The Wedding Day

by Catherine Alliott

  Surely this was the nature of what David did? People got sick. People died. It was like any job – like being a mechanic. Cars went wrong; you fixed them; they went wrong again. Sometimes terminally. It was an occupational hazard.

  Matt looked up as he took a fish out of the marinade. Saw my face.

  ‘Problems?’

  I hesitated. It would be nice to share it, to talk it through with someone who knew the territory, but … no. No, I wouldn’t tell him. God, I didn’t even know him, and it would be the last thing David would want. My boyfriend the doctor, who thinks he’s responsible for someone’s death. David would loathe it. And I’d feel disloyal. I straightened up.

  ‘No. No, it’s nothing.’ I smiled. ‘Wedding plans, actually. So much to do, and so difficult to know where to start!’

  ‘Ah.’ He went back to his fish. ‘You know, flowers for the church, a restaurant to organize for the lunch afterwards – not a big do of course, because I’ve been married before – but still, it all needs doing.’

  I felt myself flushing. Why was I blurting all this out? About being married before? I reached instinctively to pour a glass of wine from the bottle on the table, then realized I hadn’t bought it.

  ‘Oh. Sorry, I –’

  ‘No, go ahead.’ He waved the barbecue tongs. ‘I noticed you’d missed it off the groceries, so I bought a few bottles on the way back from fishing.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I took a large gulp. A silence ensued.

  ‘So,’ I said brightly, keen to deflect the conversation his way. ‘When will your wife be joining us exactly? I mean’ – God, that sounded awful – ‘joining you.’

  ‘When she can,’ he said shortly. ‘Head off, or on?’

  I flinched. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your fish. You want me to take the head off?’

  ‘Oh. Please. Yes.’

  Another silence. Was it because I’d been too nosy about his wife, I wondered? Or prattling too girlishly about my wedding in an annoyingly frivolous manner? In an effort to appear serious, I adopted a creative slouch in the chair. Threw a leg over the arm.

  ‘And of course my book is such a worry, too,’ I confided. ‘As I said, my publisher is desperate for it, but you know, I can only work at my own pace.’ I wearily rubbed the side of my face with the palm of my hand, as if already exhausted by the demands of a literary public, greedy for the fruit of my intellect. I smiled a trifle morosely. ‘And naturally, it all depends on whether or not the muse is with me.’

  He nodded. ‘Naturally. How many books have you had published?’

  ‘Oh. Um, none. I mean, one. Hopefully. This is the first one.’

  ‘And how far have you got?’ He expertly turned the fish on the rack.

  ‘Er, well. Three chapters so far. In my head. One, actually on paper.’

  He smiled. ‘I see. Maybe if you did a little less vacuuming the muse would come back to you?’

  It was said pleasantly enough, but I bristled at the audacity.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I said, with measured quietness.

  ‘Well, I couldn’t help noticing you spent a lot of time keeping house this morning.’

  I stared. ‘Yes, because this house is so dreadfully dusty. And yes, I did hoover, but only –’ I broke off. Shook my head in wonderment. ‘Good grief. I certainly don’t have to explain my movements to you.’

  ‘No, ma’am. You don’t.’ He turned the rest of the fish over. I stared at him. Licked my lips. ‘And it doesn’t just happen, you know,’ I said testily. ‘This writing lark. There’s a lot of … thinking involved. Ruminating over plot lines, characterization, that sort of thing.’ I sniffed importantly and shifted in my seat. A regrouping gesture.

  He smiled down at his fish. ‘Ah.’

  Ah. Now what the hell did that mean? And what was that supercilious little smile all about?

  ‘Anyway.’ I glanced at my watch, determined not to rise. ‘Suppertime. I’ll get the plates, shall I? Where’s Flora?’

  I glanced around anxiously, suddenly aware that I hadn’t seen her for hours.

  ‘She’s making a salad in the kitchen. I asked her to.’

  ‘Oh!’ I got up hurriedly. ‘She doesn’t have to do that. I’ll do it.’

  ‘Sure, take over. I guess she’s too young to make a salad.’ I’d risen from my chair and started back to the house, but now I stopped. Turned.

