SIXTEEN
MAGNUS DOESN’T BELIEVE in superstitions. He’s just like his father. So even though it’s our wedding day today – even though everyone knows it’s bad luck – he stayed at my place last night. When I told him he should go to his parents’ house he got all sulky and said I couldn’t be so ridiculous and why would he pack up all his stuff for one night? Then he added, surely the only people who believe in that kind of stuff are people with—
At which point he stopped himself. But I know he was going to say ‘weak minds’. It’s a good thing he didn’t continue, or there would have been a major bust-up. As it is, I’m still feeling quite stroppy with him. Which isn’t exactly ideal on your wedding day. I should be feeling all starry-eyed. I shouldn’t be leaning round the kitchen door every five minutes saying, ‘And another thing you always do . . .’
I now know exactly why they started the tradition of being apart the night before your wedding. It’s not about romance, or sex, or being chaste or whatever. It’s so you don’t have a row and stomp up the aisle seething at your bridegroom, planning all the home truths you’re going to tell him as soon as you get this wedding bit out of the way.
I was going to make him sleep in the sitting room, but Toby and Tom were in there in sleeping bags. At least I’ve made him promise to leave the house before I get into my wedding dress. I mean, that would be the limit.
As I pour myself a cup of coffee, I can hear him declaiming in the bathroom, and feel another flinch of irritation. He’s practising his speech. Here. In the flat. Isn’t his speech supposed to be a surprise? Does he know anything about weddings? I approach the bathroom door, ready to give him an earful – then pause. I might as well listen to a snippet.
The door is slightly ajar and I peep through the gap to see him addressing himself in the mirror in his dressing gown. To my surprise, he looks quite worked up. His cheeks are red and he’s breathing heavily. Maybe he’s getting into the part. Maybe he’s going to make a really passionate speech about how I’ve completed his life and everyone will cry.
‘Everyone said I’d never get married. Everyone said I’d never do it.’ Magnus pauses for so long, I wonder if he’s lost his way. ‘Well, look. Here I am. OK? Here I am.’
He takes a swig of something which looks like a gin and tonic and gazes belligerently at himself.
‘Here I am. Married, OK? Married.’
I watch him uncertainly. I don’t know quite what’s wrong about this speech, but something is. There’s some small detail that feels wrong . . . something amiss . . . something that jars . . .
I’ve got it. He doesn’t look happy.
Why doesn’t he look happy? It’s his wedding day.
‘I’ve done it.’ He raises his glass at the mirror, glowering. ‘So all you people who said I couldn’t, can fuck off.’
‘Magnus!’ I can’t help exclaiming in shock. ‘You can’t say “fuck off” in your wedding speech!’ Magnus’s face jolts and his belligerent air instantly vanishes as he whips round. ‘Poppy! Sweets! I didn’t know you could hear me.’
‘Is that your speech?’ I demand.
‘No! Not exactly.’ He takes a deep swig of his drink. ‘It’s a work in progress.’
‘Well, haven’t you written it yet?’ I eye his glass. ‘Is that a gin and tonic?’
‘I think I’m allowed a gin and tonic on my wedding day, don’t you?’
The belligerent air is creeping back. What is wrong with him?
If I was in one of those glossy, luxury-kitchen American TV dramas, I’d go up to him now and take his arm and say gently, ‘It’s going to be a great day, honey.’ And his face would soften and he’d say, ‘I know’, and we’d kiss, and I would have diffused the tension with my loving tact and charm.
But I’m not in the mood. If he can be belligerent, so can I.
‘Fine.’ I scowl. ‘Get pissed. Great idea.’
‘I’m not going to get pissed. Jesus. But I’ve got to have something to take the edge off the—’ He stops abruptly, and I stare at him in shock. Where exactly was he heading with that sentence?
I think his mind is working the same way, because he quickly finishes the sentence: ‘. . . the thrill. I need to take the edge off the thrill, or I’ll be far too hyper to concentrate. Sweets, you look beautiful. Gorgeous hair. You’ll look spectacular.’
His old, engaging manner has returned, in full force, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.
‘My hair hasn’t even been done yet,’ I say, with a grudging smile. ‘The hairdresser’s on his way.’
‘Well, don’t let him ruin it.’ He gathers the ends together and kisses them. ‘I’ll get out of your way. See you at the church!’
‘OK.’ I stare after him, feeling a bit unsettled.
And I’m unsettled for the rest of the morning. It’s not exactly that I’m worried. It’s more that I don’t know if I should be worried. I mean, let’s look at the facts. One moment Magnus is all over me, begging me to marry him – then he gets stroppy, as though I’m forcing him into it with a shotgun. Is it just jitters? Is this what men are always like on their wedding day? Should I tolerate it as normal male behaviour, like when he gets a cold and starts Googling nose cancer symptoms discharge nostrils?
If Dad were alive I could ask him.
But that’s a thought-path I really can’t let myself go down, not today, or I’ll be a mess. I blink hard and scrub at my nose with a tissue. Come on, Poppy. Brighten up. Stop inventing problems that don’t exist. I’m getting married!
Toby and Tom emerge from their cocoons just as the hairdresser arrives, and make monster cups of tea in mugs which they brought with them. They instantly start bantering with the hairdresser and putting rollers in their hair and making me fall about with laughter, and I wish for the zillionth time that I saw more of them. Then they disappear off to have breakfast at a café, and Ruby and Annalise arrive two hours early because they couldn’t wait, and the hairdresser announces he’s ready to start, and my Aunt Trudy rings from her mobile saying they’re nearly here and her tights have laddered, is there anywhere she can buy a new pair?
