Baby Blues and Wedding Shoes

by Amanda Martin

And I thought Mia was crazy putting me in this monkey suit in the middle of summer. Marcio ran a finger round his collar, trying to avoid all the clichés of comparing it to a tightening noose. Much had been written about the role of the groom, although not by him. His literature tended towards the fantastic rather than the romantic. Still, he knew the stock phrases. Standing here, staring out at a tapestry of faces, people he’d known all his life rendered alien by wedding attire, Marcio wondered how he would describe this scene. Would he gush about the groom’s anticipation at the first glimpse of his bride? Would he wax lyrical about the flowers, the music, the abundance of details Mia had obviously spent hours organising?

  Maybe I would describe the physical sensations of standing here in the spotlight, knowing that I’m fulfilling only a supporting role to Mia’s leading lady.

  Marcio opted to think about Mia; her caramel skin, warm and smooth as sun-drenched wood. Her curvaceous body undulating like lazy waves, sensuous and sexy, particularly when she was wrapped in her favourite skinny jeans. His heart swelled with emotion and the anticipation to see her approach down the aisle built inside.

  The atmosphere changed as the organist struck a familiar chord. So Mia has opted for a traditional English wedding march? Marcio grinned in appreciation. This day was going to be a beautiful blend of Spanish and English, traditional and modern. Mia had done them both proud.

  Heads began to turn at the back of the church, rippling towards the front like the incoming tide. Marcio fought the urge to turn and face the door. His role, he knew, was to face the priest and the altar, and sneak a peek at the last moment. Mia had done so much; the least he could do was play his part.

  It was torture, not turning. In the end he could resist no longer. Twisting his neck ever so slightly Marcio looked over his left shoulder, seeking the face of his future wife.

  His breath caught at the sight of her as she walked slowly towards him. Time paused for a moment before Marcio’s pulse began to race. It wasn’t the beautiful dress, clinging to her curves but still staying within the bounds of modesty dictated by their religion. Nor was it the cascades of black curls that fell over her kissable shoulder. It was her face that made him gasp. She had applied careful makeup but nothing could disguise her pallid countenance nor the deep bags almost concealed. Not wanting to, but powerless to resist, Marcio raised his eyes to meet hers. There was love contained within, but something else besides. Fear? Grief? Marcio had never seen such pain. He wanted to envelop her, protect her, erase that look forever from her espresso-dark eyes.

  Behind Mia’s shoulder he could see Leandra, her face also ashen. Anxiety began to curl around Marcio’s intestines. There’s something going on here, something I don’t know. What are they not telling me?

  Mia arrived at his side and he turned to face her. His face held the question as he reached out a hand towards his fiancée. Mia took a final step towards him and returned his grasp, her hand trembling within his. Pulling her close, Marcio breathed in her familiar scent and felt his eyes itch with unshed tears.

  “What is it?”

  Instead of responding Mia looked over her shoulder at Leandra, who gave an encouraging nod.

  Marcio began to think he had an idea what was going on. With snakes coiling in his stomach he leaned in to whisper again to the girl he’d known all his life, but thought that maybe he didn’t know at all.

  “You don’t want to do this, do you?”

  Mia looked up into his face, her expression a mixture of despair and relief. She nodded almost imperceptibly, but it felt like a killer blow and Marcio reeled back.

  “Why? Is it something I’ve done? Or is it because I didn’t help you plan the wedding? Am I spending too much time on the boat? Whatever it is, I’m sorry.”

  Mia swallowed and inhaled deeply, as if trying to find the strength to speak. Marcio was distracted by what her deep breath did to the amazing dress, but pushed the thought away as ridiculously inappropriate.

  “I…” she stopped, aware of the priest waiting expectantly for them to approach the altar. Marcio could hear the beginnings of shuffling sounds coming from the congregation. He squeezed Mia’s hand, trying to give her the strength to tell him even if her words robbed him of a life of happiness.

  “Tell me,” his voice was urgent but full of love.

  “I… We… I’m so sorry.” Heavy tears began to fill her eyes, making them sparkle.

