by Alam, Donna
My wedding, my way. Right?
As we reach the Office of the City Clerk, I stare up at the imposing building. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t arriving in a chauffeur-driven Bentley. My surprise is almost visceral as Beckett takes my hand at the bottom of the stone steps. I almost ask if we’re acting already but sense it wouldn’t be welcome or appropriate.
‘Wait!’ I call out, pulling him back before he begins to climb. ‘Don’t glare at me,’ I sort of hiss. ‘This is important.’
‘What is it?’ he asks, that fierce expression hardening. If I’m not mistaken, his grip on my hand tightens.
‘Do you have a name? I mean, you must have because your lawyer called you Mr Beckett, meaning Beckett isn’t your given name. What if they ask me in there?’ I gesture to the building, aware my quiet tone might have passed into the realms of mildly hysteric.
‘Of course I have a name,’ he replies witheringly.
‘Then why don’t I know it?’
‘Perhaps you didn’t ask.’
‘I so did ask!’ Apparently, I’ve turned into a Minnie Mouse. ‘You said “it’s just Beckett”.’ I affect a deep and proper tone in a vague approximation of him. So why is he smiling?
‘My name is Alexander. Well, one of them is. And if you call me anything but Beckett, I’ll divorce you before the forty-eight hours are up.’
‘Alexander. That’s a good name,’ I reply as he begins to climb the steps again.
‘Thank you. I had nothing to do with it.’
‘Can I call you Alex?’ I ask, wrapping my free hand around his upper arm. A thrill courses through me as the solid muscle tenses beneath my fingertips.
‘No.’
‘What about Al? Xander? Ali?’
As we reach the entrance, he finally answers. ‘Not unless you want to make me very cross.’ His arched brow matches his tone perfectly.
‘Oh, I’m sensing a story.’
‘And I’m thinking about ways to shut you up.’
‘There was nothing about that in—’
Suddenly, I find myself pulled against the hard bulk of his body and being kissed very thoroughly. It’s exactly the kind of kiss you imagine you’ll receive on your wedding day. Maybe not in front of the congregation but later, when everyone is drunk, happy, and high on love, so no one notices when the groom steals you away for a little passion. And while it might not have happened in the setting I’ve imagined, the effect of this kiss is just the same. It steals my breath and my thoughts and almost the power in my legs. Which could be why I’m feeding my hands under his jacket and pulling him closer still. His lips taste of heat and need, and God, what I wouldn’t give to be alone with—
The harsh sound of a jeering catcall followed by a wolf whistle pierces my attention. Beckett’s head lifts, his fiery gaze sort of hazy and his full lips a little kiss swollen and pink.
‘I think we attracted an audience,’ I whisper, our lips just a hair’s breadth apart.
‘They’re just jealous because they aren’t the one kissing you.’ And with that, he pulls me to his chest.
Be still my pitter-pattering heart.
‘That might have been one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me.’ And I’m pretty sure the look I’m giving him can only be described as sappy. I was toying with the idea of asking him if he’d like to call a truce today. Maybe he’s had the same idea?
‘That’s not true,’ he says as he turns, feeding his arm across my back. ‘I told you earlier that you look very beautiful.’
‘When?’ I scoff and almost trip as he stops quite suddenly again, pulling me back.
‘In the bedroom before we left.’
‘No, you didn’t.’ Because that I would’ve remembered. Compliments absolutely fly in the face of our usual interactions. Except when he’s trying to butter me up about something.
His expression clouds, and were I not standing so close, I might’ve missed the almost imperceptible shake of his head. His countenance suddenly clears, and he takes my face in both of his hands.
‘You look so lovely, Olivia. You’re like a creature from another realm, almost otherworldly. Far too beautiful to be true.’ The kiss that would perfect this moment never comes as his hands slide across my shoulders. ‘Let’s get married.’
