14 December
Jack
I know already what she’s going to look like. I’ve seen her dress, I’ve felt the sucker punch. So I should feel prepared for today. But as I sit here in the packed-out church with Verity beside me, I realize I am anything but. I shiver. You’d think they’d put heating in these places; maybe they feel that a bit of discomfort is part of the experience, a way of showing commitment to your faith. I’m just itching to get the whole thing over with, to get out of this suit, to get a beer inside me, and then get back to Edinburgh as soon as I can without looking rude. My life there is fast and full-on; the show is gaining a bit of a cult rep and I’m working hard to build good relationships with everyone at the station. It’s still early days, but I think this might be my place. I’ve made some friends, I can even afford to rent a flat on my own there. Brick by brick, I’m building myself a new life, and it feels good.
I still don’t know if bringing Verity was the best idea. She was keen to come and meet my old friends, and in truth I imagined that having her here would put on a bit of a ‘look how well I’m doing’ show, because she’s an eye-catcher. To be honest, she fits this crowd better than I do; she’s even double-barrelled. We met at a charity social thing. She presented a colleague with an award in her capacity as local gentry and took me home as her own reward at the end of the night. The girl owns a horse. Do I need to say more?
I haven’t seen Sarah yet. I’m hoping we can all be polite and grown-up about things. She texted me for the first time since our break-up to say she was looking forward to catching up, and casually mentioned that she’s bringing Luke. I got the feeling she was telling me in advance so I didn’t land one on him in church, not that I ever would. I told her it was cool and that I was bringing Verity down to meet everyone, and after that she didn’t text back. It’s bloody awkward all round. God, suddenly I’m really hot. This damned shirt is sticking to my back. I wonder if it’s grossly inappropriate to take my jacket off? Oh, hang on, here we go. The organist has started up, way too loud, and everyone’s roused out of their botoxed skin and is craning their necks towards the door.
Verity is on the end of the pew nearest the aisle, and it’s only when she leans back in for a second that I get to glimpse Laurie. I was definitely wrong about being prepared. I feel that sucker punch again in my solar plexus as I look at her, serenely beautiful, white flowers and jewels threaded into her curls and yet more flowers in her hands. She isn’t one of those perfectly coiffed and primped brides. She looks bohemian, beautifully undone, herself on her best day; she shines. As she draws level with me, her summer hedgerow eyes find mine and settle. She’s walking slowly beside her dad, and for a second I feel as if she’s the only other person in the church. If I were on the end of the pew, I think I’d reach out and squeeze her hand and tell her that she looks like a goddess, but as it is, she shoots me this tiny, barely there trace of a smile and I nod, fierce in my wish to convey my feelings. I try to say all the things I want to say with my eyes. Go and marry the man waiting at the altar for you, Laurie, and then live the glorious life that’s waiting for you. Be happy. You deserve it.
And as she walks past me, her eyes on Oscar, I feel something in me break.
Laurie
I woke up at five yesterday morning with a jolt. I could barely believe what had happened. That my best friend hates me; that I have to get married without her by my side. I’ve told Oscar and anyone else who has asked that Sarah had a family emergency and was needed urgently back at home in Bath, that she feels wretched about it but there was nothing she could do. I’m not convinced Mum fully bought the lie, but I’m grateful that she chose not to push me on it because I’d have broken down in tears and blurted out the whole sorry truth.
On the surface I put on a good show, but inside I’m dying. I’m haemorrhaging the people I love and I don’t know how to stop it. Is this just a fact of life? You have to grow up and shed your old friends like papery snakeskin to make room for the new? I sat propped up against the bed pillows in the shadowed hours before dawn yesterday and looked at Oscar’s painting, wishing I could snap my fingers and be there again. He’s moved it from my original hanging place so he can look at it when he lies in bed. It soothed me to see it yesterday; it reminded me that there are other places, and there will be other times. I knew as I lay there that Sarah wouldn’t change her mind about coming to the wedding. I can’t expect her to. I’ve lived with my secret for four years, she’s had less than twenty-four hours to get used to it. It’s too soon. I don’t know if there will ever be a time when it isn’t. I’m on my own now, and because there was no choice but to focus on the wedding, I decided to shut down all other thoughts.
