by Lia Louis
I stand in the queue, looking through the large window behind the reception desk. It’s alive out there. Bustling. There are scatters of people, some standing in groups, chatting, cans of Coke to their lips, mouths in smiles, lips moving quickly. There are some walking purposefully to classes, bags over shoulders and across chests, and there are some on benches, writing, reading, scrawling. Young people, older people. Teen boys, teen girls. All together. All here for one thing. All to learn. All to steer their lives onto the path they want to travel.
‘Hello there, can I help at all?’
The man has hung up the phone, and looks at me from behind the counter, brows raised.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I have an appointment. At eleven. It’s with a career advisor.’
‘Sure,’ he smiles, looking down at his computer. ‘Can I have your name, please?’
‘Lizzie James.’
The man nods, typing quickly onto his keyboard with ringed fingers. Then he turns to me. ‘Great,’ he says. ‘All booked in. You’ll need to take a left out of here and follow the signs for W Block. That’s the art department. Is this regarding the next study year?’
‘Yes,’ I tell him, and he nods once, rifling through a drawer at his side. He hands me a thick brown envelope.
‘A couple of our course guides for next September, and a feedback form.’
‘Great. Thanks.’
‘Anytime,’ the man says. ‘Welcome to the college. Let us know if you need anything else.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Olivia answers the door in a towel turban, and a black silk robe that just skims the floor. The house is silent behind her. No bridesmaid slumber party, no music or distant family members emerging from the kitchen diner with wine glasses and mini quiches in hand, cheeks ruddy with tipsiness. Just Olivia, skin bare and glowing, face shining with moisturiser.
‘I’m not staying,’ I say quickly. ‘I just wanted to see you. Before tomorrow. Before the big day.’
Olivia nods, mouth fixed with a grin. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘Come in. I’ve just made some camomile tea.’
The house is empty and cold, and every surface, bare and shining – the whole place smells of Dettol. With all the adventures Olivia and David go on, with all the things they do, the travel and the classes, the stark, clinical walls in which they live never cease to shock me. I always expect artefacts and postcards, shelves of weird wooden instruments and coral from far away beaches. But there is none of that. It’s a blank canvas. Soulless, even.
‘Did you get the text? Of the itinerary for tomorrow? Times, and things …’
I nod. Nothing more.
‘I know it’s controversial,’ says Olivia, pulling a small white cup from a wooden mug tree, ‘but I just wanted the evening before to be peaceful. The last few months, arranging this thing have been so full on, the thought of having to be around lots of people, not sleeping in my own bed …’ Olivia trails off, sliding a rounded white teapot across the counter and pouring its contents into the mug. It stinks. Of dusty tights and pot pourri.
‘I get it,’ I say. ‘I think I’d be the same.’
Olivia looks up at me and smiles, embarrassment flashing across her face. ‘Tea for you?’
I shake my head. ‘No, thank you.’
Olivia gives a nod and wraps her hands around the mug on the counter. She leans against it and looks down into the murky liquid.
‘Livvy,’ I say, and she looks up, cheeks pink, white teeth nibbling her lip. ‘I’m sorry if things were said that probably shouldn’t have been at the dress shop the other day.’
Olivia shakes her head. ‘It’s fine, Lizzie, let’s just forget it.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Let’s not. I don’t know about you but I’m over brushing things under the carpet.’ Olivia’s skin turns slightly pink and she gives a stiff nod. ‘It happened,’ I say, ‘and things were said that really needed to be, but perhaps they were said in not quite the ideal place.’ I give a wry smile, and Olivia looks down into her tea, her shoulders tight and raised, ears pink against the soft white towel swirling her head.
‘I don’t blame you,’ murmurs Olivia. ‘I don’t think I realised that you were ill. Anxiety disorders, depression, all of it. I didn’t get it. I was young.’
‘So was I,’ I say. ‘But your mum wasn’t.’
Olivia looks up, lips pressed together. She stares at me, then nods. ‘I know,’ she says. ‘She should’ve known better. They all should’ve.’