And then we’re into a blur of hairdryers blasting, nails being painted, make-up being done, hair being put up, flowers arriving, dresses being put on, dresses being taken off to go to the loo, sandwiches being delivered, a spray-tan near-disaster (it was actually just a blotch of coffee on Annalise’s knee) and somehow it’s two o’clock before I realize it, and the cars are here and I’m standing in front of the mirror in my dress and veil. Tom and Toby are standing either side of me, so handsome in their morning coats I have to blink away the tears again. Annalise and Ruby have already left for the church. This is it. My last few moments as a single girl.
‘Mum and Dad would have been so proud of you,’ says Toby gruffly. ‘Amazing dress.’
‘Thanks.’ I try to shrug nonchalantly.
I suppose I look OK, as brides go. My dress is really long and slim with a low back and tiny bits of lace on the sleeves. My hair’s in a chignon. My veil is gossamer light and I’ve got a beaded headdress and a gorgeous posy of lilies. But somehow, just like Magnus this morning, something seems amiss . . .
It’s my expression, I suddenly realize with dismay. It isn’t right. My eyes are tense and my mouth keeps twitching downwards and I’m not radiant. I try baring my teeth at myself in a broad smile – but now I just look freaky, like some kind of scary clown-bride.
‘You OK?’ Tom is watching me curiously.
‘Fine!’ I pull at my veil, trying to bunch it round my face more. The point is, it doesn’t matter what my expression is like. Everyone will be looking at my train.
‘Hey, Sis.’ Toby glances at Tom as though for approval. ‘Just so you know, if you did change your mind, we’d be totally cool. We’d help you do a runner. We’ve discussed it, haven’t we, Tom?’
‘The 4.30 from St Pancras.’ Tom nods. ‘Gets you to Paris in time for dinner.’
‘Do a runner?’ I stare at him in dismay. ‘What do you mean? Why would you plan a runner? Don’t you like Magnus?’
‘No! Whoa! Never said that.’ Toby lifts his hands defensively. ‘Just . . . putting it out there. Giving you the options. We see it as our job.’
‘Well, don’t see it as your job.’ I speak more sharply than I mean to. ‘We’ve got to get to the church.’
‘I got the papers when I was out, by the way,’ adds Tom, proffering a stack of newspapers. ‘You want to have a read in the car?’
‘No!’ I recoil in horror. ‘Of course not! I’ll get newsprint on my dress!’
Only my little brother could suggest reading the newspaper on the way to my own wedding. Like, it’ll be so boring we’d better have some entertainment.
Having said that, I can’t help flicking through the Guardian quickly as Toby goes for a quick, final bathroom break. There’s a picture of Sam on page 5, under a headline ‘Scandal Rocks Business World’, and as soon as I see it, my stomach clenches tightly.
But less tightly than before. I’m sure of it.
The car is a black Rolls-Royce, which looks pretty amazing in my nondescript Balham street, and a small crowd of neighbours has gathered to watch as I come out. I do a little twirl and everyone claps as I get into the car. We set off, and I feel like a proper, glowing, radiant bride.
Except I can’t look that radiant and glowing, because as we’re driving along Buckingham Palace Road, Tom leans forward and says, ‘Poppy? Are you car-sick or something?’
‘What?’
‘You look ill.’
‘No I don’t.’ I scowl at him.
‘You do,’ says Toby, peering at me dubiously. ‘Kind of . . . green.’
‘Yeah, green.’ Tom’s face lights up. ‘That’s what I meant. Like you’re about to hurl. Are you about to hurl?’
That is so typical of brothers. Why couldn’t I have had sisters, who would tell me I looked beautiful and lend me their blusher?
‘No, I’m not about to hurl! And it doesn’t matter what I look like.’ I turn my face away. ‘No one will be able to see through my veil.’ My phone beeps and I haul it out of my little bridal bag. It’s a text from Annalise:
Don’t go up Park Lane! Accident! We’re stuck!
‘Hey.’ I lean forward to the driver. ‘There’s an accident on Park Lane.’
‘Right you are,’ he nods. ‘We’ll avoid that route then.’
As we swing round into a little side road, I’m aware of Tom and Toby exchanging glances.
‘What?’ I say at last.
‘Nothing,’ Toby says soothingly. ‘Just sit back and relax. Shall I tell you some jokes, take your mind off it?’
‘No. Thanks.’
I stare out of the window, watching the streets go by. And suddenly, before I feel quite ready, we’ve arrived. The church bells are pealing with a single, rhythmic tone as we get out of the car. A couple of late guests I don’t recognize are running up the steps, the woman clutching at her hat. They smile at me, and I give a self-conscious nod.
It’s for real. I’m actually doing this. This is the happiest day of my life. I should remember every moment. Especially how happy I am.
Tom surveys me and grimaces. ‘Pops, you look awful. I’ll just tell the vicar you’re ill.’ He barges straight past me into the church.
‘No, don’t! I’m not ill!’ I exclaim furiously, but it’s too late. He’s on a mission. Sure enough, a few moments later Reverend Fox is hurrying out of the church, an anxious look on his face.
‘Oh my goodness, your brother’s right,’ he says as soon as he sees me. ‘You don’t look well.’
‘I’m fine!’
‘Why don’t you take a few minutes to compose yourself alone before we begin the service?’ He’s ushering me into a little side room. ‘Sit down a moment, have a glass of water, perhaps eat a biscuit? There are some in the church hall. We need to wait for the bridesmaids anyway. I gather they’ve been held up in traffic?’
‘I’ll look out for them on the street,’ says Tom. ‘They won’t be long.’
‘I’ll get the biscuits,’ chimes in Toby. ‘Will you be all right, Sis?’
‘Fine.’
They all head out and I’m left alone in the silent room. A tiny mirror is perched on a shelf, and as I look into it I wince. I do look sick. What’s wrong with me?
My phone dings and I glance at it in surprise. I’ve got a text from Mrs Randall.
6–4, 6–2. Thank you, Poppy!
