The Nearly-Weds

by Jane Costello

  ‘And I have no doubt he’ll go through with it this time,’ she continues. ‘A nice small service. Just a handful of us. No big hoo-ha like last time. Yes, it’ll be fine. Lovely.’

  I try to swallow but my throat seems to have closed. ‘What did he tell you exactly?’ I manage.

  ‘Oh, Zoe, for goodness’ sake.’ She tuts. ‘He had a proper heart-to-heart with us and told us everything. That you and he are back together. That you’ll get married at a register office – because it was that big old church and all those people that scared him off last time. Oh, and that it’s happening two weeks on Thursday.’

  Suddenly I feel the last mouthful of in-flight hash brown rise up my oesophagus. ‘Right.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, sweetheart,’ Mum says. ‘He probably didn’t tell you he was going to let us into your secret, did he? Well, don’t worry, we’re not going to breathe a word. There’s only me and your dad who know. And he only told us because he knew we’d never believe he was sincere about you getting back together otherwise.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Everything all right, love?’ Dad asks.

  ‘Oh, Zoe,’ Mum interrupts, before I have a chance to answer. ‘Don’t look so taken aback. As I’ve said, it’s our little secret. Jason told us how important it was not to tell anyone – and we won’t. I haven’t even told Desy, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘And that really is a first,’ adds Dad.

  Chapter 78

  Jason’s new apartment is on the fourteenth floor of one of the gleaming new developments that have sprung up on the banks of the river Mersey in recent years. An old-fashioned part of me has always loved the stretches of the waterfront that won it World Heritage status – the vast docklands and imposing neo-classical buildings that are a permanent reminder of its grander past.

  But the glistening skyscrapers – like the one Jason lives in – have added a surprising new dimension to the city’s beauty and charisma. A boldness about the future that suits it more than anyone who grew up here could have imagined.

  As the lift makes its way up to Jason’s apartment, my stomach is doing back-flips. I peer at my reflection in the mirror and feel a wave of relief. Okay, so after a long-haul flight and very little sleep my skin might not be glowing, but I’m slightly tanned and, more importantly, I’ve lost the weight I’d put on. My eyes have their shine back and my hair is satisfactorily glossy. For the first time in ages I feel good about the way I look, comfortable in my skin. I just hope Jason agrees.

  As I knock on his door, my heart is beating so fast that if I were undergoing medical tests right now I’d have the same heartrate as a hamster.

  A couple of seconds later, it opens.

  And there he is.

  The man I wanted so desperately to be my husband. The man I thought had rejected me but now wants me back. My lover. My friend. Jason.

  ‘How are you, sweetheart?’ He grins.

  ‘I – I’m fine,’ I breathe, my voice wobbling.

  We stand in front of each other, neither of us knowing what to say. Finally Jason takes the initiative. ‘Come here,’ he says softly, leaning forward to hug me. But as I move to reciprocate, my sleeve catches in the door frame. Awkwardly, I tug it out and try again.

  He wraps his arms round me and I attempt to submit to their reassuring familiarity. I wait to be overwhelmed by happiness and security, as I used to be. I close my eyes and squeeze him.

  The first thing that runs through my head is how small his physique feels compared with Ryan’s. My frame isn’t used to slotting into it any more. We’re two pieces of a jigsaw that don’t quite fit. After a few seconds, I pull away and look into his eyes. ‘I’ve missed you,’ I tell him.

  He kisses me. ‘Me too. Now, come on in and let me make you a coffee.’

  At first the conversation is strangely stilted, even though there’s so much catching up to do. It’s as if the depth and intimacy of what we discussed over the phone while I was back in the States never happened.

  ‘So . . . there were no delays on your flight or anything?’ Jason asks, as we sit next to each other on the sofa, his arm draped awkwardly round my shoulders.

  I feel like a fifteen-year-old in the back row at the cinema. ‘No, none at all,’ I reply.

  ‘Good.’ He nods. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I agree.

  Oh, this is no good. After twenty minutes of small-talk, I’m getting agitated. And, surely, with good reason. Jason hasn’t yet mentioned that he has rearranged our wedding. For two weeks on Thursday.

