The Wedding Day

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, because he assumed I had! And I didn’t want to put him off, did I? Didn’t want him to go off the boil.’

  ‘So what did you say?’

  ‘I said – well, I said it was all in the bag, but needed a bit of tidying up. A bit of polishing. And it might take a few weeks. But the thing is, I’ve got to write the whole bloody thing! And incidentally’ – I dropped my voice, terrified – ‘David doesn’t know that.’

  ‘Doesn’t know what?’

  ‘That I’ve told this chap I’ve finished but haven’t really.’ She frowned. ‘But … Hang on, David knows, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Oh yes, he knows. It’s just I don’t want him to know I’ve lied to the publishers.’

  ‘Why not?’ ‘Because I don’t want him to think I’m that sort of person!’ I yelped. ‘I’m marrying him, for God’s sake, Clare!’

  ‘Well, you clearly are that sort of person, so he may as well know now.’

  ‘Thanks! You’re being really supportive here and all I’m saying is I need a bit of space to do some work, like you work all bloody hours of the day!’

  ‘Right.’ She looked really miffed. ‘Well, of course. We’ll keep ourselves to ourselves, then. Keep right out of your hair.’ She threw her purse in her bag with some force.

  ‘Oh no, I didn’t mean that either,’ I groaned. ‘It’s just …’ I hesitated. ‘I can’t do open house. Can’t say all round to my place and stay as long as you like. Have to slightly get my head down, because … well, this is my big chance, Clare! It’s my dream to be published one day, and this is the first time I’ve ever offered up a manuscript which anyone’s ever been remotely interested in. And you know how many times I’ve tried.’

  She nodded. ‘I know.’ She was silent for a moment. At length she sighed. ‘OK, so what about Flora? Is she to keep out of your way, too?’

  I hesitated. ‘I thought I might get a nanny for Flora.’ ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous. She’s twelve! Anyway, she’s got all her cousins down the road. We’ll have her.’

  ‘Oh no, I couldn’t, Clare,’ I said, horrified. ‘You’ve got four of your own and this is your only break of the year. No, no, I’ll sort something out.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said staunchly. ‘One more doesn’t make any difference. I’ll cope. And we’re very open house,’ she added piously, positively reeking of burning martyr now. ‘Very easy-going.’

  ‘Well.’ I bit my thumbnail nervously. ‘We’ll see.’ Oh God, I didn’t want to be indebted to her. Not now I’d effectively banned her from my grade II listed mansion.

  ‘And what about David?’

  ‘He’ll be down at weekends, if he can get away. But it’s a hectic time of year for him.’

  ‘Of course it is. And you’ve got the wedding to organize too, you know,’ she warned, busily buttoning up her jacket. ‘You can’t just leave it all to David, he’s a busy man. And it takes longer than you think, there’s masses to do. I don’t think you’ve even considered flowers and head-dresses yet, have you?’

  ‘No. No, I’ll get on to it,’ I agreed, biting my nail practically down to the quick. She always made me feel about the same age as Flora.

  ‘And don’t forget Mum wants a church.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ I snapped.

  She raised her eyebrows and I instantly hung my head. Dear Mum, who’d been so upset when I’d barefooted it on the beach with Adam, and who, when I’d taken David down to Devon to meet her, had sat in the Windsor chair by the range in the kitchen, clenched her bony hands in her lap, blinked back tears, and said that all she and Dad had ever wanted was to see us girls happy and settled, but that they’d always hoped we’d get married in church. Would it be possible this time? A blessing, perhaps? Even though Dad was in heaven?

  And I’d been so ashamed, not realizing how much I’d hurt her the first time, and how much she’d never said. She’d been pale with shock and worry when I’d returned to the farm from Hawaii, but there hadn’t been a word of reproach.

  My phone rang in my jacket pocket and I absently answered. It was David.

  ‘I’ve just rung Gertrude, Annie, and she said she’d be thrilled.’

  ‘Oh!’ I perked up a bit. ‘She doesn’t mind?’

  ‘Not in the slightest. I told you, she’s delighted to have it occupied, but I said you might pop round and see her this morning if that’s all right. Is that OK? You know, to chat it through?’

  ‘Of course,’ I beamed. ‘What time?’

  ‘About ten, I said. Any good?’

  I glanced at my watch. ‘Perfect.’

