The Wedding Dress

by Dani Atkins

  ‘Drink,’ he ordered, standing over me like a scary nurse dispensing medicine. ‘It’ll make you feel better.’

  The alcohol burnt like fire all the way down to my stomach. ‘So who do you think left it?’ I asked, trying hard not to cough like a teenager who’s just raided her parents’ alcohol stash.

  Darrell sighed and then shrugged. ‘If I had to take a guess, then my money’s on one of the guys from the gym. It’s their kind of prank – stupid and immature.’

  Darrell was one of the minority; he was someone who actually made full use of his gym membership. The evidence of it was there, every time he unbuttoned his shirt. But this was the first time he’d ever mentioned interacting with any of the other members.

  ‘You’ve never talked about anyone from there before. Are these people friends of yours?’ I could hear the note of censure in my voice, the unspoken criticism that said I didn’t like his friends. I’d met and been introduced to so few people from his world, it was unfortunate to take an instant dislike to some of the first people he’d chosen to mention.

  For just a moment I thought I saw irritation on his face, but then he sat down beside me and pulled me against him. I went willingly into his arms, feeling instantly safe and also a little foolish. Had I really just massively overreacted to a rather pathetic practical joke?

  ‘They’re more acquaintances than friends,’ he admitted. ‘But a couple of them live in this building, so I’m pretty sure it must have been them.’ He had his arms tightly secured around me and murmured into my hair, which meant I couldn’t see his face or his expression as he spoke. ‘I’m sure they thought they were being hilarious,’ he said, his words fanning my forehead. ‘I mentioned the wedding in passing the other day, so I guess that’s what inspired this wind-up. I’m sure they didn’t intend to frighten you.’

  ‘Well, they kind of did,’ I said, still decompressing from panic to foolishness.

  ‘Then I’ll definitely speak to them about it,’ he said, sounding grim. ‘They took it too far.’ I wondered if he realised his hold on me had suddenly tightened to such a degree that it was just this side of uncomfortable. ‘No one is ever going to hurt or scare you. Not without having to go through me first.’

  3

  I stood fidgeting on the pavement, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, while Darrell paid the taxi driver. Through the large glass frontage behind me, I could see my mother in the restaurant, sitting alone at the bar. Darrell’s intention to make this a memorable evening hadn’t exactly got off to a good start.

  He slipped an arm around my shoulders as the taxi sped away. It must have felt like cuddling up to a statue. ‘You’re so tense,’ he declared, giving my arm an affectionate squeeze and lightly kissing my cheek. ‘Relax, babe. It’s all going to be fine.’

  I tried to smile, but my lips were reluctant to comply. ‘It’s just that I hate being late, you know that. And I really wanted tonight to go well, and now I feel all jangly and on edge.’

  ‘Well, we could have gone for that tried and trusted way of getting you to chill out – but if we’d done that, we’d have been even later.’ For once, his risqué humour failed to make me smile.

  ‘Jeez, you are nervous,’ he said, dropping his arm and reaching for my hand. ‘Come on then,’ he said, tugging me towards the entrance. ‘Let’s go and prove to your mum that the best love stories aren’t only to be found in books.’

  There were two empty martini glasses on the bar beside my mother’s designer handbag. That wasn’t an encouraging sign, because it meant that she, at least, had managed to get there early. It was a trait we shared, and one she’d probably passed on to me in the first place, right along with my bright blue eyes. But, to be fair, she neither glanced at her watch nor made any comment about our punctuality as we crossed the room to greet her. I was still apologising into a waft of hairspray and perfume as she hugged me. My explanation about traffic jams and road closures was swept aside by an elegant manicured hand.

  ‘I told her not to worry,’ said Darrell smoothly, bending down and lightly touching his lips to my mother’s cheek. I watched as he pulled back and then looked momentarily confused as she proffered the second cheek. I’m sure she didn’t do it deliberately. I knew very well it was the customary way people in her industry greeted each other. But if she’d been looking for a means of momentarily wrong-footing her future son-in-law, she couldn’t have chosen better.

