A Winter's Wedding

by Sharon Owens

  ‘We’ve tried medication, counselling, neurolinguistic programming, cognitive behaviour therapy, hypnosis, exposure therapy, an organic diet – and even healing crystals – but nothing helps.’

  ‘That’s just terrible … and to think it was all the result of a random robbery.’

  ‘Listen to me telling you all our woes. I wasn’t planning to reveal any of this. But I thought it would give my wife a boost if she could see her handiwork in print one more time. She used to get so excited whenever one of her projects made it into a glossy magazine. Please don’t say anything to Sarah about this. She’s so embarrassed about her illness. That’s the crux of the whole problem, really. If only she could accept that people would be sympathetic, I’m sure she could begin to go out again.’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  ‘But she won’t believe me. So you will be discreet in your write-up?’

  ‘Yes, of course I will. And I’m pretty sure my editor will want to put your fabulous home on the next December cover – if you’re still interested in the project?’

  ‘Yes, please go ahead with the feature. I just worry about what Sarah will do if anything happens to me. That’s what keeps me awake at night nowadays,’ he said in a flat voice.

  ‘I’m sure she’ll get better one day. Just as suddenly as she became, well, like this …’ Emily said hopefully.

  But Peter Diamond just shook his head, as if he’d never heard of anything so unlikely. Then he turned to Emily and told her to go round the house taking shots as she pleased, and that he’d see her downstairs again when she was finished.

  Emily looked at her watch and shivered. What had seemed like the most perfect house in the world only thirty minutes ago now seemed like a luxury prison.

  ‘Trapped in some sort of giant doll’s house,’ Emily whispered to herself. ‘That’s what they are. Not that I’ll be mentioning any of that in the feature.’

  She took one more look around the majestic drawing room and hurried on up to the next floor to look for one master bedroom and one deluxe bathroom shot. Then she made her way back to the ground floor and said goodbye.

  ‘Can I email you if I need any more information?’ she asked, pulling on her coat in the hallway.

  ‘Certainly,’ Peter said warmly. ‘You still have my email address, yes? Thanks for coming, Emily, and a very merry Christmas to you.’

  ‘Goodbye, Sarah,’ Emily said, kissing her briskly on the cheek and then shaking Peter warmly by the hand, ‘and a very merry Christmas to you both.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ Sarah said. Already she was retreating into her shell.

  It began to snow again as Emily did a three-point turn and headed back to the magazine’s offices. She was halfway there before she even remembered about the cat. There’d been no sign of a basket, but in a house that big she could easily have missed it.

  ‘The poor man,’ she said to herself. ‘That gorgeous house … such a beautiful wife too … and yet he must be in agony.’

  She switched on the radio for company. ‘Hey There Delilah’ by the Plain White T’s was just beginning. By the time the song was finished Emily was close to tears. And not just for Peter and Sarah Diamond trapped in their doll’s house. She was sad for herself too, and for her poor mother and father back home in Belfast. For all the mistakes they had made – the chances they had missed – and because she had decided not to go home for Christmas, yet again.

  ‘Would you stop it, you great big stupid eejit,’ she said to herself. She switched off the radio and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Stop that sentimental old nonsense and get a hold of yourself. You’re thirty years old; you’re not seventeen any more.’

  Arabella was smoking a cigarette on the rickety old fire escape when Emily got back to work.

  ‘Did the shoot go all right?’ Arabella asked when she came inside. ‘It’s freezing out there. Don’t be cross with me, Emily. I only had two puffs, I swear to you.’

  Emily took one look at Arabella’s petite frame shivering violently in a fur-trimmed cardigan and felt very protective of her. So what if Arabella was a bit of a drama queen with her cigarettes? Pretending everyone was always on at her to stop smoking! She was the nicest boss possible in every other respect. ‘Okay, then, I’ll say nothing. And the shoot went fine; more than fine. It was a super house and I think we’ve found our next Christmas cover, actually.’

  ‘Good work – let’s see.’