So here I am, standing in the entrance of the church, the same church Oscar’s mother’s parents married in. I couldn’t argue; I was hardly going to drag everyone back to the suburbs of Birmingham, was I? Besides, this place is ridiculously pretty, especially given the sprinkle of frost on the ground. It looked like something out of a fairy tale when the Rolls-Royce – one of Oscar’s choices – pulled up in the picture-perfect village a few minutes ago, and I had a bit of a moment when I wasn’t sure I could breathe. Dad was a trooper; he just patted my hand and let me take my time, steady as a rock.
‘You’re sure this is what you want?’ he asked, and I nodded. I’m as sure as anyone can be.
‘Thank God for that,’ he said. ‘Because, to be perfectly honest, I’m terrified of Oscar’s mother. I had a whisky earlier to be on the safe side.’
We both laughed, and then I choked up a bit so he told me to pack it in and helped me out of the car, wrapping my gran’s fur wedding stole round my shoulders for the walk to the church.
And now we’re in position at the head of the aisle, arm in arm, me in my beloved vintage dress, him splendid in his morning suit. He’s not much of a fan of the top hat, but he’s promised he’ll don it dutifully for the photographs later. Mum phoned me last week to talk about the wedding, and she let it slip that he’s been practising his speech every evening before dinner because he’s terrified he’s going to let me down. I give his arm an extra little squeeze and we share a last ‘let’s do this’ look; I’ve always been a daddy’s girl, and losing Ginny brought us closer still. We’re quite similar, both a bit reserved until we trust someone, both slow to anger and quick to forgive.
Inside the church is a riot of fragrant, tumbling white flowers, all stunning and slightly less tamed than Lucille would have liked. That’s my doing, inadvertently. I’ve been in to see the florist on several occasions about my own flowers and we’ve become quite pally. She could obviously see the gulf between my own informal choice of bouquet and the far more regimented pieces ordered for the church and reception venue. I didn’t expressly ask her to change anything, but I was truthful when she quizzed me on how I’d really like it to look and she’s worked a little magic to give us both something we approve of. I take a deep breath, and we’re off.
Either side of the aisle I see faces, some I know and some I don’t. My family have made the journey; aunts, uncles and cousins keen to get a look at Oscar and the fancy London high-life my mum has no doubt been regaling them with tales of. My colleagues, Oscar’s friends, his ex, Cressida, in a black dress and pearls (Black! What is she, in mourning?), his brother, Gerry, with strait-laced Fliss, tasteful in teal organza. And then I catch sight of Jack. I’m halfway down the aisle, and there he is, shockingly real and smarter than I think I’ve ever seen him. He’s even brushed his hair. I’m not sure what I think of Jack in a suit. But then I can’t think about that any more because his familiar eyes find mine, and I wish I could grip his hand for even a fleeting second before I become Oscar’s wife. With no Sarah here he feels like the only person who knows the real me. Perhaps it’s as well that he’s too far away from me. For a second I wonder whether Sarah told him anything about our fall-out. But they’ve barely spoken since their break-up, and he doesn’t look like he knows a thing. I shoot him the smallest of smiles, and he nods, and thank God my dad keeps walking because it leaves me no choice but to do the same thing.
We haven’t written our own vows. Lucille looked as if I’d asked for naked karaoke when I suggested it, and to be honest Oscar wasn’t very far behind her. I didn’t push it. I’d been half joking anyway, but the look on their faces told me the joke was in poor taste. What did I think this wedding was? Some kind of modern affair?
Oscar still has his back to me as we’d agreed, straight and proud. His mum thinks it looks unseemly if the groom gawks as the bride walks down the aisle, and I’m happy to go along with it so I can be beside him when we first see each other. It’s more tender, more us. We’ve both been so caught up in work and the wedding whirlwind lately, it feels as if we’ve barely had any proper time together; I can’t wait to see him today, to spend all of my time with him again. I hope on our honeymoon we can recapture the magic of those precious weeks in Thailand.
I’m there at last, and as I draw level with him he finally turns to look at me. His mum said he should lift my veil at this point; tricky, because I’m not wearing one. I should have told them, but I didn’t want to be railroaded into something that isn’t me for the sake of convention. I’ve opted instead for a delicate 1920s hair vine that the hairdresser has wound into my hair along with tiny fresh flowers, a serendipitous find in the same shop as the dress came from. It’s the prettiest thing, fine gold wire scattered with jewelled sea creatures: a seahorse, shells and, of course, a starfish. To the untrained eye it just looks suitably bridal, but I hope Oscar will see it as an intimate nod towards our history.
