch as she throws it again. This time Cal’s girlfriend Lucy catches it. She immediately jumps up and down and waves it in front of Cal.
Still laughing, Adam and I get in the car and settle back in the seat. Then we both turn around and wave as our car pulls away from Holkham Hall and down Lady Anne’s Drive. Everyone cheers and Milly, Jay and Cal run behind the car, waving wildly at us before they disappear into the darkness.
‘Our future starts now . . .’ Adam murmurs as he turns and looks at me.
I smile, lean my head on his shoulder and close my eyes. It does. It really does.
Chapter 10
As I pelt across the beach, I know I’m no longer just running from Adam, our wedding and the safe, secure life I’ve cultivated for myself since I met him seven years ago. I’m also running from my life before it. The one where my dad left me, I took risks, fell in love, made mistakes, horrible, tragic mistakes that I will never forgive myself for. Mistakes that left me paralysed.
Walking down that aisle today I realised that I’d been treading water since that summer. Not making decisions. Not following my dreams. Trying not to get pulled back to that dark, dangerous place while Adam desperately tried to keep me afloat. I think of how he has always been so good at lifting my spirits. He has this incredible capacity to remember things in detail, and whenever I’d feel myself sinking, he’d take me in his arms and start murmuring, ‘Do you remember when . . .’ before describing a moment in our lives so vividly that I’d be transported to that ‘happy place’. But the shadows – and my secret – came back. Even Adam wasn’t strong enough to stop that happening.
I can see the wedding car ahead and I scramble determinedly towards my Cinderella carriage that, by rights, should have turned back into a pumpkin but which is still, thankfully, waiting patiently in the beach car park to take me home.
I jump in and slam the car door, trying my hardest to shut the world out with it.
‘Where to, miss?’ the driver says.
‘Home, I want to go home.’
The only problem is, if home is not with Adam, where on earth is it now?
May
Dear Bea
I always think of May as the swollen, overdue belly of spring; flowers bursting along well-pruned borders like flesh against elastic. Baby-blue clematis climbing walls and fences. Sometimes it’s hard to keep yourself firmly rooted in the here and now, but May is the time to do it. After all, you’ve survived the uncertainty of early spring, which means, in theory, only bright summer days lie ahead. Try to embrace the freshness of feeling, not just in the air, but in the surfeit of colour and life that is blossoming before your eyes. It is sometimes easy to forget that even the strongest perennial and the hardiest twining climbers don’t last forever. The short-lived bridal-wreath shrub that flowers in May is a reminder of that.
So, Bea, don’t rest on your laurels expecting the weather to always be fine. Hoe old ground to stop weeds from germinating, and keep feeding and watering to encourage more growth. Night frosts are not uncommon this month, so cover vulnerable plants to protect them if temperatures drop. And always remember that a surplus of sunny days is just around the corner.
Love, Dad x
Chapter 11
Bea Bishop changed her relationship status to: ‘It’s Complicated’.
I wake up and become aware that everything hurts; my head, my throat, my ears, my skin, my heart. I sit up and try to prise my swollen eyes open, desperately pulling off clumps of thick, dried mascara so I can tentatively blink into the sunlight of a new day, a new month, a new life, all without Adam. I’m back here, back at home, where it all began.
Oh God.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. It’s all coming back to me now: running away from Kieran at the beach, arriving at Loni’s and collapsing into her arms as she half dragged, half carried me crying into the kitchen; and then she, Cal and Lucy trying to extract the truth from me. It had reminded me so much of that fateful night eight years ago when they brought me, a shivering wreck, home from the pier. I was in shock, not just at what I’d seen, but what I’d done.
‘Did he do something to you?’ Loni had demanded last night, just like she’d asked back then, meaning Kieran. The vehemence in her voice surprised me. Even though she’s naturally on the offensive when it
comes to the men in my life, wanting to protect me, she has always loved Adam. She once told me she trusted him with my heart.
‘And that’s a big deal, for me,’ she’d added.
‘Has Adam cheated on you?’ she’d asked last night, unable to hide her disbelief. ‘Is that why you left him?’ I’d shaken my head; I couldn’t speak for sobs.
‘Have you cheated on him?’ Cal had asked, and both Lucy and Loni had admonished him.
‘What? It’s a fair question,’ he said, eyeing me suspiciously. I looked away. We hadn’t talked about Kieran since we both saw him in the congregation.