  ‘Jason.’ I turn to him and look into his eyes. ‘My mum told me something when she picked me up. Something I thought you might have raised with me by now.’

  ‘Ah,’ he replies. I can tell he knows what I’m talking about. ‘Did she?’

  ‘She said you’ve rearranged the wedding. Is that right?’

  Suddenly his face bursts into life. ‘Well, I was hoping to tell you myself.’ He beams. ‘I was waiting for the right moment. Your mum was supposed to be sworn to secrecy. But, well, never mind that. So, what do you think?’

  What do I think? That’s a bloody good question. Clearly I should be delighted. I’ve got every right to be a bit nervous too, of course, but delighted first and foremost. Only as I weigh delight versus nervousness, the latter wins hands down.

  ‘Clearly, I’m . . . um, delighted,’ I offer.

  ‘Fab! I knew you would be! Oh, sweetheart, this is going to be better than any wedding you could have imagined.’

  ‘I’m a little nervous, though, given what happened last time,’ I continue.

  ‘What?’ he says, as if I’ve broken his train of thought. ‘Nervous? Well, yeah, I can understand that. But, believe me, you’ve nothing to be nervous about this time. Absolutely nothing. Okay? Okay, sweetheart?’

  I gulp. ‘Of course.’

  I know it’ll be a while before things feel normal again. I mean, I’m bound to feel twitchy. It’s been a very stressful time. That’s why I feel weird about the impending wedding. And about Jason. A hell of a lot has happened since April.

  But that doesn’t mean I’m still not certain he’s the man for me. I just need to give myself time to adjust. That’s it.

  ‘Can I have another cup of coffee?’ I ask, feeling the need to stand up.

  ‘Sure, I’ll make you one,’ he says, leaping up attentively.

  ‘No, I’ll do it. Do you want one?’

  ‘Nah,’ he says. ‘Just sort yourself out.’

  I head towards the open-plan kitchen. It only takes a few paces and I’m there. It’s not exactly generously proportioned, this flat. In fact, it’s about as bijou as a broom cupboard.

  ‘When did you move in here?’ I ask, rooting around for the coffee.

  ‘Oh, a couple of months ago,’ he says proudly. ‘Gorgeous, isn’t it? I can just picture us settling here, can’t you?’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, a bit surprised. ‘You wouldn’t want to move into a house, then, like before?’

  ‘Nah. Why would you, when you can get a place like this for the same amount we’d be paying for a mortgage?’

  ‘So you wouldn’t want to buy anywhere again?’

  ‘Who needs that sort of commitment at our age?’

  ‘Isn’t getting married a commitment?’ I can’t help pointing out.

  ‘Yeah, course.’ He laughs. ‘That’s different.’

  His mobile rings and he picks it up, then heads into the bathroom – which is so sparkling that I felt guilty just sitting on the loo earlier.

  I abandon my coffee-making and go to the window to gaze out across the waterfront. The view is spectacular. The Mersey and the Charles river are nothing like each other, really, but I get another flashback to Boston.

  I’m desperate to phone Ruby and Samuel to say sorry for leaving so abruptly. To say I miss them. To say hello. I’m also desperate to stop thinking about my last kiss with Ryan. The feel of his body against mine, his lips, his—

  When Jason walks bac
k into the room again, he has a leather coat in his hand.

  ‘New coat?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah. Nice, eh? That was Neil on the phone asking us if we’d like a quick drink with him and Jessica. Do you fancy it?’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m shattered. That time difference, it’s a killer. Do you mind if I get some sleep?’

  ‘Oh, okay.’ He looks disappointed.

  ‘You go on, though,’ I add.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He walks across the room and puts his arms round me. I’m relieved that they feel less foreign than they did before. ‘God, I’m glad you’re back, gorgeous. I really am.’

  ‘Me too.’ I sigh.

  Then he prises me away from him and walks to the door, stopping to brush a non-existent fleck of dust from the hall table.

  ‘Oh, Jason . . . I’m just going to make a call to America,’ I say. ‘I have a couple of loose ends to tie up.’

  ‘No problem. As long as it’s not to a boyfriend.’ He winks.

