by Linda Green
‘I have a look,’ says Dad. ‘If you are respected in the kitchen, all you have to do is give a look.’
He turns to Angela and kisses her on each cheek. I think she likes it that he is half Italian. She is the sort of woman who, if she invited him round for a meal, would do a whole Italian theme and think that no one had ever thought of that before.
‘Hello again, Angela,’ he says. ‘Thanks for all your hard work on this.’
‘Not at all,’ she says. ‘I want to make sure everything is perfect on the day.’
Marie, the hotel’s wedding coordinator, appears. ‘So, how are we all feeling?’ she asks.
‘Raring to go,’ replies Angela. Marie turns to look at me. I decide it’s best not to mention that I was up half the night and am feeling sick with nerves.
‘Yes,’ I say, with as much of a smile as I can muster.
‘Right, if you follow me, I’ll walk you around the hotel and show you everything you need to know. Then we’ll go through the whole ceremony step by step and I’ll answer any questions you may have.’
We follow her as she sets off. Lee takes my hand and gives it a squeeze.
‘Just focus on the honeymoon,’ he whispers into my ear. ‘None of this will matter once we’re there.’
I look up at him. This is the Lee I fell in love with. The kind, caring, playful man who is going to be my husband and the father of my baby. But if that is the case, why do I still feel so uneasy in his presence? Why do I have to try to stop myself flinching whenever he touches me? I need to put the other Lee out of my mind. The other Lee is merely a figment of my – or someone else’s – imagination. He does not actually exist. There is nothing to be scared of. Nothing to worry about at all.
It is when we get to the room where the ceremony is going to be held that it hits me. In two days’ time I am going to be married. This is going to happen, and I have two options: to worry myself sick as to whether I am doing the right thing, or to go ahead and enjoy it. And Mum always used to tell me not to spend my life worrying about stuff that might never happen.
I walk down the aisle between the chairs and stand next to Lee.
‘Wow, you look incredible,’ he says.
‘How do you know? You haven’t seen the dress yet.’
‘I can see you in my head,’ he replies. ‘And I reckon you’re going to look even better than that.’
*
Dad is quiet on the drive home. I think it started to sink in tonight that on Sunday he is going to come home from a wedding to an empty house. He parks in the only space available on our road. I get out and go to the boot to get my dress. It’s covered in a white bag so he can’t see anything of it.
‘Am I allowed a peek?’ he asks.
‘Absolutely not. You haven’t got long to wait, though.’
He smiles at me, a rather sad sort of smile, and goes into the house. I take the dress straight upstairs to my room and hang it in the wardrobe. When I come down again he is sitting at the kitchen table. There is a present on it, a flat square box wrapped in silver paper and tied up with blue ribbon.
‘What’s this?’ I ask.
‘Something for you.’
‘Am I allowed to open it now?’
‘Yes, but you’ve got to read this first. I should warn you, it’s from your mum.’
He hands me an envelope. My name is written on it in Mum’s handwriting. I stare at it, my hand trembling.
‘She wrote it for you before she died,’ Dad says. ‘Asked me to give it to you when the time came. If you want to take it to your room, I don’t mind. Or I can read it to you.’
I shake my head, open the envelope and pull out the two pieces of writing paper inside.
Dear Jess,
I’m sorry if this has come as a bit of a shock. It probably feels a bit creepy now, me contacting you from beyond the grave, but at the time it seemed like a good idea. One of the hardest things about saying goodbye has been knowing that I won’t be around for all the big moments in your life. Dad’s a good man, a very good man, one of the best, but there are times when a girl just needs her mum and I thought this might be one of them.
You’re getting married! I have to say it feels odd even thinking about it because right now you are a feisty fifteen-year-old who lives in ripped jeans and DMs and who would no doubt roll her eyes at me if I even suggested such a thing.
And it’s possible you’re not getting married, because I told Dad to give this to you when you find a partner for life, so maybe you’re just moving in with them and that’s fine too. It doesn’t really matter to me about the piece of paper, what matters to me is that you’re happy.
But anyway, congratulations! I don’t know how old you will be when you read this – eighteen (doubtful, I know), twenty-five, forty-five or whatever – but I am so pleased you have found someone you want to spend the rest of your life with. It’s not easy, life. And getting married doesn’t make it any easier, but it does mean you’ve got somebody by your side to help when things get tough. I hope that person deserves you and I hope they love you almost as much as I do (I don’t think it’s possible for anyone else to love you as much as I do).
Most of all, I hope they will love and cherish and care for you in the way you deserve. Always remember that you are amazing, and to be worthy of you, they need to be amazing too.
As I used to say to you, I don’t care how gorgeous the guy on your bedroom wall is to look at (and I do admit Robert Pattison is quite cute), if they don’t treat you right, you need to get shot of them.
Dad is not perfect (none of us are) and he may have lost a bit more hair since I’ve gone, and he’s probably still wearing the same bloody cardigan, but none of that matters, because he has a heart of gold and has been a complete rock for me these past few years.