  ‘Look, there …’ Emily said, showing her boss some pictures on the camera.

  ‘Okay, you’re right, what a lovely house. Emily, you’ve got some fabulous pictures. Good girl. Well done. Yes, that’s definitely our next December cover – either the house itself or the Christmas tree.’

  ‘Thank you, Arabella.’

  ‘What were the owners like?’

  ‘Lovely couple – Peter and Sarah Diamond.’

  ‘Never heard of them. Are they anything special?’

  ‘He’s an accountant and she used to be a top stylist, apparently.’

  ‘Was she? Oh dear, I can’t say the name rings a bell.’

  ‘She doesn’t get out much nowadays,’ Emily added.

  ‘Is that right?’ Arabella said, only half listening now. She was still scanning through Emily’s photographs. She was not interested in the owners – not really.

  ‘Fancy a decent coffee?’ Emily asked.

  There was a Starbucks next door.

  ‘No, thanks. I’m far too nervous to enjoy it. We have our IVF thing this evening. You know? The meet and greet part? I want to have a relaxing bath and make myself all calm and positive.’

  ‘Right, of course. Good luck, Arabella. I’ll be thinking of you.’

  ‘Thanks, Emily. Can you load those shots and I’ll have a proper look at them next week?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And can you finish the write-up for that barn conversion in Surrey? I know I said I’d do it, but I was on the phone to our advertisers all morning.’

  ‘Of course, it’s no problem.’

  ‘Thanks, Emily. You’re just brilliant.’

  Then Arabella collected her coat and bag, and swept out of the office in a cloud of Coco Chanel and stale cigarette smoke, leaving Emily alone with her thoughts.

  2. Emily’s Wardrobe

  When Emily got home from work that evening she was in a contemplative mood. There was no sign of the snow melting and little hope of the temperature creeping above zero. Her third-floor apartment in a Twickenham town house was delightfully bohemian in the summer months when the sun came streaming in through two large dormer windows. But in the depths of winter it could feel positively Dickensian with its exposed ceiling joists and wooden floors. And compared to the Diamond house (which Emily would now forever think of as the Doll’s House) it was nothing but a draughty old attic. Not that she was grumbling about where she lived; she definitely wasn’t. Some of her contemporaries had had to move back in with their parents because they could no longer afford to rent a place to live and pay off their debts at the same time. Luckily, with careful budgeting, Emily was just about able to keep on top of her own finances. She had a roof over her head and she was more than grateful for it.

  She switched on the lights on her own Christmas tree, a white artificial fir with several glass angels hanging on it. The sitting room was painted a calming shade of cream, and looked reasonably pretty with several plump sofa cushions embroidered with teacups and roses.

  ‘But where am I going?’ she asked her reflection in the mirror above the tiny faux fireplace in the sitting room. ‘What will become of me?’

  Would she end up as just one more homesick Irish immigrant, hurrying along the streets of London with a half-pint of milk in a Tesco carrier bag? No longer remembered back home in Ireland? But never really belonging in London either? Well, she thought sadly, what did it matter? For she was never going home to Ireland again, was she? There was nothing in Ireland to go back to any more. There never had been, really.

>   ‘This flat could do with a good clear-out,’ she said to herself, more to keep her own thoughts at bay than anything else.

  The flat was actually spotless, but to Emily’s expert eye it was still far from perfect. She prepared some coffee and then settled down in front of EastEnders with a fleece jacket over her jeans and vest, and her laptop balanced on her knees.

  ‘Right,’ she said firmly.

  She’d order a pizza and browse the sales pages of John Lewis for some homely bits and pieces. And then she’d do some serious de-cluttering. For what was the point of buying new rugs and lamps and maybe a couple of side tables if the effect was going to be ruined by the accumulated junk and possessions of several years? And wasn’t that the whole point of living on soup and baked beans all the time? So that she could afford the occasional splurge on a takeaway pizza?

