A Winter's Wedding

by Sharon Owens

  Soon afterwards she made her way home, sobbing loudly and not caring who saw her.

  ‘You okay, love?’ a policeman asked when she was almost on her own doorstep.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Arabella said. ‘My husband has left me, or so it seems.’

  ‘He’s not worth it,’ the policeman said, nodding and walking on without breaking stride. ‘Plenty more fish in the sea, and so on. Isn’t that right?’

  Arabella said nothing.

  She let herself in, went up to the bathroom in a trance, peeled off her disguise and put everything in the bin. She stood under a hot shower for twenty minutes, sobbing her heart out. Then she was sick again. She cleaned the house from top to bottom and tried to eat some dry toast, but her throat kept closing over with disgust. David had been cheating on her for months. No wonder he’d run out of patience with her going baby crazy. He just didn’t care any more – because he had already made a baby with somebody else. The nerve of the man! And why was she even surprised? Didn’t David always get what he wanted in the end? At midnight Arabella rang Emily and asked her to come over and bring a few bottles of wine with her.

  ‘I’ll come over, but I’ve no wine left in the flat,’ Emily said.

  ‘Can’t you buy some somewhere? Just any old Italian white will do.’

  ‘It’s very late, but I suppose I could make a detour to the all-night Tesco. It’ll take about forty minutes, okay?’

  ‘Look, never mind the wine. Just come over right away, Emily, please?’

  ‘Are you okay, Arabella?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘Has something happened?’ Emily said.

  ‘Yes,’ Arabella replied.

  ‘Tell me?’

  ‘Well, you won’t believe it.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It’s David. I followed him home from work today.’

  ‘You didn’t, did you?’

  ‘I did. I was disguised as a cleaner. Emily, I know where he lives.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  Arabella told her.

  ‘Sounds very upmarket. Can he afford two mortgages?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe … but there’s something else,’ Arabella said sadly.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘He’s met someone else.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes. So it could be her house they’re living in. Maybe she’s rich? And she certainly sounded intelligent. He adores her. And she’s having his baby. ’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘It’s true. There’s no mistake. They were practically having sex on the balcony. She looked six months pregnant. She’s young and gorgeous. I nearly died, Emily. I was sick on my pumps a little bit.’

  ‘Pumps, did you say? I’ll be right over,’ Emily said, slamming down the phone.

  Arabella only ever wore the highest heels. Victoria Beckham was her style icon.

  Emily pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, grabbed her handbag and boots from the bedroom floor, and rushed out of the door.

  7. Love Triangle Inferno

  April arrived in a burst of glorious sunshine. The Siberian-style weather departed, snowdrops appeared in gardens everywhere, and the May issue of the magazine was a resounding success. But despite all these good things Arabella had been very quiet at work for the last few weeks. Everybody in the office noticed it, though only Jane Maxwell had remarked on Arabella’s sudden change in mood. There were no passionate debates and no slamming of doors over the selection of features, the securing of advertising revenue or the improvement in sales figures. Arabella simply looked through all the ideas and submissions without speaking or showing any emotion at all, and then she either accepted or rejected them. She went out alone to the fire escape for an occasional cigarette, and she never seemed to eat lunch any more.

  Emily was the only person she had time for.

  ‘What’s up with Arabella?’ Jane asked Emily one day when they were alone together in the kitchenette.

  Jane was pouring a Diet Coke for herself, and Emily was making a round of teas and coffees for everybody else.

  ‘Nothing’s up, she’s just concentrating on her work,’ Emily said in a way that suggested Jane should do the same.

  ‘Whatever,’ Jane said, flouncing out of the kitchenette in a major sulk. It was coming to something when that little prig Emily was now Arabella’s official gatekeeper.