When you were born, Jess, I tore really badly. Not just the usual stuff, but you perforated my bowel as you came out (you had your arm over your head – it’s OK, I forgave you a long time ago). I had to have it stitched back together again in the operating theatre. Loads of stitches – they didn’t even tell me how many because there were so many of them. And they told me when they discharged me from hospital that the first time I had a bowel movement afterwards, there was a chance they could burst. So when the time came, I was so bloody scared that I was going to split open again that your dad came into the bathroom with me and held my hand. It might not sound very romantic, I know that, but that is what real love is, Jess. Not all that silly stuff you see in Disney films.
So I hope the person you have chosen to spend the rest of your life with is that person. The one who is there for you when you most need it. The one who will never leave you to go through difficult stuff on your own.
I’ve left a present for you. Something borrowed, which I wore when I married your father. I hope you will be as happy as we were, Jess. And know that I am happy for you too.
Love always,
Mum X
I put the letter down on the table and burst into tears. Dad kneels down next to me and hugs me. He pulls me into him and rocks me, smoothing my hair with his hand. And right now I don’t care that I am twenty-three years old. I like feeling like a kid again, and I wish that he could hold me like this forever and make all the bad things go away.
‘She really loved you,’ I manage to say eventually, between sobs.
‘I know,’ he replies, brushing a damp strand of hair from my face, ‘but not as much as she loved you.’
Dad hands me the present from the table. I remove the blue ribbon, my fingers still shaking, peel back the Sellotape and pull out the box inside. When I lift the lid, I see a beautiful pearl choker. It is the one from my wedding photo. I had been wondering where it came from; it was the only thing missing. I thought maybe Angela was going to give it to me on the wedding morning, but it wasn’t Angela, it was Mum. I hadn’t even rea
lised it was the same one as in her wedding photo. A fresh round of tears start to fall. Dad takes the choker out of the box and fastens it around my neck. I touch it lightly. I can feel her. She is going to be with me on Saturday. She is going to help me through. Because she understands that nobody can love someone as much as a mother loves her child.
PRIVATE MESSAGE
Joe Mount
08/01/2018 at 9:39pm
They have charged him, Jess. Lee has been charged with your manslaughter. The police say they can’t charge him with murder because they can’t prove intent, but it doesn’t change the fact that he killed you. My beautiful, precious daughter, killed by her own husband. And I did nothing because I didn’t know he was hurting you. I didn’t know because you didn’t tell me. Why, Jess? Why couldn’t you have confided in me? Perhaps you didn’t want to worry me, but I wish you had.
The woman detective who came to see me said that sometimes women are embarrassed to come forward, that they feel it must be somehow their fault. Well, it wasn’t, Jess. No one deserves to be hurt like that. I’m sorry I didn’t protect you. I’m sorry I didn’t see the signs. Maybe I didn’t want to. Maybe I was trying too hard to be approving of my son-in-law, thinking that was what you wanted. I wish your mum had been here. She would have seen through it. She would have realised what was going on. And I know you would have talked to her.
I still can’t get my head around what has happened. It’s like you lived a secret life. I can’t quite take it all in. But in the meantime, I’m going to try to get Harrison. Angela will not want to let him go, I know that. But I am going to find a way to get him back where he belongs – because I know it’s what you would have wanted.
Jess
Saturday, 9 July 2016
I don’t scream when I read it. I don’t make any sound at all. Maybe because it is four o’clock in the morning and I don’t want to wake Dad up. Or maybe because I am no longer capable of making a sound. My body appears to have gone into some kind of convulsion. I am lying here shaking uncontrollably, my head lolling from side to side. My phone is lying on the bed, the post still showing. Lee does kill me. The man who I am due to marry today is the one who will end my life. Exactly how, I don’t know. But it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that he does it.
I only checked Facebook because I wanted to see a photo of H. I had been so good, not clicking on my timeline for weeks. But I couldn’t sleep because I was nervous and the only thing I could think of that would make me feel better was seeing H again. It was a stupid, stupid thing to do. But now I know and I can’t undo it. I can try to convince myself it is rubbish; more lies from a dumped ex-girlfriend and a jealous best friend. But I can’t un-see it. It is there, in my dad’s own words.
I close my eyes, trying to shut it out, but it is imprinted on the inside of my eyelids. I will never get rid of this now. The seed of doubt has been planted. And even if I try not to water it, it will look for cracks of light and seize upon them, finding a way to force itself to the surface. And as I walk up the aisle later today, that is what I will be thinking of. Instead of bursting with happiness at marrying the man I want to spend the rest of my life with, I will be wondering how he kills me. Wondering if it is true.
The shaking slows slightly and I regain limited control of my body. I am acutely aware that I still have a choice here. I could decide not to go through with the wedding. I wouldn’t even need to say why, I just wouldn’t turn up. Angela would go mental. Dad might secretly be relieved. Sadie certainly would.
But I could never explain my decision to anyone and would be left forever wondering if I’d thrown away my best chance of happiness because of something that might never have happened. And I’d have to quit my job, of course. Though that wouldn’t matter too much, because I’m sure I could get my old one back.
