The Wedding Day

by Catherine Alliott

  Adam visited us daily; in fact, he practically camped out in our front garden. Ostensibly he was there to see Flora, for which I was grateful, but principally it was to see me, to try to win me over and woo me back. He was honestly baffled by what he saw as a complete overreaction, and unable to understand why a few dalliances with other women had caused me to up sticks and file for divorce.

  ‘But, Annie, you’re my wife! You’re literally the only person in the world apart from Flora that I really love, you must know that,’ he’d cried, the decree nisi poised and awaiting his signature on my kitchen table. He was like a child standing there, wide-eyed and genuinely stricken. ‘It’s only ever been you, Annie. Don’t do this to me!’

  Me doing it to him, note. But by now I’d met David. Just. And I was slightly stronger, was eating properly, and sleeping a little bit more. My defences were not quite so low. I gave a tight smile.

  ‘Sorry, Adam, it’s me, I know. My fault. Call me old-fashioned, but I’ve got this thing about monogamy.’

  He sighed and scratched his head. Shook it incredulously.

  ‘Crazy. So middle class. So bourgeois, Annie, and highly irre s ponsible too, I might add. We have a daughter, in case you hadn’t noticed, an impressionable, eleven-year-old child. What sort of message do you think this sends to her, walking out on our marriage? What sort of moral guidance are you giving her here, hm? And incidentally, how many married men d’you think are out there that don’t stray occasionally? Not many, I can tell you,’ he snorted, ‘even if they may claim otherwise. At least I’m honest, for Christ’s sake. At least I don’t lie to you!’

  ‘I wish you did,’ I said wearily. ‘Annie, men are different,’ he explained patiently. ‘Surely you know that by now? Different hormones, different biological make-up, different needs. Staying constant to one woman for the rest of our lives, however much we love her, is terribly, terribly difficult. But I do love you, Annie, I swear it, and it’s only ever been you, despite my appalling record in the matrimonial stakes.’ He paused. Scratched his head. ‘All right if I borrow the lawnmower?’

  I blinked. ‘The lawnmower?’

  ‘Francine’s lawn needs mowing. She’s playing Titania to my Oberon and I’m staying with her now that I’ve given up the flat. I couldn’t face being there without you and Flora’ – he shot me a bruised look – ‘so I’ve gone over to her place. I said I’d help out a bit. You know, around the house. In lieu of rent.’

  ‘Staying?’ I folded my arms, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Yes, just staying, Annie,’ he said, affronted.

  ‘Spare room?’

  ‘Well, no …’ He hesitated. ‘She hasn’t got one. But hell, it’s nothing serious.’

  I smiled. ‘The lawnmower’s in the shed, Adam. Help yourself.’

  And so he went. In a huff. Really offended. Firmly convinced that I was the guilty party here. How could I leave him? How could I walk out on him and render him homeless? And what was he supposed to do, for God’s sake, in his hour of need, aside from snuggle up with another human body for warmth and comfort?

  And I knew, too, that a smidgen of what he’d said was true. That plenty of husbands did conduct themselves so, and none so honestly as Adam. And plenty of women accepted these marriages, right across the board: women in high-rise blocks, blankly staring at television screens awaiting the return of the father of five from the barmaid’s arms; in the leafy stockbroker belt, staring at chintzy bedroom walls whilst the company director found his shoes in his secretary’s bedroom; in classy Holland Park, pretending to read Interiors in the drawing room as the cabinet minister’s footsteps came up the path, fresh from his young researcher’s arms. And I didn’t deride those wives either, because I knew how much easier it was to accept it, as I’d accepted it too, for a time. All right, for years. Eleven. Turned a blind eye. But when Flora was old enough to know what was going on too, and would turn not blind but astonished brown eyes on me when we heard his key in the lock way past ten o’clock as we sat watching the news together; and when, on one occasion, we even heard him outside the flat whispering goodnight to someone, I knew I had to escape with a few shreds of dignity intact. For her sake.

  But it was hard. Bloody hard. Because I loved him. And just as I was wondering if dignity was such a big deal, or if being with the man I loved even if he did have the morals of an alley cat was more important, David stepped in. And saved us. Just in time. He arrived, as Clare often drily said, like the Seventh Cavalry, just as I was wavering. And just as my family were wondering, holding their breath in horror, if I’d bolt back to Adam.

