by Tina Seskis
An hour before the ceremony, Ben was getting dressed in his best man’s bedroom, which was at the back of the hotel and was one of the few that didn’t have that expansive sea view. He was pleasantly surprised that everything was going so well – dinner last night had been seamless, entirely devoid of bad behaviour – but he was still wary, he knew better than to assume Brown family events would be incident-free. He still found Caroline prickly, and she had that knack of making people so nervous of what they said that they said silly things that she then took pleasure in mocking – but she had definitely improved, and there was nothing concrete that she'd said or done over the wedding to upset anyone. She’d even made Emily’s wedding dress which had secretly worried him, but Emily seemed pleased with it, so he shouldn’t fret. Ben didn’t know why he felt so anxious. This was meant to be the happiest day of his life, they were getting married in the most romantic hotel in the world, with its heady setting and improbable back story, and he knew that Emily was the most unbelievably perfect girl for him.
There was a knock on the door. Good, that must be Jack with the waistcoat, he thought. He finished tying his tie and was tucking his shirt into his trousers as he opened the door.
“Oh. Hello,” said Ben. There was something about Caroline that always made him uneasy, and seeing her now looking absolutely stunning propped up provocatively against the doorjamb made him shift his gaze quickly from her startling blue eyes to her vivid pink mouth, down the length of her silk dress and smooth exposed legs, towards the floor.
“Here it is, Benny boy,” said Caroline and she held out the magenta waistcoat she’d designed for him. “Sorry it’s late, I was just doing some last minute adjustments.” Ben didn’t like the waistcoat much, but he was happy to wear it for Emily, as long as she thought it looked good. He reluctantly let Caroline help him into it, and then she insisted on doing up all the tiny buttons, protesting that his fingers were too big and that he would mark the silk. She seemed to take ages and when she’d finished she looked him up and down slowly, as if he was naked.
“Wow, you scrub up well,” she said. “My darling twin sister has certainly hit the jackpot.” He went to move away, embarrassed, but she leaned into him then and whispered, “Good luck, Ben, I hope you and Emily will be very happy together,” and before he could stop her she kissed him, right on the mouth, very gently, and for a nano-second Ben felt his body respond, and then he pulled away and muttered thanks and shut the door.
He put on his new shoes and they pinched a bit, and his cheeks were flaming, but he was ready. His best man, Jack, poked his head around the door. “You nearly ready, mate? Hey, you’re looking terrible, are you OK?”
“I’m fine, just last minute nerves I think.”
“Well, everything’s cool, the registrar’s here, I just saw Frances and Andrew, they’re dressed, and people are beginning to arrive. I’ve given the hotel the music, it all works. Everything's going to be fine.”
“I hope so,” said Ben.
“Oh Christ, you’re not having second thoughts are you? I need to get you a drink.”
“No, no, it’s not that. I’m certain about Emily, I’m just not so sure about her family.”
“Well, be grateful it’s that way round,” Jack said and laughed. “Come on. There’s nothing a beer won’t settle,” and he took Ben by the arm and the two of them walked together to the bar.
Andrew had noticed Danielle as soon as they’d arrived the previous evening. Caroline had moaned on and on that she didn’t have a boyfriend to bring, how she hated coming to these things on her own, and so in the end Emily and Ben had asked if she’d like to invite a friend instead. She and Danielle had been close in London – it was Danielle who’d called Frances the night Caroline had her “episode,” as they now called it, if it ever needed to be referred to. Danielle was still living in London, but she’d travelled all the way down to Devon specially, and now she was here she was glad she’d made the effort. She thought the hotel was splendid, a Gothic extravaganza with a huge flower-filled terrace and a view to die for. There was an immense great hall that was so chilled, even on a summer’s day, that it had real fires blazing in monster fireplaces on either side of the room. Creaky creased leather Chesterfields made three sides of a square around each fire, heavy mud-coloured curtains flanked the windows, rendering the room pleasantly gloomy. A sweeping staircase led up to the minstrels’ gallery that went the whole way round the hall, and it was off here that each of the hotel’s 12 rooms was found. The bedrooms themselves were in direct contrast to the great hall: bright, sunny, sea-soaked, with dove grey walls and white Egyptian cotton sheets and bolster cushions, and bathrooms with fancy soaps and clawed foot silver baths. Danielle absolutely loved it here, and everyone had been so friendly, in Andrew’s case a bit too friendly, but Danielle was used to dealing with that sort of thing, and besides he was actually quite dishy for his age. She was the type of girl that men found attractive although women often didn’t see it, and she was cheerful and open which she knew sometimes sent out the wrong signals, but that’s just the way she was, she didn’t see why she needed to change.
