How Not to be a Bride

by Portia MacIntosh

  ‘Ooh, that Leo’s handy,’ Dylan says in a woman’s voice. ‘I fucking felt how handy he is. He picked me up like I was a fucking pillow. He might be a twat but, with muscles like that, I can see why you’re with him.’

  I laugh. I hope he’s joking.

  ‘I don’t suppose it will be easy to find a hotel so last-minute that isn’t extortionate, but I don’t really want to go home. Can I stay in one of your guestrooms, please?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course you can,’ he replies. ‘Your bed is still made up from last night.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply. ‘Can we get out of here now?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll call for my car.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  I was woken up this morning by a sharp pain in the lower left part of my abdomen. Typical, I thought, that I’d finally get my period when I’m staying in someone else’s house – a male, who absolutely won’t have anything in his bathroom to help me out. But when I got up and went to the bathroom there was no sign of it so I did what anyone would do – I started googling whether or not having a glass of champagne on top of my painkillers had damaged my stomach. When that didn’t really turn up any information to make me feel better, in my increasingly anxious state, I started googling missed periods and the potential causes. As one search term led to another I found myself on a very scary article about fertility.

  I don’t know if it’s my age or my friends or what, but Facebook has been pushing its baby agenda on me in recent weeks. That’s what it feels like, anyway. I haven’t been able to help but notice that all of the sponsored content I’m seeing is about pregnancy and babies – so why wouldn’t I think they were trying to tell me something? First up, I started seeing ads for baby blogs and mummy forums. Next it was serving up fertility trackers. Finally, this week, they sent me the biggest hint yet: an ad for a sperm bank. It’s like they thought: OK, let’s just remind this girl that babies are a thing that people her age are having – like, maybe she forgot. When that didn’t work they figured: clearly she doesn’t know how to get pregnant, or she’d be doing it, right? So they showed me fertility tracking apps and stuff. But now they’ve finally figured out why I’m not reproducing – because I’m missing that one vital ingredient, and if I can’t source any on my own, I might as well order some online, right?

  With my womb on my mind, I started googling the fertility of thirty-something-year-olds, and I really wish I hadn’t.

  This morning I read all about a study which concluded that, by the time a woman turns 30, she’s lost 90 per cent of her eggs. 90! And this number declines so quickly that, by the time you’re 40, you’ve only got three per cent of your eggs left. I suppose I’d never really given it much thought, but I had no idea it was so hard to conceive in your thirties. Now I’m panicking because I feel like I was so stubborn for so long, insisting I didn’t want to get married and that I didn’t want a family, and now here I am, wanting both of those things, and seemingly unable to have either. My fertility might be out of my hands, but my unexplained reluctance to plan this wedding is all me. Leo talks about wanting to be a dad so much; if I can’t give him kids, it wouldn’t be fair to marry him, would it? That’s what he wants from life. It’s important to him. It’s kind of unfair that men have their entire lives to have kids and women just have this window (and they have to do all the hard work bringing them into the world) – but that’s being a woman, right? It’s not easy.

  I stare into my coffee cup until a voice snaps me out of it.

  ‘Morning, Mia,’ Mitch says chirpily.

  ‘Morning,’ I reply. ‘Do you live here?’

  He laughs.

  ‘I don’t. I know I’m here a lot. I came in early to see Dylan this morning. He’s written a song he wanted me to hear it.’

  ‘Dylan is up? It’s not midday.’

  ‘And he’s written a song! Do you know how long it’s been since he’s written a song?’

  ‘That’s great,’ I tell him. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s in the living room. I’m sure he won’t mind being disturbed.’

  I grab my coffee and head off to find him. I walk into the room just in time to catch the last few lines of a beautiful ballad he’s penned.

  ‘Wow, Dill, that’s amazing,’ I tell him.

  ‘It’s not really finished,’ he says, sounding the tiniest bit embarrassed. ‘But I felt inspired. I haven’t felt inspired in a long time.’

  ‘I’m so proud of you,’ I tell him, and I mean it. I know how rough he’s had it; it’s amazing that he keeps going.

