State We're In

by Parks, Adele

  This is harder than I imagined. Now I’m stood in front of Martin my plan starts to seem hazy, like a mirage. Unreal. I need a way into what I’ve come to say. This is undoubtedly going to be the most difficult conversation I’ve ever had to have, probably even harder than calling off our wedding; I am here to ask him to call off someone else’s.

  ‘Do you have time for a drink?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know.’ Martin glances at his watch. ‘Gloria asked me not to drink before the ceremony. Her parents have pledged, and whilst Gee and I obviously still enjoy a glass …’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘… we don’t want to appear disrespectful to her parents.’

  It is suddenly very important to me that I get him to have a drink. If I can make him go back on his word to Gee about something small, I reason that I have a chance of getting him to go back on his word about, well, the whole day.

  Lifetime.

  It doesn’t sound very honourable put like that, but time is of the essence.

  ‘Just a small one. It’s traditional, isn’t it? The groom and his best man have a quick one before the ceremony?’

  ‘But you’re not my best man.’

  ‘No, but we could still have a quick one before the ceremony.’

  Martin looks at me oddly, and I can feel a blush spreading up my neck. The double entendre was not intentional.

  ‘Where is Harry, anyhow?’ I ask to change the subject. Harry has been Martin’s best friend since secondary school. He was going to be our best man; I doubt a slight detail like a different bride will have had any effect on that fact.

  ‘Harry isn’t my best man. Gee’s brother is.’ Ah ha! Am I about to sniff out a bossy bride with overpowering demands who has vetoed her groom’s choices? ‘Harry emigrated to Australia two years ago. We hoped he’d get over for the wedding but then last week he broke his leg and he can’t fly.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ No demanding bride, then.

  ‘Gee’s brother was one of my ushers, but he stepped up. I’m so grateful.’

  ‘I bet Gee was pleased that her brother got a promotion in the wedding party.’

  ‘Actually she was gutted. She’s been looking forward to meeting Harry for ages.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You know what, she even offered to postpone the wedding until he was fit to travel.’

  Cold feet? I wonder. I mean, what bride would offer to postpone her wedding if she was crazy in love with her groom? ‘Really?’ I murmur.

  ‘Wasn’t that considerate? But in the end we decided it would simply inconvenience too many people. Besides, after last time, I didn’t want anyone …’ He trails off, looks around him, a bit embarrassed, then somehow he finds his feet again. ‘I didn’t want anyone thinking my bride had cold feet. Not a second bride.’

  ‘I’m sure no one would have thought that,’ I mutter guiltily. I hate myself. I hate myself for putting him through such hell the first time and imagining (however fleetingly) that it might happen a second time. I don’t want Gloria to ditch Martin. I want to tell him I’ve made a mistake. That he was right after all, that we were meant for one another. I hunt around for a starting place. The words stubbornly elude me.

  Martin looks uncomfortable; obviously thinking back to our non-wedding is difficult for him. ‘Maybe a drink would be a good idea,’ he admits.

  The two of us settle at the hotel bar. We order sherries, laughingly agreeing that neither of us are really sherry drinkers but it just seems like the sort of drink a couple of Brits ought to drink before a wedding. Martin says, ‘Bottoms up’ and then necks his drink. Is he avoiding the potential difficulty of discussing what we should toast? Fair enough. I am not about to suggest we toast the bride and groom’s health and happiness, but anything else seems rude, because that’s what is expected today. That and nothing else. I’m not used to being rude. I normally strive to be as considerate as possible; a model of good manners and thoughtfulness. Thinking about just how discourteous and impolite hijacking a wedding is causes a wave of nausea to flood through my body. I down the strange thimbleful of liquid, but before it even hits my stomach I know it won’t be enough. Martin must have the same thought, because he signals to the bartender that we need two more. This time we both sip the liquor more cautiously.

  There isn’t a hope in hell that we can hide in small talk. It would waste time, and besides that, it’s demeaning to both of us. Martin must know that I’m not here to ask about his health or chat about the weather.

  I pick up a peanut from the small silver bowl on the bar, and then remember some terrible statistic about how many germs those shared nut bowls harbour so drop it again.