  We. Marcio thought that said it all. We. She didn’t mean him and her. She meant her and someone else. We. It was obvious although it had never occurred to him until that moment.

  Marcio looked out past Mia at the mass of faces, fear building in his own mind. Why now? Couldn’t she have told him earlier? Called it off sooner? As hard as it would have been, surely nothing could be worse than now. Who would tell all those people? Everyone had turned up to witness a union, a celebration, expecting to party as only the Spanish could.

  Forcing himself to breathe through lungs that felt trapped within his chest by a steel cage, Marcio turned back to Mia and voiced his thoughts.

  “Why now?” He tried to keep the blame, the anger, from the words.

  “I didn’t know how.” Mia looked at his chest, unable to meet his eyes.

  Bitterness swept through him. How dare she humiliate me like this, in front of all my friends and family?

  “Well, you’d better tell them.” He gestured towards the congregation with his chin.

  The change in mood filtered slowly out to the congregation like drops of blood in water. The people began to shift on their pews as if the wood had become hot.

  What little colour there was drained from Mia’s face. She nodded once, acknowledging his right to be angry. Lifting her chin she dropped Marcio’s hand and turned to face the assembled crowd. Leandra was at her side and part of Marcio’s brain noticed the glance that passed between them. At that moment he hated Leandra too, for helping Mia conceal her infidelity.

  Standing helpless, hands dangling by his sides, Marcio focused on a painting on the opposite side of the building, only partially aware of the expanding silence as Mia stood patiently waiting to speak.

  The words of explanation drifted in and out of Marcio’s consciousness as he listened without wanting to hear. Mia’s faltering voice was quiet, as she told his friends and family the reason why the wedding was off. The words echoed loudly in his ears, leaving a buzzing noise as if he had stood too close to the speakers at a heavy-metal gig. Marcio took two steps and leaned against a pillar for support. The stone was cool and solid behind his shoulder.

  I thought the worst part was that she was leaving me; that she was jilting me literally at the altar, like some bad daytime soap. In fact she saved the worst until last. Silly bitch.

  As the news sunk in chaos erupted. A hundred voices raised in rapid Catalan, talking over each other, berating Mia, clamouring for explanation.

  Marcio felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw the lined face of the priest, a man who had been in his life for all his life.

  “My son, what can I say?” The priest paused, as if waiting for words of advice from God. When none seemed forthcoming he seemed to search for a more practical way to assist. “Would you like to escape?”

  Marcio raised his head and looked into the dark brown eyes gazing compassionately back at him. He had expected the priest to blame him somehow, as if he had failed to be man enough to keep his fiancée’s love. Instead he was offering him a way to escape from the wreckage of his life.

  Marcio glanced over at the carnival of waving hands and listened to the cacophony of raised voices.

  “Yes.”

  The priest smiled sympathetically and gestured towards an unobtrusive door at the rear of the vestry.

  Marcio nodded his thanks, turned once more to survey the bedlam, and gratefully slipped away.

  Chapter Eight

  Outside the grimy carriage window familiar sights began to appear one by one. Helen rested her head against the shuddering glas
s and closed her eyes.

  I will not weep, I will not weep, she chanted, in time with the chug-chug of the train. She hadn’t been home by train since her student days. Once she had started work she only came home in the holidays and often hired a car so that she could move freely around the snakes and ladders board of rural Devon. After she had hooked up with Daniel, on the few occasions they had come to visit her parents he had insisted on driving in his company Mercedes.

  Daniel. Helen didn’t need to check her phone any more to know that he hadn’t tried to contact her. Although it had been less than twenty-four hours since his ultimatum the silence of his non-contact was palpable, like the tell-tale mark on the carpet left behind after a piece of furniture has been discarded. Or stolen. Her mind shied away from the glaring absence in much the same way; her eyes torn back metaphorically to look at the space where her happy life had been before it was snatched from her.

