The Nearly-Weds

by Jane Costello

  ‘Do you think she’s pretty?’ whispers Ruby.

  ‘She’s gorgeous,’ I reply. And I mean it. She has a classically beautiful face, with full lips, lightly freckled skin and the bone structure of a supermodel.

  I find a spare picture frame in a drawer in the hall – I remember seeing it there ages ago. Ruby watches as I position the photograph in it and close the back. ‘There,’ I tell her. ‘How’s that?’

  When she smiles, I know I’m back in business. ‘Good,’ she says decisively.

  ‘I’m glad. Now, come on, let’s get you tucked in.’

  ‘Wait,’ she says, and picks up the picture. She looks at it for a second, then plants her lips on the glass.

  I feel my heart swell and am immediately reminded that this is about so much more than me trying to do my job well. This is about a little girl being able to give her mommy a kiss – which she hasn’t done for nearly three years.

  When Ruby snuggles down in bed and pulls the covers up to her shoulders, I lean down to kiss her. ‘Night-night, Ruby.’

  ‘G’night, Zoe.’

  I’m about to leave when she pipes up again: ‘Zoe?’

  ‘Yes, sweetheart?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  By the time I get into my own bed it’s almost eleven thirty. Sleep washes over me quickly and deeply . . . and the next thing I’m aware of is Ryan’s voice. Which sounds like the equivalent of a helicopter taking off in my bedroom.

  ‘Zoe? Come out here, I’d like to speak to you.’

  I rub my eyes and look at the clock. It’s seven twelve a.m., which means I’ve had almost eight hours’ sleep. But it feels like only minutes since I dropped off.

  ‘Zoe? Are you listening to me?’

  I sit up in bed, feeling like a zombie who’s been suffering from insomnia for the last week.

  ‘Zoe!’

  I leap up, straightening my pyjamas and scanning the room for a band to tie back my hair. I might be half asleep but I’m certainly not going to answer the door to Ryan looking like the Bride of Dracula on a bad day.

  ‘Just a minute!’ I reply, in a tone that’s supposed to sound casual, but doesn’t.

  ‘ZOE!’

  I dive to the door and open it, regardless of the fact that I’m still minus a hairband.

  ‘Yes?’ I reply coolly.

  He’s about to speak when he glances at my pyjama top.

  ‘Is something the matter, Ryan?’ I ask calmly.

  He averts his eyes pointedly and gestures to my pyjama top.

  My eyes travel downwards.

  Then I nearly faint.

  Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck!

  I was so tired last night that I managed to miss out two buttons when I put on my pyjamas. This wouldn’t be such a big deal except that my left boob is poking through the hole.

  I dive back into my room, grab my dressing-gown and wrap it round myself tightly.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I mutter, my face burning. ‘Um, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Can I come in?’ he asks. His expression tends to indicate that he isn’t after a cup of tea and a nice long chat comparing horoscopes.

  My mind races – what have I got in my room that I might not want him to see? Top of the list is yesterday’s knickers next to my bed, which he definitely must not set eyes on – even if I have just flashed him.

  ‘I need to speak to you somewhere the kids can’t hear,’ he hisses.

  I hesitate. ‘Right. Sure. Just give me a second,’ I say, diving back into my room and shutting the door. Outside, I hear him sigh again.

  I scan the room as my heart pounds in an audacious attempt to break the world land-speed record. The offending knickers are kicked under the bed. The upper-lip dye kit on my dressing-table is chucked into the wardrobe. And, for some reason I can’t put my finger on, I replace the Jackie Collins on my bedside table with Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, a book I’d promised myself I’d read at some point in my life, but which I haven’t got round to yet.

  Within twenty seconds, the room is transformed into something I consider vaguely acceptable to Ryan’s eyes. I open the door. ‘Do come in,’ I say, as if welcoming him for mulled wine and canapés.

