by Adale Geras
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d be tucked up and asleep. What are you doing up so late?’
‘It’s not that late, is it? I was reading. Can’t-put-it-down stuff, this.’
‘Hmm.’ Emily sniffed. ‘Did you and Isis have fun?’
‘Yup. We always do. She’s great. We watched a DVD of Singin’ in the Rain?
‘Your choice, right?’
‘She loved it. It’s my duty as a father to bring her up to appreciate proper movies. She can watch Finding Nemo and the Princess thingummies with other people.’
‘I’m going to have a cup of tea,’ Emily said. ‘How about you?’
‘God, I’ve been dying for one.’
Emily didn’t bother asking why he hadn’t made it for himself. He’d been waiting unconsciously for someone to come along and do it for him. Cal, unlike Adrian, knew his way round a kitchen and especially this one, which had, after all, been his once. But whether they were dab hands or totally useless, men’s longing for a thing always seemed to grow amazingly when a woman was around to hand it to them. Cal followed her into the kitchen and sat down to wait for his tea. Emily opened the cupboard and took out the chocolate Hobnobs.
‘Hobnobs! Great!’ Cal took one out of the packet at once. He continued to speak through a mouthful of biscuit. ‘I had a look in Zannah’s studio after I’d put Isis to bed.’
‘Are you allowed in there?’
‘Why not? It’s not private, is it? She is my ex-wife, you know.’
‘Then I’d say it probably is private. The ‘ex’ counts for more than the ‘wife.’ If you see what I mean.’
Cal considered this. ‘Okay. Sorry. No harm done, though, so don’t let on to Zannah. No need to get her in a tizz over nothing.’
‘Right.’ Emily thought Cal looked very young. He was now on his second biscuit. She felt like putting out a hand and brushing his unruly hair away from his eyes. Should she tell him he really did need a haircut? No, it wasn’t her business and she liked it anyway. One of the best things about Cal was that he didn’t give a damn how he looked. She said, ‘There’s not much in there these days. Just a whole load of wedding stuff.’
Cal sighed. Biscuit number three was being eased out of the packet. He bit into it and said, ‘Can you work out what’s going on in her head, Em? I can’t. I think she’s completely crazy. I think you all are, actually.’
‘Not me. Count me out. I’ve spent hours trying to talk her out of all that palaver. I’ve even suggested a flight to Las Vegas, a chapel with Elvis playing and attendants in white-fringed leather suits. She’s not having it. She wants a proper wedding and she’s not going to be dissuaded. They’re all in it – Adrian, his mother, even Charlotte, for heaven’s sake. They’re itching to arrange and fix up and sort out and hire and decide and send out invitations, you name it. It’s exhausting and we’re still more than ten months away. I don’t know how I’m going to survive it.’
‘What about your parents, though? They’ve got more sense, surely. And they’re the ones who’re going to have to pay for most of it, too. Isn’t it traditional for the bride’s lot to foot the bill?’
‘Ma, I’m sure, thinks the whole thing’s mad, but she’s not saying a word. She doesn’t want to annoy Zannah. And although he keeps going on about how silly it is, Pa’s secretly rather enjoying it, I reckon. You know how keen he is on tribal rituals etcetera. They’ll chip in, I expect. Adrian’s folks. He’s loaded, you know.’
‘Must be what Zannah sees in him. Can’t be his looks. Or his scintillating conversation.’
Emily was surprised. It was the first time she’d heard him express any kind of opinion about Adrian. And that stuff about his looks. He could only have seen him in photographs Isis had shown him. Cal was jealous. He must be, or he wouldn’t have sounded so bitter, so unlike his usual self.
‘He’s very handsome, Cal. Everyone says so. And what do you know about his conversation anyway? You’ve never met him.’
‘Makes no difference. I know his sort. He’s not nearly as charming, funny and altogether delightful as me, I bet. Is he? Be honest.’ He helped himself to another biscuit and added, ‘Put these away, Em. I can’t stop myself.’
As Emily returned the Hobnobs to the cupboard, she thought about what Cal had said. It was true. No one was as charming, funny and delightful as he was, but she couldn’t say so. She couldn’t confess to anyone her most deeply buried secret wish: that when he knew Zannah and Adrian were married, when he realized they were idyllically happy together, he’d move on. Start looking for someone else in a way he hadn’t seemed able to while Zannah was still single. When that happened, Emily wanted to be there. She’d be the first person he saw when the spell was broken and he’d suddenly grasp that it had been her, Emily, all along … she was the one for him. It was this fantasy that had persuaded her to support Zannah in her wedding plans even more quickly than she otherwise would have done. What Emily truly wanted was to see her sister married as happily and speedily as possible to the man of her dreams, leaving the field clear for her. What a ridiculous idea it was! Dreams were rubbish and this one was a bigger load of crapola than most. She knew full well that there was more chance of Cal falling over a precipice than falling for her. Never mind, she told herself. I’m not going to lie around languishing on a sofa, pining away. She squared her shoulders and began to hum ‘I Will Survive’ under her breath.