  The train was slowing; people around her began to gather belongings and walk like drunks down the aisles, as the next stop was announced by a tinny voice. Looking out the window Helen could just make out her mother peering anxiously into each carriage as the train pulled into the station. Her mother’s face seemed to have aged. She looked haggard, as if her daughter’s homecoming were a tragic event that must be borne.

  Catching sight of her daughter through the dirty glass, the shadow on Maggie’s face lifted and she smiled a wide, loving smile. Helen felt the tears bubbling up again and her throat began to ache.

  I will not weep, I will not weep.

  Come on, Helen admonished her body which felt strangely heavy, as if it weren’t quite ready to leave the not-so-comfortable seat it had occupied for several hours. Willing her body to move, Helen made her way to the exit and walked slowly down the platform to where her mother stood. Part of her mind tried to understand why she was so reluctant to get to her mother.

  This is not how it was meant to be, a voice whispered at the back of her mind. Mum was meant to see me on my wedding-eve as a blushing bride-to-be, nervous and elated. Not as this failure of a woman with no job, no house, no husband, and a baby on the way.

  Still several feet from her mother Helen’s body stopped and she travelled the remaining distance with her eyes only.

  Maggie saw the searching look, seemed to understand at once her daughter’s thoughts and rushed over to enclose her in a hug.

  “It’s okay, darling. Everything is going to be okay.”

  Helen felt something release inside her as she smelt her mother’s perfume and felt the warmth of her embrace. The hand stroking her hair, as it had done ever since she could remember in times of trial, was slowly smoothing the tension from her tattered thoughts.

  “Oh, Mum.”

  And the tears came.

  Maggie stood and held her daughter while her slight frame was wracked with sobs. She felt her own tears threaten to come but fought them back.

  Eventually the sobs hiccupped to a stop. Maggie pulled away and looked up into her daughter’s water-drenched green eyes.

  “He’s a prick.”

  “Mum!” Helen’s head snapped up in shock.

  Maggie smiled. “That worked then. Come on, I know you are full of grief, but really, he isn’t worth it. Besides, happy pregnancy, happy baby. You need to keep positive, for the little one’s sake.”

  She linked arms and led her daughter towards the car park. “How are you feeling? Morning sickness? Cravings? You’re probably shattered too.”

  “Oh yes. All of the above.” Helen was glad to be led. Glad to have her mother make the decisions for now.

  Stopping abruptly her mum said, “We’ve forgotten your bag!”

  “I don’t have one. Just this.” Helen shrugged to indicate her camera bag, which also had her night things in. “I wasn’t thinking straight, I didn’t pack anything last night and somehow I couldn’t bear to go back.”

  “Quite right. Not to worry you’ve still got a wardrobe of clothes back home, if you don’t mind a bit of student glam!”

  Helen smiled at the idea of the student clothes she hadn’t been able to part with, all currently crammed into the cupboard in her old room. Most of them didn’t fit anymore, all too big since she’d started working out at the gym five days a week. Great once the bump got bigger though.

  “Well, at least no one knows me down here.”

  “What about your friends in London, have you told them yet?”

  “No. I’m not quite sure what to say. The photography group don’t like Daniel anyway, so they won’t be surprised. It’s too early to say anything about the baby so I’m not really sure how to explain it all. As for my old colleagues, they all think Daniel’s a god and will assume that any break up is my fault.”

  They had reached the car, so Maggie had time to think through her next question. Once they were driving out the car park she said, without looking at Helen, “and the wedding?”

  “Ah, the wedding. Yes. Well, I rather think that’s Daniel’s mess to sort out.”

  “Good girl.”

  Helen was glad her father was out in the fields when she arrived at the farm. He wouldn’t say anything, he left the talking to Mum, but she knew if he hugged her she would start crying all over again and she wasn’t sure she had the strength. Instead her mother guided her to the comfy feather-filled arm chair wedged into the corner of the farmhouse kitchen near the Aga. She supplied her with magazines, a steaming mug of tea and a doorstop of cake, and quietly left the room.

