The Nearly-Weds

by Jane Costello

  I get a wave of nausea. Grandma Bonnie died of breast cancer when she was in her fifties. Mum is only forty-four. That’s it, isn’t it? I know it.

  ‘What is it, Mum?’ I ask, desperate for her to put me out of my misery.

  She turns to Dad and squeezes his hand. Then she smiles. ‘I’m pregnant, love,’ she tells me. ‘You’re going to have a little sister or brother.’

  Chapter 81

  ‘Bloody hell,’ sighs Trudie on the phone the next day. ‘EastEnders is boring, compared with your family.’

  I snort. She’s not wrong, though. A little sister or brother. I can still barely believe it.

  ‘So how do you feel about it? It must be weird, given your mum’s old enough to be a grandmother.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ I splutter. ‘Don’t tell her that if you ever meet her, whatever you do.’

  Trudie giggles.

  ‘In answer to your question, though, I’m chuffed to bits, I really am. I can’t say it wasn’t a surprise, but I’m ridiculously pleased. I always wanted a sister or brother, and now I’m going to get one. Admittedly I’ll be changing their nappies instead of borrowing CDs from them, but still.’

  ‘So is there anything else you need to tell me?’ she asks teasingly. ‘You know, apart from you having just got back together with the man who jilted you – oh, and your mother being up the duff.’

  ‘What did you have in mind?’ I giggle.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she continues. ‘I don’t think anything could shock me now. You had any affairs with high-profile politicians?’

  ‘No,’ I say decisively.

  ‘Any secret love-children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A sex change?’

  ‘No.’ I laugh.

  ‘I still can’t believe you never told me about your wedding – I mean the wedding you never had,’ she continues.

  This is the fourth long-distance phone call we’ve had in less than a week, and the fifth time she’s mentioned that in the last ten minutes.

  ‘I know, I know, and I’m sorry,’ I say, meaning it.

  ‘Bloody ’ell, love, I’m not asking you to be sorry. I just mean I feel awful you couldn’t confide in me. I must have been so wrapped up in my own problems.’

  ‘It wasn’t that. And I did try once when we were out one night, but Ritchie turned up. Not that that matters. Honestly, Trudie, the reason I came to the States was to escape even having to think about being jilted, never mind talk about it.’

  ‘So you sure you’re doing the right thing now?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘I mean, yes.’

  Trudie pauses for a second. ‘Look, tell me to butt out here but you don’t sound a hundred per cent convinced.’

  ‘I am. Honestly, Trudie – I am convinced.’

  I can’t help squirming, though. The truth is, I do want to get married next Thursday. Jason and I have spent a lot of time together since I returned and things are definitely slotting back into place.

  If I’m entirely honest, I’d have to admit that I remain slightly jumpy about things. Part of me wonders whether it’s too soon, whether I need more time to get used to the idea. Again. But logic tells me that this is one man I spent seven years wanting to be married to. That hasn’t changed – I know it. And I’m certain that any reticence I feel is only because of what happened last time.

  In the light of this, taking the bull by the horns and going ahead with this marriage – whether it feels rushed or not – is the right thing to do. No doubt about it.

  ‘I’m sure, Trudie,’ I say. ‘If I sound a bit funny, it’s just that – well, after what happened last time, I can’t help being nervous about it. That’s all. It’s only to be expected.’

  ‘And you love him?’ she asks.

  ‘Of course.’ I laugh. ‘I wouldn’t have leaped on a plane and flown back here at the first opportunity if I didn’t, would I?’

  ‘Okay. Fine. Okay.’

  ‘I do wish you could be here for the wedding, though.’

  ‘I know, but – well, hang on a minute,’ she says. ‘Maybe there is a way . . . I’ve been promising my folks I’ll come home for a week at some point – I’ve just never got round to booking it. And they’re going ballistic because I’m not there for Christmas. Maybe I could combine the two . . .’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. I’m due for a break soon and Barbara was saying to me only the other week she’d prefer me to take it before the end of the holiday season.’

  I feel a surge of happiness so powerful I’d cartwheel across the living room if I wasn’t terrified about leaving skidmarks on Jason’s carpet. Then another idea strikes me.

