‘You’ll lose your deposit, Miss Haskett, but we can refund each of the payments you’ve made so far,’ the voice on the other end of the phone says. It’s the girl with long blonde hair who always wears a different-coloured ribbon in it for each day of the week. Today is Wednesday. Her ribbon will be yellow.
‘That’s fine.’ I bang my forehead down on the desk. Maybe I should be more concerned about the fact I’ve spent so much time in a bridal shop that I know what colour ribbon one of the shop assistants will have in her hair.
‘No problem, I’ll just put that through for you, Miss Haskett,’ she says. I know her well enough to know that she’s dying to ask me why I’m cancelling the dress, and why I’m doing it over the phone and not in person when I go up there all the time on my lunchbreaks or after work. I’ve spent a lot of time with the girls in Snowdrop Bridal Boutique, listening to their stories about their other halves, weddings they’ve been invited to, celebrity marriages or break-ups, and talking about the latest trends to mention in Two Gold Rings.
It’s embarrassing to think about now. How pathetic those girls must think I am to spend so much time in a bridal shop. Just a tragic old hag. They probably laugh behind my back when I leave. Not even engaged and she’s bought a wedding dress she can’t afford. At least twice a week in here, wandering around, fingering beautiful tiaras and pearls, running veils through her fingers, that stupid look of longing on her face. They’re all young and gorgeous, and everyone who works there has a sparkling diamond on their ring finger. They must think I’m so stupid. That’s why I’m doing this over the phone. I can’t face going up there in person to see their looks of sympathy for the desperate non-bride bridezilla.
‘All done, Miss Haskett. The money should be returned to your account within five working days. We’ll put the dress back on display this afternoon. Is there anything else I can do for you?’
‘Hah,’ I say out loud without meaning to. There are so many answers. Shoot me and put me out of my misery. Find a cave for me to go and hide in. A new job that’s completely outside of the wedding industry. Do you happen to know where they train plumbers? Failing that, I wouldn’t say no to six pints of ice cream and a huge chocolate cake. Chocolate cake makes me think of Rohan again and my throat tightens. ‘No, thank you. Thanks for your help. Bye.’
I put the phone down and thump my forehead onto my desk again, wondering if I should do it a bit harder and just knock myself out until this is over. The latest issue of The Man Land isn’t out until next Monday, and after that it will undoubtedly get worse, once he’s revealed all in public. Once copies start flying off the shelves. Once Oliver realises that I have nothing to write and his magazine-saving article just isn’t coming.
As if he could read my mind, someone clears their throat next to my desk and I look up to see Oliver standing there with his arms folded. ‘You look rough.’
‘Thanks.’ It’s not like I needed his help to know that. My eyes are puffy and bloodshot and my skin is taut. I probably still have white salt residue around my neck from tears running down.
‘Don’t tell me, after your three-week holiday in which you didn’t even keep in touch, you were up late last night writing about all the gory details of this mythical church, which you’re just polishing to perfection before you put it on my desk, even though you’ve been in the office for two hours and I’m still waiting?’
‘Yeah. Got it in one,’ I say, looking at the cursor blinking at the top of an empty document on my computer. ‘And I didn’t keep in touch because I didn’t want the islanders to suspect I was a reporter and they’d have been suspicious if I’d been on the phone giving my boss daily updates. You send me out on assignments all the time, you don’t usually expect me to keep in touch.’
‘I’m told you weren’t the only reporter there. I went to an industry do and one of the editors from The Man Land said they’d sent someone as well. I wouldn’t have wanted him to pip you to the post.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that.’
Oliver fixes me with a look that makes it obvious he knows there’s something I’m not telling him.
‘Just finishing off, like you said.’ I try to muster up some chirpiness and place my fingers on the keyboard. God knows what I’m going to write. How am I supposed to write about the most romantic church in the world when my enthusiasm for anything to do with romance is lower than an ant’s ankle?
‘So, did you see they split up?’ Oliver asks, still not going away.
‘Who?’
‘That couple. The one in R.C. Art’s column that you argued about on Twitter. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already?’
‘Oh, right. Them.’ I immediately think of Rohan. I wonder if he knows. I wonder if he’s pleased. Well, it’s about love ending so I’m sure he’s pleased. He loves nothing more than a good divorce.
‘Yeah. For all your good intentions, that R.C. Art guy was spot on. She was a gold digger mining the rich old grandpa. Apparently he found out that she’d changed one of his bank accounts into her name and emptied it. They can’t file for divorce yet as they’ve only been married a few weeks and they sealed the deal if you know what I mean, but they’ve separated.’
‘Oliver, you’ve got about as much interest in gossip as you have in weddings. How do you find out all this stuff?’ I ask, trying not to think about Rohan. He was right again, wasn’t he? They’re not some romantic story of true love across the generations. She was a young girl who saw an opportunity to get her hands on an old boy’s riches. No love. No taking a stand against the doubters and marrying despite the fifty-year age gap. Just another con.
‘I’ve been in this industry for forty years, Bonnie. I know a lot of people who like telling me things.’
‘Okay, cool,’ I say, trying to sound unaffected by it. ‘I’m sure R.C. Art will be thrilled.’
‘Did you know they were suing him? They’ve dropped the case now, of course, so I would imagine he’d be quite relieved.’
‘Good.’ I ponder it for a moment. ‘He didn’t deserve to get sued.’
‘Sued? A couple of weeks ago, you’d have had him as the Guy at the top of a bonfire.’
‘Yeah, well… Things change. He’s…’ I sigh. ‘He’s not such a bad guy really. I’m the idiot. He was just doing his job.’
Oliver looks at me like I’m a few fries short of a Happy Meal.
‘He was there,’ I explain. ‘On Edelweiss Island.’