The doleful notes of Fake Plastic Trees by Radiohead played as Emily walked down the makeshift aisle created between rows of cream fabric-covered chairs in the garden overlooking the sea. Frances had thought it was a strange choice of music, but only Emily and Ben knew its significance, how it had framed their first tentative embrace, and they were happy. They'd decided on a small wedding, only 40-odd people, where everyone they'd invited would come because they loved them and were happy for them, where there was no backbiting about the bride’s dress or how the marriage would never last. In the beginning Emily had even wondered whether they should run away and get married on a beach somewhere, she didn't want to upset Caroline, she'd said, but Ben had put his foot down for once. He'd reminded her of the amazing hotel on the cliff in Devon, of how they’d talked hypothetically of what a great place it would be for a wedding, and how they’d both known at the time but hadn’t dared acknowledge that they were referring to their own. Caroline would be fine about it, he’d said, it wasn’t their fault she hadn’t met anyone, and anyway she was much better about things like that these days. And so far, Emily thought, Caroline had been more than fine: she actually seemed happy for them, which was lovely.
Andrew and Frances stood together watching their eldest twin take her vows, and it made them think back to their own wedding day and how long ago that was. Had Andrew meant his vows at the time, they both wondered, and neither knew the answer and they both supposed it didn’t matter now. As she faced the flat still water Frances’s thoughts kept drifting away to earlier times, to their honeymoon, the awful births, the exhausting early years of their daughters' lives – to how she’d been surprised that Andrew hadn’t left her once the twins had grown older, she’d known all along there’d been someone else. Andrew was thinking about how different his life may have been if it had been Victoria he’d married, if he’d met her first, and he wondered for the thousandth time why he hadn’t just upped and left his family, surely love is more important? But it was too late now. He thought about how he’d tried to have it all, to keep Victoria, keep his family, and he saw how instead of making everyone happy it had damaged all of them. Victoria must have felt used, strung along by the end, he knew that. After she finally finished it he'd been so utterly bereft that what else was there to do but slide into his pattern of one-night stands and dispiriting affairs? He’d found then that he needed Frances after all, needed her steadiness and calm, someone to come home to.
And what was Frances’s excuse for not going? She stood close to Andrew, willing him to take her hand, knowing that, despite all his lies and flakiness, she still loved her husband – he was in many ways a good man and still so handsome, and besides how would she cope on her own?
“So I now pronounce you husband and wife,” said the registrar, a gentle-toned Welshman who'd managed to make the short wedding service meaningf
ul, perfect, as his words hung on the breeze. “You may kiss the bride.”
As Ben leant forward and gave Emily the tenderest of kisses, Caroline shifted in her seat and yawned.
The wedding breakfast was served outside on mismatched china plates and was a simple buffet of rare roast beef and an enormous whole salmon, with eight different salads and freshly dug new potatoes. Pudding doubled as the wedding cake and was the biggest pile of profiteroles Emily had ever seen, even better than she'd imagined. The weather was faultless, and as it was July she hadn’t even bothered with contingency plans, she’d been that confident that the sun would shine on her and Ben, on their happiness. All she wanted was for everyone to eat lovely food, drink champagne and enjoy the view, and she wasn’t too fussed about anything else. “Right people, right location, how wrong can we go?” she’d said, and Ben had loved her even more that she wasn’t one of those women who turned tedious over their wedding plans, agonising over the colour of the ribbons on the menu cards or which flowers to have in the table sprays. Caroline swanned about with a glass in her hand, flashing her dancer’s thighs, going on about how she’d designed all the outfits, annoying Jack’s wife by continuously flirting with him, paying people compliments that sounded like insults. As the afternoon wore on, she became that bit louder, that bit brittler, and when she started saying loudly how she wished she could find herself a nice husband too, but one who wasn't a doormat like Ben, Frances took her to one side and suggested quietly that maybe she'd had enough.