Inside, a sign directs us to the Marriage Bureau. The interior is quietly genteel with marble floors, Art Deco crown mouldings, and bronze accents. Strangely, the place appears almost empty. I thought courthouse wedding were massively popular, and we’d have to wait for hours. As we walk the long hallway, a couple appear before us, walking towards us hand in hand. They’re so happy it’s almost as though they’re floating an inch or two above the marble floor. Their joy is infectious, and it’s hard not to smile at them even though they only have eyes for each other. What’s not so cool is when they stop right in front of us and start making out.
‘They must be in honeymoon mode already,’ I whisper as we make our way around them.
‘Someone ought to get a hose,’ Beckett comments blithely.
‘Do we take a ticket or not?’ I ask as I spot a machine—the kind you’d expect to find in a DMV.
‘Not,’ he replies, sliding his free hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulling out his phone. ‘We’re here,’ he says, ending the call almost as quickly as he started it.
‘Did you check the times?’ I point at the signage demoting the business hours. We’re five minutes away from the office closing. Did I get gussied up for nothing?
‘Do you have your passport?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Let’s take a seat at the counter.’
‘The closed counter?’
‘Trust me, it won’t be long.’
He barely has the words out of his mouth when a man on the other side of the counter bustles up.
‘Mr Beckett, I assume.’
‘Ah, wonderful. Mr Smith.’ The pair shakes hands before the newcomer extends the welcome to me.
‘Ms Welland,’ he says by way of greeting, shaking my hand vigorously as he beams. ‘Thank you both so much for your patience. I have your paperwork here and your judical waiver!’ He waggles said paperwork before setting it down. ‘Now, if I can get you both to read through the documentation and sign in the appropriate sections, we can get to the fun bit.’
The forms are pretty basic, though I’m surprised to see my details already filled out. Name. Date of birth. Address. No one asked me for this stuff! Other than these, there are a few other details that jump out at me.
Beckett, at thirty-nine, is twelve years older than me, and a few years older than he looks.
He was married and divorced eight years ago.
His name? Alexander William Beckett III
‘You look good for an old man,’ I whisper, resolutely keeping my gaze on the form.
‘And you’re angling to be pulled over my knee, young lady.’
Unfortunately, he doesn’t keep his voice to a murmur as he answers. I’m not sure who’s more embarrassed—the clerk or me.
Forms are signed and passports are produced before we’re led down the hall by our new best friend, who has slipped on his suit jacket and is regaling us with the details of a recent refurbishment, including the addition of stylish new restrooms. Yeah, really.
‘How did you get them to marry us after hours?’ I whisper, wrapping my hand around Beckett’s bicep, who happens to still be holding my hand. If we’re only playing, I’m going to make the most of it.
‘I find you can fix most problems by throwing a little money at them. Though on this occasion, it’s more a case of who you know rather than what.’
‘Friends in high places?’
‘Something like that.’
We enter the west chapel, though the room isn’t very chapel-like at all. It’s a modern space; the walls painted a pale shade of apricot and the light fixtures a modern take on Art Deco. A lectern stands at the far end of the room, ou
r companion taking pride of place behind it with a wide smile. As far as civil servant positions go, he must have a great job, I think to myself. All the happiness and none of the heartache. Well, except for the admin.
The ceremony is short. Actually, that might be an understatement—a couple of minutes tops, words going by in a blur, our so-called solemn declarations.
Love. Honour. Cherish. Keep the bonds of matrimony. I follow the vows as dictated to me, feeling nothing before Beckett does the same.
‘I, Alexander,’ he begins gravely, ‘take you, Olivia, to be my spouse.’
I’m not crying.
Maybe I have hay fever, judging by the telltale prickling of my nose.
‘To have and to hold from this day forward.’
Nope, I’m not crying. Not as he looks lovingly into my eyes, the big faker.
‘For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health.’
I’m not crying.
Absolutely not as he squeezes my hand.
Not as he smiles the kind of smile I’ve never seen on him.
‘To love, honour, and cherish.’
Nope, definitely not crying.
I think it’s just raining. Yes—indoors.
‘From this day forward . . .’
For the next few months.
Yep, that’ll do it. Waterworks be gone!