  As I opened Clare’s black wrought-iron gate now and ducked under the magnolia tree in her front garden, I remembered her face as I’d shyly introduced her to David. Relief had flooded it. In fact, for a moment I’d thought she was going to drop to her knees and kiss his turn-ups.

  I rang her bell and heard sharp high heels echoing down the passageway. A moment later the door opened and Clare stood before me, dark hair swept up in a chignon, fully made up and immaculate in a charcoal-grey Joseph suit. Her nose was in the air, but that was because her husband’s glasses – a few sizes too big for her – were balanced on it. Handy, as she often crisply observed, to have compatible eyes, if nothing else.

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  She turned and stalked quickly back to the kitchen. I wasn’t affronted. A typical early morning greeting from a woman who’s already got a husband off to work, two children to school, and is spooning Milupa into another whilst trying to get to the City herself.

  ‘Bad moment?’ I called, shutting the door behind me. ‘I thought you didn’t go in till later on Fridays?’

  ‘Not this Friday,’ she called back. ‘There’s a partners’ meeting and I have to be there. I’m leaving in ten minutes.’

  I followed her down to the kitchen where a wailing noise was emanating from, and where Henry, her toddler, was banging a spoon impatiently in his high chair, annoyed that the flow of nutrition had been interrupted. I boggled as Clare efficiently threw a white sheet over her head and stuck her arms through a couple of holes.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘I made it. Michael calls it my shroud. I use it to feed the children in.’

  I giggled. ‘Surprised you haven’t got gloves and a surgical mask!’

  ‘Oh, don’t tempt me. I’ve resorted to Marigolds in the past, why not a mask as well?’

  She dragged out a chair for me and perched on the edge of hers, resuming spooning duty as Henry opened, shut, swallowed, opened, shut, swallowed, faster than she could get it in.

  ‘Eats well,’ I hazarded, sitting down at the immaculate breakfast table, cleared for action already save for a jar of tulips and Henry’s bowl. How unlike mine, I thought, with its jumble of cereal packets, screwed-up tissues, dog-eared paperbacks and piles of bills and junk mail still mouldering peacefully.

  ‘He has to,’ she replied darkly. ‘Poor little devil. He knows it might be the only square meal he’ll get today. If Donna can bear to tear herself away from her mobile phone and Countdown to throw him a rusk he’ll be lucky, so he gets it down his neck while he can.’

  ‘Now you know that’s not true,’ I soothed. ‘Donna does a brilliant job. Michael was only telling me the other day what an asset she’s been.’

  ‘Oh yes, an unbelievably effing marvellous asset, particularly from his point of view. If you had someone hanging on to your every word and laughing at your jokes and asking if they could possibly iron your underpants, you’d consider them an asset too.’

  ‘You’re making it up as you go along,’ I said coolly. ‘Donna doesn’t give two hoots for Michael, and vice versa. You’re just oversensitive.’

  ‘Oversensitive, am I? Ah. And why might that be, I wonder?’

  ‘Clare …’ I sighed. ‘Because my husband was caught fumbling up his fund manager’s dress at the Christmas party while the rest of his department tittered and watched? In full view of everyone on the dance floor, a
nd then behind the coat rack while people reached for their pashminas? That, according to one of my more recent, reliable sources, was where they finally ended up. On the sticky carpet.’ Her eyes widened. ‘But surely that wouldn’t render me over-sensitive, Annie?’

  ‘He wasn’t caught,’ I said patiently, ‘he admitted it, and the only reason people are embellishing the story is because you invite it. You keep telling people you know, and that you don’t mind and think it’s refreshing to have it out in the open, and so they give you a bit more. And the only reason he told you was because the guilt was killing him. Anyway, he was drunk and it was a one-off snog and it was months ago, and you’ve bellyached about it ever since. When are you going to let him off the hook, Clare?’

  I got up impatiently and filled the kettle.

  She put the spoon down. ‘Oh, you think I should, do you? Like you did all those years with Adam. Turn a blind eye and say: Hey, who cares? Screw who you like, darling, I’ll always be here?’