‘I think,’ she said, sitting down opposite Cal, ‘that what Zannah and women like her really want is to be the star of their very own spectacular theatrical production. They want the drama. They want costumes, a set, props, music, lights … the whole caboodle. Photographers. Make-up artists. Hairdressers. And Zannah’s worse than most because she wants to design things as well. Not only her dress, Isis’s dress and the decorations, but she’s developing views on things like food. And flowers. And what kind of stationery they ought to have. She’s got a list of hates too. That’s fun. I’d like to add to it, but don’t dare.’
‘What’s on the hate list?’
‘Peach. Persil white rather than Chinese white.’
‘What’s that when it’s at home?’
‘Don’t ask. It’s a kind of white that doesn’t dazzle and sparkle … sort of understated. Silver bells on anything. Cake icing like plaster. Bride and groom statues on the cake. Glitter on anything. Bare shoulders. Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. Motorway hotels for the reception. Pink invitation cards. That sort of thing.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Cal. ‘It’s a minefield, isn’t it?’ He frowned. ‘Em, can I ask you something?’
‘Go on.’ Emily held her breath. What was he going to say?
‘Is Adrian okay? I mean … you know I asked you to look out for Isis … what’s been happening on that front?’
‘He’s okay. Really. You don’t have to worry, Cal. Zannah would never get involved with someone who didn’t get on with Isis.’
Cal took a sip of his tea. It was obvious that he was making a real effort to say nothing. She prompted him. ‘Why’re you being so quiet? It’s quite worrying when you do that. You don’t think I’ve neglected to do what you asked?’
‘No, of course not. Just that I sense a kind of … I dunno … a reserve in Isis when I try to talk about him. She’s probably doing it for my benefit. She’s very keen to tell me every detail of the wedding arrangements but when I ask her about Adrian she just says, ‘Oh he’s okay’ and changes the subject. She doesn’t sound that enthusiastic’
‘Well, she wouldn’t be to you, would she? It’s obvious, Cal. She’d see it as disloyalty if she praised Adrian to the skies.’
‘Really? At her age? Are children so subtle?’
‘It’s not subtle, Cal. She knows you’d be a bit jealous if she enthused too much. And you would. You’d hate it if all she did was talk about how wonderful Adrian is. She’s a clever girl and understands an awful lot, you know.’
‘Yes, you’re quite right, Em.’ He put out a hand and squeezed he
r arm. ‘You’re clever too. But you tell me … he’s not wonderful, is he? Adrian?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Emily said. ‘But, then, I’m not marrying him.’
‘Zannah does think so is the implication.’
‘It’s quite normal, you know. It’s what you’re supposed to think about your fiancé.’
Cal sighed. ‘Quite right. I’m off to bed now, Em. Ta for the tea and biccies.’
He stood up and blew a kiss in her direction, then disappeared into the lounge. Emily could hear the sofa being transformed into a bed. She took the cups to the sink and decided to leave them unwashed till morning. Why, she thought, as she made her way upstairs, do I suddenly feel a bit gloomy? She shook her head. No good reason. Things would seem better in the morning. She sat on the end of her bed, sighed and kicked her shoes off, then lay back on the pillows staring up at the ceiling, suddenly drained of every bit of energy. I must make a point of watching Isis more closely next time Adrian’s around. Of course, it was natural for Cal to be concerned, but Emily was sure everything was okay, really. Zannah would be the first to notice if it wasn’t.
*
‘You’re not listening, Adrian. How many times do I have to say it? You just keep going round and round in a bloody circle and saying the same things over and over again. I am not prepared to get married in a castle. Or in a public place of any significance. And I don’t want a hundred and fifty people at our wedding. Seventy-five is the limit. Fifty would be better. Where were you when I explained this to you?’
Zannah understood perfectly at that moment why cartoons of married people often showed the wife wielding a rolling-pin and advancing on her husband. If she’d had such an implement to hand, Adrian would have been in trouble. They were, she realized with something of a shock to the heart, having their first row.
‘It’s not just your wedding,’ said Adrian. ‘It’s mine as well, or had you forgotten that?’