“Had enough of what?” sneered Caroline. “Of my goody two shoes sister or her puke-inducing husband?”
“Caroline!” said her mother. “This is Emily’s wedding. I thought you were pleased for her.”
“Mum,” said Caroline wearily, through the champagne. “Of course I’m pleased for her, she’s my twin sister, she’s in lurve, I just wish she didn’t have to ram it down my throat.” Caroline’s words were slurring now, and Frances knew she needed to get her away from the party – people were listening, she didn’t want any trouble. She looked anxiously for Andrew – there he was talking to that busty friend of Caroline’s again, surely breasts that size couldn’t be natural? Frances had been grateful to Danielle for looking after Caroline the night she'd been sectioned, and for staying in touch afterwards while all her daughter's other so-called friends had drifted away, but she didn’t like watching her giggling at Andrew’s jokes, they’d been chatting together for far too long, people might talk.
“Andrew,” she called. “Andrew!” He ignored her the first two times, until eventually he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t heard her any longer, and when he finally looked round he saw his wife with their beautiful pink and orange daughter, who appeared to be holding onto her mother, her legs long and bendy, her eyes glassy, unfocussed. He sighed and thought, what now? Why couldn't they all just have a good time for a change? And then he went over and it was clear that Caroline was awfully, hideously drunk. It had all happened so quickly, maybe it was the sun, but they needed to get her out of there before she caused a scene. Andrew took Caroline by the shoulder and between them they tried to prop her up, help her to her room.
“But I don’t want to go to my room, Mum, I’m having such a great time, it’s my twin sister’s wedding, I want to catch the bouquet,” she slurred.
“Come on, darling,” cajoled Frances. “Let’s get you out of this sun and get some water, you’ll be fine then.”
Caroline’s legs splayed as her new magenta heels dug deep in the grass. She yanked at the left one but it stayed stuck where it was whilst her foot came free, and she nearly fell over. Andrew pulled the strappy shoe out from the turf and picked it up, and then he took Caroline under the arm, more firmly this time, and as he did so the thin stiletto heel poked into her bony ribs.
“OWWWW. Get off me, you stupid fuck,” screamed Caroline. “Why don’t you just leave me alone and go finish feeling up my friend, you loser?”
The hillside went quiet and you could almost hear the lapping of the sea even though it was far below, the endless in and out of the waves, the earth breathing ominously. It was humiliating for all of them, in their different ways. No-one spoke.
It was Ben who finally broke the silence. “It’s getting late now,” he announced, as calmly as he could. “Why don’t we all go inside, the band will be starting soon, and there’s plenty more champagne.” Everyone moved at Ben’s instruction, relieved to get away from having to witness the stricken look on the bride’s face.
Later, much later, Caroline lay passed out, still in her fuchsia dress, on her single bed in the pitch darkness. The other bed in the room creaked wearily as Andrew lay with his face beneath Danielle’s breasts as she rhythmically moved against him until they both finished, after which Andrew’s self-loathing was able to seep in, gently, like the sea far below them, as the tide turned.
