The Wedding Dress

by Dani Atkins

  ‘That’s okay. I picked up some bread and milk earlier,’ I said, reaching for the supermarket bag on my back seat. ‘Come on. If we hurry you can have me in your bed in ten minutes.’

  We got there in eight.

  *

  Darrell’s voice wasn’t raised, but he wasn’t exactly whispering either. Not that it made much difference either way. The closed bedroom door effectively stopped any intention I might have had of eavesdropping. Of course, I could always go and press my ear against the door, the way you see people do in films, but I already had a horrible vision of Darrell suddenly bursting back through it and catching me in the act. And also I didn’t want it to look as though I didn’t trust him, because of course I did. I was going to marry him, wasn’t I? And yet… whose phone was that? Why was it hidden away in the back of a drawer, and why was he taking the call privately in the other room, instead of in here with me?

  The bedroom door bounced violently open. Just as well I hadn’t been standing behind it, I thought, or else I’d be splattered against the wall like roadkill by now.

  ‘Whose phone is that?’ I asked, watching him slide it once more back into the dresser and firmly shunting the drawer to a close.

  ‘It’s mine,’ Darrell replied succinctly.

  I turned my head to his bedside table where his phone, his real phone, sat, hooked up to the mains and charging, as though on life support. ‘I thought that was your phone.’

  He shook his head, as though I was being difficult, and yet I really didn’t think that I was. ‘They’re both mine. The one in the drawer is my work mobile.’ It was a perfectly reasonable explanation. Lots of companies provide their employees with a phone for business use. But I distinctly remember asking once if he had one, and Darrell very clearly replying that he did not.

  ‘They changed their policy a little while ago,’ he said easily, sliding back into bed and pulling me against him. His limbs were cold from the five minutes he’d spent in the lounge, chatting on the phone I hadn’t known he had.

  ‘So, can I have the number?’

  ‘What number?’

  I didn’t count to ten, because I wasn’t exactly angry, but I did pause because I was more than a little irritated. He must have known perfectly well what I meant. ‘The number of your work phone. Can I have it?’

  ‘Why would you want it?’

  ‘To call you, or text, or send a message. You know, the usual reasons someone wants their husband’s phone number.’

  He smiled slowly. ‘Husband. You called me your husband.’

  ‘I did,’ I said, realising that what I had intended as a tool of persuasion, he had interpreted as a loving endearment. ‘Well, you will be soon.’ Darrell smiled and began to dip his head to kiss me, stopping only when I spoke before his lips touched mine. ‘So I should have that number.’

  He straightened slightly and I knew he was now doubly irritated: first by the call that had woken us, and now by me.

  ‘You can reach me on my regular phone. The same way you always do.’

  ‘But what if I can’t get hold of you? What if you lose your phone, or it gets stolen? Surely it makes sense for me to have both numbers?’

  He shook his head. ‘That one gets turned off when I’m in meetings, or ignored if it’s not convenient to talk. I don’t want to ever risk missing you because you were trying to reach me on that number. And also the company are really weird about us using the work mobiles for anything other than business. It’s probably best not to piss them off.’ I heard what he said perfectly well, and heard just as clearly what he didn’t say. Don’t piss me off.

  ‘Now, come here, woman,’ he said, his voice a low growl. ‘We might as well take advantage of this unexpectedly early start to the day.’

  We made love, and it was good; it was always good. Darrell was an attentive lover, always making it much more about me than him, and yet the whole way through it, even when I was holding on to his sweat-damp shoulders and softly moaning his name, I couldn’t help but think this was just a hugely effective diversionary tactic, to stop me asking any more questions about the phone.

  A little later, when I emerged from the shower, Darrell was already dressed. I could hear the sound of the kettle boiling and the distant clink of crockery in the kitchen. I looked around for something to wear, and reached for the shirt he’d worn the night before, still draped over a chair. As I buttoned it up over my still-damp body, I couldn’t stop my gaze from wandering to the top drawer of the dresser. It held my attention as I dragged a comb through my hair, slipped my feet into a pair of flip-flops I’d left beneath Darrell’s bed, and slid my engagement ring back on my finger. Perhaps it was the ring that did it. Perhaps I managed to convince myself that this close to our wedding, there should be no secret mysteries between us. And despite the very enjoyable method he’d chosen to shake me off the trail, something about that phone didn’t quite add up.