  Henry yelled indignantly and waved his arms. She picked up the spoon again.

  ‘No,’ I said evenly, ‘I don’t. And if this is what this is all about, Clare, about not turning into me, then I have to tell you there’s little chance of that. You’re much too tough and not nearly as stupid.’

  I turned and faced her defiantly. She gazed at me, two pink spots appearing in her cheeks. Suddenly her shoulders sagged and she sighed.

  ‘OK,’ she caved in. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean that. Didn’t mean you were stupid. It’s just … well, it eats away at me, Annie. I imagine him – them together. You know. Every time he touches me. And I don’t think about it all the time, it’s just when he wants sex. Like this morning, for instance. We both woke up early, and with our busy schedules and our increasingly savvy children who usually blunder in at inopportune moments for once still fast asleep, it should have been an ideal opportunity. But somehow – I just couldn’t do it. I see his arms round her. Picture him kissing her, and –’

  ‘So walk out,’ I interrupted sharply.

  She stared. Gave a short bark of a laugh. ‘Oh, don’t be silly. I can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’ ‘Well, because there’re the kids and the house and everything, and –’

  ‘Exactly, so forget it.’ I banged a coffee cup down in front of her, spilling half of it. ‘Hell, Clare, a one-night stand. Half a one-night stand, a quarter even, a fumble that was going nowhere except to the back of the coat closet. Don’t wreck the rest of your married life together just because of it!’

  ‘You see,’ she said gloomily, instantly reaching for some kitchen paper to wipe the coffee I’d spilled, ‘that’s the trouble. That’s the difference between you and me. I can’t forgive. Can’t forget. And there’s nothing going on between Michael and Donna incidentally. No hot looks on her part and meaningful glances on his. Michael’s not even remotely interested. God, he’s so terrified of me at the moment he even leaves the room so as not to be accused of flirting with the girl. It’s just … well, it’s me. I’m paranoid now, and I can’t help feeling it’ll happen again. And be more serious next time. And that I’ll be left with four children under twelve because I took my eye off the ball and was always in meetings. Never there for my husband. Never having my nails done, or getting trim at the gym, or having my hair cut at Michaeljohn.’

  ‘Oh, you mean like the rest of us stay-at-home mothers,’ I said acidly.

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that either. I know you’re not.’ She swept a hand over her perfect chignon. ‘It’s just – well I do wonder whether it was my fault. Michael and that girl. Because I do too much, take on too much, and don’t notice everything coming apart at the seams. That office party was a year after Henry was born, you know, Annie, and I was still breastfeeding at night for God’s sake. But why? Why was I doing that? What was I trying to prove as I shimmied out of my Armani jacket and gave my toddler the breast? And why was I even having a fourth child at my age? What was I thinking of? I’m too old, too tired and too ratty. God, in a few years’ time I could be menopausal, and yet I insisted on having him. Insisted on proving I was so flipping fecund as well as being a sensational investment banker and … well, to be honest, Flora would be a better mother than me. She’s menstruating, isn’t she? And she’s young and energetic? That’s what Dame Nature had in mind, not a desiccated old witch like me.’

  ‘You’re just tired,’ I said firmly, lifting Henry out of his chair and setting him down. ‘And who can blame you? You’ve got so much on your plate.’ I wiped Henry’s mouth with the bottom of his T-shirt and saw Clare blanch. ‘Listen,’ I went on quickly. ‘I can have the children for you tonight. Why don’t you and Michael go out? Flora and I will babysit.’

  She gave me a weak smile and propped her face up on her elbow with her hand. ‘Thanks. And you’re right, I do need a break, but not tonight. Tonight Becky’s in a school play and I’ve got to go and be a supporting mother. She’s a rat, apparently, and really pissed off because Amanda Reid’s the Pied Piper. She says it’s because she doesn’t play the recorder so can’t pipe, which naturally is my fault because, being a pushy mother, I don’t regard it as a real instrument. No, no, my daughter has to play the cello which is so huge she can hardly get the bloody thing between her legs to scratch it. My fault again,’ she said gloomily.