  ‘Right,’ I said quietly. ‘I see. You’re making some mighty big assumptions about me, aren’t you, Mr Malone?’

  Despite my irritation, I couldn’t help noticing I’d slipped into American. Mighty? When had I ever said that?

  ‘I am?’

  ‘You’re suggesting, for the second time today, that I mollycoddle my daughter.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m just saying she’s not a baby.’

  ‘And you’re also suggesting that when I’m not fussing over my offspring, I’m cleaning the house and making excuses for not working. Is that it?’

  He smiled. ‘Let’s just say I know the type.’

  ‘Type?’ I bridled. ‘What type?’

  He paused in his cooking and looked straight at me, his blue eyes bright and slightly mocking. ‘Well, you know, you’ve got a growing child, about to be growing out of you, out of your jurisdiction, but you’re still hanging on to her. Hanging on in there. Half of you knows you shouldn’t, ’cos she needs to spread her wings, so you’re desperately looking around for something else to do besides nurturing her. You hit upon writing’ – he shrugged – ‘but it could be anything. It could be painting, or pottery, or mosaics or any other dilettante occupation – but it’s an occupation, not a job. Not actual employment. It’s to fill a gap in your life.’ He paused to push the fish around on the barbecue rack.

  ‘So, OK, you give it a go,’ he went on. ‘This writing lark. But actually, your heart’s not in it, because all you’ve ever done up till now is keep house. Either that or go shopping at the mall in your squeaky clean car’ – he nodded over to my gleaming Fiat – ‘in your neat preppy clothes’ – he gestured at my outfit – ‘or maybe play tennis with the pro. So work, in whatever guise it takes, and the application of it, comes as something of a shock. Am I right?’ He grinned.

  I gaped at him, horrified. Appalled. Finally, I found my voice. ‘No, you are not right. You are so wrong. And – and – so rude, Mr Malone, and no I will not call you Matt. So rude, and so … Flora! FLORA!’ I bellowed, fists clenched.

  She appeared at the double at the kitchen door, clutching a bowl of salad. Nearly dropped it.

  ‘What?’ she called.

  I couldn’t speak. She took in my furious face, hurriedly set aside the salad, and hastened across the terrace to us. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘Flora,’ I said, breathing hard, ‘please tell this – this know-it-all shrink the state of our house.’

  She blanched. ‘Our house?’

  ‘Yes, our house at home. Do I keep it tidy? Do I – Keep House?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘IT’S A BLOODY TIP, ISN’T IT, FLORA!’ I roared. ‘Er, yes.’ She blinked. ‘A bit.’

  ‘And the car?’ I breathed. ‘Tell him about the car before I put it through its exotic makeover on the A4.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, the car’s really dirty, usually,’ she said cheerfully. She jerked her head to where it sat in the drive. ‘Doesn’t always look like that. It’s usually gross, but Mum washed it on the way down. Oh God, it was so funny, she got out in the car wash to put the aerial down and –’

  ‘NEVER MIND! And my clothes? Prior to yesterday?’

  ‘Your clothes? Mum …’ She looked confused. ‘I thought the whole idea was to turn over a new leaf. Impress people, not –’

  ‘My clothes, Flora!’

  She shrugged. ‘OK. Really tatty. Holes in the sleeves – bit like you actually.’ She glanced at him. ‘Old trainers, odd socks, a mess.’

  ‘I’ve a good mind to show you my underwear, Mr Malone,’ I seethed. ‘A good mind to show y
ou my old grey pants, right now!’

  He backed away alarmed as I went for my belt. ‘Hey,’ he murmured, palms raised. ‘No need.’

  ‘You think you’re so clever,’ I spat. ‘You think you can meet someone for five minutes and, because you spend your life psychoanalysing people, do a quick thumbnail sketch of the little English memsahib – just like that!’ I snapped my fingers under his nose. ‘But you’re way off, way off, because actually, you’ve been dealing in appearances, and that’s not very clever. You think I spend hours constantly tarting up myself or my house because I have no other interests, but I’ll have you know I’ve worked hard all my adult life.’