She did it! She got back on the tennis court! This is the best thing I’ve heard all day. And all of a sudden I wish I were at work, away from here, absorbed in the process of treating someone, doing something useful—
No. Stop. Don’t be stupid, Poppy. How can you wish you were at work on your wedding day? I must be some sort of freak. No other brides wish they were at the office. None of the bridal magazines carry articles on ‘How to Look Radiant, Rather than Like You Want to Vomit’.
Another text has just dinged into my phone, but this one is from Annalise.
Finally!!!! We’re on the move! Are you there already?
OK. Let’s focus on the here and now. The simple act of texting a reply makes me feel more relaxed.
Just arrived.
An instant later she replies:
Argh! Going as quick as we can. Anyway you’re supposed to be late. It’s good luck. Have you still got your blue garter on?
Annalise was so obsessed by me wearing a blue garter that she brought along three different choices this morning. I’m sorry, what are garters all about? To be frank, I could really do without a length of tight elastic cutting off my leg circulation right now – but I promised her faithfully I’d keep it on.
Of course! Even though my leg will probably fall off now. Nice surprise for Magnus on the wedding night.
I smile as I send the text. It’s cheering me up, having this stupid conversation. I put my phone down, have a drink of water and take a deep breath. OK. I’m feeling better. The phone dings with a new text, and I pick it up to see what Annalise has replied—
But it’s from Sam Mobile.
For a few instants I can’t move. My stomach is instantly moiling around as though I’m a teenager. Oh God. This is pathetic. It’s mortifying. I see the word ‘Sam’ and I go to pieces.
Half of me wants to ignore it. What do I care what he’s got to say? Why should I give one iota of head-space or time to him, when it’s my wedding day and I have other things to focus on?
But I know I’ll never get through the wedding with an unopened text burning a hole in my phone. I open it as calmly as I can, bearing in mind my fingers can hardly function – and it’s a one-word Sam special.
Hi.
Hi? What’s that supposed to mean, for God’s sake?
Well, I’m not going to be rude. I’ll text back a similarly effusive response:
Hi.
A moment later there’s another ding:
This a good time?
What?
Is he for real? Or is he being sarcastic? Or—
Then I realize. Of course. He thinks I cancelled the wedding. He doesn’t know. He has no idea.
And suddenly I see his text in a new light. He’s not making a point. He’s just saying ‘Hi’.
I swallow hard, trying to work out what to put. Somehow I can’t bear to tell him what I’m doing. Not straight out.
Not really.
I’ll be brief then. You were right and I was wrong.
I stare at his words, perplexed. Right about what? Slowly I type:
What do you mean?
Almost immediately his reply dings into the phone.
About Willow. You were right and I was wrong. I’m sorry I reacted badly. I didn’t want you to be right, but you were. I spoke to her.
What did you say?
Told her it was over, finito. Stop the emails or I’ll take out a stalking injunction.
He didn’t. I can’t believe it.
How did she react?
She was pretty shocked.
I bet.
There’s silence for a while. A fresh text from Annalise has arrived on my phone, but I don’t open it. I can’t bear to break the thread between me and Sam. I’m gripping my phone tightly, my eyes on the screen, waiting to see if he’ll text again. He has to text again . . .
And then there’s a beep.
Can’t be an easy day for you. Today was supposed to be the wedding day, right?
My insides seem to plunge. What do I answer? What?
Yes.
Well, here’s something to cheer you up.
Cheer me up? I’m peering at the screen, puzzled, when a photo text suddenly arrives which makes me laugh in surprise. It’s a picture of Sam sitting in a dentist’s chair. He’s smiling widely and wearing a cartoon sticker on his lapel that says, ‘I was a good dental patient!!’
He did that for me, flashes through my head before I can stop it. He went to the dentist for me.
No. Don’t be stupid. He went for his teeth. I hesitate, then type:
You’re right, that did cheer me up. Well done. About time!
An instant later he replies:
Are you free for a cup of coffee?
And to my horror, with no warning, tears start pressing at my eyes. How can he call now and ask me for a cup of coffee? How can he not realize that things have moved on? What did he think I would do? As I type, my thumbs are jerky and agitated.
You brushed me off.
What?
You sent me the brush-off email.
I never send emails, you know that. Must have been my PA. She’s too efficient.
He didn’t send it?
OK, now I can’t cope. I’m going to cry, or laugh hysterically, or something. I had it all sorted in my mind. I knew where everything was and where everything stood. Now my head’s a maelstrom again.
The phone beeps with a follow-up text from Sam:
You’re not offended, are you?
I close my eyes. I have to explain. But what do I— How do I—
At last, without even opening my eyes, I text:
You don’t understand.
What don’t I understand?
I can’t bear to type the words. Somehow I just can’t do it. Instead, I stretch out my arm as far as it will go, take a photo of myself, then examine the result.
Yes. It’s all there in the shot: my veil, my headdress, a glimpse of my wedding dress, the corner of my lily bouquet. There’s absolutely no doubt as to what’s going on.
I press Sam Mobile and then Send. There. It’s gone through the ether. Now he knows. I’ll probably never hear from him again after this. That’s it. It was a strange little encounter between two people and this is the end. With a sigh, I sink down into a chair. The bells above have stopped pealing and there’s a strange, still quietness in the room.
Until suddenly the beeps start. Frantic and continuous, like an emergency siren. I pick up my phone in shock, and they’re stacking up in my in-box: text after text after text, all from Sam.
No.
No no no no no.
Stop.
You can’t.
Are you serious?
Poppy, why?
My breaths are short and ragged as I read his words. I wasn’t intending to get into a conversation, but at last I can’t stand it any more, I have to reply:
What do you expect, I just walk away? 200 people are sitting here waiting.
Immediately Sam’s reply comes firing back:
You think he loves you?