The dishwasher behind her beeps, and Olivia turns, staring at it as if she’s never heard it make such a sound before, and fusses with dials on the front longer than she should. She doesn’t know what else to say – she feels awkward, I know that. There’s a tray on the breakfast bar, set with a sandwich on it and a book, opened face down. I need to tell her now. I need to tell her and leave, so she can continue with her evening – the quiet, calm night-before-the-rest-of-her-life that she was enjoying before I interrupted.
‘Olivia, I’ll be there tomorrow,’ I tell her, as she faffs around, pulling open the dishwasher door. ‘But I won’t be a bridesmaid.’
She spins round. ‘What? No, Lizzie, you have—’
‘I don’t want to,’ I say, fingers fumbling at my lap. ‘We aren’t really that close, and we needn’t pretend to be. And I think if you were honest, you’d prefer I wasn’t your bridesmaid either.’
Olivia stands and holds onto the edges of the counter. And I brace myself. I wait for the argument – I wait for the hurtful words, the words that tell me I’ve ruined her wedding, just like I did her mum and dad’s, when I drank ‘a bottle of ’ champagne, because I was a tearaway teenager who had no respect and knocked about with scummy council estate dwellers (Auntie Shall’s story only of course, and plucked straight from the depths of her arse). But then she looks up at me, her eyes softening. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘for what I said.’
I nod. And she doesn’t argue. She doesn’t tell me we are close, and that she loves me, and that of course she wants me to be her bridesmaid. She just asks, cheeks still pink, ‘Will you still come for the whole day?’
‘If you want me to.’
‘Of course. I can sit you with Nathan and Katie.’ Olivia brings her shoulder up, the silk of her robe shining in the bright kitchen spotlights. ‘Katie and I talked. She said she didn’t feel comfortable, after the argument. I can’t say I really blame her.’
‘Oh,’ is all I manage. I push down hard, the instinct to apologise.
‘Katie was Mum’s idea anyway, so we could have a family member …’ She looks up at me, sadly. With shame. With apology. ‘So, it’ll be three bridesmaids now, I suppose. My two best friends, and David’s young niece.’
‘As it should be,’ I say, and Olivia sips her tea.
When I leave, I tell Olivia that I want to pay for my dress – for anything they’ve paid for, for me, and she whacks the suggestion away in the air, as if it’s a swarm of gnats above her head. ‘No,’ she says. ‘No, don’t worry yourself about that,’ and I get the impression she can’t wait to get me out of the door and off her driveway.
I walk home through the park – down the path Roman and I walked down, time and time again, talking about music and conspiracy theories, and the best things we’d ever eaten. I walk by the back of Hubble’s house and stop to take it in for the first time in twelve years. It has a loft conversion now, a shiny, dark grey cladded box jutting from its roof, and there are blinds at Hubble’s old bedroom windows now. They are pulled almost to the bottom, like eyes, falling asleep.
I walk until the stars come out, and when I get home, I draw them. A whole page of clear deep purple sky, with twinkling planets and stars and meteors, tearing across the sky like celebratory fireworks. A whole universe, before a pile of blank pages. A whole universe of colour.
Chapter Forty
‘So, did she freak?’
‘Not at all. She was relieved I think, P.’
‘Did she at least say sorry?’
&
nbsp; ‘Oh, yeah,’ I say. I turn to the window of the café beside me and duck to see beneath the large letters embossed on the glass. Nobody’s here yet. ‘She didn’t even try to defend it or to defend her mum. But then, how could she?’
‘Good,’ says Priscilla. ‘Oh, hang on, Liz, I’ve got to get in a lift. I might lose signal.’
‘Are you at the hospital already?’
‘Yep.’
‘You’re nice and early.’
Priscilla sighs down the line, but there’s a smile in her voice. ‘I’m really nervous.’
‘It’s going be fine, P. I promise you.’
On the way back from Scotland, Priscilla and I talked in whispers while the rest of the flight slept or read. It was 9 p.m. and we were exhausted, and with our coats as blankets, pulled up to our chins, we talked through everything Priscilla had been bottling over the last year – the last twelve years. Priscilla said she was going to tell Chris about Ethan, and about her pregnancy at sixteen. She said she wanted it out in the open. She planned on telling him the next day, in the morning, after sleeping on it, formulating exactly what to say, but when she walked through the front door, she told me she burst into tears on Chris at the sight of him, and told him everything, right there, in the kitchen, her shoes and coat still on. And of course, he was amazing about it – she said she couldn’t have wished for a better response. First thing the next morning, Priscilla called their doctor, and they sent her for blood tests, and Chris for a sperm assessment. Today, they are getting the results. Just like that. Months and months of worry and panic, eased with the truth.