  ‘How are you?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m panicking about running out of eggs,’ I tell him honestly.

  ‘We can get more eggs,’ he replies, but then he clocks the look on my face. ‘Oh, those eggs. Lady eggs.’

  ‘Sorry, I was just reading some dumb article and I probably should have gone home last night.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he replies. ‘It’s not weird that you’re thinking about having kids. Most people want kids.’

  ‘You didn’t?’ I ask.

  ‘We getting into it already?’ he laughs. ‘Go on, get your Dictaphone. Let’s get this over with.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask. ‘This really is the last bit of information I need from you, then we’re done, I can write the book.’

  ‘I have mixed feelings about that fact,’ he tells me. ‘But yes, I’m sure.’

  Dylan and I settle down on the sofa with my Dictaphone for our final session. I think I’m going to miss hearing his stories. Not just because they’re interesting, but because of the way he tells them. He’s a born entertainer.

  ‘Where shall I start?’ he asks.

  ‘Start with when you met your ex-wife,’ I suggest.

  ‘So, I don’t actually remember meeting Crystal Slater,’ he starts. ‘Looking back, she was the kind of girl I would’ve slept with – blonde, skinny, desperate to shag someone famous.’

  I can hear just how negatively he feels towards her in his voice already.

  ‘One day she reaches out, tells me she’s eight months pregnant with twins, tells me they’re mine, tells me she’s got the conception on tape, she’s threatening to go to the press with it… I figure I’m screwed. I have all these PR experts telling me just how bad this is, so… I feel so stupid now… because I want to do the right thing by these kids, I marry her. I do it for the kids, to cut down on bad press and because I think there’s this scared girl about to have two babies she didn’t plan for and it’s all my fault.’

  ‘Your intentions were good,’ I tell him.

  ‘So, I pull out all the stops, money no object, to give her the wedding she wants, and then she has the babies and… she changes. It’s like she hates me, man. She doesn’t wanna be around me, she kicks me out of my bed. So, I’m not proud to admit it – and I swear, I did want to make this marriage work – but I started sleeping around again. My life was just so miserable. I started drinking more too. Do you really think I’m a high-functioning alcoholic?’ he asks me, quickly steering us onto a different topic, one I wasn’t expecting.

  ‘You do drink too much,’ I tell him. ‘Well, like, you drink too much at inappropriate times.’

  ‘Do I really, though?’ he asks.

  ‘What’s in that mug?’

  ‘Point taken,’ he says. ‘Anyway, things get worse and worse and they finally come to a head and I tell her I want a divorce. She says fine, because the kids aren’t mine anyway. She says she just wanted some rich idiot to bleed dry.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘So, when she said she had a video of the conception, I just kind of took her word for it, and when I mentioned a DNA test before the wedding she got really upset and offended – I felt bad, man. I wasn’t there when they were born. I missed it, I was off partying. Don’t look at me like that,’ he says, even though I didn’t realise I was. ‘I didn’t want kids, didn’t want to get married. I only spent a few days over Christmas with them before I had to go off on tour. So, few month
s after Chardonnay and Lambrini are born – and don’t say anything about their names because I had no say in them at all – she’s suddenly saying they’re not mine, we’re getting a divorce, she’s not gonna let me see them… I tell her I don’t care, I want to take care of them. Like, I didn’t want them, sure, but I’m not a dick. She gets the DNA test done, literally throws it in my face and… they’re not mine. She doesn’t know who their dad is, but figured I’d be the best shot at giving them a good life so she said it was me. I figure, we leave my name on the birth certificate and that way, sure, they’ve got a bad mum, but I can still pay for them, for the best care for them. So they go to a fantastic preschool, they have the best nannies taking care of them. I look like the villain who doesn’t see his kids, but surely it’s more important they’re taken care of?’

  ‘Man, marriage is but trouble,’ I say. ‘My life was so much easier before I entertained the idea.’

  ‘Same,’ he laughs.

  ‘People need to know the real you, Dylan. You have to let me include this in the book.’

  ‘You think I like playing the villain? The bastard who doesn’t want anything to do with his kids? Of course I don’t.’

