by Adele Parks
"Safety in numbers," assures Sam. "John probably has no idea that you are at the wedding. You can avoid him."
So I do. I have no impulse at all to search him out. I do not want to see him. It strikes me that this is an astounding contrast to the months when I'd lived on a knife edge, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Astoundingly quickly John has fallen from my mind. My mind is full of Luke.
After the beef, but before the speeches, I see Luke go to the loo and I decide to force an opportunity for us to "bump" into each other. I make a fairly effective show of putting away my lipstick as I emerge from the powder room (on no other occasion than a wedding is this nomenclature acceptable). By burying my head in my handbag I contrive a literal bumping into him. As I touch him, my skin burns.
"Hello, Luke." I force a nervous smile, which I'm pretty sure comes out looking like a painful grimace.
"Connie," he replies formally. He does not try to kiss me, not even on the cheek. He doesn't hug me, or touch me at all. Instead he nods in a stilted, ceremonious way. He is close enough to touch. He has never been so far away. We stand for some seconds saying nothing. Tacit. Speechless, when I have so much to say! When at one time we'd told each other every single thought in our heads! But then, that was a lifetime ago.
"She looks wonderful, doesn't she?" Luke smiles in the direction of Daisy. I'm grateful for the neutral territory.
"Doesn't she," I agree enthusiastically. Then I'm beached for words again. It's too late. I just stay silent.
"You look good, too," says Luke, hoarsely.
"Thank you." I beam, indebted that he is filling in the conversational gaps. I tug at my frizzy hair. My head is devoid of small talk.
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"Bye then." He shrugs, then turns and starts to walk away. Damn. Damn. Shit. Fool. Fool. Stupid, damn, shit, fool. Why hadn't I been able to keep him talking? I so long for just a minute of him. Him, the way he was. Not this cold impenetrable Luke, but the warm, understanding, clever Luke. My husband Luke. I watch him melt his way through the pastel crowds. A woman in a large lemon hat stops him to talk. I watch her as she picks a (probably nonexistent) hair from his suit breast. Bitch. I watch him laugh animatedly with her. He looks so like warm, understanding, clever Luke but he just doesn't look like mine anymore.
"Luke!" I bark, slicing through the hullabaloo, nearly crushing the lemon-hatted vamp. Big shame. He turns startled.
"I've some news." I try to catch my breath. I grin at him, helplessly and hopefully.
"What's your news, Connie?"
"I'm changing career," I say. I sound pathetic to my ears. "I've been doing some photography recently. Well, quite a lot, actually, and I put a portfolio together. Then I applied to do an art foundation course. I just thought that I'd give it a go. Didn't really think I'd get a place. Didn't think I had a chance, but I got an interview. And today I got a letter saying that they are offering me a place. I'll have to give up my job. Financially it won't be easy, but I know I'm doing the right thing."
Oh great, so suddenly I have the verbal equivalent to irritable bowel syndrome. Luke grins. His face stretches into the amicable, unreserved, comfortable smile, which I remember belonging to my Luke.
"That is brilliant news, Connie." He laughs and nods his head. "Really excellent."
"Really?" I glow under his praise, like a seven-year-old coming top of the class.
"I'm very pleased for you. And proud of you. It's a brave move."
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"You're proud of me?" I ask with delighted incredulity. He slowly nods again. I grin back. "I haven't told anyone else yet. I wanted you to be the first to know."
We stand there, nodding and beaming, me basking in his approval. I hadn't realized just how important that approval is to me, just how much I'm missing it. Will he lean in and hug me? Or even kiss me on the cheek? I hope so, I'm desperate to feel his skin on mine. Him deliberately placing his hands on my body again.
"Greenie," John yells, and without pausing he plunges his lips down on mine. He is kissing me. I furiously push away but too late. I see Luke disappear into the throng. His disgust audible, above the animated chatter that swamps me.
"How the hell are you? I couldn't believe it when I saw you sitting at that table. Then I heard that you'd split up from your husband. That was always on the cards, wasn't it? I thought I'd come and say hello."
I stare, murderously.
"Shit, Greenie. That wasn't him was it?" He looks momentarily embarrassed. "Christ, I don't want to be named in court or anything."
Briefly, I wonder whether I could plead diminished responsibility if I clobber him to death with a Prada handbag. John is beautiful. Even now in the midst of my unprecedented fury I can see that. His eyes are still exquisite, his grin seductive. I look at him. I feel the way I felt when I grew out of my crush on David Soul. Embarrassed, frankly. I look beyond John and see a pretty, nervous woman hovering in the background; Bella I presume. Poor Bella, she'd be wondering if I'm Andrea, or Carolyn, or Diane, or any number of women right up to Zoe. I push past John and run after Luke. I can't waste any more time.
"Luke," I shout, but he ignores me and keeps walking. "Luke!"
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A number of heads and hats turn in my direction. But none of them are his. I begin to run. This time I have to explain. I can't allow him to think there is still something going on with John. I know I can't fix things, that he'll never forgive me but I don't want him to think that this is another assault on his dignity. I pull at his arm. He shakes me off. We are at the top table. I register that at least twenty pairs of eyes are glued to me. Everyone from the vicar to the she-devil bridesmaids. I don't care. I shove embarrassment to the side. I catapult dignity out to the horizon. He sits. I bend down, almost on my knees, so that my eyes are level with his and he can't push me from his consciousness.