I twist the ring of gold strands round and round my right-hand finger, trying desperately to find a path through all the contradictory thoughts thrusting their way into my head. Does Magnus love me? I mean . . . what is love? No one knows what love is, exactly. No one can define it. No one can prove it. But if someone chooses a ring especially for you in Bruges, that’s got to be a good start, hasn’t it?
Yes.
I think Sam must have been poised for my answer, his replies come shooting back so quickly, three in a row.
No.
You’re wrong.
Stop. Stop. Stop. No. No.
I want to scream at him. It’s not fair. He can’t say all this now. He can’t shake me up now.
Well what I am supposed to do???
I send it just as the door opens. It’s the Reverend Fox, followed by Toby, Tom, Annalise and Ruby, all talking at once in an excited babble.
‘Oh my God! The traffic! I thought we wouldn’t make it . . .’
‘Yes, but they couldn’t start without you, could they? It’s like planes.’
‘They can, you know. They once took my luggage off the plane I was on, just because I was trying these jeans on and I didn’t hear the announcement . . .’
‘Is there a mirror? I’ve got to do my lipgloss again . . .’
‘Poppy, we got you some biscuits—’
‘She doesn’t want biscuits! She’s got to be slim for her big moment!’ Annalise swoops down on me. ‘What’s happened to your veil? It’s all bunched up. And your dress is crooked! Let me . . .’
‘All right, missus?’ Ruby gives me a hug as Annalise tugs at my train. ‘Ready?’
‘I . . .’ I feel dazed. ‘I guess so.’
‘You look great.’ Toby is crunching on a digestive. ‘Much better. Hey, Felix wanted to say a quick hello. Is that OK?’
‘Oh, of course.’
I feel powerless, standing here, with everyone milling around me. I can’t even actually move, because Annalise is still adjusting my train. My phone beeps, and Reverend Fox gives me a frosty smile.
‘Better turn that off, don’t you think?’
‘Can you imagine if it went off during the service?’ Annalise giggles. ‘Do you want me to hold on to it for you?’
She holds out her hand and I stare back at her, paralysed. There’s a new text from Sam in my in-box. His reply. Part of me is so desperate to read it, I almost can’t control my hands.
But another part is telling me to stop. Don’t go there. How can I read it now, as I’m about to walk up the aisle? It’ll mess me up. I’m here on my wedding day, surrounded by friends and family. This is my real life. Not some guy I’m connected to through the ether. It’s time to say goodbye. It’s time to cut this thread.
‘Thanks, Annalise.’ I turn the phone off and gaze at it for a moment as the light dies away. There’s no one in there any more. It’s just a dead, blank, metal box.
I hand it to Annalise and she thrusts it into her bra.
‘You’re holding your flowers too high.’ She frowns at me. ‘You look really tense.’
‘I’m fine.’ I avoid her gaze.
‘Hey, guess what?’ Ruby comes rustling up in her dress. ‘I forgot to tell you, we’re getting a celebrity patient! That businessman who’s been all over the news. Sir Nicholas something?’
‘You mean . . . Sir Nicholas Murray?’ I say incredulously.
‘That’s the one.’ She beams. ‘His assistant phoned up and booked a session with me! Said I’d been recommended by someone whose opinion he regards very highly. Who on earth d’you think that was?’
‘I’ve . . . I’ve no idea,’ I manage.
I’m so touched. And a bit freaked. Never in a million years did I think that Sir Nicholas would take me up on my recommendation. How can I face him again? What if he mentions Sam? What if—
No. Stop it, Poppy. By the time I see Sir Nicholas again I’ll be a married woman. The whole, bizarre little episode will be long forgotten. It’ll be fine.
‘I’ll alert the organist that we’re ready to go,’ says Reverend Fox. ‘Take your places for the procession, everyone.’
Annalise and Ruby are standing behind me. Tom and Toby are flanking me, each with an arm loosely crooked in mine. There’s a knock at the door and Felix’s owlish face peers round.
‘Poppy, you look amazing.’
‘Thanks! Come in!’
‘Just thought I’d wish you luck.’ He heads towards me, skirting my dress hem carefully. ‘And say I’m so chuffed you’re joining the family. We all are. My parents think you’re brilliant.’
‘Really?’ I say, trying to hide my dubious tone. ‘Both your parents?’
‘Oh yes.’ He nods fervently. ‘They love you. They were so gutted when they heard it was all off.’
‘Off?’ echo four astonished voices, all at once.
‘Was the wedding off?’ says Tom.
‘When was it off?’ demands Annalise. ‘You never told us, Poppy! Why didn’t you tell us?’
Great. This is all I need, the third-degree from my entire wedding party.
‘It was only temporary.’ I try to downplay it. ‘You know. One of those last-minute wedding-jitter things. Everyone has them.’
‘Mum gave Magnus such a hard time.’ Felix’s eyes gleam behind his glasses. ‘She said he was a fool and he’d never find anyone better than you.’
‘Really?’ I can’t help feeling a glow.
‘Oh, she was livid.’ Felix looks highly entertained. ‘She practically threw the ring at him.’
‘She threw the emerald ring?’ I say in astonishment. That ring is worth thousands. Surely even Wanda wouldn’t start chucking it around the room.
‘No, the gold twisty ring. That ring.’ He nods at my hand. ‘When she was getting it out of her dressing table for Magnus. She threw it at him and cut his forehead.’ He chuckles. ‘Not badly, of course.’
I stare at him, frozen. What did he just say? Wanda got the gold twisty ring out of her dressing table?
‘I thought . . .’ I try to sound relaxed. ‘I thought Magnus bought it in Bruges?’
Felix looks blank. ‘Oh no. It’s Mum’s. Was Mum’s.’
‘Right.’ I lick my dry lips. ‘So, Felix, what happened, exactly? Why did she give it to him? I wish I’d been there!’ I try to sound light-hearted. ‘Tell me the whole story.’