  Jane was still absolutely fuming about her Daisy Churchill feature being panned, but Arabella wouldn’t have noticed if Jane had stripped naked and paraded up and down the office with a wastepaper basket on her head. Meanwhile, Daisy Churchill’s agent was emailing Jane on a daily basis to ask if and when the feature was going to appear. Jane just kept saying that no date had been confirmed yet, that they were snowed under with submissions, or that they were waiting for the right moment. Daisy had promised to invite her round for dinner, but so far no invite had been issued. It was all Jane’s own fault, of course, for not telling Daisy’s agent in advance that Arabella had the final approval on all features and front covers. In truth, Jane had portrayed herself as a Deputy Editor who didn’t need to consult Arabella on every little thing. But the damage was done now, and she knew she’d made an idiot of herself over it. Most of her colleagues were trying to avoid her – no doubt they didn’t want to get a reputation for hanging around with a troublemaker.

  For very little Jane would have handed in her resignation at Stylish Homes and applied to work at one of the tabloid magazines instead. But then again, despite her secretive ways and infuriating dedication to the image of the magazine, Arabella was a reliable boss. And she wasn’t prone to sacking people on the spur of the moment. So Jane kept her mouth shut and her eyes open. She’d get her revenge on Arabella someday – and on that arch suck-up Emily too.

  One sunny morning in mid-April, Arabella finally took Emily’s advice and went to see a divorce solicitor. The solicitor said he would contact David and ask him for confirmation that he had left his marriage and was now in a new relationship, and also for details of his current financial status. Arabella kept up a brave front at work, but she cried herself to sleep every night. Under no circumstances was she allowed to contact her husband, the solicitor had said. He would be handling everything from now on. He advised Arabella to seek counselling, and so did Emily. But Arabella knew that if she ever told a counsellor what she wanted to do to her faithless husband’s genitals, they would lock her in a padded cell and throw away the key. She didn’t go near alcohol either – for if she got drunk now there was no telling what she might do. Shoot David, possibly, for putting off starting a family until it was too late. And then deciding he did want to be a father, after all – but just not with her. It was a good job she didn’t have a gun handy.

  Seeing Arabella in such a mess reminded Emily of the devastation that a man could bring to a woman’s life. It reminded her of Alex and their doomed wedding. And it left her convinced that she wasn’t ready to get her heart broken again. But Dylan had been the perfect boyfriend so far. To be fair to him, he hadn’t put a foot wrong. They’d been on some lovely dates to the local skating rink, the London Eye and a Florence and the Machine concert. They’d had dinner together three times and they’d been to the Twickenham Arms half a dozen times. They didn’t go to Dylan’s house, because he shared the house with five other guys and, apparently, it was a bit of a tip. Emily had joked that Dylan had a wife and kids tucked away there and that was why he didn’t ask her round. So then he took a picture of the kitchen on his mobile phone and showed it to her. And Emily was quite satisfied that she didn’t want to spend an evening at Dylan’s house. It looked more like a recycling centre than a house – Dylan said they could never remember to put out the recycling on a Wednesday night. And each evening after their date, Dylan had walked Emily back to her front door and kissed her goodnight on the doorstep. He was a delicious kisser – just the right balance between passion and restraint – and she suspected that as a lover he woul
d take her breath away. And they were almost at that stage now. They just needed to find a quiet weekend when they had no other commitments – when Dylan didn’t have rugby practice and Emily wasn’t round at Arabella’s house, keeping her company while she waited to hear from the solicitor.

  Mostly all Dylan and Emily had time for were quick cups of tea in the shop. Emily would admire the new shelving taking shape, or help Sylvia decide on a colour scheme for the walls. Emily didn’t tell Dylan the full story of what was going on with Arabella. She was the very soul of discretion. Arabella didn’t want anyone in the magazine industry to find out she had been dumped for a younger woman. Just in case the air of general failure permeated through to her career as well. So she’d made Emily promise to tell nobody about the baby. Nobody at all – not even Dylan. But Emily hoped that with the passing of time everything would begin to cool down a little. David’s baby would be born soon, and then the solicitor would press him for a divorce plan and a financial settlement for Arabella. Until the baby was born the solicitor had recommended they all remain as calm as possible, so as not to cause any upset to the expectant mother and her child. And even though she loathed her ex and his new love with all her heart, Arabella had no desire to upset the innocent child at the centre of it all.