  ‘OK, but when they’re old enough, they’ll read this book and see what you did for them, and whether they’re your blood or not, they might want to reach out to you, to thank you for giving them the best start in life.’

  Dylan thinks for a second.

  ‘Well, OK, put it in the first draft, and I’ll have a word with Charles and the publishers and we’ll see what everyone agrees is a good idea.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, turning off the Dictaphone before clapping my hands. ‘So, we’re done.’

  ‘Wow,’ he says. ‘I knew we’d run out of stuff to talk about eventually, but…’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ I laugh. ‘We’ll keep in touch, though, right?’

  ‘Course we will,’ he replies.

  ‘Well, I’ll go get my stuff,’ I tell him. ‘Then go home and face the music.’

  ‘Come to Paris with me tonight,’ he blurts as I reach the living-room door.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come to Paris,’ he says. ‘I’ve got this thing tomorrow, I’m flying there late tonight. You deserve a break, and a thank you for all your hard work. You got the job finished when no other writer would. I’m flying on a private jet, bit of work tomorrow, back the next morning. It’ll be cool.’

  Oh God, I’m so tempted.

  ‘I don’t think my family will be happy with me, pissing off to Paris, just for fun, a few days before Christmas.’

  ‘So, tell them it’s for work. Pretend we didn’t just have this conversation and this is your last chance to get information out of me.’

  I think for a second. That could work. Well, things have just been so shitty recently, my anxiety has been creeping back…

  ‘I can’t,’ I tell him. ‘I’d love to, but I can’t.’

  ‘You going to go home and smooth things out with your fella?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘In fact, I’m going to go call him now.’

  I head upstairs, close the bedroom door, sit down on the bed and take a deep breath before calling Leo. After several rings, he picks up.

  ‘Hello?’ a female voice answers.

  ‘Erm…’

  I move my phone away from my head to check that it was Leo I actually called.

  ‘Mia?’ she says.

  ‘Erm, yeah…’

  ‘Sorry,’ she giggles. ‘Leo is just finishing screwing something and then he can talk.’

  I’ll bet he is.

  ‘Mia, hey,’ he says coolly, sounding mad at me still, but mindful of the fact he has company.

  ‘You got a secretary now?’ I ask.

  ‘Amy is here, she’s helping me with furniture.’

  ‘OK?’ I reply, although it sounds more like a question than a response.

  An awkward silence follows.

  ‘Can you go somewhere we can talk, please?’ I say calmly.

  ‘Sure,’ he replies.

  I wait a few moments for Leo to go into a different room.

  ‘OK,’ he says.

  ‘First I find out you were on a “lads” night out with her, then I find out she’s got your jacket, then she’s texting you… After all that, do you really expect me to believe that, after you and I have a huge row, you just decided to invite her over to build furniture with you?’

  ‘Why, Mia? Because you think that when people fall out they just go off and sleep with someone? That’s something LA Mia would do.’

  ‘This term “LA Mia” needs to die now, because there is no LA Mia or UK Mia, there’s just Mia, and I’m me, and you seem to have a problem with it,’ I reply.

  ‘Amy is here helping me build furniture because there’s something I wanted to get finished before Christmas, but… do you even care? Do you care about the house? The wedding? Do you care about me? You’re the one who didn’t come home last night,’ he points out.

  ‘I figured you’d want some space,’ I tell him. ‘And I slept in one of Dylan’s five spare bedrooms – one that you were perfectly happy for me to stay in the night before – one that we were both invited to stay in the night before.’

  ‘Yeah, I was fine with it when I thought he was looking after you. Not trying to kill you or shag you.’

  ‘Dylan isn’t trying to shag me,’ I squeak, before quickly adding: ‘He isn’t trying to kill me either.’

  ‘Mia, don’t you see the way he looks at you? He came to your family’s Christmas party, for crying out loud. Who does that if they’re not interested in someone? And he just flashed his cash and everyone fell at his feet. My nose was pushed right out.’

  ‘Leo, that isn’t how it was at all.’