‘Well.’ Felix screws up his eyes, as though trying to recall. ‘Mum told Magnus not to bother trying to give you that emerald ring again. And she got out the gold ring and said she couldn’t wait to have you as a daughter-in-law. Then Dad said, “Why are you bothering, it’s obvious Magnus doesn’t have the sticking power for a marriage,” and Magnus got in a fury with him and said yes he does, and Dad said, “Look at the Birmingham job,” and they had this massive argument like they always do and then . . . we got a takeaway.’ He blinks. ‘That was pretty much it.’
Behind me, Annalise is leaning forward to listen. ‘So that’s why you switched rings. I knew you weren’t allergic to emeralds.’
This is Wanda’s ring. Magnus didn’t buy it especially for me at all. As I stare at my hand I feel a bit sick. Then something else occurs to me.
‘What Birmingham job?’
‘You know. The one he quit. Dad always gives Magnus a hard time for being a quitter. Sorry, I thought you knew.’ Felix is eyeing me curiously as loud crashing organ chords from above make us all jump. ‘Oh, we’re starting. I’d better beetle off. See you in there!’
‘Yes, OK.’ Somehow I manage to nod. But I feel as though I’m on another planet. I need to digest all this.
‘Ready?’ Reverend Fox is at the door, beckoning us out. As we arrive at the back of the church, I can’t help gasping. It’s filled with spectacular flower arrangements, and rows of people in hats, and a crackling air of expectation. Right at the front I can just glimpse the back of Magnus’s head.
Magnus. The thought makes my stomach turn over. I can’t— I need time to think—
But I don’t have any time. The organ piece is gathering momentum. The choir suddenly joins in with a triumphant swell. Reverend Fox has already disappeared up the aisle. The fairground ride has begun and I’m on it.
‘All right?’ Toby grins across at Tom. ‘Don’t trip her up, Bigfoot.’
And we’re off. We’re moving up the aisle, and people are smiling at me, and I’m aiming for a serene, happy gaze, but inside my thoughts are about as serene as the particles whizzing about in CERN.
It doesn’t matter . . . it’s only a ring . . . I’m overreacting . . . But he lied to me . . .
Oh wow, look at Wanda’s hat . . .
God, this music is amazing, Lucinda was right to get the choir . . .
What job in Birmingham? Why did he never tell me about that?
Am I gliding? Shit. OK, that’s better . . .
Come on, Poppy. Let’s get some perspective. You have a great relationship with Magnus. Whether he bought you the ring himself or not is irrelevant. Some ancient job in Birmingham is irrelevant. And as for Sam—
No. Forget Sam. This is reality. This is my wedding. It’s my wedding and I can’t even focus on it properly. What’s wrong with me?
I’m going to do it. I can do it. Yes. Yes. Bring it on . . .
Why the hell does Magnus look so sweaty?
As I arrive at the altar, all other thoughts are temporarily overcome by this last one. I can’t help gaping at him in dismay. He looks terrible. If I look like I’m sick, then he looks like he’s got malaria.
‘Hi.’ He gives me a weedy smile. ‘You look lovely.’
‘Are you OK?’ I whisper as I hand my bouquet to Ruby.
‘Why wouldn’t I be OK?’ he retorts defensively.
That doesn’t seem quite the right answer, but I can’t exactly challenge him on it.
The music has stopped and Reverend Fox is addressing the congregation with an ebullient beam. He looks as though he absolutely loves taking weddings.
‘Dearly beloved. We are gathered here in the sight of God . . .’
As I hear the familiar words echoing around the church, I start to relax. OK. Here we go. This is what it’s all about. This is what I’ve been looking forward to. The pledges. The vows. The ancient, magical words which have been repeated under this roof so many times, for generations and generations.
So maybe we’ve had some blips and jitters in the run-up to our wedding. What couple doesn’t? But if we can just focus on our vows, if we can just make them special . . .
‘Magnus.’ Reverend Fox turns to Magnus, and there’s a rustle of anticipation in the congregation. ‘Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?’
Magnus has a slightly glazed look in his eye, and he’s breathing heavily. He looks as though he’s psyching himself up for the 100-metres Olympic final.
‘Magnus?’ prompts Reverend Fox.
‘OK,’ he says, almost to himself. ‘OK. Here goes. I can do this.’ He takes an almighty, deep breath, and, in a loud, dramatic voice which rises to the ceiling, announces proudly, ‘I do.’
I do?
I do?
Wasn’t he listening?
‘Magnus,’ I whisper with a meaningful edge. ‘It’s not “I do”.’
Magnus peers at me, clearly baffled. ‘Of course it’s “I do”.’
I feel a surge of irritation. He wasn’t listening to a single word. He just said ‘I do’ because it’s what they say in American films. I should have known this would happen. I should have ignored Antony’s snarky comments and made Magnus rehearse the vows.
‘It’s not “I do”, it’s “I will”!’ I’m trying not to sound as upset as I feel. ‘Didn’t you listen to the question? “Wilt thou.” Wilt thou.’
‘Oh.’ Magnus’s brow clears in understanding. ‘I get it. Sorry.
“I will”, then. Although, it hardly matters, surely,’ he adds with a shrug.
What?
‘Shall we resume?’ Reverend Fox is saying hurriedly. ‘Poppy.’ He beams at me. ‘Wilt thou take this man to thy wedded husband . . .’
I’m sorry. I can’t let that go.
‘Sorry, Reverend Fox.’ I lift a hand. ‘One more thing. Sorry.’ For good measure I swivel round to the congregation. ‘I just need to clear up a tiny point, I won’t be a moment . . .’ I turn back to Magnus and say in a furious undertone, ‘What do you mean, “it hardly matters”? Of course it matters! It’s a question. You’re supposed to answer it.’
‘Sweets, I think that’s taking it a little literally.’ Magnus is looking distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Can we crack on?’
‘No, we cannot crack on! It’s a literal question! Wilt thou take me? A question. What do you think it is?’
