The first wedding-related thing we did, after getting engaged, was to look at venues. We dived straight in. We went to a lot of places: quirky, austere, opulent, futuristic, earthy. You name it, we’ve had a walk-around tour of it. But it was clear once we stepped into the bookish wood-paneled reception rooms at the Café Royal that that was what we wanted. Whatever that was.
Today they’re laying on three options of every course for us to taste privately in the reception rooms, along with wine pairings and champagne choices. We’ve been looking forward to this for a long time, but now that it’s here it seems a tiny bit like a formality. It also seems odd celebrating when Mark is going through all this. But we can’t put life on hold.
In the underground on the way there, Mark reads news on his phone. I try to do the same. At Covent Garden he turns to me.
“Erin, listen. I know you’re excited about this but can we just decide now that we’ll go for the cheapest options on food and drink? Like, sure, we’ll try it all and it’ll be an amazing day, but moneywise, at the end of it let’s just go for the cheapest, okay? I mean, it’s a five-star restaurant already, so everything’s going to be good, so, yeah? Can we agree on that? Is that all right?”
I see what he’s saying. He’s right, of course. It’s dinner for eighty people, we do need to be sensible about it. And to be honest, their house wine is fucking amazing. We won’t need anything more than that.
“Yes, okay. Agreed. Can we do it properly, though? Can we make all the right noises until the end? I want to try it all, all the stuff. I mean, why not, right? We’re only going to do it once. We’ll just try it and then we’ll say at the end. Okay?”
He relaxes. “Okay! Great. Thank you.”
I squeeze his hand. He squeezes back. Something shifts almost imperceptibly behind his eyes.
“Erin. Thanks for being, you know…I’ve got a lot on my plate right now and I know maybe I’m not expressing it in the best way.” His eyes drift around the nearby passengers. They’re all absorbed in phones and paperbacks. He leans in to me, quieter now. “I tend to clam up when I’m stressed. And, you know, I don’t usually get stressed, so it’s hard finding my way through this. So thanks.”
I squeeze his hand harder and let my head fall onto his shoulder.
“I love you. It’s okay,” I whisper.
He shifts slightly, straightening up in the tube seat. He’s not finished. There’s more. I lift my head.
“Erin. I did something last week—” He falls silent.
He studies my face. My stomach flips. Sentences like that always chill me to the core. Words of preparation for something. Worse news to come.
“What did you do?” I ask it gently because I don’t want to scare him off. I don’t want him to shut down.
“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this before. I just, I thought it wasn’t the right time and then the right time didn’t come and then it became a thing and now here we are.” He stops. His eyes remorseful.
“I canceled our honeymoon.”
“You what?!”
“Not all of it. I just, I’ve canceled a week of it. Bora Bora is only two weeks now.” He studies my face. He waits to see what will happen next.
He canceled our honeymoon. No, he didn’t cancel it; he just rearranged some of it, that’s all. But without asking me? Without saying anything? Without checking with his future wife? Secretly? And now, now that I’ve agreed to pay less for the food today, he’s decided that it’s okay to tell me. Right. Okay.
My mind races as I try to process it. To find out what this means. But nothing comes. Is it important? Maybe it’s not. I can’t really make myself care. I can’t make myself care about a vacation. It doesn’t feel like a thing. Dare I say it: I don’t mind. Should I mind? But then maybe the point is, he lied. Yes. Or did he? He didn’t really lie, did he? He just did something without telling me. And, come on, at least he’s telling me now. But then, he had to tell me at some point, right? Didn’t he? What was the alternative? Not tell me until we were on the plane? No, of course he would have told me. It’s fine. I’ve just been busy. I’ve been too busy with work. Besides, two weeks on a tropical island is fine. More than fine, bloody fantastic. That’s more than some people get in a lifetime. And I don’t need any of it anyway. I just want him. I just want to marry him. Don’t I?
We’ll work it out later. But right now I won’t scare him away. Won’t make it worse. He’s made a mistake and he’s sorry, so that’s it.
I raise his hand, still interlaced in mine, and kiss his knuckles.
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. We’ll have a chat about money later. Let’s just have a lovely day. Okay?”
He smiles, eyes still sad.
“Done. Let’s have a lovely day.”
And it is a lovely day.
In the twinkly mirror-and-oak-paneled ballroom, we sit at a white-clothed table floating adrift on a sea of buffed parquet flooring. A cheerful waiter brings us intricate plates artfully arranged with seasonal fare. Once all the starter options are placed on the table, the maître d’ explains each one and hands us a discreet card listing the dishes and prices. And disappears back through the oak paneling, leaving us to it. We peruse the card.