  I flush so violently I must look temporarily menopausal, but fortunately he closes the door without glancing back.

  I pick up the phone and dial the number, my throat so dry that cacti could thrive in it. It rings four times before someone picks up.

  ‘Hello?’ It’s a little voice I recognize immediately.

  ‘Hello, Ruby, it’s Zoe.’ I feel ashamed of myself even before the words are out of my mouth.

  Chapter 79

  ‘They’re sending another nanny tomorrow,’ Ruby says, her voice wobbly but defiant. ‘But I’ve told Daddy I don’t want another nanny. I only want you. And so does Samuel.’

  I try to contain my emotions, but speaking to Ruby is almost too much for me. ‘I’m sure your new nanny will be wonderful,’ I say. ‘Really I am.’

  ‘That’s what Daddy said too.’ She sniffs. ‘But he doesn’t understand. He keeps saying that you were no different from all the other nannies and that the next nanny will probably be even better. But it’s not true. I know it’s not.’

  Logic tells me that Ryan has said this to make Ruby and Samuel feel better, but a surge of dismay nearly knocks me over.

  ‘Well, we’ll just have to see, won’t we?’ I say. ‘But I bet that in less than a week’s time, you won’t feel so bad.’

  ‘I wanted you to be our mommy, Zoe.’

  I try to find my voice without allowing any tears to escape, but it’s like trying to hold back a tidal wave with a cocktail umbrella. ‘That wasn’t going to happen, sweetheart,’ I croak. ‘Your daddy and I were just friends. We were very good friends, who got on with each other very well, but just friends all the same.’

  ‘No, you weren’t,’ she says accusingly.

  I pause. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You kissed,’ she said. ‘I saw you.’

  ‘Oh, er . . . did you? Where?’

  ‘In the kitchen while Samuel and I were playing outside.’

  ‘Oh, well, that was just a friendly kiss,’ I insist. ‘Nothing more, honestly.’

  ‘It didn’t look like it. It was how James Bond kisses ladies.’

  We’ve been well and truly rumbled. ‘Oh, er, right . . . well, perhaps.’

  ‘I told Daddy about it too,’ she continues. ‘He says it was no big deal. But I don’t believe him. It wasn’t no big deal, was it, Zoe?’

  I hold my hand over the phone for a second. ‘I don’t know, Ruby,’ I whisper, more to myself than to her. ‘I mean—’

  Suddenly I hear a commotion at the other end of the phone and Ryan’s voice in the background.

  My stomach is churning as I hear him take the phone from her.

  ‘Hey, Zoe.’

  ‘Hello, Ryan.’ About as original as a leather handbag in a Thai street market, but I can’t think of anything else to say.

  There’s a short but excruciating silence.

  ‘Well, you gave me a hell of a shock,’ he begins. ‘I couldn’t believe what I read in your letter.’

  I swallow.

  ‘I mean – wow,’ he continues. ‘You sure were keeping some secrets.’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply numbly. ‘I suppose I was.’

  ‘It made me feel terrible,’ he said.

  ‘It made you feel terrible? Why?’

  ‘I was an asshole when you first got here. A total asshole. And you had to put up with all that while you were going through hell yourself.’

  ‘You weren’t that bad.’

  ‘I’m sure I was.’

  There’s another silence, but I don’t feel such an overwhelming urge to fill it this time.

  ‘So, this guy Jason.’ His voice sounds weird as he says his name. ‘You’re giving it another go with him?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply.

  My response is decisive and unapologetic. That might seem strange, given that Ryan is the man I’ve been sleeping with, but I feel no need to tiptoe round the issue to avoid hurting his feelings. Not because I want to hurt his feelings – that’s the last thing I want – but because I’m certain I won’t.

  He will forget our fling as quickly as he forgot about all the others. And I don’t hold that against him, not for a second. I’d always intended it should be nothing more than a bit of fun – and that’s exactly what it was.

  ‘Okay,’ he says awkwardly.

  I consider going on to tell him that I’m getting married in just over two weeks’ time. Yet, for some reason, I think I’ve said enough. Aside from not wanting him to think I’m a complete nutcase, it doesn’t feel right. I don’t know why, but it doesn’t.