"That wasn't what it seemed," I say with determination.
"Oh no," he snipes, "so that isn't the man you had your adulterous affair with?"
Mrs. Kirk nearly chokes on her profiterole.
"Yes it is," I hiss. "But I'm not with him now."
"Dumped you, has he? Never mind, I'm sure you can pick up another dick as quickly as you can say 'Let no man put asunder.'" Luke spits bitterly.
"Luke, I'm sorry. I'm sorry he's here. I'm sorry he was ever anywhere near me." I wail. Tears are welling into my eyes. "I made a mistake. I'd do anything to undo it but I can't. All I can do is say J am sorry. "
I say the words slowly, deliberately.
"I really didn't mean to hurt you."
It's infuriating that the most important phrases are already songs. He glowers, his green eyes are icy.
"I had no integrity. I know that I failed you. I let you down. I'm a disappointment. It was disloyal. What can I do, Luke? What can I say? I made a mistake, Luke. A big one."
He isn't moved.
"A fucking mammoth one!" I yell.
This gets his attention. And everybody else's actually.
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"If only there was a word that is bigger than 'sorry,' I'd say it. But there isn't."
I lose my battle with my tears; they insist on spilling down my cheeks.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," I mutter repeatedly and pointlessly, "haven't you ever made a mistake?"
Totally impassive, he ignores me.
"Luke, I'm better now. I am what you always thought I could be. I don't need you anymore but I want you more than ever."
He still stares at his champagne glass and ignores me. That was my best shot. But it missed. I sigh defeated.
"All I can say, Luke, is that I hope you never make a mistake this big. And you never feel as sorry as I do now. I wouldn't wish this on anyone."
I stumble to my feet and walk away. Blind with tears, snot and mascara, I trip on the lead to the microphone, the heel of my shoe comes right off and I limp back to my seat.
"Very stylish," comments Tarn. I snarl at hi
m. Fortunately Daisy's father stands up to make his speech, which moves the attention away from my undignified display. Then Simon makes his but I don't take in a word. An impenetrable black fudge sits on the back of my brain. If only John hadn't been here. If only John had never existed. But I can't blame John. This is down to me. Me alone. I love Luke so much it hurts. I know he's no longer mine and I have to brace myself for solicitors and dividing furniture, but if I could have had the opportunity to express, really express, how sorry I am and that I am trying to be . . . different these days—I snap out of my self-indulgent fog when the Master of Ceremonies announces "... and now the Best Man."
Luke, ever the professional, stands up. Has he always been that tall? He beams around the room. In contrast to my own disheveled and dispirited stance, he looks calm, confident and
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assured. Very sexy. This is annoying. I know that every single woman in the room will be thinking the same. Best Men are notorious as targets for women hunting sex at weddings. He clears his throat.
"It is traditional for the Best Man to thank the bridesmaids for being beautiful. Often, the Best Man hardly knows the bridesmaids, and although he can usually be polite, even gallant, I am in the lucky position of knowing the bridesmaids very well, in fact, intimately."
There is a laugh. Naturally. Luke raises an eyebrow. I love it when he does that, but it disturbs me that he is flirting with the room. He is being deliberately provocative. He does not know the bridesmaids intimately, well, not as intimately as everyone now thinks!
"To the bridesmaids."
"Aghhhh," say the women.
"The bridesmaids," say the men. We raise our glasses and sip champagne. The room falls to a hush again and Luke recommences.
"I'm also supposed to ritually humiliate the groom. Again, I'm happy to oblige here, too."
Luke then relays a few discreetly selected stories. Stories which demonstrate that Simon is definitely one of the boys, but nothing that makes Mr. Kirk think he's made a heinous mistake by allowing Daisy to marry him. Even I chortle at Luke's well-delivered punch lines. And I feel about as ready to laugh as your average agoraphobic feels about doing a charity parachute jump to save the dodo. But he is funny. I can't help myself.
"I've leant heavily on the Oxford Book of Marriage for my speech today. If any of you struggle with the long words, ask Daisy, she's a teacher."
More smiles.
"I'm not sure how many of you are familiar with the OBM. It's a weighty tome with numerous literary extracts, from
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dozens of authors, who have taken it upon themselves to describe the many facets of marriage. It's split into lively and entertaining chapters like 'Decisions,' 'Choices' and 'Recognition,' or is that 'Resignation'?"
Luke pretends to squint at the paper where he's written his speech. The room laughs. I know the book he is talking about. Someone bought it for us when we got engaged. In those euphoric days we pored over it, reading one another our favorite bits. I still have our copy at home. Luke must have bought another one. Thinking about him reading the book alone is too horrible to imagine.
"It goes on to the chapter about proposals. Simon's legendary proposal hasn't been written up yet. It will be in the next edition."
Guffaw.
"Can I just say, Simon"—Luke turns to him with a genuine smile—"brilliant proposal, mate. But you've made it difficult for all the blokes that are going to follow you. I mean, how can Jason top that?"