  But unfortunately for Arabella the knife was about to be twisted once more. For one bright and breezy day at the end of April, Jane submitted a feature idea to Arabella and went off for lunch with a friend from another floor in the building. Arabella casually opened Jane’s folder and there, right in front of her, was a photograph of a luxury nursery in Kensington with a delicate, hand-painted mural of fairies on the wall. A pink muslin canopy was draped over the white wicker crib and an antique rocking chair was filled with cuddly toys. Arabella wasn’t sure if Jane had submitted the feature specifically to annoy her. She wondered if perhaps Jane had overheard her and Emily discussing the disastrous IVF appointment all those months ago. Could Jane really be that callous towards her? she wondered. Or had she just photographed this nursery because of the lovely antique rocking chair? Perhaps it was all just an unfortunate coincidence? But whatever the reason for it, the damage was done now, and Arabella’s wounded heart finally constricted to the size of an apple pip.

  She closed the folder and went out on to the fire escape for a sulk and a cigarette.

  ‘Emily, are you sure you want to go on seeing me?’ Dylan asked gently.

  ‘Yes, I’m having a lovely time,’ Emily replied, smiling up at him.

  They were having lunch in the shop again – Brie and tomato sandwiches from the deli on the next street. Emily was sitting at the counter, sipping her coffee. Dylan was up a ladder, fixing one of the ceiling lights. Sylvia had gone back to the stables to care for a lame horse, so Dylan was in charge of the shop for another few days. He was hardly ever away from it these days, even though the initial agreement had only been for a couple of days a week – and, of course, the new shelving.

  ‘You’re very good at fixing things,’ Emily said approvingly as the new light flashed into life. An entire wall of shoes and belts began to sparkle under its starry glow.

  ‘Ah well, you pick up the odd little trick as you go along,’ Dylan said modestly. ‘In my younger days I once spent a summer as an electrician’s apprentice. And then during another summer I worked with a carpenter friend of my dad’s.’

  ‘What a useful man you are.’

  ‘I suppose I have my talents,’ he laughed. ‘Now, regarding my previous question, are you okay with things as they are? We haven’t been out much this last fortnight,’ he added.

  ‘That’s okay, I’ve been so busy at work,’ she smiled.

  ‘Yes, me too. But is everything really okay?’ he persisted.

  ‘Yes, of course it is. I do love the peacock-blue walls in here, by the way. They really show off the clothes beautifully, and the shoes too. It does feel just like a boutique.’

  Clearly Emily wanted to change the subject, but Dylan needed to make sure things were fine between him and Emily before he could let it go.

  ‘Emily, can I ask you something personal?’ he said tenderly, getting down from the ladder and throwing the broken spotlight in the bin.

  ‘Sure. Fire away.’

  ‘Is there something else on your mind apart from us?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Only I’m getting a feeling there’s something bothering you.’

  ‘No, really.’

  ‘Look, I’ll just say it straight out. Do you remember those things you donated a while back – the baptism gown and all the children’s books? Well, Sylvia showed them to me. She’s a bit concerned about you giving away such personal things. Were they your things when you were a little girl?’

  ‘Yes, they were. Have you sold them yet?’

  ‘No, they’re still in the storeroom. Are you sure you don’t want to keep them?’

  ‘No, it’s fine. I’ve really no room in the flat for a lot of stuff.’

  ‘But surely you could make room for a small box of books and keepsakes?’

  ‘I don’t want them any more,’ she said, still smiling firmly.

  ‘Tell me why?’ Dylan asked, sitting down and holding Emily’s hand gently. ‘Why don’t you want to keep precious things like that?’