  Am I really going to be one of those wives who goes through her husband’s pockets and checks his emails? I asked myself, almost horrified as I felt myself gripping the drawer knobs firmly with both hands. Yes, it appeared that was exactly the kind of wife I was going to be.

  The drawer didn’t squeak on its runners. It opened smoothly, allowing me to see the neatly folded boxers Darrell preferred, and a veritable mountain of black socks. What it didn’t reveal was the phone, because obviously he’d already moved it by then.

  *

  He’d lied to me, and there was no point pretending I was okay about that. I was still bristling when I joined Darrell in the kitchen, unable to shake the feeling that life was starting to seem unnecessarily complicated. Even hunting for the loaf we’d brought in the night before felt like a challenge. It wasn’t in the bread bin, nor on any of the clinically bare kitchen worktops. Darrell was busily scrolling through various internet pages on his iPhone – the phone I had known about – as I continued to search for the bread.

  ‘Did we bring that supermarket bag up from my car last night?’

  ‘Yes,’ Darrell said, distracted by whatever he was reading on his screen.

  ‘Where’s the bread then?’

  ‘Same place as always – in the fridge,’ he replied, his attention still entirely on his phone.

  ‘We never keep the bread in there,’ I said, crossing to the tall white appliance, as if to prove him wrong. ‘It gets too cold to make good toast, remember?’ I pulled open the door and stared at the loaf of bread, sitting in splendid isolation on the top shelf, almost as though it was mocking me.

  Darrell looked up from his phone, his attention suddenly all on me. ‘Of course we don’t. I must have stuck it in there when I was putting the milk away. Do you fancy some toast?’

  I shook my head. ‘Actually, I’m not really that hungry after all. I’ll just have some coffee.’

  ‘Probably just as well,’ Darrell said, his voice strangely guarded. ‘Because I don’t think I have time for breakfast. I’m so sorry, hon, but I’m going to have to go away for a few days. That was what that phone call this morning was all about.’

  ‘But you promised there’d be no more trips now until after the wedding,’ I said, feeling weirdly betrayed. ‘There are still a thousand things to organise, and you promised me you’d help.’

  He crossed the kitchen and wound his arms around my waist. ‘I want to be here, sweetheart, I really do. And I know what I promised, but there’s been an emergency and I now have to cover someone else’s trip.’ He pulled me closer and I felt something flat and hard bang against my hip bone through the thin fabric of his shirt. I’d found where he’d put the second phone.

  ‘The guy who was meant to be going on the trip is at the hospital right now. His little girl has been rushed in with appendicitis, so obviously he’s not able to go. Someone has to take his place.’

  ‘But why does that someone have to be you? Isn’t there anyone else who could do it? Someone who isn’t in the middle of planning a wedding, perhaps?’

  Darr
ell bent his head and kissed me gently. ‘This wedding has been planned more thoroughly than a military manoeuvre.’ His eyes went to the tote bag sitting on a chair, holding my bulging wedding planning portfolio. ‘You are the most organised woman in the entire world. You don’t need me for this bit. All I need to do is show up in a fancy suit on the day. Anyway, it might actually be nice for you to spend a bit of time with both of your parents when I’m not around. Who knows, you might even be able to persuade one of them to actually like me.’ I stiffened in his arms and he felt it. ‘Did you think I hadn’t noticed?’

  I burrowed my face into the front of his shirt. ‘I was kind of hoping you hadn’t.’

  He kissed the top of my head, inhaling the scent of my hair, as though storing away a memory. ‘As long as you like me, as long as you love me, I don’t give a toss about what anyone else thinks. My own family have turned their back on me. If yours do the same I’ll be disappointed, sure, but I’ll get by. Just as long as I have you, just as long as we’re together, nothing else matters.’