‘No! There’s nothing, no one . . . I just . . . I just couldn’t. I c-can’t . . .’ I’d broken down again then and they’d been unable to get any more out of me. I’d spent two hours crying in bed with my head buried in my hands, during which time they served me tea and sympathy whilst whispering worriedly to each other. The phone had rung every two minutes and they’d taken turns to answer until they’d eventually taken it off the hook. When I’d calmed down a little, I’d picked up my phone and checked for messages but there was no reception in Loni’s house, so I put it in my bedside drawer. I realised I didn’t actually want to hear from Adam’s family or our wedding guests, anyway. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what terrible things they were saying about me.
I stare at the drawer and suddenly open it, grab my phone and, clutching it tightly like it’s a portal to another life, I try to get out of bed. I don’t want to stay in this room a moment longer than I have to. My cosy little childhood attic room should be a comfort, a blanket of warmth and security. But after the year I spent here, barely getting out of bed, it has become simply a painful reminder of a time I’d rather forget. Oh, it’s nice enough with its Velux windows looking down on the rambling garden below, my bed tucked cosily under the eaves, sloping walls painted primrose yellow and covered in a patchwork of Monet garden prints: Water Lilies, Nymphéas, Reflections of Weeping Willows, Roseway at Giverny. The prints – better than any sleeping tablets – had been Loni’s idea that year; most things that worked were. I would only have to stare at them, allow my vision to go hazy, and no matter how much I’d been crying, no matter how low, how desperate, how guilty and hurt, how confused, heartbroken and paralysed with regret I felt, those pictures would carry me to a calm and safe place where I could lose myself in sleep. Until I met Adam.
Adam.
I swallow back fresh tears, wriggle out of my dress and find a pair of newly laundered fuchsia-pink silk pyjamas of Loni’s that she has laid out for me. They are rather big, but I slip them on anyway, roll over the waistband several times and, wrapping my arms around my body, I shuffle towards the door. I run my fingers along my bookshelves as I pass. They are still groaning with the books of my childhood, as well as my garden diaries, the ones I started writing after Dad left, noting down every change, every growth and death, every bud and weed, so he could see how well I was following in his footsteps. The garden was our bond and I thought as long as I kept that I wouldn’t lose him. Not completely anyway. I pick up one of the diaries now and gaze at the cover with its flower doodles and my name and age scrawled in bright, bold bubble letters. I quickly flick through the pages. He’d only been gone two years and I clearly still harboured a belief that he would come back because there are so many references to him.
Four years later, in the notebook marked ‘Beatrice Bishop aged thirteen’, there is barely a reference to him. Just intricate diagrams and notes, tips ripped out of gardening magazines and paragraphs copied from my treasured Royal Horticultural Society books and encyclopedias. I continued writing the diaries until I met Kieran. And then I left them all here when I moved in with Milly – as well as the reference books bought for my degree course in Garden Design that I was in the middle of studying for at UEA. Books on small gardens, landscaping, garden colour palettes, planting, and designing roof terraces and urban spaces – the module I was studying just before I dropped out. I didn’t need any reminder of my past life.
Feeling I might suffocate if I stay in there much longer, I walk out of my bedroom and head downstairs.
The noise and chatter in the kitchen stops abruptly when I appear in the doorway. Loni, Cal, Lucy and the kids are momentarily frozen; quite a feat, particularly for Neve and Nico who seem unable to stay still – even when asleep. Loni moves first, her round, beautifully fleshy and expressive face morphing expertly from shock into delight as she steps forward, and with the sleeves of her bright kaftan fanning out, she opens her arms wide to me like an ebullient butterfly.
‘Bea, darling! It’s such a JOY to see you up and about.’ Her arms close around me and I shut my eyes. She smells reassuringly familiar, a scent of patchouli and sweet orange wafts under my nose. Her hair is tied into a messy mermaid’s plait and hangs over her shoulder like wisteria, her plump face is free of make-up and glowing with vitality. Under her kaftan she’s wearing a pair of bright silk patterned trousers. On her feet are gladiator sandals and gigantic bead earrings dangle noisily from her ears. ‘We were just saying, weren’t we, Cal, that you have absolutely nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed about. No need to hibernate in your room!’ This line is delivered in a high-pitched, sing-song voice. She knows better than anyone how capable I am of hiding myself away. ‘What you did was very brave, Bea, very brave indeed. It’s much better to make a decision like that now rather than six months into the marriage. You can walk with your head held high, darling. After all, if there’s one thing that Buddhism has taught me it’s that the secret of life is to have no fear. There’s this saying—’
‘Never fear what will become of you, depend on no one. Only the moment you reject all help are you freed!’ Cal and Lucy chorus. I don’t join in. It is Loni’s motto. One she delivered for months after Dad left. My motto is: Not the bloody Buddha quotes again.