  ‘Listen,’ I say. ‘Since you’re going to all this effort to come to my wedding and everything, I wonder if I could make a little request?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘How do you fancy being my bridesmaid?’

  She lets out a scream that nearly deafens me.

  ‘Is that a yes, then?’

  ‘Bloody right it is. Oooh, Zoe, I’ve never been a bridesmaid before. Oh, my God, I’m going to wet myself! This is fantastic! Oh, and don’t worry, I’ll get a gorgeous dress. It’ll be well classy, believe me.’

  ‘Trudie,’ I tell her, ‘I’d have expected nothing less.’

  Chapter 82

  ‘What is this again?’ Desy whispers to me, during Christmas dinner.

  ‘Roasted carrots with a honey-mustard glaze,’ I tell him, sticking my fork into a mound of orange gloop that looks less like a root-vegetable dish than radioactive waste. ‘It’s Mum’s personal interpretation of something from her new Jamie Oliver book.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says sceptically. ‘What happened to Nigella? I thought she was Nigella’s biggest fan after last year’s triumph.’

  ‘I know, but the Christmas pudding came out wrong the other week so she’s disowned her,’ I tell him. ‘Nigella is now, officially, unreliable. The fact that the pudding had been boiled for twenty-two hours solid and she’d forgotten to put any suet in it apparently had nothing to do with it.’

  Desy and I stifle a giggle. Loyally Dad refuses to join in.

  Mum approaches the table wearing her new Missoni-inspired blouse (from Zara) and with a jug of gravy she’s been whisking for the last twenty minutes to remove some of the lumps.

  Unfortunately, as it slides over Dad’s turkey like molten lava, I fear nothing short of a cement-mixer would save it now.

  ‘Now, Zoe,’ says Mum, sitting down and carefully positioning her paper hat, ‘don’t eat too many of those roast potatoes. You were like a whale when you went to America, and now you’ve lost all that weight, I just won’t let you put it back on – not with less than a week to go until your big day.’

  ‘I haven’t eaten anything yet,’ I protest.

  ‘Your mum’s right,’ pipes up Jason. ‘I mean, you’re lovely as you are. Obviously I think that – I’m marrying you.’

  Everyone giggles a little too much.

  ‘I’m just saying,’ he continues, ‘no one wants to look fat on their wedding day, do they?’

  ‘No – it’ll be up to me to do that!’ howls Mum, patting her tummy.

  Jason grins. ‘Aw, you’re barely showing yet, Mrs M. How far gone are you?’

  ‘Five months.’ She smiles. ‘But I didn’t start showing with Zoe until I was almost seven. It’s in the genes. Grandma Bonnie was exactly the same.’

  ‘You must be over the moon,’ he says.

  ‘Well, I can’t say it didn’t come as a bit of a surprise,’ she laughs, ‘but, yes, we’re delighted. Now, Zoe, sprouts?’

  I glance at the large spoonful of snot-coloured mush in her hand. ‘Um, I’ll just have a roasted parsnip,’ I say. I happen to know the parsnips are a shop-bought emergency side dish, something Mum kept in the freezer in the unlikely eventuality that her Delia version went wrong. Which it did.

  ‘A roasted parsnip?’ Mum explodes. ‘Are you kidding? Do you know what th
e fat content is in those things? Stick to the sprouts, for goodness’ sake. There’s only eight calories in each of those.’

  ‘Eight calories? Oooh, steady on, Zoe,’ says Desy, sarcastically.

  ‘It is Christmas,’ I point out to Mum. ‘All I’m after is a parsnip, not a Chinese banquet for ten.’

  Jason smiles encouragingly.

  ‘You’ll thank us when you look at your photos in years to come. Now, here you go,’ Mum adds, ladling an alarmingly large portion of sprout mush on to my plate. ‘Oh, and make sure you go easy on the gravy, won’t you? Although I see you’ve not had any. Good girl!’

  My mum’s relationship with Jason has gone a bit weird since I came back. Weird, as in conspiratorial. I know why: without Mum on side, Jason knows he’d struggle to pull off a second attempt at a wedding. I can’t pretend I’m not starting to find it nauseating, though.