  By midnight she had filled several cardboard boxes with unwanted gifts, unread books, unworn clothes and unwatched DVDs. Most of her clutter had been donated by Arabella, she realized, for Arabella’s hedge fund manager husband was incredibly wealthy and Arabella thought nothing of spending several thousand pounds on gifts every Christmas. She also gave Emily lots of things she didn’t want or need any more. And that was how Emily had ended up with several complicated kitchen gadgets she’d never used, some designer shoes that were too nice for any place Emily ever went, some signed books and modern art prints she had no interest in, and eleven special-occasion hats. She really ought to sell it all on eBay, Emily thought to herself, but she didn’t want the worry of Arabella finding out. It would really hurt Arabella’s feelings and might even ruin their friendship. So Emily set the boxes neatly by the front door and vowed to take them all to the charity shop at the end of her road. That little place, what was it supporting again? Was it a hospice of some sort? Or was it for homeless dogs? Anyway, it didn’t matter, she decided, because all charity shops were in support of something good. She washed her plate and cup and put them back in the cupboard. The pizza box she added to the recycling basket.

  Then Emily brushed her teeth, set her fringe on its large roller and climbed into bed.

  ‘Some day that thing will be thoroughly de-cluttered too,’ Emily said, looking over at the large antique wardrobe in the corner of her bedroom. ‘Some day I’ll be in just the right mood to give it a proper clear-out.’

  The wardrobe had been the inspiration for the decor in Emily’s bedroom, even though she never opened its doors any more. The navy-blue walls and the white carpet made the wardrobe look as if it were standing outside in the snow on a winter’s night. Emily didn’t know why this idea pleased her so much; it just did.

  She switched off her bedside lamp, curled up into a tight ball and waited for sleep to come. But despite the long drive that morning to the Doll’s House and all the editing work she’d done in the afternoon (and the pizza that she’d eaten) she could not sleep. Emily sat up in bed and stared at the imposing wardrobe in the corner of her bedroom. A huge thing, it was part of the fittings and furnishings in Emily’s rented flat. Emily suspected the waxed oak wardrobe might be worth a lot of money because it had some very intricate carving and a bevelled mirror on the door front. But no doubt it had been so difficult getting it up three flights of stairs in the first place, the landlord had just decided to leave it there. And Emily had promptly filled it with all the things she didn’t wear any more. The very day she’d moved in, she’d filled it to the brim and turned the key in the lock. And in doing so, she’d also put an awful lot of painful memories into hibernation.

  ‘Is this why I feel so stuck? Have I got too much emotional baggage? And too much physical baggage stuffed into that thing over there?’ she asked herself. Her voice sounded very small and vulnerable in the witching hour between midnight and one. ‘Is that why I never go on dates any more? Why I never make plans for the weekend? Why I never go home for Christmas?’

  She suddenly felt alone in a way she never had before.

  ‘But this is what I wanted. This is it,’ she reminded herself. ‘This is my life. This is the path that I chose for myself. Remember that. An independent, single girl working in magazine publishing in the coolest city in the world – with no ties, no responsibilities, my own car, my own flat and my own rules.’

  The wardrobe stood solid and silent in the corner, not giving her any clue as to what she should do next.

  ‘Isn’t it a pity the wardrobe isn’t haunted or something?’ Emily said then. ‘I bet it would have a few interesting stories to tell …’

  She got out of bed and ventured across the soft white carpet in her bare feet. Her fingers fastened around the tiny bronze key in the door. It felt icy cold to the touch. Emily could detect the faint aroma of ancient beeswax. Maybe she could reach in and take one thing out? Just one single, solitary item – any item at all. And she could add it to her pile of boxes for the charity shop and she’d be one step closer to becoming unstuck? But her hand remained frozen and the impulse passed.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ she said. ‘Not yet, not yet.’

  And so she went sadly back to bed and forced herself to go to sleep.

  In the middle of the night Emily’s mobile phone began to ring.

  ‘Hello?’ She yawned.

  ‘Emily, it’s me. Are you awake?’

  Well, she was now.

  ‘Arabella, are you okay? What on earth’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing’s happened, but I’m really fed up. It’s David. He didn’t show up for the IVF appointment.’