  Ryan enters and sits on the end of my bed. I plonk myself at the top. ‘Right,’ I declare brightly. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Chapter 31

  Sitting at the top of my bed, I catch a glimpse of myself in my dressing-table mirror and my worst suspicions about my hair are confirmed. It looks as if it recently got tangled up in the blades of a combine-harvester. I gather it together and hold it, trying to concentrate on what Ryan’s saying.

  ‘Zoe,’ he begins, with another heavy sigh. This morning he’s wearing a pair of long vintage shorts that I’ve never seen before. As he leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees, they ride up and expose his tanned, muscular lower thighs. I glance at them momentarily but the image lingers in my mind.

  ‘Yes, Ryan?’ I say.

  He looks at me directly and I see how weary he is. ‘My kids like you,’ he says softly.

  ‘Oh!’ I say, perking up. ‘Well . . . thanks. I mean, good!’

  He nods. ‘My kids like you. And . . . and I . . .’

  He’s about to reveal his assessment of me.

  ‘I think you’re – you’re . . .’

  I lean forward anxiously, biting my lip.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter what I think,’ he concludes.

  ‘Right.’ I feel deflated.

  He looks down at his hands and scratches the side of a finger. The golden skin on one of his knuckles goes briefly pale.

  ‘And it’s because we . . . that is, the kids like you, that I’m going to be as diplomatic as I can be.’

  I try not to raise an eyebrow, but the words ‘diplomatic’ and ‘Ryan’ aren’t natural bedfellows.

  ‘The photograph you put next to Ruby’s bed last night.’

  My heart nearly stops. I’d forgotten about it. But I know immediately that my reservations about it were justified. I also know that, whatever happened the other night, this is one conversation that isn’t going to end in a fit of the giggles.

  ‘Ah,’ is all I can bring myself to say.

  ‘Yes, ah,’ he mimics. ‘Well, I’ve removed it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And I’d like you to respect the fact that this is my house,’ he continues. His voice, as deep and rich as ever, has a throaty quality this morning. ‘If I’d wanted to decorate the place with pictures of my late wife, I would have. But I don’t. And I believe that’s my choice.’

  ‘Oh, Ryan, listen . . .’ I don’t know exactly what I’m going to say. ‘I mean, I didn’t realize—’

  ‘That’s all I wanted to say about it.’

  ‘Please let me explain—’

  ‘No,’ he interrupts.

  I’m so taken aback that I nearly fall off the bed. I sit up straight and will myself to keep it together. Because I know that, whether Ryan likes it or not, I have to explain what happened last night. ‘Please let me just tell you what Ruby said last night. Please.’

  He hesitates for a second. ‘Okay. What?’

  I gulp. Right. Keep things calm, Zoe. Calm but succinct.

  ‘She said the reason she never wants to go to bed is because her mommy’s not here any more to kiss her goodnight.’ The words tumble from my mouth. ‘She said she can’t picture her because she can’t even remember what she looked like. She said she wanted to be able to talk to her because—’

  ‘Stop!’ shouts Ryan. ‘That’s enough. For Chrissake, that’s enough.’

  ‘But, Ryan—’

  ‘I said that’s enough. Now, please, just do things my way. For once.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ I pull my dressing-gown tighter round me. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He nods slowly and takes a deep breath, then stands to leave.

  Oh, well done, Zoe. Beautifully handled.

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ I add awkwardly.
r />   As he reaches the door, he turns. My eyes meet his and I’m shocked by what I see. They’re filled with sorrow and, I’m certain, glistening with unspilled tears. Is he crying? Is Ryan really crying?

  ‘You didn’t.’ He sniffs, and slams the door behind him.

  Chapter 32

  To: Zoemmoore@hotnet.co.uk

  From: Helen@hmoore.mailserve.co.uk

  Dear Zoe,

  How are things? Sorry I haven’t emailed for a while but, as I think your father told you on the phone the other day, I’ve been feeling really out of sorts lately. Absolutely everyone at work has had this stomach bug and I’m sure I’m coming down with it.

