by Rebecca Done
I sink to the floor, collapse back against the kitchen cupboards as I recall our argument of a few weeks ago, when I berated him for not having cooked dinner. He does remember. He still loves me.
That he is capable of being romantic and thinking of me, doing something spontaneous to try and make me happy, feels so significant now. It’s no longer the sort of gesture I can have the luxury of taking for granted or even expecting. When moments like this come they are gifts to be grasped with both hands, so I do – I sit there on the floor and I savour it like food itself.
I know how much effort it must have taken Alex to cook, or try to. Yes, the house might have nearly burned down in the process, and yes, the meal itself was chronically mistimed – given it was the middle of the day and he already had evening plans – but the fact is, he was making me dinner, following a recipe. And not just any recipe: it’s a meal he associates with romance, a plate of food that would have tasted like cardboard to him but the finest of dining to me. And that’s why he did it. I wish he was here now so I could kiss him, hug him, thank him. Just so he knows.
After ten minutes or so, maybe longer, there’s a buzzing from the countertop above my head. Alex did forget his phone after all.
Unsteadily, I get to my feet and I glance down at the display. It’s Nicola.
I swallow hard, attempt to straighten out my voice, before picking up. ‘Hello?’
There is a long, awkward pause, during which I picture the usually unflappable Nicola panicking. Breaking into a rare sweat, perhaps. ‘Oh, hi!’ she says eventually. ‘Who’s that – Molly Frazer?’
‘Hi, Nicola. Were you calling Alex?’
She sends a trill of forced laughter into my ear. ‘God, no! Sorry. Wrong Alex.’ She makes a noise which I suppose is intended as a kind of verbal grimace. ‘Curse of having too many clients, I’m afraid. I have at least four Alexes in my phone.’
But why is my Alex one of them?
There is another uncomfortable pause during which we know we both want to hang up and never speak again, but being frustratingly plagued by that British compulsion to make polite small talk, we stall.
‘How are you both, anyway?’ she says, at exactly the same time as I manage to say, ‘Sorry, Nicola, I’m sort of in the middle of something.’
‘Gotcha,’ she says, and then I do hang up.
It’s a horrible word, gotcha. I’m sure she meant it in the context of a wink, pointed finger and clicked tongue, but as I replay it in my head, over and over for the rest of the evening, it takes on a more sinister tone every time.
The catchphrase of bullies, masked men, evil clowns.
Gotcha.
Speaking of bullies – or come to think of it, clowns – as I’m microwaving our tea later that night and replying to Dave’s string of worried texts, I receive an email from Seb.
It appears I’m not even worthy of any body copy or even a subject line, as there is just an attachment that is my final written warning.
I shut my eyes and think desperately back to my fillet steak fettucine discovery of earlier. Because when everything’s falling down around your ears, it is the tiny glimmers of light you must hold on to.
12
Alex – 6 November 2011
I am chasing Molly along our street, which is more than a bit embarrassing since I’m wearing only a T-shirt, boxers and my dad’s ancient loafers. Molly’s wearing her pyjama bottoms and favourite hoodie, softened now by years of wear, and the flip-flops she usually slips on to put the bins out. Neither of us are running – it’s more like furious striding, but I have no idea where we’re going and I can’t catch her up because the loafers are too big.
‘Please stop,’ I beg, even though she’s paused for breath anyway, leaning against some railings surrounding a block of flats. Last night’s frost has laced windscreens and dusted tree branches, made all the pavements shimmer slightly.
Molly simply shakes her head, loosening her long hair from the braid she puts it in before bed each night.
‘You misheard,’ I say then, because I know I need to speak first. But of course it’s the wrong thing to say, because it unintentionally and unjustly shifts the blame to her.
She turns to face me, skin pink from the power-walk. Her breath is full of distress, freezing in the frigid air as her words rush out to confront me. ‘I misheard that you’re having doubts? Less than twelve hours after you propose, and you’re already telling Graeme you’re not sure?’