Regardless of the fact that I don’t have a veil, Oscar’s hands move to lift it; he’s practised every step of today in his head, and he looks momentarily wrong-footed that there’s nothing there until I smile and shake my head a tiny bit. ‘No veil,’ I mouth, and he laughs softly.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he whispers back.
‘Thank you,’ I smile, and his dark eyes flood me with love. He’s a world away from cut-off jeans and T-shirt right now, but that’s what I see when I look at him. My Robinson Crusoe, my rescuer, my love. I don’t think he’s even noticed that Sarah isn’t behind me. I don’t think he’d notice if the reverend flung off his cassock and performed an Irish jig around the altar, because he has eyes only for me, and those eyes are full of wonder and joy and love. However hard Lucille has tried to plan our wedding like a military operation, she hasn’t counted on these moments, and they are the ones I’ll remember long after my brain jettisons the salmon mousse for taking up too much space. He looks so dashing, every inch the groom. Everything about him is perfect: the artful flop of his hair, his shiny black wedding shoes, his dark, intense eyes as he looks at me for the first time. Has any man ever made a more picture-perfect groom? It’s as if all of those tiny grooms perched on top of wedding cakes across the country were modelled on him.
I wonder what HRH Lucille is making of my veil-free attire; she’s probably got a spare one in a bag in the vestry just in case. No doubt she’ll try to force it on me the second we get out of here.
When the priest asks whether anyone has knowledge of any lawful impediment I wonder, fleetingly, about Sarah; will she crash through the church door and tell everyone what I’ve done?
This doesn’t happen, of course. In what seems like a few seconds I find myself walking back down the aisle wearing Oscar’s diamond and platinum band on the third finger of my left hand, the church bells ringing out. We walk hand in hand and everyone applauds. Just before we step out into the pale winter sunshine, Oscar carefully ties the ribbons of my fur stole, then kisses me.
‘My wife,’ he whispers, cupping my face.
‘My husband,’ I say, then turn my face and kiss his palm.
My heart is full to bursting and I feel a pure joy at the simple truth of it; he’s my husband and I’m his wife.
The photographer has had his work cut out gathering our two families together for the pictures. Oscar’s mum seems determined to be art director; my lovely mum even took me aside at one point to tell me she might throttle Lucille before the day is out. We had a little laugh about it and mimed choking her, and then straightened our faces and went back inside to pose for the pictures.
My family have been the only thing keeping me sane. Oscar’s ex, Cressida, mistook my brother for a waiter and complained that her champagne wasn’t chilled enough. So he remedied it with ice cubes fished from a nearby water jug. When she caught him doing it and threatened to have him sacked he took great delight in telling her he was my brother, in his strongest Midlands accent of course. He’s still in ‘wet the baby’s head’ mode after the recent birth of my gorgeous baby nephew, Thomas, who looks so angelic today that he’s almost upstaged me as the centre of attention. Daryl took me aside for a little heart to heart earlier and asked if I’d like to be Tom’s godmother next summer – talk about making a girl cry on her wedding day! I love my family so much, never more so than today when we’re so badly outnumbered by Oscar’s side.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the speeches.’
Oh God! I completely forgot that Sarah was going to make a speech. She had it specially time-tabled in as the first one, and her absence is going to screw up Queen Lucille’s carefully scheduled programme. It would have helped if I’d remembered to tell her but I didn’t, and now the red-faced toastmaster has just asked everyone to give the Matron of Honour a hearty round of applause. People are clapping, but it’s that slow, scrappy, confused kind of clap when the crowd know that something is amiss and aren’t quite sure what to do. Christ, don’t the staff in this place communicate? You’d think the fact that the top table had to be hastily rearranged when we arrived would have alerted them to the fact of Sarah’s absence, but no, he’s calling her name again now and looking towards us expectantly. Oscar, bless him, looks horrified, as if he knows he should do something but has no idea what, and Lucille leans forward and gives me a ‘do something right now’ stare. I look out at the sea of faces in front of me and start to get to my feet, wondering what the hell is going to come out of my mouth. Lying to people one by one about Sarah’s absence was excruciating enough. I’m not sure I’ve got the bare-faced cheek to lie to all of these people in one go. But what else am I supposed to tell them? That Sarah discovered I once loved her boyfriend and now she can’t stand the sight of me? My heart starts to race and I feel my face going red. Then there’s the sound of someone scraping their chair back on the parquet and clearing their throat to speak.