  I rang off and turned round to Clare, who’d disappeared down the hall with Henry to collect the post which had just spluttered through the letter box.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ she murmured distractedly from the doormat, flicking through the envelopes.

  ‘Me too.’ I got up and flashed her a conciliatory smile. ‘And I’m going to get the bus, so I’ll walk with you to the station. D’you need this?’ I picked up her briefcase.

  ‘Please. Oh good.’

  ‘What?’ I carried it down to her.

  ‘Letter from Giles.’ She ripped it open eagerly.

  Giles, her eldest, was away at school, and Clare missed him dreadfully. Her eyes scanned the page, then suddenly she snorted.

  ‘Listen to this.’ She raised her voice.

  Dear Mummy,

  We lost again yesterday, twenty-two-nil. I was in goal. We’ve just had lunch which was lasagne but tasted like toenail, and next we’ve got PSHE with Matron, which is all about brushing your teeth and sex. Matron just CANNOT draw testicles.

  Love, Giles

  I giggled. ‘Poor Matron.’

  ‘Quite,’ she agreed. ‘Can you imagine, a room full of pre-pubescent boys sniggering behind your back as you attempt a cock and balls on the blackboard? And we think we’ve got problems.’ She pocketed the letter and opened the front door.

  ‘Donna!’ she yelled up the stairs. ‘I’m away!’ ‘Coming!’ came back the cry and, sure enough, moments later, a pair of wide denim flares tripped lightly down the stairs, followed by a pretty freckled face and long blonde hair. Henry’s face lit up as he toddled away from Clare to meet her.

  ‘Do-nnaa!’

  ‘Hey, my prince!’ She scooped him up in her long brown arms and kissed his nose. Henry chortled and clutched her hair, and Clare had the grace to smile.

  ‘At least he likes her,’ I said quietly in the garden after the door had shut behind us.

  She looked at me, surprised. ‘Oh, he loves her. And actually I’m not jealous at all. I love my kids too much to be small-minded about that. No, no, I’m delighted.’

  ‘And you don’t ever think … I’d rather be her? When you leave him?’ I asked tentatively as I followed her down the path.

  ‘Oh, sure I do, of course. Every morning.’ She swung round incredulously. ‘God, Annie, I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t think that! But it’s not that simple, is it?’ She smiled patronizingly at me as she shut the gate behind us with an efficient little click.

  I blinked in the bright morning sunshine. ‘Isn’t it?’ Still puzzling, I fell dutifully in step beside her.

  Chapter Three

  ‘So,’ said Clare, setting off at a cracking pace, a smile spreading over her face, ‘it’ll be your turn soon, and I’ll be the one doing the consoling.’

  I frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘Babies!’ she said. ‘Surely you and David want some?’

  ‘Oh. Oh yes. Well, definitely. He’d love some, in fact. Actually, we’re already trying.’

  ‘Are you?’ She stopped in her tracks. Put a hand on my arm. ‘God, I wondered if you were. How long?’

  ‘Just this month. And only because we’re not exactly spring chickens, either of us, and David’s keen to get a move on, so we thought we’d start now.’

  ‘And the wedding’s only a couple of months away,’ she reasoned, ‘so no one would really
notice even if you were pregnant.’

  ‘Exactly. Or care, d’you think? In our circumstances?’ I asked anxiously.

  She shook her head. ‘No. Not even Mum. She’d be delighted. And anyway, it’s only going to be a small family do, isn’t it?’

  ‘Exactly, plus a few friends. Just a sit-down lunch in a hotel, I think,’ I said vaguely. Then I grinned. ‘So yes, you never know, as sister of the bride you could be buttoning me into an extremely tight ivory dress on the day.’

  ‘Ooh, I hope so,’ she said, almost rubbing her hands with glee. ‘I know I shouldn’t admit to it, but I’d have more than a touch of the Schadenfreudes if you were housebound with twins and Henry was safely away at nursery school.’