But there is one major reason not to call it off. One that stands out above all others. I pick up my phone, close Dad’s last private message and scroll back to an earlier post. A new photo of H. He is smiling, dimples on full, and I can see a couple of teeth. I didn’t even know my baby had cut his first tooth. That’s what I’ve missed, these past few months. Missed seeing him grow up. He has a bit more hair as well, though still not a lot. I look at the date of the post and Dad’s ‘Eight months today’ comment. I don’t even register the number of likes or all the comments underneath it. I am too busy doing the maths. It is only then that I know for sure: it is going to happen any time now. H is a honeymoon baby.
I start to shake again. The mercury is rising inside, so much so that I feel I may explode. If I don’t marry Lee today, H won’t exist. He will never get to cut his first tooth or smile at his grandad or be held by people who love him – people like me. How can I rob him of that? How can I rob him of the life he could live? He deserves to live; he deserves that chance. But I also know that if Mum were here, she would tell me I don’t deserve to have my own life cut short, like she did.
I sit bolt upright as I remember Sadie saying that she had read my letter. That she was going to make sure H was safe. I realise what I have to do. I can’t tell anyone now because they will not believe me, but I can leave a note for a time when they will. It might not save my life but it will maybe ensure that if – when – anything does happen to me, H is safe. Because, clearly, leaving him in the care of the person who supposedly kills me is not a satisfactory option.
I get out of bed, all thoughts of sleep having disappeared. I am wired now. I rummage through the cupboard in the corner of my room in search of some paper and an envelope. Then I grab a pen, sit down on the edge of my bed and start to write.
*
When dawn breaks, I am lying in bed, eyes wide open. I have decided. Or rather, I know what I must do. I feel like some figure from history; a young queen resigned to her fate. I get up slowly, wondering if it is the world that’s spinning or simply the inside of my head. The sealed envelope is propped up on top of my chest of drawers. It will be delivered today, no questions asked. Well, they might be asked but they will not be answered. I take three deep breaths before standing. I walk regally to the door, take my bathrobe from the hook, wrap it around me and open the door, prepared to face whatever the day should bring.
It is my turn to make breakfast for Dad. So often it has been the other way around, and I am painfully aware that from tomorrow I will no longer be able to do this simple thing for him. I wonder if all children are this crap or if it’s just me. Was I so busy wallowing in grief after Mum died that I never noticed his grief? Never noticed him running himself ragged on my account? It is not even a very good breakfast – poached egg on toast and a cup of tea. If I’d thought about it, I could have got something in specially. I didn’t think about it, though. That is the kind of half-arsed daughter I am.
Dad looks surprised when he opens the door and finds me with everything set out on the table. ‘Are you OK?’ he asks.
‘Yeah. Couldn’t get back to sleep. Thought I may as well get up and make myself useful.’
‘Big-day nerves?’ he asks.
‘I guess so.’
He comes over and gives me a hug. It takes all I have to hold my composure. ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I needed that.’
‘You haven’t got to worry about anything, you know. Angela really has taken care of it all.’
‘I know.’
‘She was right. All you’ve got to do is turn up.’
I manage half a smile. ‘I’ve made you poached eggs on toast,’ I say, going over to the cooker. Dad gives a sad kind of laugh.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘It doesn’t matter, you’ve made it now, but I’d got you something special in.’
*
It’s the waiting that does me in. If I had gone for a morning wedding, it would have been much easier. Simply a case of getting up, getting ready and leaving the house. There wouldn’t have been time to think about what I w
as doing.
Instead, there is this excruciating void. It’s too early to get into my dress. I still have a couple of hours before the hair and make-up lady comes.
My room is not the sanctuary it once was. My room is where the truth unfolds or the lies are spun, depending on how you want to look at it. There is nothing much left in there anyway. Most of my stuff has already gone over to Lee’s flat, including the case packed for the honeymoon. The room reeks of empty. Of saying goodbye. Of memories already fading. My phone beeps with a message. It is Lee.
I love you. Can’t wait to see you later Mrs Griffiths X
The two competing elements within me collide with such force that my whole body shudders. I need to deliver my letter. I pick up the envelope, run down the stairs and head towards the back door.
‘Where are you off to?’ asks Dad.
‘I need some fresh air.’
‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. I won’t be long.’
I suspect Dad is about to ask if he can come with me, which is why I run out before he has the chance. I don’t want to offend him by saying no. I head straight for the canal. The same place I went to when Mum died. I like the fact that you can walk in either direction and be able to get back without having to think about it. I take out my phone and call Sadie. I am crying even as she answers.
‘Hey, what’s up?’
‘Can you come and meet me?’ I sob.
‘Are you still at home?’
‘No. Down by the canal.’
‘What the fuck are you doing there?’
I go to answer but nothing comes out.
‘Look, stay there,’ says Sadie. ‘I’m on my way, OK?’
I note the sound of panic in her voice. She probably thinks I’m going to do something stupid. Which, I suppose, I am. Just not the sort of stupid she probably has in mind.
She arrives within five minutes. I can tell from her face and her breathlessness that she has run all the way. She throws her arms around me, seemingly relieved to find me still here. I start crying again.