  It’s all I can think because I’m absolutely exhausted and have lost my appetite completely. I’ve never been a big eater, as you know, but when we went round to Dave and Angela’s for a bite to eat the other night I could stomach hardly any of it. Still, I lost three pounds at Slimming World for the first time ever on a ‘red’ week, so it’s not all bad news.

  Anyway, Ian and Debbie next door have had their baby. It’s a little boy, weighing ten pounds seven ounces, would you believe? Debbie’s still feeling a bit tender after the birth. We saw her yesterday and she said it had been like trying to extract a watermelon from her private parts. Your father went a bit queasy. They’ve called him Harley. Harley Stan Keanu Xabi Smith. Still, I’m sure we’ll get used to it.

  Thanks for sending the pictures, by the way. The children are gorgeous, especially Ruby with that lovely blonde hair. And the house looks wonderful – like something straight out of Desperate Housewives. Of course, I still think you’d have been better taking that job in the Wirral, no matter how good a boss you keep telling me Ryan is. That place in Neston was one of those multi-storey nurseries. That’s what they call them, isn’t it?

  Oh, it’s no good: I need to tell you about something.

  Jason turned up at the house the other day. I was just coming in from work – after what had been a hellish day all round, not helped by Maurice Black from Payroll having scratched the side of the Astra as I was on the way out of the NCP – and he rolled up, just like that. Unbelievable. Wanted your address in America, apparently, and was quite insistent that we give it to him. Obviously we didn’t. Your father sent him packing and I honestly hope I never set eyes on him again.

  I hope I’ve done the right thing in telling you. You won’t worry, will you? I think we managed to get rid of him, and after what your father said to him, I’d be amazed if he ever darkened our door again.

  I’ve got nothing much else to tell you really, apart from the fact that I’ve picked out a new bathroom. It’s almost identical to one in the Fired Earth catalogue and it’s got a bidet. Your father’s reaction was: what do we need a bidet for when we’ve got Andrex? Isn’t that typical?

  Lots of love,

  Mum

  XXX

  Chapter 33

  Considering my mum normally treats gossip as a competitive sport, I can’t quite believe the lack of detail in her email about Jason having turned up at the house. What did he say, exactly? What was he wearing? Was he sheepish? Apologetic? And, more to the point, why did he come?

  Why? Why? Why?

  I can’t ask any of these questions in my reply to her, of course. Dwelling on the issue would shatter the carefully crafted illusion that I’m successfully getting over him. That, now I’m in the US, he barely enters my thoughts.

  It’s laughable, really, because nothing could be further from the truth. I think about him all the time, between the welcome distractions of Ryan’s biceps and decisions about the kids’ dinner.

  I’m constantly thinking about the small things: like how when he laughs, it’s a full-on laugh, no half-measures, tossing his head back and submitting himself entirely to the moment.

  I think about the precision with which he works when he’s cooking, his face a picture of intense concentration, even when he’s making something as straightforward as spaghetti Bolognese. I think about him singing in the shower in a way no one else I’ve ever met can: his powerful, melodious voice belting out tunes to recording-contract perfection.

  I think about these details and a million others. And I can’t stop.

  As well as the obvious problem that I’m still in love with him, it doesn’t help that there are so many unanswered questions about our relationship. For example, I have no idea when it all went wrong. I’ve asked myself time and time again and come up with a different conclusion every time.

  Then there’s my unresolved suspicion that there must have been another woman. Jason insisted afterwards that there wasn’t – not to me, because I’ve never seen him since that fateful day, but it wasn’t long before his explanation filtered through to me via mutual friends: he just got cold feet. He couldn’t go through with it. He’d realized I wasn’t right for him.

  Hearing all this made the weeks after the wedding so much more unbearable – because, although Liverpool has a population of around half a million, it can be a bit of a village sometimes. Ironically, it was one of the things I used to like about it. For example, I don’t think I’ve ever walked into Keith’s wine bar on Lark Lane without bumping into someone I know. I liked to think of it as comparable to life on the set of Friends, except that I bear about as close a resemblance to Jennifer Aniston as I do to a humpback whale.