19
As I wait outside the agency, an immaculate girl shimmies up the street and wafts into the building. She has long dark hair like in a shampoo ad and her clothes are obviously designer – a red shift mini-dress with gold gladiator sandals. She makes me feel even more of a frump, and I know she must be Polly, the girl I’m meant to ask for. I don’t know why I feel so inadequate, I used to be quite happy with my appearance, but today I feel like I’m auditioning for a role and I don’t fit the part. When I finally go in, I can tell that she’d clocked me, out in the street, and that she thinks I’m not quite glamorous enough too, but she smiles and offers me coffee and takes me behind reception to show me what to do. Polly is stunning, cool, one of those girls that terrify you, and I find it hard to think what to say to her, I seem to have forgotten how to do small talk. As she goes through who the partners are, how they like to be contacted, who’s happy for their mobile number to be given out, what the top clients’ particular neuroses are, I look in on myself and feel even more out of place here than in a shitty house in North London. I’m aware that I’d previously taken all this for granted – getting phone calls, being told clients are in reception, having meeting rooms booked for me, I’d had no idea there was so much to it. The receptionists at my company in Manchester were normal, like me, not trophies on display like exotic flowers. As Polly is briefing me, people start arriving for work and they are achingly trendy – there are boys in the latest brand of jeans and statement T-shirts with mussy hair, they must be the creative types; others wear thick-rimmed glasses and narrow-leg trousers with polished squared off shoes, glossy leather satchels slung across their chests. The girls wear high heels and clothes I might at a push wear to a party and they carry over-sized designer handbags. Despite everyone looking different it’s almost like they’re in uniform. They arrive in dribs and drabs, lattes in hand, and no-one seems in much of a hurry, it’s Friday after all. At 9.25 an older guy in a well cut suit and white plimsolls saunters in, says, “Morning Polly darling,” then looks at me without interest and just about nods. I smile back and he takes the lift and Polly says, “That was Simon Gordon and he is GOD.” The phone goes and Polly answers and she listens and says, “OK, give me two secs,” then she disappears off somewhere and leaves me behind the desk and the switchboard starts blinking and I forget what to do. I press the button that's flashing and say, “Good morning, Carrington Swift Gordon Hughes, how can I help?” and by the time I’ve finished this mouthful the person at the other end is impatient.
“Is Simon there?” says an extremely well-spoken voice.
“Simon who?” I say, noticing two Simons on the laminated list Polly has given me.
“Simon Gordon,” she says, with a “dumb-fuck” tinge to her tone.
“Who shall I say is calling?” I reply, and she snaps, “His wife.” So I look up Simon’s extension, 224, and I press 224 and it connects and after a couple of rings he picks up and I say, “Your wife is on the line, Simon,” and he says, “Oh,” and he pauses and then says, “Thanks,” and I press the transfer button and a loud angry continuous beep sounds through my head-piece.
Fuck. My arm-pits are growing hot. The switchboard blinks again and I know who it is but I don’t know what I did wrong so I’m too scared to pick up in case I do it again and I don’t know what to do and I’m beginning to really panic now, maybe it’s better to just not answer than cut her off again. I’m desperate for the flashing to stop, it feels ominous, like a warning, and I know if I screw up this time I’ll probably be fired, and then at last Polly shimmers gracefully round the corner, so I beckon frantically at her and she comes across to the front of the desk just as I answer.
“Hello, is that Simon’s wife, I’m so terribly sorry,” I say in my best voice, trying to disguise my flat Northern tones. I press 224 again and look helplessly at Polly, and as Simon says, “Where’s my wife gone?” Polly drapes herself over the wide glass desk, leopard-like, and with the end of her long manicured nail she connects the call.
Polly is a really nice girl. We have little in common and she’s way too trendy for me, but she has a good heart and shows me exactly how the switchboard works, and although it’s not hard it’s unfathomable if you’ve never been told. Simon has forgotten his mobile today, so all the calls he would normally get direct are coming through me, Simon’s wife has somehow managed to redirect his calls. I spend half the morning focussing on not cutting people off and managing people’s confusion that I’m not Simon when I answer, but after a couple of hours I’ve got the hang of it, and Polly has told me that I don’t have to say Carrington Swift Gordon Hughes each time, but that CSGH will do fine. Fortunately Simon found the incident with his wife funny (“It depends what mood he’s in, Cat,” said Polly), and it has given us a little bond (“Ha ha, I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s pissed my wife off this morning”) and Polly tells me it’s because he has a long lunch at the Ivy to look forward to, not with clients or anything boring like that, but an over-due jolly with his best mate who runs one of the satellite channels.