  ‘Can I get you both a drink?’ Darrell asked, already making eye contact with the waiter behind the bar.

  ‘Two’s usually my limit,’ said my mother with a smile that, if you didn’t know her as well as I did, you might mistakenly think was genuine. Touché, Mum. You got in the first jab.

  ‘Of course,’ Darrell said, subtly shaking his head at the approaching barman. ‘I’ll just go and check us in with the maître d’,’ he added, heading off towards the podium in the plush reception area.

  ‘Give him a chance, Mum, please. He’s trying so hard to make you like him.’

  The red lipstick of her smile didn’t exactly soften her reply. ‘He’s certainly trying.’

  I ignored the double meaning. There was no point at all in getting into a battle of words with a bestselling novelist. She was always going to win. I wouldn’t come into my own until it came time to work out the percentage for the tip.

  Darrell seemed to be taking longer than expected confirming our table was ready. He was half a room away from us, facing in the opposite direction, so I could neither see nor hear him, but his body language was positively screaming out to me across the bar. Something was wrong. I slipped off my stool and laid a hand lightly on my mother’s forearm. ‘Wait here a minute, Mum, I’m just going to see if he needs a hand.’

  Elegantly plucked eyebrows arched slightly, but I didn’t hang around long enough to wait for her comment. Instead, I crossed to the podium, where a smooth-faced head waiter was talking in measured and controlled tones. Darrell’s hands were resting on the man’s podium, his arms braced, like a preacher about to give an inspiring sermon. The maître d’ kept glancing down at those hands, as though he’d really like to flick them off.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked, my glance switching between the two men. One looked impassive; the other looked ready to explode.

  ‘I’m afraid, madam, there has been some sort of confusion.’

  ‘There was no confusion,’ retorted Darrell tightly. I glanced at his face. He should take up ventriloquism, I found myself thinking randomly, because he’d said that almost without moving his lips. ‘This table has been booked for weeks. I have the confirmation right here,’ he said, pulling his phone from his pocket and rapidly scrolling through his emails. He laid the phone upside down on the podium, like a Vegas gambler putting down the winning card.

  The maître d’s eyes flicked briefly down to the screen and then back up to us. A couple came into the restaurant behind me. Silently, using just his eyebrows and a discreet hand gesture, a second waiter was summoned to deal with the new arrivals, who were quickly shown to their table. Forestalling the comment he must have known Darrell was going to make, the waiter said pointedly, ‘They had a reservation.’

  ‘I had a reservation – have a reservation,’ Darrell countered, his voice just a decibel or two louder than socially acceptable.

  ‘And it was cancelled,’ replied the head waiter.

  ‘What?’ said Darrell. ‘No it wasn’t. I didn’t cancel it.’

  The maître d’ looked down at a leather-bound book on the podium before him. He ran a long, elegant finger down a page of neatly written notes, and then looked up, his eyes momentarily flicking towards me. ‘A young lady cancelled the booking.’

  Darrell turned to me, his voice suddenly uncertain. ‘Did you cancel the reservation?’

  ‘No. Of course not. It must be a mistake.’

  The maître d’ gave a small Gallic shrug, despite the fact that his accent was pure Home Counties. He bent down and peered more closely at
the written note. ‘It says here that the booking was cancelled two days ago by a Mrs Suzanne Kingston.’

  ‘That’s my name,’ I cried, shaking my head in confusion. ‘Or at least it will be in three weeks’ time. Until then I’m still Suzanne Walters. But I certainly never phoned the restaurant, or cancelled the booking.’

  The maître d’ didn’t care. His only concern was in calming the situation. ‘I’m terribly sorry, sir, but as I’m sure you can appreciate, the restaurant is extremely popular and is always booked to capacity several weeks in advance. Regretfully we have no availability for walk-ins.’

  ‘We’re not walk-ins,’ said Darrell doggedly, but the fight had gone out of his voice. He lifted his head, and we exchanged a meaningful look. Despite all his assurances that he had taken care of things, it had happened again.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ All three of us jumped at the sound of my mother’s voice.

  ‘There’s just been a bit of a muddle with the reservation,’ I explained. It seemed to be the safest party line to adopt.