  ‘So you’re really happy?’ It seems an obvious place to start. If he chooses to, Martin can pretend I’ve just made a simple observation appropriate to his wedding day; instead he dignifies our shared history and accepts I am asking a question. Still, I don’t get much from his reply.

  ‘Extremely.’

  ‘Never happier?’ This is perhaps unfair of me. I am basically asking him to compare how he feels now with how he used to feel about me. Clumsy, but isn’t that why I’m here? It has to get bloody before things can get better. He used to say I made him happy, that he’d never been happier than when he was with me, and more than that, he used to say he couldn’t imagine being happier. I have to find out if he was right about himself. He stares at me across his sherry glass.

  ‘It’s a different happy, Jo.’

  What does that mean? I’d have been on surer ground if he’d simply given me a ‘Yes, never happier’ in response, although gutted, obviously, but he didn’t say that. Nor did he say he is unhappy. He’s chosen to be more considered than that, more truthful. I stare at him as I ponder my next words. He’s changed. Besides the smart suit and decent haircut, he is different on a deeper and more profound level. He’s grown up. It is attractive, deeply so, but also alienating. I am suddenly unsure that I really know this Martin. Martin the man. I was engaged to Martin the boy.

  Gently, carefully, I pull out the old tricks. I look at him from underneath my eyelashes and ask, ‘Martin, don’t you ever wonder, what if?’

  He has the good grace not to pretend he doesn’t understand me. I knew he wouldn’t. He’s never been the sort to play games. Isn’t that why I am here? I’m sick of the game-playing. I’m looking for someone trustworthy. I’m looking for a keeper. It’s just a terrible inconvenience that I didn’t recognise him as such before.

  ‘Well, no, not any more,’ he says flatly.

  ‘But you did?’ I probe.

  ‘Of course, for a while.’ He dips into the nut bowl and scoops up a huge handful. He tips them down his throat; clearly he doesn’t have any qualms about germs. It’s such a small gesture, but it strikes me as bold. I’m encouraged by his boldness. If I’m honest with myself, it’s not an attribute I’d have traditionally bestowed on him; I’ve always thought of him as kind, honourable and straightforward, but not bold. ‘You broke my heart, Jo. Of course I gave our doomed, non-existent future more than a cursory passing thought. I spent quite a bit of time thinking about what might have been.’

  ‘You did?’ I can’t keep the pleasure out of my voice.

  ‘Yes, but not as much time as I spent on thinking what the hell happened.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Largely I was dealing with the sudden finality of our arrangement. The shock of how it ended.’ So he’s bold now and he’s never played games, and this is the result. Straight talking. Of course, what did I expect? I shift uncomfortably on my bar stool. It’s hard thinking about him upset, confused and anguished. This isn’t the particular route down memory lane that I wanted to take. I’d do much better if I reminded him of the good times, but before I can, Martin says, ‘Hey, why are we talking about this? Where’s this going? This isn’t appropriate for my wedding day.’ He points this out with a reasonableness that causes my throat to tighten and the skin under my hair to prickle. It feels a lot like shame.
>
  ‘Well, I think we have to talk about it today. It’s now or never,’ I mutter.

  ‘Never works fine for me. Jo, it’s been five years. We could have had this conversation any time. Why now?’

  I’m not ready to answer that question yet, so I throw out one of my own that I hope will edge the conversation in the direction I need it to go. ‘Why did you invite me to your wedding?’

  ‘Gee thought it was a good idea.’

  ‘Sorry?’ This is not what I was expecting. ‘Why would Gee want me here?’

  Martin sighs. ‘She thought it would stop people talking, you know, about the wedding that never was. Sometimes her friends, or my friends, tease me about it.’

  ‘They do? Even now?’

  ‘Even now.’ All the skin on my body is crawling. Of course people tease him. If I’d ever thought about it, I’d have guessed he’d be the butt of jokes. ‘Yes, Jo, they do. Not often. Sometimes. Gloria is sensitive to it. Mostly on my behalf. She wanted to see the girl who let me go. In her words, to be exact, “the lunatic that allowed you to slip through her fingers”. I guess she’s curious. Human. She wanted to send you an invite, so I thought I’d let her. I don’t like to deny her anything.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Truthfully, I didn’t think you’d come.’