  Emily looked out of the window at the traffic going by. Two young girls came walking down the street, wearing woolly hats and scarves over their denim jackets and embroidered jeans. They looked like sisters; they were laughing at some private joke. Emily wondered if she’d be a completely different person now if she’d had a happy childhood. If she’d be a carefree person now, like those two girls seemed to be. Or was there always an upper limit to each person’s personal happiness level, predetermined at birth? Nature or nurture; who knew which one was the most important?

  ‘The truth is, I don’t want to keep those things because it upsets me to look at them. They hold me back. It wasn’t a very happy childhood, that’s all,’ Emily said, looking down at the floor.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I won’t press you for details, but I’ll wait another while before I put your things out on sale – just in case you ever want them back.’

  ‘But you must deal with this sort of thing every day in the shop,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, of course we do. But mostly the donations come from people we’ve never met before. So Sylvia and I don’t know the stories attached to everything. A pair of shoes is just a pair of shoes to us. We have no idea if the owner simply got fed up with them, or if somebody died of a heart attack.’

  ‘I see what you mean, yes,’ she said.

  A sort of uneasy silence descended between them. Dylan pulled his chair closer to Emily’s and looked at her intensely. She had beautiful eyes, he thought to himself. He was definitely falling in love with her. He hoped that she was falling in love with him too. But recently he’d been sure she would ask him to stay the night at her flat, and then she hadn’t. When they were kissing on the doorstep he was sure she was longing for him the way he was longing for her. But always, at the last minute, she would pull away from him and say goodnight and run up the stairs alone. He wouldn’t have minded if they were younger, but he felt that at their ages they should be able to talk about it. She’d told him she wasn’t religious, so that couldn’t be the reason she didn’t want to sleep with him. It must be a commitment thing, he decided – which was why he couldn’t help wondering if Emily was getting cold feet.

  ‘My mother never really wanted me; that’s it in a nutshell,’ Emily said then, amazing both Dylan and herself with her honesty.

  ‘What are you talking about? Of course she wanted you.’

  ‘You don’t know her, Dylan. She never wanted me. She said she never wanted a child. That she never had a career because of me.’

  ‘She didn’t mean that, surely?’ Dylan was incredulous. His mother doted on her own four children.

  ‘She did mean it, Dylan. She only ever worked in a sweet shop on the Crumlin Roa
d for four years, but to listen to my mother sometimes you’d think she was the MD of Cadbury’s.’

  ‘I’m sure your mum was just having a bad day when she told you she never wanted you,’ he persisted.

  ‘She must have had a lot of bad days, then, for she said it more times than I care to remember. My birthdays were the worst. She said she nearly died having me, and that she would never get over the pain and embarrassment of that day. And that she should be getting the cake and the presents instead of me.’

  ‘Well, okay, I’m sure childbirth is no picnic. But it was hardly your fault, was it? I’m so sorry for bringing this up today.’

  ‘Don’t be. We were never close, not ever. There were no big scenes or anything, no massive fights. Just lack of interest on her part and eighteen years of sulking on mine – until I left home to go to university. And Dad wasn’t much better. He stayed out of the house, mostly. He’s very good at ducking out of the way when there’s any hint of a row brewing. I basically brought myself up. And now it’s over. I know they love me in their own way, and I love them, but as a family it just never worked.’

  ‘Okay. I see.’

  ‘And that’s why I don’t go home to Belfast any more. I didn’t go over at Christmas, by the way. Because somehow it’s worse at Christmas, when you know your family unit just doesn’t work. I sat in the flat, watching telly. And they didn’t even answer the phone when I rang them.’

  ‘Oh, Emily …’

  ‘I don’t want to see Mum at the minute – either of them, really. I mean, it’s all in the past and I don’t think I need to talk about it. Yes, I’m over it, Dylan. I’ve moved on. I just feel afraid sometimes, that’s all. I feel afraid that you’ll get bored of me the way they did. And then I get annoyed with myself for projecting all the time, because I know I should just stop worrying and let things happen. But it’s so hard for me to let go of my self-doubt. It feels like jumping out of an aeroplane, every time.’