  Despite the heat of summer outside the Aga was lit, as it was all year round. The farmhouse was stone and kept the summer heat outside almost too effectively. Helen felt chilled in her heart, despite the sunshine pouring through the sash windows, and was glad of the Aga’s warmth. After a while Henry made his way sinuously across the floor, sniffed at her knee and surveyed her through narrowed eyes before jumping lightly onto the chair. He nuzzled his way into the gap behind her knees and began to purr.

  Putting down the magazines, Helen wrapped her hands around the mug of tea and closed her eyes. Gradually her breathing slowed, although she hadn’t been conscious of how fast and shallow it had been before. Inhaling deeply, she let out a long sigh and felt herself relax. With the sun dancing across her closed eyelids she inhaled the familiar scent of her family kitchen. The wood-smoke from the Aga, the aroma of freshly baked cakes, roses in the vase set permanently on the windowsill. She could smell pine disinfectant and the muggy odour of cat. Behind the purring, she could hear the sound of birds singing in the hedges outside the window. In the distance there was a whir as a light aircraft flew overhead. She strained her ears to hear her father’s tractor, but decided he must be in the lower field.

  Sitting in the stillness of the room, Helen could see why her mother was so happy here. Despite her own love of the city, full of life and bustle, Helen always felt more at peace when she was here. The slower pace of life was such a cliché but nonetheless true for all that.

  I could do worse than bring the baby up here. Her mind flinched at the words and the sense of failure that accompanied them. She shook her head, trying to dislodge the thoughts. It made her brain ache to think of the future. Time enough for that later. Putting her mug up on the dresser, Helen snuggled deeper into the armchair and drifted off to sleep.

  “Ms Morley?”

  Helen looked at the man in the bright uniform standing at her mother’s front door and wondered if she was still dreaming. She’d been at her mother’s for several days and still all she seemed to do was sleep.

  When she didn’t respond the man on the doorstep let out a small tut that she wasn’t meant to hear and said frostily “I assume you are Ms Morley?”

  “Um, yes, that’s me.” She was about to launch into an explanation that this wasn’t her house and to ask him how he knew she was here but he had already turned away and was heading back to his van, which parked at an angle in the middle of the yard.

  Helen tried to think what parcel she might be expect
ing. No one knew she was here, not even her photography group: she had told Sharni and Ben she was staying with her folks in Devon, but they wouldn’t know the address.

  As she stood mutely watching, the delivery driver pulled one, two, three large boxes from the back of his van. He loaded them carelessly onto a trolley and began to wheel them over the gravel. The trolley wouldn’t run on the uneven surface and the boxes pitched side to side as he dragged them. In the end he abandoned the trolley and picked up each box in turn, dumping them by the front door where Helen still stood.

  By the time he had finished he was sweating. He walked back to Helen, pulled a small palmtop computer from his back pocket and thrust it in front of her.

  “Sign, please.”

  Helen signed for the boxes, unsure what else to do. She didn’t feel able to ask the now surly delivery driver who the boxes were from. As he got back in his van and wheel-spun on the gravel before departing through a veil of dust, Helen tried to decide whether to lug the boxes into the hall or open them outside, to try and discover who sent them. Opting for the latter, she slit the tape on the nearest box with her thumbnail and cautiously opened the flap.

  “The bastard.”

  Helen knew instantly what was in the boxes and who had sent them. Ripping open the first container she swore again as the entire contents of her wardrobe came spilling out onto the gravel. She half expected to find the clothes torn apart or all jumbled in a heap. Instead everything was neatly folded and sorted with one box containing her clothes and another full of her cosmetics, shoes and handbags. She guessed the third was her box of books from storage. Daniel hadn’t allowed her to bring many of her personal things into the apartment, insisting instead that they were stored in his lock-up. She looked again at the box of clothes, resisting the urge to hurl them across the yard.

  He must have got his secretary to pack them, or hired professionals. I can’t imagine him wasting this much energy on me.

  Her hands were shaking with adrenalin as she checked that everything was there. Somehow the fact that he’d had a stranger pack up her belongings hurt more than if he’d tossed them all in together, or shredded them and thrown them out in bin bags. The lack of emotion, the lack of contact with Daniel, even vicariously, pierced her anew.