  ‘I asked my secretary to confirm the booking a couple of days ago, but somehow the wires got crossed and it ended up being cancelled.’ Wow. I turned to Darrell, quietly awed by the ease with which the lie had slipped from his lips. I was incapable of telling an untruth without blushing, stammering or over-embellishing. Everyone always saw straight through me. But Darrell had sounded so incredibly convincing that even I was prepared to believe him, despite knowing perfectly well that he had no secretary.

  ‘Aw, what a shame,’ said my mother, and I thought I could see a glimmer of relief in her eyes.

  The head waiter was looking at her curiously, and I could almost read his mind. My mother’s face was well known. You don’t write that many books or give that many interviews without people recognising you now and again. I glanced at Darrell and could see a possible solution pop into his head like a light bulb. I shook my head, shooting down the idea before it took flight. No way would my mother ever ask for, or accept, preferential treatment in a restaurant. If Darrell even thought of saying Do you know who this is?, we might just as well call off the wedding here and now.

  The evening was salvaged by my mother, not by playing the celebrity card, but by suggesting that we ate at the restaurant in her hotel. We did, and we had a perfectly pleasant time, with good food of sufficient portion size that no fast-food restaurants were required on the way home. But behind the polite conversation, the banter and repartee, in the moments when my mother’s attention was elsewhere, Darrell and I kept exchanging meaningful glances. It really wasn’t over, and I was beginning to worry that it never would be.

  *

  Having to wait several hours to say your piece is frustrating. The spark that lit your fury has a habit of flickering out, meaning that when the topic is eventually raised, your words are already filled with a dull resignation, and your anger has gone cold. It’s the most dangerous kind.

  ‘How the hell did your ex know we were going to be at that restaurant tonight? Did you tell her?’

  Darrell looked at me carefully, and I could see him still trying to gauge just how bad this conversation was likely to get. ‘Of course not. And before we start jumping to conclusions, we have no way of knowing it was definitely her.’

  Words weren’t required for my reply. Raising my eyebrows was every bit as eloquent. Darrell shook his head, still not prepared to concede any ground. ‘We don’t know, Suzanne, not for certain. Stop and think about it for a minute; it makes no sense. For a start, how would anyone know which restaurant we’d booked for this evening?’

  He made a valid point, but I was about three hours beyond reasonable. ‘Perhaps your “secretary” told her,’ I said, air-quoting the word, despite the fact that doing so always made me feel theatrical and a little bit foolish. ‘Or maybe she knows your password and hacked into your emails.’ His brow furrowed, and I could tell he hadn’t even considered that possibility. ‘You promised me you were going to speak to her, that you wouldn’t just leave it to your friends to tell her to back off.’ I could hear the anger rising in my voice, and from the concern in his eyes, so could Darrell. ‘You told me it was over, that nothing else was going to happen, and yet here we are again. This has to stop.’

  Darrell’s eyes flickered and in the dim interior of the taxi it was impossible to look into them, to read if he was telling me the truth. ‘I did speak to her, and she denied it all. I know you’re upset, but I really don’t think what happened this evening was anything more than a genuine mistake.’

  I swivelled on the cab seat, looking at the kaleidoscope of street lights and neon shop signs flashing past my window. They blurred and merged, as though I was watching the kind of technique they use in films to indicate the passage of time. Within the cab, the exact opposite was happening. We weren’t hurtling further forwards, we were stuck in neutral, wheels spinning, but getting absolutely nowhere. Exactly where we’d been since Darrell’s former girlfriend had first begun her campaign to jeopardise our wedding.

  I took a couple of deep breaths, determined to feign a composure that I certainly wasn’t feeling. ‘Well, if you spoke to her,’ – my tone made it clear that I no longer totally believed that he’d done so – ‘and she’s still pulling this kind of stunt, then I think it’s now time we involved the police.’