  ‘But I have.’

  ‘Well yes. And now you are here, I really hope you have a nice day, but there’s a favour I need to ask you.’ I suppose he’s entitled to ask me a favour. I owe him big time, and besides, it’s his wedding day, the one day when people are meant to get their own way, unequivocally. I don’t suppose he thinks I’ll deny him anything. He’s right, I won’t. There’s something about the combination of his new-found confidence and his more recognisable straightforward way of dealing with me that means I want to oblige him. ‘Jo, we can’t make today about us. We can’t let it be about us in any way. Today is Gee’s day. Mine and Gee’s.’

  The words pitter-patter around me. They land softly, causing me less distress or offence than I might have anticipated they would. Had I been expecting this, on some level? Is that what I thought he’d say? A declaration of undying love is what I was hoping to elicit, but have I ever really expected it? Have I ever thought that I, Joanna Russell, would finally find a happily-ever-after? That I’d find it here at another bride’s wedding? No, probably not. I take a deep breath and say, ‘I know what you are asking, but the thing is, Martin, there’s something I have to say. There’s something I just have to tell you—’

  ‘She’s brought a date.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A date, brilliant,’ says Martin as he turns in the direction of the interruption. I do too. Dean is standing right next to us, glorious, gorgeous in a dark navy suit, clean-shaven and spruced up.

  ‘Yes, she’s brought a date; me, in fact,’ he says pleasantly. He holds out his hand to Martin, who accepts it. They shake heartily, and then Dean swoops down and kisses me on the cheek. He slaps the kiss down. His manner is not particularly sexy, the kiss is not loaded or meaningful; it is all about play-acting. From the hearty handshake, the broad beam, the chaste but deeply affectionate kiss, I understand which particular scenario he’s picked. He’s decided we’re a happy, confident, probably quite steady couple who are past the first stabs of lust, and yet … the kiss sears. I touch my skin and it’s tingling.

  ‘A date. Wow. Well, that’s really good news.’ Martin looks delighted. Delighted and (I have to admit this to myself) relieved. ‘Do you know, this is going to sound crazy,’ he continues.

  ‘What is?’ Dean asks. I think he knows that his interruption has left me stunned and I’m struggling to scavenge around for words, so he blithely fills in.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ says Martin, shaking his head and chuckling.

  ‘What? No, go on,’ urges Dean.

  ‘For a moment there I thought she was here to … No, I can’t say it.’

  Dean interrupts again. ‘Did you think it was going to be a “Don’t marry her, marry me” moment?’ he asks, guffawing loudly.

  Martin laughs too but doesn’t deny it. ‘Mental, huh?’

  Dean puts his arm around my shoulder and kisses the top of my head. ‘Absolutely mental. No worries on that front, this baby is mine.’

  I pull away from him, which is harder than it should be. The second kiss, the one he planted on my scalp, felt comforting and pleasant. It acts like a balm to my crawling skin, and for a moment I feel soothed. But that feeling is shoved aside by my confusion. He isn’t supposed to be here! I know I asked him, but he said no! Besides, he was supposed to be moral support, not a fake date. He isn’t helping. I am in the middle of something. He’s not the one who is supposed to be pulling the surprises today.

  Both men turn and stare at me. Martin is full of bonhomie and radiates pure happiness. Now he’s sure I’m not here to wreck his wedding, he can relax. He’s probably already thinking of a way to work me into his wedding speech. People love to brag that their guests have travelled miles and miles to be at the occasion; it’s a way of showing how popular and valued they are. Dean looks significantly more apprehensive. His eyes are full of warning and caution. I scowl at him. What the hell is he doing here? Everything was going to plan – well, almost. No, not at all.