‘Ahh. So he’s the one The Man Land sent. Interesting. They obviously think the no-divorce thing is a load of old codswallop too or they would’ve sent a serious reporter.’
I don’t say anything. I thought he was a serious reporter. I can’t even admit to Oliver how stupid I feel for trusting him, for being gullible enough to believe he was actually capable of writing something nice about the island.
‘So, he was there, was he? I bet that was fun after your little Twitter spat. What did he do?’
I almost laugh at the array of possible answers. Made me fall in love with him. Lied to me. Nothing – he didn’t do anything. He never pretended it was anything other than an act. Made me realise that R.C. Art’s columns are the closest thing to the truth about love. ‘Charmed the socks off me,’ I say with a smile, thinking back to the day we got off the boat together.
‘Ooooooh!’ Oliver waggles his eyebrows. ‘Charming sort, is he? I expected he might be. That’s the impression you get from his columns. Suave, dashing, a gentleman.’
‘Yeah.’ I fiddle with the corner of a bit of paper on my desk. ‘A real gentleman.’
‘So he was trying to get the story too?’
‘Something like that,’ I mutter.
Oliver taps his foot like he’s annoyed at being kept waiting.
‘Don’t worry about it. He was after a story but it wasn’t the same one. He got his.’
‘And you? Did you get to the bottom of this daft myth about the church?’
‘Er…’ I stall, trying to think of what to say. I can’t tell him I was there for three weeks and came back with nothing. No records. No proof. A lovely story that’s surely a load of bollocks. Nothing more than before I left but with pictures.
I should’ve listened to Rohan. If we’d have teamed up and tried to find the vicar’s records, maybe we could’ve done it between us. If I hadn’t been so insistent that it was all real and actually helped, maybe we’d both be in a better position now. If I hadn’t got so caught up in the romance. If I’d not got invested in the falsity between us and actually done my job, come the summer, I might still have a job to do.
I keep thinking about Paul’s explanation too – that they don’t advertise it because they want couples who are drawn to them naturally. They don’t share things with reporters because they don’t want publicity. They want organic word-of-mouth. Clara was nice to me despite the lies I’d told her. Her husband could probably have got in trouble for leaving the island twenty minutes before the stated departure time. They all knew we were reporters but let us in and shared their lives with us anyway. Everyone was lovely, and I don’t want to betray them. I mean, I’ve already betrayed them by pretending to be engaged to someone I wasn’t, but to write about it in a national magazine when they’ve told me why they don’t want that kind of publicity… it’s like twisting the knife I’ve already stuck in.
What am I going to write? Stories about a tall man with ice-blue eyes and an affinity for pugs? A short foolish girl who’s desperate to believe in something that doesn’t exist?
The phone rings from Oliver’s office and I’m saved by the bell, so to speak.
Oliver gives my desk a parting tap as he runs to answer it. ‘You know what, save it for your article and I’ll look forward to all the juicy secrets later.’
I wrap my fingers in my hair and pull, letting out an ‘argh’ under my breath, not quiet enough to stop several colleagues looking up from their desks at me.
Not many people know this, but off the south coast of Britain is an island known as The Little Wedding Island. The incredible miniature cathedral boasts an interesting record…
I type my first line and delete it straight away. I can’t bring myself to do it. Edelweiss Island could’ve had write-ups in any bridal magazine in a flash, but the people who live there don’t want that. The people who live there deserve better than this. Better than the lies I told them for the sake of a story. This isn’t what I do. I don’t pretend to gain people’s trust and then go behind their backs for a scoop. I share people’s happy days with them, and it’s an honour to do so. Clara, Amabel, Kittie, Paul, Carol, even Hector, all welcomed us with open arms. They trusted us, and they don’t deserve to be used.
Thank you for curing me of my ludicrous obsession with love. I try another first line and it sits better this time. I don’t really know what I’m writing about or where I intend to go with it, so I start with one of the many things I wish I could say to Rohan.
I’ve wasted years believing in love. Whiled away hours daydreaming of happily ever afters and a Prince Charming waiting in the wings for me to stumble across him. I’ve always imagined that he would be tall and have blue eyes. I’ve always thought he would be funny and kind and love animals. He would be a gentleman who was always respectful and just a little bit naughty. If he’d have stepped out of my daydreams and into real life, he’d have been a lot like you.
Thank you for showing me that I was desperate. Too desperate. Desperate enough to let myself believe there was more between us than there actually was. Desperate enough to trust you.
I ignore the tears splashing onto the keyboard as I write.
Thank you for succeeding in what you set out to do. You proved that there’s no such thing as love. Love is a lie that people tell to get something they want. Like an article. Love is a lie that desperate people believe. Like me.
Thank you for sharing your truth with me. Thank you for showing me that wanting something to be true won’t make it so. Thank you for proving that magical fairy-tale endings don’t belong in real life.
If you ever read this, which I’m sure you won’t because I was just another story to you, do me one favour. Get yourself a dog. You deserve that much, and a dog deserves an owner who will love it as much as you will. Maybe dogs are the answer. No more of this wedding nonsense. Just unconditional love in exchange for Bonios. It’s easier that way.
Tears are streaming down my face by the time I finish typing, and every colleague is watching me. My breath is stuttering and my face is red from the attention. The article is a garbled mess and it’s much shorter than I usually write, and I know Oliver won’t accept it, but I hit print, and muster the courage to get up and walk across the office, collect it from the printer and stalk into Oliver’s office, slap it down on his desk while he’s on the phone again, go back to my desk and grab my coat, and walk out.
If that’s the end of my job, then so be it. If that’s the end of Two Gold Rings, then that’s it. It’s not solely my responsibility to save it. I can’t give Oliver the article he wants about Edelweiss Island. Maybe it’s time to look for a job outside of the wedding industry anyway. It doesn’t suit me any more.