  ‘Hey, Annie, I didn’t mean to –’

  ‘You think that this – this occupation of mine, this “writing lark”, is a little bland diversion, but it’s actually the result of years of hard graft. Years of selling stories to magazines to pay the mortgage, to keep the bank manager from snapping at our heels and turfing us out, because I wasn’t just supplementing my ex-husband’s income, Mr Malone, I was the bloody breadwinner! This doesn’t keep me amused while my daughter’s at school, this is what keeps her in school. This is what puts the food in our fridge and the shoes on our feet! I’ve kept our heads above water for twelve years with this “dilettante” occupation, and all by writing about a life I didn’t have. A romantic life, full of hearts and flowers and happy endings, a life that didn’t exist for me.’ I was horrified to find my voice breaking.

  ‘Mum!’ Flora stepped forward in alarm.

  ‘Hey, look, I –’

  ‘And sometimes,’ I went on tremulously, ‘it would have been a pleasure to have had the smart lunch-and-shopping existence you describe, Mr Malone, but it was never an option. But now it is.’ I raised my chin. Took a deep breath. ‘Now, I have a lovely, respectable doctor boyfriend who wants to indulge me and make my life a bit more comfortable, and d’you know what? I’m going to let him. I’m going to wear nice clothes for him and spruce myself up, and I’m going to let him take me to Provence in the summer and skiing in the winter, because I’ve worked hard and I deserve it! Oh, you’ve got it so wrong,’ I said, shaking with resentment now. ‘I haven’t had the sybaritic life of leisure you describe and am now looking for a little hobby, I’ve had a bloody tough time and now I’m looking to put my feet up! So the next time you think you – Know The Type, and want to get pat and analytical with someone you’ve known all of five minutes – PICK ON SOMEONE ELSE!’

  And with that, I inexplicably burst into tears and raced back into the house.

  Chapter Nine

  The following morning, he knocked on my door. Happily I was up and dressed. I opened it an inch. He cleared his throat.

  ‘I, um, came to apologize. Clearly I upset you last night, and I’m sorry.’

  He regarded me steadily. Clear blue eyes in a tough, lined face. I nodded. Twelve hours later, I felt faintly stupid.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I muttered. ‘Forget it. I probably overreacted.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe, maybe not. Leastways, I had no idea I’d hit such a sore spot. In fact’ – he scratched the back of his head – ‘I don’t remember hitting a few of those spots at all. All that stuff about letting your boyfriend take you skiing, Jesus. I don’t even recall mentioning him.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘No. No, you’re absolutely right. I brought him up. It’s just … well, he seemed part of what you were accusing me of, somehow. Funding my leisurely lifestyle. Something like that.’

  He shook his head. ‘Hey. I’ve never met the guy, and like you said last night, I’ve only known you five minutes. It was crass of me to overgeneralize, and also to knock your writing like that. I’m sorry.’

  I recognize a genuine apology when I hear it. I glanced down at my feet. Nodded curtly.

  ‘Forget it.’

  There was an awkward silence. He made as if to go, then turned back. ‘There’s, uh, some bacon on the stove, if you like. Only you didn’t get to eat last night. Have some.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll do that.’

  He withdrew and, a few moments later, I heard the study door shut downstairs behind him.

  It was true, I hadn’t come down for supper last night, because once I’d bolted to my bedroom and punched a few walls, it was slightly difficult to save face and extract myself. I’d foolishly backed myself into a corner, and could either skulk down looking dark and mutinous, or swan back breezily as if nothing had happened and compliment him on his marinade. Since I could see that the former was counter-productive but didn’t have the grace to do the latter, I chose another option, which, I told myself as I eyeballed my wet pillow, was equally necessary. To stay in my room and work out exactly why I was so angry.

  Clearly, Mr Malone had unwittingly voiced something that had got me spitting; something that perhaps I’d been aware of but had subconsciously tucked away in a drawer. Now though, there it was, out in the open, and there I was, too, up in arms. Flailing them actually; protesting, justifying, but why? Surely my shiny new lifestyle was only what I deserved after all those lean years with Adam? My cushy ménage with my doctor husband in my soon-to-be-purchased Hurlingham pad only what was due to me after all those years of struggle? But did I secretly feel uncomfortable about it? Question any motives? And had a stranger I’d known for precisely two days inadvertently lit the blue touch paper, failed to stand well back, and taken a bit of heat?