  *

  He threw clothes for his trip into a small suitcase with astonishing speed. ‘You learn to pack fast when you’re always travelling. It’s a good trick – I’ll teach it to you,’ he promised. He zipped up the hard shell case with a flourish. ‘How long did the AA say they’d be?’

  I glanced at my watch. ‘They won’t be here for at least another forty-five minutes.’ Darrell frowned. ‘Damn it. I can’t wait that long. I’m going to miss my flight.’

  ‘That’s fine. Don’t worry about me. I’ll lock up here after they’ve sorted out my car.’

  Darrell looked worried. ‘I don’t like leaving you here alone. Not after what was left on your windscreen…’

  I glanced up at him in surprise. It was rare for him to ever bring up the topic of our ongoing harassment. That was always far more likely to come from me. ‘But that first note was a practical joke from the guys at the gym, wasn’t it?’

  He studied me for a long moment and I could see him trying to work out if I was being deliberately disingenuous or cleverly devious. To be honest, I wasn’t quite sure myself. ‘Yes. Of course. That one was down to them.’

  *

  It was a faulty alternator. I didn’t know what one of those was, or how it had somehow managed to take out my car’s battery, but fortunately the mechanic who turned up a short while later appeared to.

  ‘It’ll take about half an hour to fit you a new one,’ he advised from the depths of his van. ‘If you want to wait upstairs, that’s fine. I’ll give you a shout when I’m done.’

  Back in Darrell’s kitchen, I washed up our breakfast things and ran a cloth over the already spotless worktops. It was only when I replaced the sliced loaf into the bread bin that my brow furrowed and a niggling feeling of unease settled somewhere between my shoulder blades.

  It felt weird being in Darrell’s home without him, almost as though I was trespassing, which was crazy because he was frequently alone in my flat. I keyed in a message to my line manager explaining I was going to be late, and then spent several minutes roaming the flat, trying to pick up a phone signal. My hunt for the elusive little bars led me from room to room, until eventually I found just enough strength to send the message in the bedroom. Frankly, I was amazed Darrell ever got either of his phones to work in this place, I thought as I turned away from the window. Perhaps it was because I was remembering Darrell’s odd caginess about his work mobile, perhaps the drawer had been left slightly ajar, or perhaps something somewhere was leading me inexorably along a path I wasn’t sure I wanted to go down. Whatever it was, as I approached the dresser drawer – to firmly close it, not to pry, I told myself – I caught sight of a familiar dark maroon object just visible beneath the displaced pile of socks. I pulled the drawer open wide enough to slip my hand in and extract the slim document. I’d guessed what it was from the moment I’d spotted its distinctive colour. I turned it over in my hand, looking for a snipped-off corner to indicate it was no longer valid, but all four edges were intact. It was Darrell’s passport.

  I opened it up and saw the man I loved staring back at me. No one looks good in their passport photograph. I’m cadaver pale in mine, and frankly look way too sick to travel anywhere. Perhaps it was his unsmiling image that bothered me. In every single photo of the two of us, Darrell was always beaming widely. It seemed strange to see him looking so stern and serious, staring directly into the camera. He looked like someone I didn’t know, and for a moment – just a fleeting one – I thought there was something in his face that I didn’t like. I shook the notion away. This was the face of the man I was going to be waking up beside for the rest of my life. This was the face of the man who’d passionately made love to me only a few hours earlier. My fingers tightened on the open passport in my hands. This was the face of the man who was not going to be able to get on his flight, because in his rush to leave that morning, he’d left his passport behind.

  I hurried to the window to pick up a phone signal, already trying to calculate how long it would take me to drive to the airport after my car was fixed. I had no idea what flight he was on, or even which airline. In fact, I never knew. That hadn’t ever occurred to me before, but now it seemed peculiar. Shouldn’t he give me that information? Shouldn’t I ask for it?