Luke looks mischievously at Sam, who is beaming. Jason looks as though he's swallowed a chili.
Luke carries on. "However, Daisy and Mrs. Kirk are very relieved that you decided to leave the Santa suit at home today."
"Here, here." More chortling.
"The book covers the wedding day, and 'With my body I thee worship'—those are the naughty bits."
There are a few catcalls.
"Then it gets very serious and it devotes no less than eight chapters to 'From this day forward.'" Luke takes a breath and looks at Simon again. "If you thought all the planning and preparation were all-consuming, let me tell you, it's only just begun."
Faces flushed with booze and happiness are turned toward
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Luke. Suddenly he puts down the paper with his speech written on it. He runs his fingers through his hair. For a moment he looks doubtful, defeated and then he seems to find his way again. His tone of voice has changed. He is uncertain, unsure.
"It's a big book, Simon, Daisy. I wanted to find a single passage that I could read out, that would sum up the institution of marriage. But I couldn't. So many great writers, all saying great things. Telling us how they felt when they were in love and what it meant to them. But for all the brilliant words of Chaucer, Shakespeare, John Donne and H. G. Wells, to name but a few, my conclusion is that the most..." He stumbles. The words are strangled. He picks up a glass of water and takes a sip. The room is with him. I am with him. We are hanging on Luke's every word. This isn't rehearsed. He isn't deliberately trying to tease us. He has something difficult to say. He puts down his paper. He is speaking from his soul now. So I, more than anyone, want to hear what he has to say. He looks up, and this time, I'm certain that he is looking just at me.
"My conclusion is that the most beautiful words ever written about marriage have already been read out today, ' Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife? To live together, after God's ordinance, in the holy estate of Matrimony?'"
He's definitely missed his vocation. He owes it to his public to get into a pulpit, now! Thinking about it, perhaps not, he sounds far too sexy to be a vicar. Maybe an actor. The room is silent, suddenly awash with reverence. He goes on.
"T take thee to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer and poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part, according to God's holy ordinance: and thereto I plight thee my troth.'"
This is too hard. Too painful. I gasp for breath. But I can't breathe because somebody is ripping me apart. No one moves.
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The room is frozen. Not a clink of cutlery, not a wailing child.
"So I'd like to raise a toast to Daisy and Simon, together."
I blindly stumble to my feet and through my tears I raise my glass, mumbling, "Daisy and Simon, together." The room oohs and aahs. We relax and sit down, waiting for the telegrams. But Luke is still standing, not finished yet. He looks at Daisy and Simon.
"I hope Daisy, Simon, that you can forgive me for breaking etiquette and continuing to talk even after we've toasted you."
Daisy and Simon nod happily, too drunk on champagne and love to really care what anyone does.
"It's just that I'd like to take this opportunity ..."
Luke has fallen back onto the safety of formal words.
"... to stress that I really do believe those vows. I believed them when I said them to my wife, two years ago, and I believe them now."
The people who don't know us clap and cheer. The people who do know us sit stone still. Not many people have a clue what he is on about. Probably just Daisy, Simon, Rose, Sam and Tarn. And me. I understand. Or at least, I think I do. Hasn't my husband just said that he is giving me another chance? Hasn't he said that it would be a mistake to separate, to become a him and me, instead of an us?
He has.
He threads his way through the crowds, politely accepting compliments on his speech but not allowing the well-wishers to derail him. Then he is in front of me. Right there with me, not because I've engineered a meeting outside the loo but because he wants to be with me. His eyes bore into me. Blistering my mind. He runs his hands through his hair and swallows.
"I'm still in love with you."
"I love you," I say but I'm not sure that he hears me because I can barely find my voice. Like iron filings on a magnet I'm all over him and he is all over me. It all comes back to
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acknowledgments
t
hank you, Mum, for teaching me about love, determination and dreams. Joanna James, Tracy Murray, Nic Williams, Peggy Dalton for being patient, faithful, tireless, funny, unshockable, shockable and wise friends. Thank you, Simon, my husband, for all of the above and for your passion, your encouragement, your intelligence, your endless support. For you.
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the fact that Connie's shagging John every chance she gets. Maybe Lucy would understand; she's bonking a married man herself. Connie just wishes Lucy would be a little less cynical about the whole thing. What Connie wants is....Well, Connie's not quite sure what she wants. And that's exactly the trouble.
A novel for every woman juggling the untidy mix of work, romance, sex, and marriage, PLAYING AWAY shimmers with equal parts comic relief and penetrating insight. As Connie and her brave, silly, colorful friends search for answers along the precarious paths of love and lust, we glimpse more than a little bit of ourselves. With bold strokes both moving land outrageously funny, Adele Parks has crafted a stunningly revealing portrait of the lives of hip, urban women, poised at the cusp of a millennium.
ADELE PARKS is thirty-one years old, married, and lives in London. PLAYING AW AY is her first novel.
Jacket dcoign oy (Jeanne ivi. Lee
Front cover photograph by Greg Weiner
Authbr photograph by Simon Parto-Smith
Copyright © 2000 Pocket BoolM
Printed In U.S.A.