‘Well.’ Magnus shrugs again. ‘You know. A symbol.’
It’s as though he’s lit my fuse-paper. How can he say that? He knows how important the vows are to me.
‘Not everything in life is a bloody symbol!’ I explode. ‘It’s a real, proper question and you didn’t answer it properly! Don’t you mean anything you’re saying here?’
‘For God’s sake, Poppy—’ Magnus lowers his voice. ‘Is this really the time?’
What’s he suggesting, that we say the vows and then discuss whether we meant them or not afterwards?
OK, so we should perhaps have discussed our vows before we were standing at the altar. I can see that now. If I could go back in time, I’d do it differently. But I can’t. It’s now or never. And in my defence, Magnus knew what the wedding vows were, didn’t he? I mean, I haven’t exactly sprung them on him, have I? They’re not exactly a secret, are they?
‘Yes it is!’ My voice rises with agitation. ‘This would be the time! Right now would be the time!’ I swing round to face the congregation, who all gaze at me, agog. ‘Hands up who thinks that at a wedding, the groom should mean his vows?’
There’s absolute silence. Then, to my astonishment, Antony slowly raises his hand into the air, followed by Wanda, looking sheepish. Seeing them, Annalise and Ruby shoot their hands up. Within about thirty seconds, all the pews are full of waving hands. Tom and Toby each have both hands up and so have my aunt and uncle.
Reverend Fox looks absolutely flummoxed.
‘I do mean them,’ says Magnus, but he sounds so lame and unconvincing, even Reverend Fox winces.
‘Really?’ I turn to him. ‘“Forsaking all others”? “In sickness and in health”? “Till death us do part”? You’re absolutely sure about that, are you? Or did you just want to prove to everyone that you can go through with a wedding?’
And although I wasn’t planning to say that, as soon as the words are out of my mouth, they feel true.
That’s what this is. Everything falls into place. His belligerent speech this morning. His sweaty forehead. Even his proposal. No wonder he only waited a month. This was never about him and me, it was about proving a point. Maybe this is all about his father calling him a quitter. Or his zillion previous proposals. God knows. But the whole thing has been wrong from the start. It’s been back-to-front. And I believed in it because I wanted to.
I can suddenly feel the pressing of tears behind my eyes. But I refuse to crumble.
‘Magnus,’ I say more gently. ‘Listen. There’s no point doing this. Don’t marry me just to prove you’re not a quitter. Because you will quit, sooner or later. Whatever your intentions are. It’ll happen.’
‘Rubbish,’ he says fiercely.
‘You will. You don’t love me enough for the long haul.’
‘Yes I do!’
‘You don’t, Magnus,’ I say, almost wearily. ‘I don’t light up your life like I should. And you don’t light up mine.’ I pause. ‘Not enough. Not enough for forever.’
‘Really?’ Magnus looks shocked. ‘I don’t?’ I can see that I’ve pricked his vanity.
‘No. I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t need to be sorry, Poppy,’ he says, clearly in a huff. ‘If that’s really the way you feel . . .’
‘But it’s the way you feel too!’ I exclaim. ‘Be honest! Magnus, you and I, we’re not destined to be together forever. We’re not the main event. I think we’re . . .’ I screw up my face, trying to think of a way to put it. ‘I think we’re each other’s footnotes.’
There’s silence. Magnus looks as though he wants to find a riposte, but can’t. I touch his hand, then turn to the vicar. ‘Reverend Fox, I’m so sorry. We’ve wasted your time. I think we should probably call it a day.’
‘I see,’ says Reverend Fox. ‘Goodness. I see.’ He mops his head with his handkerchief, looking flustered. ‘Are you sure . . . perhaps a five-minute chat in the vestry . . .’
‘I don’t think that’ll fix it,’ I say gently. ‘I think we’re done. Don’t you, Magnus?’
‘If you say so.’ Magnus looks genuinely gutted and for a moment I wonder—
No. There’s no doubt. I’m doing the right thing.
‘Well . . . what shall we do now?’ I say hesitantly. ‘Shall we still have the reception?’
Magnus looks uncertain – then nods. ‘Might as well. We’ve paid for it.’
I step down from the altar dais, then pause. OK, this is awkward. We didn’t rehearse this. The congregation are all just watching, still agog, to see what happens next.
‘So . . . Um . . . should I . . .’ I turn to Magnus. ‘I mean, we can’t exactly walk down the aisle together.’
‘You go first.’ He shrugs. ‘Then I’ll go.’
Reverend Fox is signalling at the organist, who suddenly starts playing the Bridal March.
‘No!’ I squeak in horror. ‘No music! Please!’
‘So sorry!’ Reverend Fox makes hasty ‘Cut it’ gestures. ‘I was trying to signal “Don’t play”. Mrs Fortescue is a little deaf, I’m afraid. She may not have followed exactly what’s been going on.’
This is such a shambles. I don’t even know whether to hold my flowers or not. In the end, I grab them from Ruby, who gives me a sympathetic squeeze on the arm, while Annalise whispers, ‘Are you insane?’
The music has finally petered out, so I start making my way back down the aisle in silence, avoiding everyone’s eye and prickling all over with self-consciousness. Oh God, this is hideous. There should be an exit strategy for this eventuality. There should be an option in the Book of Common Prayer. Procession For Ye Bride who Changèd Her Minde.
No one’s talking as I make my way along the paved aisle. Everyone’s watching me, riveted. But I’m aware of phones being turned on, from the cacophony of little bleepy noises up and down the pews. Great. I expect there’ll be a race to see who can post it first on Facebook.
Suddenly a woman at the end of a pew thrusts a hand out in front of me. She’s got a big pink hat on and I have absolutely no idea who she is.
‘Me?’ I come to a halt and look at her.
‘Yes, you.’ She looks a bit flustered. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’ve got a message for you.’