‘No, I mean … I did say that, but I just meant … I’m worried people will think it’s too soon, that after only a year we’re rushing things. Moll, I don’t doubt us for a second. I love you to pieces. Why else would I propose?’ I take a step forward and grab her left hand. I squeeze it, feel her engagement ring bite the flesh of my palm like a reprimand.
‘You think I shouldn’t be upset?’ Her eyes are brimming with tears that haven’t yet fallen. I so desperately want them not to.
‘No,’ I say. ‘That’s not what I meant, Moll. It’s just … I was trying to second-guess what Graeme was thinking, say it before he did. And I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t care so much about what he thinks, I know that.’
‘No, you shouldn’t,’ she breathes, shaking her head at me, hazel eyes still perilously glossy. She withdraws her hand now and pulls it up into the sleeve of her hoodie, maybe for warmth, maybe in defence.
I sigh. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s because … back in March, that weekend you moved in, he gave me a bit of a lecture about …’
‘About what?’ Molly folds her arms as two runners jog past, double-taking then smiling as they notice Molly’s pyjamas and my bare legs (a mildly shocking sight in midsummer, let alone November).
Oh God, we’re that couple having a domestic in the street. I never thought we’d be that couple. Not me and Moll.
‘About being there for Dad. Abandoning my plans.’
She stares at me. ‘What plans?’
I direct my gaze to the pavement as cars rush by, so desperately wishing we weren’t having this conversation in public. I’m starting to feel really cold now, standing here with my bare legs and arms.
‘Alex?’ Molly prompts me.
I raise my head to meet the challenge in her eyes, her voice. ‘When I met you … I’d been planning to move back to Norfolk. I’d given notice on the flat and written out my resignation letter for work. I’d … got a new job in Norfolk. It was all arranged.’
She emits a small punch of breath. ‘What?’
‘But then I met you, and … everything changed. I didn’t want to move any more. I knew … you were it, Moll. You are it.’
‘Why … why were you going to move?’ Her voice wavers and a single tear drips down her cheek. I reach out to take her hand but her arms remain tight across her chest. She shakes her head. ‘Was it to look after your dad?’
I hesitate. I can’t tell her it was to spend more time with Dad. That would break her. She already feels guilty about any time she takes away from him.
‘No, no. I was just sick of the city,’ I confess, which is also true.
‘Why – God, Alex. Why didn’t you say?’ Her face is all crumpled up, the tears dripping faster now.
‘Because I don’t care – I don’t care where I live, Moll, as long as I’m with you! You make me so happy, I’ve never met anyone like you before!’
‘You gave everything up for me?’
I reject this assessment with a headshake. ‘It was hardly a great sacrifice, Moll. I’d do exactly the same again.’ Finally, she lets me take her hand. Her skin feels colder now, and I squeeze her fingers between mine, trying to reconnect with her, apologize with my touch.
‘And is that still how you feel?’ she quivers. ‘Do you still want to move back to Norfolk?’
‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘Of course not. Our jobs are here, our life is here. I’m happy here.’
Of course if Molly wasn’t by my side I’d move out of London in a heartbeat, but that isn’t the point
, is it? She is here, so I’m not going anywhere.
‘I never asked you to give anything up for me, Alex,’ she says now, ‘but I wish you’d been honest with me.’
I try to steady my jaw, stop my teeth from chattering. ‘I didn’t want to lose you, Molly.’ When it comes down to it, it really is as simple as that.
‘You shouldn’t be so scared of losing me that we don’t talk about the important stuff.’
Molly comes from a family that talks about everything. I’ve seen it first-hand around the dinner table: life choices, career issues, health problems – in the Meadows household, quite literally nothing goes undissected. Everything is analysed, chatted through over cups of tea and Molly’s mum’s famous carrot cake.
But maybe because so much of my childhood was based on the unsaid – on latent sadness, hidden resentments and unexplored loss – I am more afraid of talking than I realized.
Still holding Molly’s left hand, I reach up and wipe hot tears from her cold cheek. ‘I know, and I’m sorry. Ever since Mum …’ But I stop myself, because I don’t want to use my mother’s death to guilt-trip Molly into forgiving me.