  ‘Now, Jason, about next week,’ Mum continues, ‘do you know whether your mum’s going to be wearing the same outfit as last time?’

  ‘She said she was going to buy something new. She thinks it’s bad luck otherwise.’

  ‘Precisely my thoughts,’ Mum agrees. ‘So I’ve bought a new silk dress in ultraviolet. I’ve only got a little bump so far, so I can get away with one I saw in Cricket. So, could you just tell her if she’s going to buy a new outfit not to get one in ultraviolet? It’d be awful if we turned up in the same colour.’

  ‘Sure.’ Jason nods.

  ‘I mean, I’m not saying she can’t wear anything with a purply tone. Lilac would be fine. She might even try jacaranda. Anything but an ultraviolet, is all I’m saying.’

  ‘There’s only going to be a couple of people there to see it, remember,’ I tell her gently. I’m concerned she’s forgetting the wedding isn’t going to be like the first one we planned.

  ‘I know that, Zoe. But it’s still your big day. And we’re still going to be having our photos taken.’

  I lean over to grab a Yorkshire pudding and Mum slaps my hand so hard and fast it’s like watching Mr Miyagi in The Karate Kid. For a second our eyes lock.

  ‘Have this,’ I mutter, reluctantly putting the Yorkshire pudding on Jason’s plate.

  Suddenly my phone rings. I glance at it briefly and see a US number. ‘Won’t be a sec,’ I say, leaping up from the table and scuttling into the living room to take the call. My heart is pounding as I answer the phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Happy Christmas!’

  It’s Trudie. I’d recognize those dulcet tones anywhere.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  ‘Oooh, bloody ’ell, you’re not exactly full of the Christmas spirit,’ she observes. ‘Were you expecting someone else?’

  ‘No, no. Not really. Honestly. Thanks for phoning, Trude. Happy Christmas to you too. Sorry, I thought it might have been . . . Ruby.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve just seen her,’ she tells me. ‘She’s got your present by the way – those little pink shoes. She’s wearing them. Over the moon with them, she is. As is Samuel with his train.’

  ‘Did you see Ryan?’ I find myself asking, trying to sound casual.

  ‘Yeah, hon, I did,’ she says. ‘I get the feeling he’s missing you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, their new nanny isn’t much good. The kids don’t get on with her and have virtually refused to leave the house with her. Bedtime’s a nightmare too.’

  ‘Oh.’ I curse myself for feeling disappointed that she’s only referring to my nannying skills.

  ‘Anyway, hon, listen,’ she says, breaking my train of thought, ‘as well as saying Happy Christmas, obviously, I thought I’d let you know my flight’s booked. I’ll be coming into Manchester on Tuesday.’

  When I put the phone down, I hesitate before going back into the dining room. Why can’t I stop thinking about America?

  Oh, stop it, Zoe. Just stop. You’ve come all the way home to get what you wanted. If ever there was a time to get on with things, stop worrying and appreciate what you’ve got, it’s now.

  I sit down at the table and put my hat back on as Mum is dotting brandy butter over the Christmas pudding. It no longer looks mass-produced – earlier, I spotted her bashing its giveaway smooth surfaces with the back of a wooden spoon.

  ‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ she says, scuttling away. She returns with a pot of something she plonks on my mat. ‘I got you a Müller Light, love,’ she says. ‘I thought it best under the circumstances.’

  Chapter 83

  Having sex with Jason again is nice.

  Not as passionate as it was with Ryan. Not as adventurous. Not as hot and breathless and . . . but, look, it really is nice. I know you never get magazines like Cosmo comparing good sex with a cosy pair of slippers, but I honestly believe there’s a lot to be said for it.

  Excitement and passion are easy to muster up when you’ve only just met someone. Having a lasting sexual relationship requires so much more. The way Jason touches me, the position he chooses, the way he shudders when he comes . . . They might be oh-so-familiar but familiarity is what I crave. And as I lie in his arms gazing at the rain belting his bedroom window, I’m certain our sex life will get better with time.

  Particularly when I manage to stop those bloody images of Ryan invading my thoughts . . .

  ‘That was nice.’ Jason strokes my hair.