  I smiled down at the pavement. One of the refreshing things about Clare was that she openly admitted to any unpleasant feelings she might be harbouring, which had the effect of diluting them somewhat. She’d even admitted that, having genuinely worried herself senseless about my disastrous situation with Adam and been thrilled to bits about me marrying David, she’d still been just the tiniest bit peeved that he wasn’t a mediocre accountant, say, or a mobile chiropodist, instead of a Belgravia doctor with a burgeoning private practice. I knew that she was also secretly alarmed that when the funds from David’s flat and my place were amalgamated, it might even buy us a bigger house than hers. She wanted me to be happy, but not to the extent that my happiness eclipsed hers, and not so rich that my wealth exceeded her and Michael’s joint income. I was still, after all, her little sister, and had always been slightly less bright and less attractive, and should therefore know my place.

  I, after all, had turned down a place at the local college to read sociology, whilst she’d got a first in law at Cambridge. She’d modelled for Vogue in her gap year, whilst I’d worked in a Mars Bar factory. True, I’d married first – my one stab at taking the lead – but it had been to Adam: a charming loser, whose career involved more resting than acting. She, on the other hand, had married Michael, another Cambridge first, and now a financial whiz-kid whose hand on the money markets was generally regarded by those in the know to be exceedingly steady.

  And I had never questioned the implacable order. I knew, for example, that she’d like me to have more children, but not as many as she had. I knew that she’d like me to work again, but never in the City, and probably writing short stories rather than novels. Nothing that would rival her success. As I walked along the pavement beside her, watching her black stilettos strut purposefully along, I cleared my throat, unable to resist.

  ‘So the Mitchells are coming to Cornwall again with you, are they?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘You know damn well they’re not,’ she snapped. ‘Serena Mitchell proved to be a complete pain in the tubes last year. All that sucking up to me and doing all the shopping in Wadebridge while I sat on the beach, and: “Oh, I insist on cooking lobster for everyone tonight, Clare, do let me”, all because she wanted Michael to give her wally husband a job. As soon as Schroders offered him something she dropped us like a cup of cold sick. We haven’t heard from them since, and she had her fortieth last month without inviting us. Oh no, the Mitchells are definitely persona non grata this year.’

  She looked downcast and I wished I hadn’t teased her. Clare was my favourite person, but you had to know her jolly well to accept her abrasiveness. Sisters are bound irrevocably by blood, and I’d lost count of the times I’d forgiven her myself or been her apologist when others had been wounded by her sharp tongue. She found it harder to make friends than I did, and I knew she envied me my big circle of mates – something neither ambition, brains nor beauty could ever buy.

  ‘So who are you going with then?’ I asked. ‘You’re surely not taking that house on your own, are you? Don’t you need some moral support as you’re buttering yet more ham rolls for the children to fill with sand on the beach?’

  ‘Oh no, we’re not going on our own. We’ve asked the Howards.’

  ‘The Howards!’ I stopped short in the street. Stared at her incredulously. Two familiar spots of colour were rising in her cheeks as she looked straight ahead. Rosie Howard was my best friend, and had been ever since our hips had welded together in the dormitory of St Mary’s Convent, Dorset, at the age of twelve.

  ‘Golly.’ I moved on slowly, stunned. ‘What did they say?’ ‘They said they’d love to. They’re not doing anything this summer. Said they hadn’t got any plans.’

  ‘Because they haven’t got a bean,’ I said shortly. ‘Oh yes,’ I went on tartly, ‘I’m sure they’d love to come and share some all-expenses-paid accommodation. When did you ask her?’ And why on earth hadn’t I heard, I wondered?

  ‘Only yesterday,’ she said hurriedly. ‘So she probably hasn’t got round to ringing you yet.’

  Suddenly my anger dissipated. I felt embarrassed for Clare. God, it couldn’t have been easy to go through her address book and end up asking my best mate. And why should I be annoyed with Rosie? With an unemployed husband and no prospect of a holiday this year, who on earth wouldn’t leap at the chance of giving their kids a run on the beach at my sister’s seaside house?

  ‘Great.’ I smiled, nodding. ‘That’s brilliant.’

  ‘Oh Annie, I’m so pleased.’ She looked hugely relieved. ‘I was a bit worried you might think … you know. Muscling in and all that.’

  ‘Not a bit of it. I’m delighted.’

  ‘And we can all muck in,’ she said eagerly. ‘You know, meet on the beach every day, share picnics.’

  ‘Yes, except I’m supposed to be …’ I tailed off. Sighed. No wonder Clare had got so far in life, she was like a ruddy bulldozer. I gritted my teeth and persevered doggedly. ‘This isn’t a holiday for me, Clare. David and I are having our break later on, in Mauritius. This is for me to work, remember?’