It’s Jack.
A murmur ripples around the room, a low buzz of anticipation that this might be about to get juicy.
‘As Sarah isn’t able to be here, Laurie’s asked me to say a few words instead.’ He looks at me, a question in his eyes. ‘I was lucky enough to play third wheel to Sarah and Laurie for a fair few years, so I’ve got a good idea of what she’d have liked to say if she were here.’
I very much doubt he has any idea what Sarah would say if she was here right now, but I nod my head at him quickly and take my seat again. I don’t know why I’m even surprised that Jack’s role in my wedding just became more significant; he seems to have been there at every important event in my life, one way or another.
‘You see, me and Sarah were together for a while – until quite recently in fact – sorry, you don’t need to know that, erm …’ He looks at the woman sitting next to him as a couple of titters start up from the far corners of the room.
‘And when I say I was the third wheel, I mean it in the loosest sense, obviously. I mean we were close, but not that close …’ He trails off again as people start to laugh. ‘Sorry,’ he says, glancing at me and pulling a bit of a grimace.
‘Okay,’ he says. I only realize that he’s nervous when he rubs his palms down his thighs. ‘What might Sarah have wanted to say about Laurie? Well, that she’s a good friend, obviously, that goes without saying. I know Sarah always said she’d won the roommate lottery at university – you two have a once-in-a-lifetime kind of friendship. You’re the gin in her tonic, Laurie. Sarah loves you very much.’
A few people clap, and my mum dabs her eyes. Oh God. I hold myself together and pinch the skin on the back of my hand. Pinch, release. Pinch, release. Pinch, release. I daren’t let even a single tear slide out, because if I start crying I don’t think I’ll be able to stop it from developing into full-on body-racking sobs. I’ve missed Sarah so very much today. My precision-planned wedding has a Sarah-shaped hole in it, and I’m scared to death that the rest of my life will too.
Jack sighs, taking a breath. You could hear a pin drop in here.
‘You know, even if I’d known I was going to speak today I think I’d still have struggled over what to say, because there aren’t really any words to explain what it is that’s special about Laurie James.’
‘Ogilvy-Black,’ someone heckles. Gerry, I think.
Jack laughs, pushing his hand through his hair, and I’m sure I hear the entire female contingent of the wedding party sigh. ‘Sorry. Laurie Ogilvy-Black.’
Beside me, Oscar reaches for my hand and I shoot him a reassuring little smile, even though my new name sounds clunky and strange on Jack’s lips.
‘Laurie and I have been friends for a few years now, good friends even, and right under my nose you’ve turned from Sarah’s clever, unassuming friend who once forced me to watch Twilight into –’ he pauses and holds his hands out towards me, even though he’s three tables back – ‘into the woman you are today, someone with such incredible poise, someone spectacularly kind; you have a way of making every single person feel like the most important person in the world.’ He looks down, shaking his head. ‘It’s no exaggeration to say you once saved my life, Laurie. You saw me at my very worst and you didn’t turn your back on me, even though you had every reason to. I was revolting and you were lovely. I’d lost sight of who I was, and you made me remember. I don’t think I ever said thank you, so I’m saying it now. Thank you. You tread lightly through life, but you leave deep footprints that are hard for other people to fill.’
He stops and takes a slug from his wine glass, because he’s speaking as if we’re the only people here and I think he realizes that he’s veering close to too personal.
‘So there you have it. You’re bloody wonderful, Laurie. I miss you now we’re on opposite sides of the border, but I’m glad to know you’re safe in Oscar’s capable hands.’ He raises his glass. ‘To you, Laurie, and you too of course, Oscar.’ He pauses and then adds, ‘You lucky bastard,’ making everyone laugh, and making me cry.
Jack
‘Jesus Christ, Jack. You may as well have just shagged her over the top table and been done with.’
I stare at Verity, who right this second resembles an angry feral kitten. Pretty, but she wants to scrape my eyes out. We’re in a corridor of the hotel, and I gather that she didn’t appreciate my impromptu speech.
‘What the hell was I supposed to do? Let Laurie die on her arse at her own wedding?’
She fires bullets at me with her eyes. ‘No, but you didn’t need to make her out to be fucking Wonder Woman, either.’