‘Well, I’m definitely free now . . .’ I blink up at the ceiling, trying to stop the tears.
‘Oh Bea . . .’ Lucy instantly darts around the table and gives me a cuddle.
I wriggle out of her embrace and go and stand in front of the Aga. I don’t deserve comfort.
‘H-have you heard from anyone? Milly maybe?’ I ask. I want to see her but at the same time I’m petrified of what she is going to say. I know that she more than anyone won’t hold back. I don’t think she saw Kieran at the wedding – if she had she’d probably have disowned me – but she’s been waiting for Adam and me to get married for years. I can’t bear the thought of letting her down, and though I want to believe she’ll support me, I know that Adam is as much her friend as I am. I can’t rely on her support. And besides, I don’t deserve it.
Loni shakes her head. Even though I can’t face Milly, I can’t help feeling hurt that she hasn’t come round, or at least phoned. She’d know her’s is the first place I’d run to. ‘Marion?’ This comes out as a mousy squeak, displaying more fear than I’d intended. Cal shrugs and nods. I groan. I can’t bear to think about what Adam’s family and friends think of me. I’m sure I heard the phone ringing in my dreams last night. Part of me wants to know. The other just wants to get back in bed and pull the duvet over my head. Maybe it’s a blessing that Loni’s house is in the middle of nowhere and has such shockingly bad Wifi and no phone signal so I don’t have to find out. I pick up my phone again nonetheless. I need to know what everyone is saying. Or maybe even tell them how terrible I’m feeling. Surely that’s the right thing to do in this situation?
I open up Facebook. I see my profile says ‘In a relationship with Adam Hudson’ and I wonder if I should change it. I start manically tapping out a status update in the vain but optimistic hope that I will get one magical, fated spark of a signal.
Bea Bishop has made a terrible mistake.
My thumb hovers over the post button but even as I’m writing, I know that what I’m saying isn’t true. I delete the message and tap out a different status.
Bea Bishop is so so sad.
This is true but I
frown as I stare at it. It looks too self-indulgent written in black and white like that. I delete it, biting the inside of my lip, rolling the flesh between my molars, enjoying the sharp pain. I close my eyes for a moment and think. Then I write another update.
Bea Bishop is so so sorry.
This one feels right because I am sorry. Terribly, awfully sorry and this seems like the best way to apologise without having to deal with seeing anyone. Cowardly, maybe, but why change the personality trait of a lifetime?
I hit post but nothing happens. I hold the phone out, swearing under my breath as I fail to get a signal. I try kneeling up on the window seat and holding the phone up to the ceiling, standing on one leg over by the back door and crouching by Loni’s Welsh dresser. But there’s nothing. Cal wanders over and crouches down next to me.
‘Hey . . .’ he says, gently prising the phone from my hand and rubbing my back. ‘Do you think that’s such a good idea?’ His face is pulled into a frown and suddenly I see how tired he looks. His shock of curls has always made him look childishly cherubic – both at school and at home he seemed to get away with anything, which used to drive me mad – but recently his responsibilities seem to be drawn on his face like marks on a map. The frown line between his eyes is Loni. He’s constantly worrying about her being on her own. The group of lines stretching out from the east and west of his eyes are all Neve and Nico, a combination of laughter and exhaustion that they’ve brought since they were born two years ago. And the faint lines across his forehead are his job; they tell of each emergency he deals with and how he does it with humour, patience, urgency and passion.
‘What else am I meant to do, Cal?’ I ask desperately. ‘I need to let everyone know how sorry I am. I need to apologise for this mess . . . I need to . . . I – I need to . . .’ I start crying again and Cal rubs my shoulder.
‘Just give it some time, sis. Sort your head out in private. And more importantly, let Adam sort out his.’