  ‘Are you serious? Did he have to work late?’ Emily asked, sitting up in bed.

  ‘He sent me a text to say there was an emergency in their Hong Kong office, but I didn’t believe him.’

  ‘No? Why didn’t you?’

  ‘Instinct, Emily. Just a woman’s instinct.’

  ‘So did you have the consultation, anyway?’

  ‘No, I was far too upset to go ahead with it on my own. I ran out of the place in floods of tears when I got his text. They’ll think I’m crazy now. They’ll probably ban me from having IVF.’ Arabella began to sob down the phone.

  ‘Arabella … you poor thing. Is David not there with you now?’ Emily asked.

  ‘No, we had a massive fight. He said he couldn’t bear to spend one more Christmas with me. He said I was obsessive and nagging and he couldn’t stand it any more.’

  ‘He said that? But that must have been terrible for you, coming on top of the missed consultation and everything.’

  ‘Oh, I went berserk. I lost my temper and slapped his face. He’s gone to a hotel, but he won’t say which one. And he’s switched off his mobile phone. I’ve been crying for hours.’

  ‘Arabella, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘That man. He’s been so difficult recently.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Emily asked, pushing a strand of hair out of her eyes and trying to see her clock in the dark. She could never remember her phone showed the time.

  ‘He snaps at me constantly. He has no sympathy for me when my period arrives each month and I cry because I’m not pregnant yet. He used to send me flowers and take me out for dinner and spoil me with chocolates and perfume and little gifts on my pillow, but not any more.’

  ‘Well, maybe it’s the recession? Maybe he’s distracted by work?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Arabella admitted. She rarely asked David specific questions about his work.

  ‘He’s responsible for an awful lot of money, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, though it’s not all that high-risk any more, I don’t think. They mostly handle property portfolios these days in his department. Of course, David saw the crash coming and recession-proofed his assets while everybody else was still swilling Bolly in the strip clubs. I could throttle him, actually, for not coming to the clinic. I felt so humiliated. No wonder I’m not pregnant yet if this is his attitude. I’m not sure he even wants to have a baby with me any more, to be honest.’

  ‘I’m sure he does, Arabella. I’m sure you’re just imagin
ing it because things have been pretty stressed lately. Look, are you okay on your own or do you want me to come over and keep you company? It’d be no trouble for me to nip over.’

  ‘No, I’ll be okay. I’m looking through some old magazines and eating an entire apple pie.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come over? I don’t mind.’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine – and it’s snowing again too. The roads might be treacherous.’

  ‘Look, tomorrow is Saturday. Will we meet up for an early lunch?’

  ‘Were you not planning anything else?’

  ‘Not really, I’m just taking some stuff to my local charity shop.’

  ‘What stuff?’ Arabella asked. Not that she really cared. She just wanted to keep Emily on the phone for another little while.

  ‘Just some odds and ends,’ Emily said, beginning to perspire at the back of her neck. She always did that when she was nervous. ‘Nothing significant, just a few boxes of really ancient bits and bobs.’

  ‘Shall I come to yours tomorrow and give you a lift? My car boot is much bigger than yours.’

  ‘No, please don’t do that.’

  ‘But why can’t I help you, Emily? I’d like to help.’

  ‘I want to do it myself. It’s a Zen thing, I read about it in a magazine.’

  ‘What magazine was that? Are we missing a feature idea here?’

  ‘I can’t remember what the magazine was called,’ she said at once. ‘But the feature said it was very soothing for the soul to de-clutter one room or memory at a time, and to fill and seal one box at a time. You know, so you won’t feel wobbled by losing too much stuff at once?’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ Arabella said flatly.

  Emily thought she sounded rather put out, and she felt guilty all over again about giving away Arabella’s generous gifts.

  ‘You have to do it by yourself because it’s symbolic, do you see? It means you are responsible for de-cluttering your emotions at the same time. A lot of nonsense, no doubt, but you know me – I’m a sucker for these things.’