  ‘Oh yes, I know, but not every day, surely? And in the evenings you’ll want a bit of company.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see. Gertrude’s house isn’t actually in Rock, anyway. It’s up a creek around the headland.’

  ‘So you’ll be well away from the action,’ she placated. ‘Perfect. The Todds are going too, you know.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ I said grimly. ‘That man thinks he owns the place. He walks into Rick Stein’s and pauses at the door as if everyone should drop to their knees and genuflect.’

  ‘Well, he’s very successful. And very attractive too, I think.’

  ‘If you like the over-fifties in tight jeans and pink shirts with a paunch and arrogance to match. No thanks.’

  ‘He kissed me last year, you know.’

  I stopped dead. ‘What? CLARE!’

  She narrowed her eyes and looked the other way.

  ‘Where?’ I gasped.

  ‘Walking back from Polzeath after the Elliotts’ drinks party.’

  ‘No! What – a snog?’

  ‘Not a snog exactly, but when he said goodbye he deliberately planted one full on the mouth. Wiggled his tongue a bit.’

  ‘Oh, yuck!’

  ‘Oh no, quite nice actually. I’m definitely on for more this year.’

  I held her arm. ‘You’re not !’

  ‘Not the full works, no. But something thrilling, definitely. Something dangerous and exciting on Daymer Bay perhaps, after the usual barbecue. Maybe I’ll let him stroke my tits behind a rock.’

  ‘Clare!’ I was genuinely shocked. ‘And maybe I’ll let Michael find out, too. Maybe he can watch.’

  ‘Ah, right.’ I dropped her arm and walked on. ‘So that’s what this is all about.’

  She fell in beside me. ‘I can’t help it, Annie. I wish I could find it within me to forgive him, but I just want to slap his face every time he touches me.’ She squared her shoulders as we reached the entrance to the tube. ‘Thought this might help.’

  I gave a wry smile and kissed her goodbye. ‘I doubt it. But I don’t suppose you’ll take any notice of me.’

  ‘Doubt it,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Never have before, hav
e I?’

  I couldn’t help laughing as she stalked off down the steps to the District Line, her back ramrod straight in her nipped-in grey jacket, handbag swinging jauntily. I watched her go; so outwardly prickly, so defiant sometimes, yet

  inside, so desperately wanting to be loved.

  And Dad had been hard on her, I thought, as I turned to cross the road to the bus stop. Dad had expected so much from the girl who should have been a boy. The boy they’d lost before her, who’d been stillborn. She’d been pushed and chivvied out of that farmhouse whether she’d liked it or not. When Dad got up at six to milk the cows, so did his daughter, cramming in yet more homework at the scrubbed kitchen table, and all to please him. All to live up to his expectations and not be a farmer’s wife like Mum and his mother before her.

  Dad was a feminist, and a first-time buyer at private schools, and if he was going to kill himself on the farm so his daughters could go on to the convent, he was damn well going to get results. And Clare got results, in spades. But still he wanted more. He wouldn’t really have been happy unless she’d won a Nobel prize, let alone a form prize. I remembered his face at speech day as she’d mounted the rostrum yet again to receive another cup. He was delighted, of course, and clapping hard in his shiny suit, but his eyes were on that ruddy great shield at the back. Who was getting that then, eh? Not that Barker girl again? Pull yer finger out, our Clare! Modified rapture then, for all her achievements. Yet I, four years behind, had been allowed to be the girl. Allowed to wallow in the slipstream; be Mummy’s concern, not Daddy’s. Allowed to sit on the back step and feed the chickens, whilst Clare learned her tables in the kitchen behind me with Dad standing over her, thumping his fist on the table in his shirt sleeves and braces, yelling, ‘Nine eights are seventy-two and you won’t forget that one!’ his face reddened by the wind and exasperation.

  Yes, I’d been pampered more, indulged; allowed to ride old Meggy bareback around the fields, to watch Dad skin a dead lamb and slip its fleece on an orphaned lamb’s back, hoping the mother of the dead lamb would suckle it, and, if not, permitted to take it back to the house to bottle-feed it myself. I’d led a happy, charmed childhood, whilst Clare, growing up in the same house, hadn’t.