  ‘Well,’ he continues, ‘if you believe it’s the right thing to do, you gotta do it. And you got nothing but my best wishes.’

  His breeziness confirms everything.

  Ryan will have another woman on the go before the week is out, I’m certain of it. Maybe even Barbara King if she has her way.

  As we politely say goodbye and I put the phone down, I remind myself that this is not something I should be dwelling on, not now I’m about to be knee-deep in wedding planning again.

  Yet I have a lump in my throat. And it won’t go away.

  Chapter 80

  Mum’s pesto chicken and pine nuts looks suspiciously good. There’s no doubt, although it’s bubbling convincingly in her Le Creuset casserole dish in the oven, that it originated from Marks & Spencer. I wonder how she managed to dispose of the foil tray and cardboard packaging without any of us noticing.

  ‘Can I help?’ I ask.

  ‘No!’ she insists, dropping a packet of French beans over her marabou mules as she tries to juggle two pans of boiling water. ‘All under control!’

  I lean against the Welsh dresser. ‘I’ll set the table, then, shall I?’ I ask.

  ‘Good idea,’ she pants, blowing hair out of her eyes.

  She spends the next twenty minutes running around the kitchen with the frantic air of a decapitated chicken.

  ‘Are you sure I can’t help?’ I ask helplessly, as pans are spilled and sauces are whisked across the tiles.

  ‘All under control!’ she sings, her face getting redder.

  I perch on the edge of a chair.

  ‘Can I help at all?’ asks Dad, wandering in.

  ‘All . . . under . . . control!’

  Dad flashes me a look. ‘I tried,’ he whispers.

  By the time dinner’s on the table, Mum is so hot and bothered she’s having to mop her brow with the hem of her pinny – a shocking-pink number with ‘Yummy Mummy’ written in big letters across it.

  ‘There.’ She sits down with a satisfied smile. ‘All done. I said we were under control, didn’t I? Now, French beans, Zoe?’

  God, it’s weird being at home.

  This is where I’ve lived for most of my life yet I feel like a foreigner. From the labels on the milk cartons to the oversized, brightly coloured money. It all seems strange – so familiar and yet not.

  ‘So, love, are you excited about the wedding?’ Dad asks.


  I smile, grateful for the question. It’s the first time Dad has mentioned this since I flew home and I can tell it sticks in his throat. He’s only bringing it up for my benefit.

  Because, while he was more than happy to give his unequivocal blessing when I was getting married to Jason the first time, the second time is a different matter.

  This has bothered me. Dad has never been the sort of father to disapprove of just about anything. Every milestone of my development – the first lipstick I bought, getting my ears pierced, my first night out at the pub – led to a low level of hysteria from Mum, but Dad was the opposite. ‘She’s more sensible than we ever were,’ he’d argue, to her exasperation.

  Yet he disapproves of the impending wedding. There’s no doubt of it. He’s said nothing about it until now – but he doesn’t need to.

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ I say. ‘I am. Very excited.’

  ‘Well, I for one can’t wait!’ adds Mum, with a grin. ‘Jason’s always felt like a member of the family and this is just going to confirm it.’

  Dad coughs and flashes her a look. I try to work out what he’s trying to say to her.

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask.

  Dad turns to Mum. ‘Don’t you think it’s time you let Zoe into your news?’ He seems strangely nervous as he reaches over and holds Mum’s hand tenderly.

  Mum looks all hot again. ‘I suppose I better had,’ she says, after she’s finished her mouthful. Even then she’s hesitant, almost as if she’s stuck for words. It’s not an affliction I’d usually associate with my mother.

  ‘Zoe,’ she begins, ‘you know I told you I found something out from Dr Ahmed recently?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Well, that conversation we had over the phone when I said it was something serious? I wasn’t joking.’

  My throat goes dry. Oh, God. Oh, God, no. It can’t really be serious, can it? I’d convinced myself Mum was being a hypochondriac.

  ‘What is it, Mum?’ I put down my knife and fork.

  ‘At least, it’s serious in that it’s going to affect our lives quite a lot. My life. Your father’s. And yours, for that matter.’