‘You know,’ says Priscilla. There’s the sound of lift doors sliding open on the other end of the phone. ‘I’m bloody proud of you.’
‘Thanks, Priscilla. I feel happier that I did it. Lighter.’ A waitress walks by my table, two plated piles of chips in each hand.
‘Seriously, Liz. To stand up for yourself, to know your own mind and heart enough to do what you did. To walk away from a situation you didn’t want to be in, regardless of what people might think. It’s really brave.’
‘No, it isn’t. You’re brave, P. Facing the thing that’s been scaring you the most. For years.’
‘Just like you did last weekend, eh?’
I laugh. ‘Then we’re both brave,’ I say.
‘Sherlock and Watson reincarnated,’ Priscilla giggles, and I smile so much my cheeks sting. ‘Oh, Chris is calling, I’ve got to go.’
‘Let me know how it goes. Text me.’
‘I will,’ says Priscilla. ‘And do not forget to update me on what eighties throwback your Auntie Shall rocks up in today. I better get pictures of Madonna tits, and Pat Butcher shoulder pads.’
Priscilla hangs up, and I duck again to look across the road to the church. There are a few guests now, standing in the churchyard, smoking, chatting, backs already breaking in heels as high as skyscrapers. A pearly wedding car pulls up. It’s David, impeccable, in a dark grey suit and dusky pink tie. His mum stands beside him, her hand on his back. She’s a tiny woman with a smooth, square bob and a skirt suit the colour of limes. His best man nervously paces the gravel, looking down at his phone, then stands at the edge of the circle, as if contemplating running, just like Roman and I did once upon a time through that gate.
I wait in the café, sipping my water, scrolling through my phone, until I see Nathan and Katie arrive – Nathan, a vision indeed, in baby pink, and Katie, in a fawny-coloured crepe dress, her hair in a neat, not-a-hair-out-of-place up-do. I watch them chatting, greeting distant family members I can barely remember the names of, until they go inside.
It’s a little early, but I’m ready to go. I screw the top on my water, pick up the small potted cyclamen on the table, and head for the frosty churchyard. I should manage to have a few minutes with Hubble before the ceremony starts. To clear any dead flowers and November leaves. To tell him I know.
To say hello. And goodbye.
‘The pink is … questionable.’
‘Oh, be quiet.’
‘I mean, I never thought I would see you in actual baby pink but then again, these things are sent here to surprise us.’
Nathan tuts and brushes a hand down his trousers. ‘You’re going on like I’m wearing a bloody Mr Blobby costume.’
Katie leans across him from her seat on the pew. ‘I said he looks like that Screech from Saved by the Bell.’
‘Which is a huge diss,’ grumbles Nathan, as I burst out laughing beside him.
‘It wasn’t meant to be an insult,’ grins Katie. ‘It’s just very nineties, that’s all.’
The pew behind us fills up, and I lower my voice. ‘Plus, isn’t the guy a bit weird now?’
‘Who, Screech?’ whispers Nathan out the side of his mouth, eyebrow raised.
‘Yeah,’ I nod. ‘Does all sorts of dirty stuff now. He even had a video out where he put his finger—’
Katie makes a snorting noise, like she’s trying to stifle a laugh, and Nathan puts his hand on my leg and ducks his head. ‘Shut up,’ he hisses, smiling. ‘We’re in a bloody church.’
‘Oh. I am sorry, Cliff Richard.’
The church looks glorious, today. It really does. On the end of every pew, there is a posy of pink flowers, and cream, organza ribbon, and at the altar, there are tall, ornate candle holders, flickering with fat candles, and they too are decorated with the same pink flowers and ribbon. It looks brighter than it did the day I struggled to walk into it, all those years ago; the place I puked in, not once, not twice, but three times, all over its shining wooden floor, my flowers, myself, and Auntie Shall, of course. It was a mess. Everything was back then. And so was I, in a way. But I got through it. I healed and kept holding on, as hard as that was sometimes, through it all. And I’m glad I did. Comparing that version of myself to the one, here, on this pew, lighter, confident, unafraid and out the other side, I know now I have never felt more together. Old threads, severed. Loose ends, tied.