  What was I about to say to Martin? How do I really feel about him? Seeing him standing next to Dean, I’m suddenly not certain. Martin’s blond openness is in direct contrast to Dean’s moody dark looks and manner. Dean is a self-confessed womaniser. He represents everything I’m trying to run away from. Cheats and commitment-phobics. Not that I have reason to believe Dean cheats on the women he dates, but I’m pretty sure he hurts them. I know that countless women who have ended up in his bed will have been distraught when he asked them to flick out the light as they left. He’s just the sort of man women fall for hard and fast; he is beautiful and damaged, and by anyone’s account that makes him irresistible. Martin stands in front of me – this decent, handsome, worthy man – and I know, absolutely know that I’m right. He is perfect marrying material. He will make a wonderful husband. He will be faithful and steadfast, which can’t be underestimated and should never be undervalued.

  And I know, absolutely know, he won’t be my husband. He’s Gloria’s man.

  I clear my throat. ‘So as I was saying before we were interrupted, there’s something I just have to tell you …’ I cast a quick glance at Dean, who looks totally panicked. He starts babbling on about getting drinks in and asking about the music at the service. If he dared, I’m pretty sure he’d actually gag me right now. I cut through him. ‘I came here to say that Gloria is right: I was a lunatic to allow you to slip through my fingers, but hey, my loss is her gain. Right?’ I beam, making it clear I’m simply sprinkling the sort of appropriate compliment that a pally but balanced ex might make on a wedding day. Martin’s face becomes gymnastic; it springs between bemusement and vindication. ‘I’m very sorry that I messed things up, you know, before. But I’m so glad you’ve found happiness now. I just wanted to be here on your big day.’

  ‘This time. She wanted to be here this time,’ Dean can’t resist adding. He’s clearly cast himself as a bit of a joker. Maybe he thinks he has to be in order to fake being my date.

  I lean towards Martin and pull him into a hug. It’s a generous hug between friends. I don’t try and inappropriately push my breasts into his chest, I don’t whisper anything into his ear. I don’t make it any harder than I already have. And when I let him go, I try not to think of Gloria’s words. I try not to think that this is my last chance of happiness and it’s slipping through my fingers.

  33

  Dean

  ‘So we’re staying?’ Dean asked Jo, the moment Martin had excused himself, something about having to check on the whereabouts of the ushers. She nodded mournfully. ‘Good choice. If we leave now, it’s going to look weird.’

  He led her to a seat in the room where the service was to take place. Some of the guests had a
rrived now and were quietly chatting or listening to the 1950s love ballads that played gently in the background. Dean wondered whether the dulcet honeyed tones of the likes of Ella Fitzgerald, the Platters and Dean Martin singing about love affairs taking place when the world seemed shinier and easier would help soothe Jo or inflame her further. They settled on seats, two thirds of the way back, on the groom’s side. Jo immediately picked up the order of service and pretended to be interested in the details. Dean could tell she wasn’t. She was deflated. Lost.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ she muttered, clearly embarrassed at how close she’d got to the edge, how close she’d been to jumping.

  ‘I didn’t want to miss the drama,’ Dean replied with a shrug.

  ‘It seems to me that you came here to ensure there wasn’t any drama.’

  Dean wasn’t absolutely certain why he was at the wedding. He just hadn’t been able to stay away. ‘You did the right thing.’

  ‘Then why does it hurt so much?’ Jo bent forward and let her head drop into her hands; her hair fell across her face, effectively stopping Dean from reading her expression. ‘I am such a monumental screw-up. No job, no home, no future,’ she moaned woefully as a thought struck her. ‘Oh God, what will I tell my parents?’

  ‘Your parents?’ One thing Dean had never experienced was a sense of obligation to his parents. Until this moment he’d never seen an upside to their neglect, but now he accepted that, since they crawled around in a pungent dung of failure and inadequacy, at least he wasn’t ever plagued by a sense that he could let them down; it would be impossible.

  ‘My parents are so complete. So happy and perfect. They can’t understand how I’ve gone so badly wrong.’ Dean wasn’t convinced. He didn’t believe that happiness and perfection existed, but if it did and they were so happy, why would they be down on their daughter? Surely they’d just feel bad for her. Jo continued, ‘I should have just married him five years ago. Why didn’t I?’ She looked around the room, full of the scent of lilies and the lyrics of love songs. This wedding was certainly set to be as beautiful as Gloria could have hoped and Jo could have feared. It was hard letting it all go.