  ‘Yes, well, you can beat yourself with that guilt stick too if you like,’ I said cheerfully, stroking Henry’s fair head. ‘I see you’re adding to their social skills though.’ I nodded over to the corner where a set of child’s croquet mallets was propped neatly behind the door. ‘What’s this, then? In case Little Lord Many-Acres pops by and leaves his calling card?’

  ‘Be nice, wouldn’t it?’ she said wistfully. ‘Then Becky wouldn’t have to get an education at all. Could just sit in her rambling acres and paint watercolours all day. No, Becky and Luke turn those mallets upside down, stick them under their arms and use them as crutches. Cripples is their favourite game.’

  I giggled. ‘Imaginative.’

  ‘Very, and they’ve even got a begging bowl. They’re collecting for CD-ROMs though, not the deserving poor.’ She sighed. ‘But enough of me and my dysfunctional family. You didn’t come to my door at this hour in the morning to hear about my marital disharmony and my grasping children. What gives? More doctors-in-love-true-romances? More blissful evenings in Battersea Park holding hands and sharing tender moments? Tell me again about how he bought you all those heavenly roses and lit candles in the bathroom, the lovely, lovely man, and tell him Michael’s only ever lit a candle in a power cut. Go on, make me drool.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘not candles, but – oh Clare, I’m so thrilled.’ I couldn’t suppress a beam. ‘You know his aunt, the one who brought him up?’

  ‘Gertrude in Onslow Gardens? I’ve formed a mental picture of the woman, got her swathed in fur stoles with those yucky fox heads on the end with tiny veiled hats, but no, I’ve never met her. Why?’

  ‘Well, she’s got this fabulous house in Cornwall, near Rock. It’s that one right on the coast, up an inlet, all sort of Frenchman’s Creek-ish – near where Dad used to take us when we were little. Remember we used to take the boat past?’

  Clare shook her head abstractedly, reaching for her briefcase. ‘No.’

  ‘Well you did see it once, and the thing is, Gertrude’s so flaming rich and dreamy it lies empty for most of the year, and David says he’s pretty sure she’ll let me take it for the summer!’

  Clare looked up from stuffing documents into the briefcase. ‘Near Rock? But that’s brilliant. You know we’ll be down again this year, don’t you?’

  ‘You will?’ I blinked. ‘Hang on, I thought you said you’d had it with Cornwall? Said if you saw another sandcastle you’d detonate it.’

  ‘Did I?’ She looked vague. ‘Must have been pre- menstrual. Oh no, we’re definitely going. We’re taking that cottage again. The one we took with the Mitchells last year. It’s so tiny you can’t swing a cat in it, but dirt
cheap and – oh! So you’ll be up the road! In a huge empty house.’ She straightened up from her packing and her eyes began to shine.

  ‘Er, yes. But the thing is … Well, the idea is I finish my book there. In … you know, peace and quiet.’

  ‘Oh, but that won’t take long, will it? Golly, what luck! Has it got a garden?’

  ‘Er, yes. Huge garden, I think, with steps going down to the beach. But, Clare –’

  ‘Steps down to the beach!’ she squeaked. ‘Terrific! God, Luke and Becky will love it – maybe we could get a boat? Giles is mad about sailing. We could, couldn’t we? You know, hire one down there between us?’

  ‘Um, yes, maybe.’ I scratched my neck uncomfortably. ‘But I will of course be working.’

  ‘Oh yes, and we won’t invade your privacy too much, but, Annie, a house with effectively its own beach! Gosh, what a find. And just what we all need right now, a proper holiday, not just getting by in some tiddly seaside cottage.’ She snatched up some earrings from an ashtray and popped them in excitedly. I opened my mouth to protest, then shut it again. She turned suddenly. Frowned. ‘Anyway, I thought you’d done most of your book. Didn’t you say you’d finished it?’

  ‘No!’ I flushed, alarmed. ‘God, did I tell you that?’

  ‘Yes, you said someone had rung from the publishers and you’d said –’

  ‘Oh yes, I said I’d finished, but I’ve only actually done three chapters!’

  ‘So why did you tell them you’d finished?’ ‘Because when this chap Sebastian rang,’ I blustered, ‘and said he liked the first bit and could he see the rest, I couldn’t exactly say I hadn’t written it, could I?’