  I can’t help feeling disappointed at the description, hypocritical though that is. ‘Yes,’ I agree. Then I roll on to my side and prop myself up on an elbow. ‘It wasn’t . . . disappointing, was it?’

  ‘Course not,’ he says, a little too forcefully. ‘It was lovely. Just like it used to be.’

  To be fair, sex between Jason and me was never the sticky, sweaty, heart-thumping affair popular with Hollywood film-makers. And, if I’m entirely honest, before I met Ryan I often used to think that, as a pastime, it was overrated. A touch of the Emperor’s New Clothes. That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy it. I just never understood why some people found it so all-consuming.

  ‘Just think,’ Jason continues, ‘in three days’ time, you and I will be lying in this bed as man and wife.’

  He’d said exactly the same thing a few days before our last wedding day. The thought makes me feel ill.

  ‘You are going to go through with it this time, aren’t you?’ I ask hesitantly.

  He rolls over and mirrors my position.

  ‘Zoe, listen to me,’ he says intently. ‘There’s no way I’m going to let you down this time. You do know that, don’t you?’

  I bite my lip. ‘I never thought you would last time.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ he says, running a hand through his hair defensively. ‘And believe me when I say I’ll never forgive myself for it. Never. But I’m going to spend a lifetime making it up to you. You’re going to be the happiest married woman in England, I promise.’

  He leans over and kisses my forehead. I smile and turn on to my back, gazing up at the ceiling. There was a time when my heart swelled with affection for Jason when he said that sort of thing. I used to gaze into his eyes and marvel at how lucky I was.

  The things he’s saying to me now are no less caring or poignant. Yet in my darker moments I have to admit that they’re not having the same effect. I keep trying to make them, but they don’t.

  I’ve told myself not to worry about it too much. I know it will only be a matter of time before things are like they used to be. I’ve just got to stop comparing Jason with Ryan and remind myself of all the wonderful things that made me fall in love with him in the first place.

  ‘I’m going to jump into the shower,’ I announce, throwing back the covers and leaping out of bed.

  Jason is lying on his back now and puts both hands behind his head. ‘God, I’ve missed that bum.’ He grins.

  I smile and kiss his lips, then pick up my clothes and head for the bathroom. I pause. ‘Did I really fold these up?’ I ask.

  ‘No, I did,’ he says. ‘An untidy house is an untidy mind.’

&nb
sp; ‘I know,’ I frown, ‘but is your mind supposed to be tidy when you’re in the throes of passion?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate if I hadn’t done it. Anyway, you never used to complain.’

  He’s right. I didn’t. So why the hell am I now?

  I know the answer to that one: I’m comparing him with Ryan again.

  Which is ridiculous because on this issue Jason wins hands down. Ryan is a man who drops towels on the floor, leaves the dishwasher unemptied and discarded pizza boxes on the sofa. It drove me insane, especially when I first lived with him.

  I feel like shaking myself. For God’s sake, Zoe. Women can’t stand living with men like Ryan – men who don’t notice mess and don’t care if they do. In this respect Jason is the perfect man. In fact, he’s beyond perfect. He doesn’t just clear up his own mess, he clears up mine too. I should be overjoyed.

  When I get into the shower, I turn it to a colder setting than usual, hoping it will knock some sense into me.

  I don’t know how long I spend in there, but there’s something pleasingly distracting about the cold jets pummelling my goose-pimpled skin as I attempt to get things straight in my mind.

  Come on, Zoe. Are you or are you not in love with Jason? This is make-your-bloody-mind-up time.

  I pick up the shampoo and pour a dollop on to my hand, then massage it vigorously into my scalp. After a few seconds, I can hardly believe I asked myself the question.

  Of course I’m in love with Jason.

  I’ve spent more than seven years being in love with him. The upheaval of the last eight months is bound to have affected me – but that doesn’t mean, deep down, that I love him any less.

  What’s really annoying is that I only ever got involved with Ryan as a defence mechanism, as a bit of fun to distract me from the trauma I’d been through. How the hell did it become so much of a distraction that I can’t stop thinking about our affair even now it’s served its purpose?

  As I rinse off the shampoo and start on the conditioner, I make a promise to myself: no more thinking about Ryan. Full stop.