  He laughed, but when he saw the deadly serious expression on my face the sound died in his throat. ‘The police? Really, Suze? Have you thought how that conversation might go?’ His eyebrows rose almost as effectively as mine had done, as he pantomimed holding a telephone to his ear. ‘Hello officer, yes, I’d like to report a crime. My dinner reservation got maliciously cancelled tonight, and someone needs to be arrested. I think it should be my ex-girlfriend. No officer, I don’t have any proof. None at all.’

  I sighed, because I supposed he could be right. This could just have been an innocent misunderstanding. And we still didn’t know for certain who was behind the chain of unsettling incidents that had begun all those weeks ago with the note on my windscreen.

  We sat in silence for the remainder of the journey, and it wasn’t until the cab driver flicked on his indicator and pulled up at the kerb outside my building that Darrell reached for my hand.

  ‘Do you still want me to stay over tonight?’ His voice was hesitant and when I looked into his eyes I was surprised to see genuine apprehension that I might say No. There was a young boy’s vulnerability in his expression, and it tugged at my heart in a way I hadn’t been expecting.

  I gripped his hand tightly. ‘Of course I do. We’re in this together.’

  *

  It took me a great deal longer to fall asleep that night than it did Darrell, despite the fact it was my bed we were sharing, rather than his. It was the bed we’d be sharing permanently in just three weeks’ time. Well, as permanently as his frequent business trips would permit.

  He was snoring, ever so lightly, and I was still at that stage in our relationship where I found it cute and endearing. ‘Really? Most nights I’d happily smother Tom with his own pillow,’ Karen had said when I’d told her this. ‘And I bet a jury of women would let me walk,’ she’d added with a knowing nod.

  ‘Well, I kind of like it,’ I’d told her. ‘I don’t even mind when he talks in his sleep.’

  ‘Darrell sleep-talks?’ Karen had pounced on this delightedly, lowering the fork that was halfway to her lips, letting the salad on it fall back on her plate. ‘What does he say?’

  I’d suddenly felt uncomfortable, as though I was betraying Darrell and disclosing his secrets. ‘Nothing much. Nothing that makes sense, anyway. Mostly he just says my name.’ Karen feigned a tiny gagging motion, and we both laughed.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ she said eventually. ‘I’m probably just jealous. You’re still at that starry-eyed stage, whereas Tom and I are like an old married couple. Without the proposal, or the ring, or the wedding, of course.’ There was just a hint of bitterness in her voice. She looked down at
the table, shook her head and made a small dissatisfied sound, which could have been directed at either her low-calorie lunch or her relationship, it was difficult to tell.

  ‘So what else does Darrell say? Anything juicy?’

  My laugh had sounded embarrassed. ‘No, of course not. You really do have a one-track mind sometimes.’

  Karen had given an evil grin, which faded when she saw I was no longer smiling. ‘Sometimes he has nightmares, and calls out in his sleep.’

  ‘What does he say?’

  I shrugged, feeling disloyal to have parted the bedroom curtains on our private relationship. ‘Nothing. Well, nothing that makes any sense. I guess he must be worrying about something. Work, perhaps?’

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t think he’s getting cold feet, do you? Wedding jitters?’ she’d suggested. I tried to tell myself her question hadn’t sounded just a little bit hopeful.

  ‘No,’ I said, shaking my head positively. ‘Anyway, aren’t those meant to be a bride’s thing?’

  ‘Anyone can change their mind at any time. It’s never too late, hon,’ Karen had replied, almost as though she was holding open a door, in case I wanted to walk through it. Which I did not. But it did tell me that Karen still had her doubts about my forthcoming marriage.

  ‘Well, I don’t want to change my mind, and Darrell definitely doesn’t. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a groom so excited about the big day as he is.’

  *

  Now, with less than twenty-one days until we became husband and wife, I should be lying there worrying about table decorations, wedding favours and whether my dress would look better if I invested in a pair of magic knickers. Or whether my warring parents could actually make it through an entire day without killing each other. But instead I was lying in the dark beside my softly snoring fiancé, mentally running through the list of acts, ranging from mischievous to malicious, that we’d been on the receiving end of. Acts that – until we proved otherwise – we could only say had been perpetrated by person or persons unknown. Acts that Darrell assured me would now stop.