A hand lands softly on my shoulder. I know who it is before I turn around. He’s wearing the same black suit he’s had for as long as I can remember. He smiles, his eyes scrunching at the corners as he does, and he sits beside me. The pew creaks, and his chubby leg presses into mine.
‘Hello, darlin’,’ Dad says. ‘Alright?’
I haven’t spoken to Dad properly in almost three weeks. I called him Thursday when he landed in London and told him I knew – he cried on the phone. So did I. This is the first time I’ve seen him or spoken to him since.
‘Bloody cold out there,’ whispers Linda, brushing her hand over her bum before she sits down. She looks amazing, and just totally Linda, in a black and white polka dot halter-neck dress, a furry cream shawl, with a matching fascinator. ‘Hi, Lizzie, love,’ she winks, leaning over and squeezing my wrist. ‘You look fantastic.’
‘As do you,’ I say. ‘So do you, Dad.’
Dad smiles proudly at Linda, who reaches into her bag and takes out her phone. She starts tapping away on it. The church falls quiet, as the organ rings out a final note of a song.
There’s quiet; the shuffling of feet, whispers, the odd cough.
‘You look a picture, my girl,’ Dad whispers.
‘Thanks, Dad. Do you like the trousers?’
‘Love ’em,’ he nods. ‘I used to have something similar myself.’
‘Back when King Henry was in power?’
Dad lets out a chesty laugh and nudges me. ‘Keep that cheek up your sleeve,’ he says. Then it’s quiet again, and I see him at the side of my vision watching me, the way he would when I was a child, when I’d be painting or fiddling with Playdoh. Admiring, almost. Pure love.
‘Lizzie,’ he says, his voice a deep whisper. More and more guests filter into the church, and I see Nathan and Katie wave to someone across the aisle. ‘Are we—’
‘Dad …’
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m just so sorry.’
‘Dad, you don’t need to apologise.’
‘I do, dar
lin’. Back then we …’ Dad brings his chubby hand up to his mouth. ‘We let you down. We try, you know, as parents, to do the right thing – the best thing. And we get it wrong. And we did, back then, your mother and I.’
Nathan stands and chats to the someone across the aisle, miming with his mouth and hands, but I don’t take my eyes off Dad, whose face is reddening, whose eyes are watery.
‘We put on this all-seeing, all-knowing mask for our kids, and most of the time … we keep it up,’ he whispers, sniffing, knuckle rubbing the end of his nose. ‘But sometimes it slips. We lose it. And you see that we’re human, and that we don’t have a bloody clue, really, we’re just as scared as you are. More so. And I’m sorry.’
‘Dad …’
‘I’m sorry that when you needed us we were too busy messing about, acting like spoiled teenagers to see that our child needed us.’ Dad’s thumbs fumble in his lap. ‘You needed us to have that mask on, to be strong for you. And you didn’t get that, Liz. And I will always be sorry.’
‘Dad.’
‘And about Roman …’
‘Dad,’ I say, loudly, although it warms me hearing Dad say his name as if it’s that – a name and not a forbidden, dirty word. A woman in front of us in an obscenely large hat turns at the sound of my voice and looks at us as if we are vermin. Dad looks at me, stifles a schoolboy smile.
‘It’s done,’ I whisper to him. ‘It was another lifetime ago.’ Then I kiss Dad’s cheek and say, ‘I love you, Dad.’
He squeezes my hand as the organ strikes up and everyone stands, an echo of shoes squeaking and scuffing on the dark wooden floor.
And I watch – bridesmaids, one by one, floating down the aisle, step-together, step-together – until Olivia appears, gliding, as she always does, in a dress almost identical to one we all bookmarked in My Bride magazine that night at the restaurant. She looks beautiful as she drifts by, like a dream, like a heroine from a movie. I crane my neck. A tiny red-headed girl holds the long, lace train – little Lilly, David’s niece. She looks excited, happy. Right where she