‘You’re doing it again,’ she says gently. ‘Clamming up.’
More cars move past now, exhaust fogging the air, their drivers and passengers staring at us like we’re some sort of bizarre billboard advert. For what, I wouldn’t like to say.
‘Look, Alex. I know you love me, and I love you too so it kills me to say this but if you do have any doubts …’
Never mind killing her to say it, it kills me to hear it. I pull her into a hug, gripping her harder than I ever have before. ‘I don’t,’ I mumble into her hair. ‘Not a single one. I’m so, so sorry, Molly. If I could take back what I said …’ She shivers in my grasp and I draw reluctantly away. ‘You’re freezing. Come on, let’s go home. I’ll make pancakes.’
She lets me keep my arm round her shoulder as we make our way back to the flat, thankfully at a slightly more reasonable pace than we left it.
‘Sorry I ran,’ she says, her voice a little distorted, like her lips are numb from the cold. ‘I just didn’t want to be that couple – urgh – arguing in front of your family and pretending not to.’
‘I know. That’s not us, Moll.’
‘It’s so crazy today started out like this,’ she says. She extends her left hand to admire her ring before glancing up at me and sneaking me a smile. ‘I can’t believe I’m going to be Mrs Frazer.’
I feel as if someone’s finally let the air out on a very tight, uncomfortable balloon in my chest. ‘Me too,’ I smile. ‘I’m so excited.’ We walk a few more paces. ‘I’m so sorry, Molly, about what my dad did.’
I apologized to her over and over again when we got into bed last night, but she was exhausted by then and a bit drunk from all the cider and champagne. I feel as if I need to say it formally again in the cold light of day.
‘It was still magical, Alex, with the fireworks, and you down on one knee, and my mum and dad there. To know that you planned all that … I’ll never forget it.’
I know I won’t either. Whatever the future has in store for us, I’ll always treasure that memory of her face as she waited for me to ask the question that would change the course of both our lives.
And so it is that eight months later I am standing at the altar of the Meadows family’s church while a sea of expectant faces – some familiar, many not – looks on.
Last night I dreamed that Nicola burst dramatically through the back doors of the church just as Peter asked if anyone knew of any lawful impediment as to why Molly and I should not be married. I’m still irritated about the engagement card she sent us, and the slightly sneery good luck text I received from her only last night (both junked straight away, and the first thing I’m doing next week is changing my phone number). I’m still half expecting her to try to crash the reception, though admittedly that’s a bit far-fetched, and anyway, Graeme’s appointed head of security.
Standing in front of me now, Molly looks truly incredible. Her wedding dress – which she and Arabella have been so secretive and excited about for months – is utterly exquisite, sleeveless ivory silk overlaid with lace. Her hair is styled in a loose ponytail that drapes in front of her shoulder, and there’s a trio of blush pink roses pinned at the nape of her neck. She’s wearing her grandmother’s wedding necklace, as well as the pair of drop pearl earrings I gave her before she left for her mum’s house last night. She looks classic, beautiful – like a girl who doesn’t belong on my arm, that’s for sure.
We are nearing the end of our vows. As I repeat Peter’s words back to Molly, looking deep into her hazel eyes as her bottom lip trembles and her hands quiver in mine, I don’t feel nervous any more. I mean every single word.
‘In sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part, according to God’s holy law. In the presence of God I make this vow.’
And then Peter declares that we are husband and wife, that I may kiss the bride. And once we’ve signed the register and exited the church beneath a shower of fresh pink and cream rose petals (expertly thrown by Molly’s maid of honour, Phoebe, and numerous other bridesmaids), then stopped to pose for some photographs, we head to the reception venue. It’s a palatial country house in Berkshire about an hour from the church, and we are driven there in London buses, of course, a nod to Molly’s love of her home city.