  The only problem with a village is that when there’s something you don’t want to talk about, it becomes difficult when you know it’s the hottest topic around.

  I know it’s human nature to gossip. But I can’t imagine anything attracting more speculation and discussion than my wedding day.

  Bizarrely, though, the one person few people wanted to discuss it with was me. The look on their faces when they did end up talking to me – particularly if it was the first time they’d bumped into me since the day – was universally of pity, awkwardness, discomfort – a bit like the women in the Wind-eze adverts look when they’re suffering from ‘tummy troubles’, except, of course, you can’t buy something over the counter to stop you getting stuck in conversation with Zoe Moore.

  I suppose it was only to be expected, but after a while the atmosphere around me, everywhere I went, became oppressive.

  Even my relationships with my friends were affected. Jessica, whom I’d been so close to over the past few years, didn’t know how to handle things post-14 April. The problem was that her fiancé Neil was Jason’s best friend. When Jason and I were together, this cosy set-up had been great. When we’d split up, it was disastrous.

  The once-easy conversations between Jessica and me became strained. As somebody who continued to be in regular contact with Jason, she was clearly burdened by a sense of disloyalty to me. That, and a permanent state of panic about what was and wasn’t appropriate for her to reveal to me of what he’d said.

  The result was a series of awkward get-togethers between her and me in which she battled with her conscience about whether she should join in the ritual slagging-off of Jason, led by my mother, or whether, as someone who’d heard his side of the story, she should attempt a defence. Of course she never did, but I could see that that in itself made her feel guilty.

  The point is, friendships can’t survive that sort of thing – at least mine and Jessica’s couldn’t. And while I’d never go so far as to say I no longer count her as a friend, our relationship fizzled out somewhere along the way. We’ll send each other Christmas cards, I’m sure, but I don’t expect much more than that.

  As for Mum and Dad, they were another story. I don’t know what I would have done without my dad. Typically, he put a brave face on it and offered the sort of quiet support I needed. I’m not talking about anything fancy. I’m talking about cups of wallpaper-paste-strength Horlicks at bedtime. I’m talking about handling estate agents as sympathetic as plankton. And, above all, I’m talking about keeping my mother under control. Which cannot have been easy because she didn’t handle things well.

  I don’t blame her for being u
pset, of course: 14 April was her big day as well as mine. And she was right about the sugared almonds being hard to shift.

  While I didn’t – and don’t – blame anyone for any of it, after a while I wanted a break from it. A new start. So when I read an article in a magazine one day about women who’d used the skills they’d acquired in the UK to move abroad, it got me thinking.

  In many ways, I was about as likely a candidate for moving overseas as Gordon Ramsay is for the title of Miss World. I’d never done anything like it before. But as I checked my text messages for the fifty-third time that day to see if Jason had tried to contact me – and saw he hadn’t – I knew that enough was enough. I had to get away.

  But there’s one flaw in the clean break I’ve tried to make with my old life. You can travel across an ocean to escape. But you can’t escape your thoughts.

  Chapter 34

  Barbie and Action Man are having extensive plastic surgery, courtesy of a bumper tub of Play-Doh. Action Man is blessed with an extra leg, while Barbie has had breast enhancements so wonky that if she were real she’d have a strong case for medical negligence. It might not constitute a traditional Saturday-afternoon craft session, but it’s certainly keeping the children occupied while I get on with making their late lunch.

  As I look up from my tuna melts, however, I know immediately that the peace is about to be broken: Ryan enters the kitchen clearly more stressed than ever.

  ‘Zoe,’ he says, ‘I have a favour to ask you.’

  I try to stop myself looking puzzled. Ryan doesn’t normally think of his requests as ‘favours’. He normally thinks of them as things I should do automatically. Or he doesn’t think of them at all.

  ‘Er, okay. What is it?’ I hope I don’t seem too suspicious.

  ‘You don’t have to look so suspicious.’

  ‘I don’t,’ I say. ‘I mean, I’m not.’

  ‘It might be something nice,’ he continues defensively. ‘In fact, it is something nice.’