It’s then that I notice the ring. It looks so tiny and so shiny as he picks it up from the lectern. And before I can say I do or don’t, he’s sliding it onto my finger, and I’m looking down at it in bedazzlement.
‘By the powers vested in me by the laws of the State of New York . . .’
Oh my God. I just got married.
I think I’m going to throw up.
Chapter 20
BECKETT
‘He was right about the restrooms.’
Olivia looks sheepish in the extreme as she appears in the hall. I jump up from my seat, and in a few long strides, I’m in front of her.
‘Are you okay?’ Does she have jet lag? Is she ill? Or does she just feel sick at the thought of being tied to me?
‘Yeah.’ She nods, a hank of hair falling across her face. I find myself sliding it from her cheek with my index finger to curl it around her ear. Apparently, that also makes her feel ill by her expression, so I drop my hands to my side.
‘I wasn’t ill. I didn’t vomit,’ she qualifies unnecessarily. ‘I don’t know what came over me. First with the crying and then rushing out of the chapel.’
‘You aren’t the first to succumb to its pastel charms, according to our friendly officiant.’ His name already long forgotten. The analogy of the organ grinder and the monkey springs to mind. ‘Besides, it’s not every day you hitch yourself to one of Satan’s relations.’ This, at least, gets her to smile. ‘Before I drag you to meet dear old Uncle S, I believe there’s some paperwork to sign.’
Outside once again with our wedding license tucked into my jacket pocket, I’m out of sorts and at a complete loss of what to do next. It’s a feeling I’m unfamiliar with. A feeling I don’t appreciate.
‘Have you eaten at all?’ I turn to Olivia who still looks quite wan.
‘On the plane, maybe? Oh! I had some fruit back at the hotel.’
Damn. ‘That wasn’t very sensible, was it?’ I find myself snapping.
‘Excuse me, but between meeting your lawyer and getting ready for our wedding, what was I supposed to do? Order roast beef and Yorkshire pudding to go?’
‘I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant—’
‘I know what you meant,’ she sniffs, her nose quite pink. ‘I think you’ll find the word you’re looking for starts with an s and ends in a y.’
I find myself stifling a smile. What is it about her that makes it so much fun to goad her? She turns her head as though to look down the street, but I catch her gaze sliding to me.
‘Snippily? Sublimely?’ She purses her lips, fighting a smile. ‘Sinuously? Spontaneously.’ On the last one, I pull her against me, and whisper hotly in her ear, ‘I’m all out of words.’
‘Remind me not to play Scrabble with you,’ she grumbles, though I hear her smile anyway.
‘What a selfish prick I am,’ I admit, causing her to pull away just a little, her expression censorious. ‘I just promised to honour and cherish you, yet I can’t even offer you a sandwich.’
‘I could really go for a sandwich. Or a burger,’ she offers with a fervent gleam. ‘I won’t even hold the rest against you. I don’t remember you offering me any honouring before.’
‘I—’ I am not going to apologise. For whatever seems to be bothering me. ‘I thought you said you were a vegetarian?’
‘I did,’ she answers, hopping from the top step to the one below. ‘But I didn’t say I was a good one.’
A bark of laughter breaks free from my chest, and I’m not the only one startled. ‘Get back up here,’ I insist, pulling on her hand.
‘What for?’ Despite her complaint, she allows me to tug her to the top step where she takes my face in her hands. ‘Did I tell you that you look rakishly handsome today?’ Her expression is perfect, her face far too beautiful. It’s an earthy kind of beauty, the human kind. Raw and sensual. Real.
‘You did not. Feel free to say so.’
‘I just did!’ Her gaze snaps left to where I hold my phone aloft. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Say just married!’ I take the shot.
‘Are you feeling okay?’ she enquires, a pinch of confusion settling between her brows.
‘Perfectly.’ I look up from the image, her rings catching the light, a dapple of freckles revealed from under her makeup as, eyes open, she smiles into the kiss I’d delivered. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘You’re sure you’re not getting sentimental?’ she asks, trying to curtail a saucy grin.
‘That would be you,’ I say, sliding my phone away as I take her hand. ‘Do you always cry at weddings or just your own?’
‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask me next time I get married.’ My footsteps falter on the step, though I recover without swearing. Or glaring. Or generally being an arse. And if she notices my misstep, she doesn’t remark. ‘Did you cry the first time you got married?’ Her tone is more inquisitive than needling, though I wondered how long it would take her before she asked about it.
‘No. I saved my tears until later.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she offers softly, her free hand touching my shoulder from where she stands on the step behind.
‘Yes, I was devastated. She took my dog.’
‘You!’ The comforting gesture becomes a swat, and as I reach the pavement, I turn swiftly and place my hands on her hip.
‘No New Yorker worth their salt would go to dinner at this hour. How about something a little more relaxed?’
‘How about a hotdog from a hotdog stand?’ she suggests with the kind of excited shimmy that speaks of an insatiable appetite. Something I’m looking forward to discovering.
But a long strip of lips, tits, and arseholes is not much of a wedding feast.
‘I’ve got a much better idea.’ Then I kiss her, just once, a stealthy stolen moment as a yellow cab’s horn blares, and someone yells profanities.
‘You’ve gotta love New York City,’ she says, beaming up at me.
‘Damn, that reminds me. I meant to get us a couple of T-shirts from inside.’ I got hitched in NYC. I turn as our car pulls up with Olivia giggling behind me.
‘You mean from the place selling plastic flowers, elastic wedding rings, and aluminium bow ties?’
‘I’m almost certain that word has a couple of i’s in it. Alumin-i-um?’
‘I can’t help that you can’t say it properly,’ she taunts as I open the door for her. You’re just, like, an alien. An Englishman in New York.’
‘We’re not going to a karaoke bar,’ I answer witheringly, preparing to close it behind her when she holds out her hand like a stop sign.
‘Hey, Beckett? I�
�m really pleased you didn’t get me an elastic ring.’ She glances down at her hand to where the Cartier band sparkles. ‘It was so unexpected. Can I . . . can I just say no one has ever given me anything so beautiful?’
I’m struck by the moment, by her expression, and by the sheer delight she exudes. Those stones have nothing on her beauty. Nothing on her vivacity.
‘Don’t mention it.’ My voice, when I eventually find it, is little more than a low rumble. ‘But you should know, diamonds don’t truly shine. They reflect.’ I close the door on her wavering expression, unable to give her anymore.
While not a venue that screams wedding or romance, I direct the driver to the Polo Bar behind the flagship store on Fifth Avenue. Given Olivia’s request for a heartier fare, and the fact that it’s nearer cocktail hour rather than dinner, I think it will do the trick.
There is one annoying moment when we’re stopped by what I assume is a recent recruit to the door denizen team, but the issue is smoothed out easily enough.
‘You know Ralph Lauren?’ Olivia asks, suddenly a wide-eyed ingenue.
‘His son, actually. He’s out of town and said I could make use of his table. Not that the place will be busy at this hour. Often, there’s a celebrity or two in the dining room, but I expect most people are still on afternoon tea. If you prefer, we could join the ritual, given your love for the stuff, though this place has a decent cocktail menu.’
‘No one celebrates with tea,’ she replies quite happily as we descend to the subterranean dining room. There’s little point in sitting at the bar upstairs unless you’re one of the unfortunates who needs to wait for a table to clear. ‘Except maybe my gran.’
‘Are we celebrating?’ I might taunt just a little as we follow the now embarrassed employee, dressed in the ubiquitous uniform like a Ralph Lauren branded mannequin, as she leads us to our designated table.
‘Celebrating, commiserating,’ she replies with an airy wave of her hand as though the difference between the two is of no consequence. ‘There’s a very fine line between the two.’
‘You mean like there is between love and hate?’
‘Thank you,’ she murmurs as she slides into the tan leather banquette facing the rest of the room. Thankfully, our table is a little less communal. I don’t care to find my fellow diners at my elbow. ‘Exactly,’ Olivia adds, throwing me. Ah. Our conversation. Love, hate, and the difference. ‘Just because we’re married doesn’t mean things have to change.’