‘For me?’ I say, puzzled. ‘But I don’t even know you.’
‘That’s what’s so odd.’ She flushes. ‘Sorry, I should introduce myself. I’m Magnus’s godmother, Margaret. I don’t know many people here. But a text arrived in my phone during the service, from someone called Sam Roxton. At least . . . it’s not for you, it’s about you. It says, If you happen to be at the wedding of Poppy Wyatt . . .’
There’s a loud gasp behind her. ‘I’ve got that message too!’ a girl exclaims. ‘Exactly the same! If you happen to be at the wedding of Poppy Wyatt . . .’
‘Me too! Same here!’ Voices start chiming in around the church. ‘I’ve just got it! If you happen to be at the wedding of Poppy Wyatt . . .’
I’m too bewildered to speak. What’s going on? Has Sam been texting the wedding guests? More and more hands are flying up; more and more phones are bleeping; more and more people are exclaiming.
Has he texted everyone at the wedding?
‘Have we all got the same text?’ Margaret looks around the congregation in disbelief. ‘All right, let’s see. If you’ve got the message in your phone, read it out. I’ll count us in. One, two, three . . . If you happen . . .’
As the rumble of voices starts, I feel faint. This can’t be real. There’s a crowd of two hundred people at this wedding, and most are joining in, reading aloud from their phones in unison. As the words echo around the church, it sounds like a mass prayer or a football chant or something.
‘. . . to be at the wedding of Poppy Wyatt, I’d like to ask a favour. Stop it. Stop her. Hold it off. Delay it. She’s doing the wrong thing. At least get her to think about it . . .’
I’m transfixed in the aisle, clutching my bouquet, my heart thudding. I can’t believe he’s done this. I can’t believe it. Where did he get all the phone numbers from? Lucinda?
‘Let me tell you why. As a clever man once said: a treasure such as this should not be left in the hands of Philistines. And Poppy is a treasure, though she doesn’t realize it . . .’
I can’t help glancing over at Antony, who is holding his phone and has raised his eyebrows very high.
‘There isn’t time to talk or discuss or be reasonable. Which is why I’m taking this extreme measure. And I hope you will too. Anything you can do. Anything you can say. The wedding is wrong. Thank you.’
As the reading comes to an end, everyone seems slightly shell-shocked.
‘What the fuck—’ Magnus is striding down from the altar. ‘Who was that?’
I can’t answer. Sam’s words are going round and round in my head. I want to grab someone’s phone and read them through again.
‘I’m going to reply!’ exclaims Margaret suddenly. ‘Who’s this?’ she says aloud as she taps at her phone. ‘Are you her lover?’ She presses Send with a dramatic flourish, and there’s a rapt silence in the church, till her phone suddenly bleeps. ‘He’s answered!’ She pauses for effect, then reads out: ‘Lover? I don’t know. I don’t know if she loves me. I don’t know if I love her.’
Deep down inside, I feel a crushing disappointment. Of course he doesn’t love me. He just thinks I shouldn’t marry Magnus. He’s just putting right what he sees as a wrong. That’s a totally different thing. It doesn’t mean he has any feelings for me whatsoever. Let alone—
‘All I can say is, she’s the one I think about.’ Margaret hesitates and her voice softens as she reads. ‘All the time. She’s the voice I want to hear. She’s the face I hope to see.’
My throat is suddenly full of lumps. I’m swallowing desperately, trying to keep my composure. He’s the one I think about. All the time. He’s the voice I want to hear. When my phone bleeps I hope it’s him.
‘Who is he?’ Magnus sounds incredulous.
‘Yes, who is he?’ pipes up Annalise from beside the altar, and there’s a ripple of laughter around the church.
‘He’s just . . . a guy. I found his phone . . .’ I trail off helplessly.
I can’t even begin to describe who Sam is and what we’ve been to each other.
Margaret’s phone bleeps again and the hubbub dies down to an expectant hush. ‘It’s from him,’ she says.
‘What does he say?’ I can hardly trust my voice.
The church is so silent and still, I can almost hear my own heart beating.
‘It says, And I’ll be standing outside the church. Warn her.’
He’s here.
I don’t even realize I’m running until one of the ushers backs out of my way, looking alarmed. The heavy church door is closed, and it takes about five tugs before I manage to wrench it open. I burst out and stand on the steps, panting hard, looking up and down the pavement, searching for his face . . .
There he is. On the other side of the road. He’s standing in the doorway of a Starbucks, in jeans and a dark-blue shirt. As he meets my gaze, his eyes crinkle, but he doesn’t smile. He keeps looking at my hands. His eyes have a huge question burning in them.
Doesn’t he know? Can’t he tell the answer?
‘Is that him?’ breathes Annalise beside me. ‘Dreamy. Can I have Magnus?’
‘Annalise, give me my phone,’ I say, without taking my eyes off Sam.
‘Here you go.’ A moment later the phone is in my hand, lit up and ready to go, and I’m sending him a text.
Hi.
He texts something back and a moment later it arrives:
Nice outfit.
Involuntarily, I glance down at my wedding dress.
This old thing.
There’s a long silence – and then I see Sam typing a new message. His head is bowed and he doesn’t look up, even when he’s finished; even when the text arrives in my phone.
So are you married?
I carefully line up my phone and take a picture of my bare left finger.
Sam Mobile.
Send.
A crowd of wedding guests is jostling behind me to see, but I don’t move my head an inch. My eyes are glued on Sam, so that I see the reaction on his face as the text arrives. I see his brow relax; I see his face expand into the most brilliant, joyous smile. And finally he looks up at me.
I could go to bed in that smile.
Now he’s texting again.
Want a cup of coffee?
‘Poppy.’ A voice in my ear interrupts me and I turn to see Wanda, peering anxiously at me from under her hat, which looks like a massive, dead moth. ‘Poppy, I’m sorry. I acted dishonourably and selfishly.’