The stately Georgian home has stunning grounds, panoramic views from virtually every window, and more than enough room to accommodate our huge guest list. There are countless displays of blush pink and cream roses and – always a hit – an oversized chocolate fountain. The whole place is stunning, and it’s all been paid for by Timothy and Arabella, who I sense have been itching to blow their daughter’s wedding fund on a no-expenses-spared celebration for her since the day she was born. They’ve even contributed a sizeable chunk of cash towards our honeymoon – the holiday-of-a-lifetime, an all-inclusive fortnight in Mexico. Were it not for the fact it’s our honeymoon, this might seem a little indulgent, given we went to America only eight months after we met, and then Prague followed by Barcelona earlier this year. But we both love to travel, and it’s something we’re planning on doing a lot more of.
The wedding and reception have been far more traditional than I ever imagined. But once it was agreed we were getting married in a church – and it also became apparent we were inviting half of London – it would have seemed a bit strange to head to the pub after the ceremony, not to mention logistically impossible. But Molly happily relayed my preferred choice of lunch to the caterers, so our main course is fish and chips – posh, of course, with triple-cooked chips and some sort of clever batter, and mushy peas served up in jam jars.
This house is absolutely perfect for photographs, and our photographer gets a great shot of Molly and me running away from the camera, hand in hand down a tree-lined path, laughing uncontrollably. I’m relying on our friends and family to capture the more casual moments – like me waving a pint glass around like a loon as I dance, and Molly’s younger cousins with faces sweet and sticky from the chocolate fountain.
The day is full of small surprises – Molly having had my wedding band engraved with the date and ceremony time, her rarely seen uncle from New Zealand turning up at the reception just in time for fish and chips, Graeme somehow making it through his best man’s speech without calling me Golden Boy, swearing, or even really embarrassing me.
Dad has been insistent on making a speech too, but I admit after what I have come to think of as the proposal fiasco, I’ve been pretty nervous about letting him near a microphone at all, let alone in front of a room full of people. I’ve even considered if it would be really unkind to just tell him straight – to come out and say, Look Dad, I don’t want you opening your mouth all day, not after what happened on Bonfire Night. And you know you can’t be trusted around a free bar (a subject, much to my mortification, of extended debate around the Meadows’ kitchen table in betw
een wedding-cake testing. Ganache or buttercream? Chocolate or vanilla? Free bar or paying, so Kevin’s less tempted to get hammered?).
In the end, Dad makes his speech without having touched a drop – a testament, perhaps, to how bad he’s repeatedly assured me he feels about what happened in November. Sobriety doesn’t stop him waffling on, though – he’s already told everyone how great Norfolk is, and how he hopes Molly and I will be moving back there soon, because it’s my natural home, it’s in my blood, blah, blah, blah. Also, because he’s not a natural orator he’s over-projecting, so it sounds a bit like he’s using the mike to tell everyone off. More than once I have to swallow the urge to hiss some guidance along the table to him.
But it’s about to get worse, because five minutes in he starts talking about Mum.
‘I’ve never exactly been one for discussing how I feel,’ he says. ‘So perhaps my darling wife, Julia, passed away without ever really knowing just how much I loved her. I told her, of course, during those last minutes we ever spent together, but I was probably already too late.’ He pauses, looks down at the table and shakes his head. I wait, my heart pounding, for him to collect himself. ‘She would be very proud, ladies and gents, if she could see the man my son has grown to become today. Can I ask everybody to please raise their glasses to Julia Frazer, who sadly cannot be with us on this glorious occasion.’
As everybody gets to their feet, raises their glasses and calls out, To Julia Frazer, I glance over at Graeme, perhaps out of instinct. But he’s already taken the opportunity to slip silently into the gloom of the Regency corridor, unseen.
He doesn’t make it back for our first dance. The song choice was easy – we heard it in the restaurant where we had our first official date, both remarking at exactly the same time that it was one of those songs everyone proclaims to hate but secretly loves. So it became Our Song – the tune I half sing half laugh to her late at night or ironically at parties. The song we always squeeze hands to when we hear it in pubs or bars, kiss soppily to at other people’s weddings. Admittedly the lyrics are about lost love but it’s so cheesily romantic we knew we couldn’t have any other song. So when the time comes I sweep her on to the dance floor, wrap my arms round her and breathe every last lyric out against her skin.