  Just when I was certain his phone was about to go to voicemail, Darrell picked up. It wasn’t a clear line, and there was a roar of background noise, which meant he had to raise his voice just so I could hear him.

  ‘Sorry, Suzanne. Say that again. I left what?’

  ‘Your passport, you nutter. You’ve left it behind. Are you at the airport yet?’

  Before he had a chance to answer I heard an easily recognisable tannoy message, announcing a flight’s final call in the background.

  ‘I’m not sure how long it’ll take me to get there,’ I said. ‘The guy is still working on my car. I suppose I could call a cab.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve already checked in and am on my way to the gate.’

  ‘But how? I have your passport here,’ I said, holding it up in my hand, as though presenting it as evidence in a trial.

  ‘Yes, that’s okay. I have two,’ he said hurriedly, the words getting lost in another booming announcement. ‘I have to run, my gate’s about to close. I’ll phone you later. Love you,’ he said, all on one breath. And then he was gone.

  I lowered myself on to the edge of the bed, still frowning as I flicked through Darrell’s passport. How could he have two passports? Was that even legal? The one in my hand looked pristine, even though I saw it had been issued some time ago. I fanned through the pages, looking for a stamp, or a visa, or an anything to indicate that the passport had ever been used, but I could find none.

  The back page of the passport was possibly the most illuminating. I stared at my own name and contact details listed under ‘next of kin’. Surely his own parents should have been named, and not me? Even if they were temporarily estranged, they were still his next of kin until we were married. Perhaps he too didn’t know where they currently lived. Because as hard as I’d tried, I certainly hadn’t been able to locate them on social media. Not that Darrell even knew that I’d been looking for them, of course, much less why. My plan to track them down and invite them to our wedding was a secret I’d shared with no one. It was to be my surprise gift to him.

  The ringing of the doorbell made me jump guiltily. The whole flat seemed suddenly far too full of secrets and mysteries. I thrust the passport back into the dresser and hurried to the door, where the mechanic stood grinning broadly. ‘All done, love,’ he declared, passing me back my keys. I found myself quietly envying the simplicity of having a problem that could be so easily and quickly fixed. I was growing tired of every question I asked spiralling into yet another one.

  I was still preoccupied when I summoned the lift to take me down to the underground car park ten minutes later. My head was buzzing, and I had the first telling strains of a really bad headache,
just waiting to clamp my skull in a vice. The lift doors slid open and I stepped into the carriage, giving its solitary occupant a cursory nod, the way people do.

  ‘G’day,’ the young man said, his greeting more of a giveaway to his nationality than his sing-song Australian accent.

  ‘Hello,’ I replied, sounding terribly British and a little unapproachable. I wasn’t being rude, but I didn’t feel like making idle lift conversation. I looked down at my feet, as though the study of my court shoes was suddenly very important. It was impossible not to catch a peripheral glimpse of his own feet. They were large, encased in what looked like very expensive trainers. It wasn’t a particularly warm morning, yet the man was wearing shorts. His thick muscular legs were covered in ginger hair, which I was inadvertently staring at in a rather disturbing perverted way. My eyes did a sidelong reconnoitre and travelled up his body to a thin grey sweatshirt with the logo of a university on it. A large sports bag was slung over one shoulder, and peeking out from within it I could see a rolled-up towel.

  I glanced at the floor indicator. We were almost at ground level. I turned to the man, knowing I was about to do something either very sensible or incredibly foolish. I just wished I knew which one it was.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Again I sounded horribly British. He didn’t seem to notice. ‘I know this might sound a little odd, but you wouldn’t by any chance be going to the gym right now, would you?’

  You have to love the Australians and their friendly, approachable, laid-back attitude. He didn’t seem at all put out by the curious question from a total stranger. He nodded down at his attire and the huge bag he was carrying, and grinned. ‘What gave it away?’

  I smiled hesitantly, unsure how on earth I was going to proceed. ‘You live in this building, don’t you?’ He smiled back and gave an almost imperceptible wink. Oh God, now he thought I was hitting on him, and nothing could be further from the truth.