‘What do you mean?’ I say, momentarily confused.
‘The second ring. I told Magnus . . . at least, I suggested that he might . . .’ Wanda breaks off, wincing.
‘I know. You told Magnus to pretend he’d chosen the ring for me especially, didn’t you?’ I touch her arm. ‘Wanda, I appreciate it. But you’d better have this one back, too.’ I pull the twisty gold ring off my right hand and give it to her.
‘I would have loved you to join our family,’ she says wistfully. ‘But that shouldn’t have clouded my judgement. It was wrong of me.’ Her gaze drifts across the road to Sam. ‘He’s the one, isn’t he?’
I nod, and her face softens, like a crumpled rose petal being released.
‘Go on, then. Go.’
And without waiting a beat longer I walk down the steps, across the road, dodging the cars, ignoring the hooting, tearing off my veil, until I’m a foot away from Sam. For a moment we just stand there, facing each other, breathing hard.
‘So you’ve been sending a few texts,’ I say at last.
‘A couple.’ Sam nods.
‘Interesting.’ I nod back. ‘Did Lucinda help out?’
‘She turned out to be pretty keen to derail the wedding.’ Sam looks amused.
‘But I don’t understand. How did you even find her?’
‘She has a pretty fancy website.’ Sam smiles wryly. ‘I called her mobile and she was only too eager to help. In fact, she sent the text for me. Didn’t you know that you have some state-of-the-art automatic mechanism to contact all the guests?’
Lucinda’s text-alert system. It finally came in useful.
I shift my bouquet to the other hand. I never realized how heavy flowers were.
‘That’s a pretty fancy outfit for Starbucks.’ Sam is eyeing me up and down.
‘I always wear a wedding dress for coffee dates. I think it adds a nice touch, don’t you?’
I glance back at the church and can’t help giggling. The entire congregation seems to have spilled out and is standing on the pavement like an audience.
‘What are they waiting to see?’ Sam follows my gaze, and I shrug.
‘Who knows? You could always do a dance. Or tell a joke. Or . . . kiss the bride?’
‘Not the bride.’ He wraps his arms around me and gradually pulls me close. Our noses are practically touching. I can see right into his eyes. I can feel the warmth of his skin. ‘You.’
‘Me.’
‘The girl who stole my phone.’ His lips brush against the corner of my mouth. ‘The thief.’
‘It was in a bin.’
‘Still stealing.’
‘No it isn’t—’ I begin, but now his mouth is firmly on mine and I can’t speak at all.
And suddenly life is good.
I know that things are still uncertain; I know that reality hasn’t gone away. There’ll be explanations and recriminations and messiness. But right now I’m entwined with a man I think I might love. And I haven’t married the man I know I don’t love. And from where I’m looking that’s pretty good going, for now.
At last we draw away from each other, and across the road I can hear Annalise whooping in appreciation. Which is pretty tacky of her, but that’s just Annalise.
‘I brought you some reading matter, by the way,’ Sam says. ‘In case there was a dull moment.’
He reaches inside his jacket and produces a bundle of coffee-stained A4 papers. And as I see them, there’s a thickening in my chest. He kept them. Even after we parted so badly. He kept our texts.
‘Any good?’ I manage a nonchalant tone.
‘Not bad.’ He flips through them, then lifts his head. ‘Looking forward to the sequel.’
‘Really?’ And now the way he’s looking at me is making me tingle all over. ‘So, do you know what happens next?’
‘Oh . . . I have a fair idea.’ He trails his fingers down my bare back and I feel an instant bolt of lust. I am totally ready for my honeymoon night. I don’t need the champagne or the canapés or the three-course dinner or the first dance. Or even the last dance.
But on the other hand, there’s the small matter of two hundred people standing across the street, watching me, as though waiting for instructions. Some of them have travelled for miles. I can’t bail out on them.
‘So . . . we’ve got this party,’ I say tentatively to Sam. ‘It’s like, all my friends and family, all at once, in a really intimidating bunch, plus all the friends and family of the guy I was supposed to marry today. And sugared almonds. You want to come?’
Sam raises his eyebrows. ‘You think Magnus will shoot me?’
‘Dunno.’ I squint at Magnus across the road. He’s standing there watching us, along with everyone else. But as far as I can tell, he doesn’t look too homicidal. ‘I don’t think so. Shall I send him a text and ask him?’
‘If you like.’ Sam shrugs, taking out his own phone.
Magnus. This guy I’m standing with is Sam. I know this isn’t exactly usual – but can I bring him to our wedding reception? Poppy xxx
PS why don’t you bring a guest too??
A moment later I get a response:
If you must. Mag
Which isn’t exactly enthusiastic, but doesn’t sound like he’s planning to shoot anyone, either.
I’m about to put my phone away when it bleeps again and I stare in surprise. It’s a text from Sam. He must have just sent it, a few seconds ago. Without looking at him, I open it, to see:
<3
It’s a heart. He sent me a love heart. Without even saying anything. Like a little secret.
My eyes feel hot but somehow I manage to stay calm as I type my reply:
Me too.
I want to add more . . . but no. More can come later.
I press Send then look up, with a bright smile, take Sam by the arm and draw up my train out of the dusty pavement.
‘So. Come on, then. Let’s hit my wedding.’
THE END
. They’re still there, totally comatose.
. True.
. Apparently my mugs are ‘girly’.
. My Aunt Trudy doesn’t believe shops exist outside Taunton.
. It was long enough, in the end. Just about.
. OK. Perhaps not ‘honeymoon night’ exactly. They should have a special word meaning ‘night spent with lover one has jilted fiancé for’.
. In fact, he looks a lot better than he did when he was going to have to marry me.
. Personally, I would bet a lot of money that Magnus is snogging Annalise by the end of the night.
. Footnotes by Poppy Wyatt.