  I’d flipped miserably over on to my back on the bed and concentrated hard on the ceiling. And did I miss my work, I wondered? My proper work? My articles, my stories, meeting deadlines, dealing with magazine editors. Was I just playing at being a novelist? Was a crack appearing in my life like the one I was staring at now that ran the entire length of the ceiling? No, not a bit of it, I’d decided firmly, averting my eyes to the window and the sylvan scene surrounding the little grey church on the opposite side of the creek. And I’d show him. Show him in the morning. Show him what hard work and application was all about. Show him how it was done. Full of resolve, but also exhausted by my tears and tantrum, I slipped under the covers and promptly fell asleep.

  Now, this morning, as I emerged from the bathroom, I bumped into Flora coming out of her new bedroom, having shifted down a floor to accommodate Matt.

  ‘Oh, hi, Mum.’ She tottered sleepily in the long khaki T-shirt she always slept in. ‘We were worried about you last night. I didn’t like to come up, though, ’cos you were so stressed. Are you OK, or have you still got a bastard on?’

  ‘Don’t use that expression, darling, you sound like your father. No, I’m fine. Sorry, Flora. Something … set me off.’

  ‘Phew, just a bit. Scary. You didn’t have any supper either. We couldn’t believe you didn’t come down. Aren’t you starving?’

  ‘I am, and I’m going to have some of that yummy sausage and bacon I can smell down there. What are you going to do today, sweetheart?’ I linked arms with her chummily as we went downstairs, wanting to dispel all memories of the mad, unhinged mother, spilling out her life story in front of a total stranger and generally making a spectacle of herself.

  ‘Well, isn’t it today that the others are coming? I’m going to cycle round to Rock and see them.’

  ‘D’you know, I think you’re right,’ I said slowly. ‘It is today, isn’t it? You do that, darling. I’m going to be working in the summer house.’

  ‘OK.’

  We went arm in arm to the kitchen, where she plucked a couple of pieces of bacon from the pan with her finger-tips and sandwiched them together with two slices of Mother’s Pride. She took a huge bite. ‘First though,’ she mumbled through her mouthful, ‘I’m going back to bed with this and Northanger Abbey. See you.’

  As she shuffled past me, book in one hand, sandwich in the other, dripping crumbs everywhere, I opened my mouth to say, Take a plate, then shut it again. God, there’d be crumbs in that bed however she ate it and she had to sleep in it. When had I started to worry about things like that? And the fact – I gazed despairingly
about – that yet again, this kitchen was awaiting a good fairy to deal with all the greasy pots and pans? On an impulse I piled them high in the sink and turned the taps on hard. Right. Well I wasn’t going to pussy-foot around cleaning up like I had yesterday, I’d foster a little war of attrition. Leave this lot to soak and see what happened. Get off down to the summer house.

  Armed with a cup of coffee, a bacon sandwich and my laptop, I set off purposefully – and a trifle ostentatiously – across the garden, past Matt’s study window and down to the little hut that Flora and I had discovered yesterday.

  I pushed open the creaky green door. Inside, it smelled of musty deckchairs and wooden framed tennis rackets and old summer holidays. The past. There were three Lloyd Loom chairs with faded, chintzy cushions, and in the window, a small, rather rickety bamboo table. I pulled up a chair and sat down delightedly. Through a gap in the trees, the sea could just be glimpsed, and it struck me, as I arranged my laptop and switched on, that someone had deliberately cleared that gap in order to see the view better. In order to sit perhaps, like me, and paint, or write, or even just think. Perfect, I beamed. A perfect place for the creative juices to flow.

  I turned on my screen and read my first chapter. My only chapter. In which Lucinda De Villiers, my elegant, highly strung heroine, had just discovered – courtesy of a hotel bill found in husband Henry’s suit pocket – that whilst Henry was closing a multimillion-pound deal for Chase Manhattan in New York last week, he might also have treated his attractive female assistant, Tanya Fox, to more than just a celebratory plate of sushi at the Waldorf Hotel. Pacing her Holland Park mansion now, waiting for him to come home from work, Lucinda was unsure how to handle the situation.