  ‘And then you singing your little duet with him, dancing with him, defending him when he nearly got you killed.’

  ‘OK, Leo, listen, you need to calm down,’ I insist.

  ‘How can I calm down when the woman I love doesn’t want to marry me?’ he asks.

  For a moment, I’m silent.

  ‘Leo, of course I want to marry you – I said yes, didn’t I?’

  ‘You did – but why? Every time anyone mentions the wedding to you, you change. Anytime anyone tries to plan any element of it, you make excuses. In five months, you haven’t made one arrangement – you haven’t even made any decisions, let alone any bookings.’

  ‘I’m busy with the book.’

  ‘…the book,’ he says in sync with me. ‘Yeah, you’re always busy with the book. But I don’t think that’s it. I don’t think you want to marry me. I want to get married, I want to have kids – you told me you wanted the same things, so if that’s not true, what are we even doing?’

  My breath catches in my throat. I love Leo so much, but he’s right. I have been avoiding planning this wedding, and I can’t explain it, but maybe it is because I don’t want to get married. And as for kids… I’m not sure that’s going to be my decision, not if Mother Nature says no.

  ‘Mia?’ he says. ‘Do you want this wedding to go ahead or not?’

  I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out, just shallow breaths in quick succession.

  ‘You can’t say yes, can you?’ he says.

  ‘I…’

  ‘Mia, are we even engaged any more?’ he asks. ‘Because I don’t think we are.’

  ‘You’re dumping me?’ I squeak. ‘You’ve got Amy there, answering your phone, and you’re dumping me days before Christmas?’

  ‘Look, I was busy putting something together, but I did tell Amy to answer my phone. I wanted to give you a scare, to see if you cared about me,’ he confesses.

  ‘What the fuck, Leo?’

  ‘Mia, look, I’m not dumping you.’

  ‘No, you’re just testing me,’ I reply angrily.

  ‘I want to marry you, but I want you to want to marry me too. And I don’t think you do. So stay there for a while if that’s what you want,
but figure out what you want before you come back, because I won’t wait for ever.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, sure I’ll stay here and you stay there, in my home, playing house with Amy,’ I reply angrily, before hanging up the phone in a temper.

  How dare he test me like this? I don’t know if Amy is helping him with his screwing or not, but letting her answer the phone to see how I reacted is ridiculous. He knew it would upset me and for what? So he could feel less insecure?

  Well, if he wants me to stay away for a few days and figure out what I want then, fine, I’ll do it, but I might as well do it from Paris.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I can finally tick flying in a private jet off my bucket list.

  From the outside the jet seemed small… well, small compared to the massive passenger plane I’m used to nipping back and forth across the Atlantic in. But inside, it was massive. I was expecting a narrow cabin with a few seats either side of the aisle, not the mobile luxury apartment I stepped into.

  I expected more people but it was just me and Dylan. He said his backing band were making their own way there, and that Mitch would be accompanying them. It felt like a huge waste, there being so much room on the jet, but it was kind of nice having it to ourselves. Not only did it have sofas, a TV, a bed and a kitchen with all the bells and whistles you could hope for, but there was also a bathroom with a massive bath in there. The flight only took 35 minutes but I was so comfortable on my cream-leather sofa, sipping champagne, that I jokily asked the pilot if we could go around the block.

  It was pretty late when we arrived so we went straight to the hotel and then straight to our room. We’re staying at the luxurious five-star Hotel du Petit Fleur. Dylan told me he always stays here, and that it ‘used to be the house of some emperor or some shit’. I found the tourist information he offered up adorably hilarious. He looked so serious as he said it. I also felt fiercely jealous that he has a ‘usual’ hotel in Paris, for all his regular trips.

  I say ‘our’ room, but we’re staying in the penthouse suite, which actually boasts two bedrooms at opposite ends of a huge living room. Just in case the huge floor-to-ceiling windows weren’t enough, they open out onto an impressive balcony with a postcard-perfect view of the Eiffel Tower. Even though I was tired when we arrived last night, I still found time to Instagram the perfect skyline. If this trip is anything, it’s a good way to raise my Instagram profile again.