‘She doesn’t wear her knickers over her jeans.’ I know it’s a mistake as soon as it leaves my lips, but I’ve had three glasses of toast champagne and I don’t like being mauled on my home turf.
‘You’re clearly on intimate fucking terms with her knickers,’ Verity snarks, her arms crossed over her chest.
I relent, because she’s here as my guest and I can see that it must have been slightly irksome hearing your new boyfriend praise another woman quite so fulsomely. ‘Look, I’m sorry, okay? But you’re wrong, Laurie and me truly are just friends. It’s never been anything more than that, I promise you.’
She isn’t ready to soften yet. ‘What was that crock of shit about big footprints?’
‘You said she was wonderful.’
I check there’s no one else in the corridor, then press Verity against the wall. ‘You’re more wonderful.’
Her hand snakes round and grabs my backside. She doesn’t mess about, Verity. ‘Don’t you forget it.’
I kiss her, if only in an attempt to stop that conversation going where it was heading. In response she bites my lip and starts tugging my shirt out of my trousers.
Laurie
‘It was good of Jack to step up for Sarah.’
I smile at Oscar, even though his words have sharp edges. ‘It was.’
We’ve retired to our suite to freshen up in that lull between the wedding breakfast and the evening reception. I think ‘freshen up’ is supposed to be a polite term for having sex, but that isn’t what Oscar and I are doing. He’s been tense since the speeches, and I’m desperate to work out how to clear the air because we should remember today for ever for the right reasons.
‘Where’s Sarah again?’ Oscar frowns and pinches the bridge of his nose, as if he’s struggling to remember the details of her absence. That’s probably because I didn’t provide him with many, a bad attempt to minimize the lie.
‘Back in Bath.’ My tone is deliberately flat, and I turn away because my cheeks are flaming. I don’t want to argue, so I cast around for something to distract us and spot a gift bag standing on the hearth of the grand fireplace. Everything about our honeymoon suite is grand, from the size of the sunken bathtub to the four-poster bed that has a boarding-step beside it because it’s so ‘Princess and the Pea’-like.
‘What’s this?’ I read the tag on the gift bag aloud. ‘To the happy couple, with love and gratitude from Angela and all of the wedding team. We hope you’ve had the day of your dreams.’ I turn back to Oscar. ‘Ah, that’s lovely, isn’t it?’
He nods as I take a seat in one of the armchairs in the window and unpick the ribbons. ‘Come and look?’ I say, trying to ask him other things with my eyes too: Please don’t push the issue about Sarah. Please don’t overanalyse Jack’s speech. Please let’s concentrate on what’s important today, each other. His eyes hold mine for a few seconds from across the room, and then his expression softens and he comes to kneel beside me.
‘Open it then.’
I run my hand lightly over his glossy blue-black hair and smile. ‘Okay.’
Inside the paper and tissue, we find a delicate glass Christmas bauble, hand-blown and engraved with our names and the wedding date.
‘Isn’t that gorgeous?’ I say, swallowing the lump in my throat as I place it carefully down.
‘You deserve gorgeous,’ he says, kissing the back of my fingers. Then he draws in a breath. ‘Are you happy, Laurie?’
I’m surprised by his quietly spoken question. He’s never asked me before. ‘Do you even need to ask?’
‘Just once.’ All of a sudden he looks deadly serious.
I take a breath too and look into his eyes. I know that our marriage hinges on my answer to this question.
‘I’m so very, incredibly happy to be your wife, Oscar. I thank my lucky stars you walked into my life.’
He looks up at me, silent and impossibly handsome, and his eyes tell me there are things he’d like to say but isn’t going to because today is our wedding day.
He stands and tugs me to my feet. ‘And I thank mine for you.’
He kisses me slowly, deeply, his arm round my waist, his hand on my jawline, and I allow myself to melt into it, into him. I hope and pray that we’ll always be able to find each other like this, like we did in Thailand, like we do in bed at night. My love for him is distinct from everything else in my life, clear and simple and straightforward. I cling to it, to the idea of us on the steps of the beach shack. Oscar’s lips are sealed about where we’re going on honeymoon, but I hope with all of my newly promised heart that it’s Thailand.
We stand in front of the tastefully decorated Christmas tree that has been placed in our suite, and I hook our bauble over one of the empty branches. Oscar is close behind me, his mouth warm on my neck as we watch the bauble spin and catch the light.
‘Jack was right,’ he whispers. ‘I am a lucky bastard.’