‘No, I hadn’t. We’ve discussed it at length and you never uttered a squeak about castles and lakes and Kew Gardens. Never once. This is all your mother’s idea. You’re speaking for her, aren’t you?’
‘So what if I am? She’s allowed a say, isn’t she?’
‘Maybe. I’m not sure she’s allowed even that, if you really want to know, but what she isn’t allowed is a decision. The numbers, for instance. You can’t pretend we’ve got a hundred and fifty friends. We haven’t.’
‘You’ve got to take into account my family’s friends. Doc’s colleagues. My mother’s friends. My colleagues. Your parents’, too, come to that.’
‘I’m not having a wedding filled with stuffed shirts from your bloody bank, or my pa’s university, or your mother’s tennis-club cronies, or the massed ranks of medical staff from Doc’s hospital.’ Zannah was shouting now. ‘You’ve taken leave of your senses. I want you, our families, our friends and their children. And that’s it. That is it! I haven’t got seventy-five friends. I don’t know if this wedding’s going to happen at all, the way you’re going on and on about it. You’re talking about a completely different occasion.’
‘It’s a family occasion.’ Adrian was evidently trying to keep a grip on his temper.
‘It is, of course it is, but a family occasion doesn’t mean what you think it means. It’s about having your family around you when you celebrate getting married. It’s not about impressing every single person you’ve ever come across in your life, most of whom you’ll never see again.’
Zannah stopped herself saying: And about whom I couldn’t give a damn.
‘Well, I know it’s not about impressing people, but what if you can impress people while you’re getting married? What’s so bad about that?’ He was yelling at her now.
‘What’s bad about it is that it’s ridiculous. This is supposed to be our day. Ours and the people we love. D’you love your colleagues? Do you even know who half of them are? It’s pathetic!’
Adrian let out a long breath and threw his arms into the air. ‘Fucking hell, Zannah, you don’t half dish it out! Just calm down, okay? I’ll talk to my mother. Better yet, you talk to her when she comes round to see you. I don’t see why I should take the flak.’
‘Do you admit it? D’you admit I’m right? About the wedding? It’s our day, Adrian.’ She was speaking quietly now, to calm both of them. It was a technique that sometimes worked with fractious children. Was she really going to have to treat her husband-to-be as though he were a bad-tempered kid? Apparently she was. What she wanted to say was: Your bloody bossy mother wants it her way to impress the people she knows and not my friends. Not even our friends. I’m not having that.
‘I suppose so. I admit I don’t want to spend the evening fighting with you. That’s the main thing I admit. Come over here and let’s make up.’
‘This was a row, wasn’t it? Our first row?’ Zannah seized on his change of mood and went to sit next to him on the sofa where he’d flung himself. He’d made the admission. She had every intention of holding him to it.
‘I suppose it was. Not bad, really. Only one row in six months.’
‘But I’m right, aren’t I?’ She started to stroke his hand. ‘You can’t really want that sort of thing, a huge affair filled with faces you’ve never seen in your life?’
‘Haven’t given it much thought. All I’ve been thinking about is you. Come here.’
‘You’re a useless person to have a row with,’ Zannah said, relaxing into his embrace. ‘You never listen properly. You just get hold of a point and bring it out again and again. Sometimes you don’t even change the words. You just repeat yourself.’
‘What’s the point of changing the words if it’s the only thing you want to say?’
‘Never mind,’ said Zannah. ‘I give up. We’ll just have to steer clear of rows from now on.’
‘Fine by me,’ said Adrian. He started to kiss Zannah just under her ear, and she closed her eyes. ‘Whatever you decide is okay. Really. Am I forgiven?’
Her answer might have been influenced by his hand, which had found its way under her skirt and begun stroking her thigh. She looked into his eyes, at his face. He was so handsome and so contrite that she could literally feel her heart jumping a little in her chest and there was that hand, moving over her skin. She said, ‘Of course you’re forgiven. But I’m not going to change my mind.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Adrian. ‘You can fight it out with my mum. You’re what I want. Just you. Always. I love you, Zannah. D’you love me?’
‘Yes,’ said Zannah. ‘You know I do.’
She closed her eyes as she spoke. She loved him, of course she did, but she had always had a problem with those three words. Saying them, because they were so weighed down with meaning, with a special importance, made her feel insincere and actressy even when she was loving most passionately. She and Cal had talked about it once and he’d agreed with her. He said that those three words had been used too often, that that particular currency was debased. Also, she remembered, he’d told her it didn’t matter. There were ways of showing your love. There were even words that expressed the emotion without using what everyone else used. He’d had a few funny ones. I want to be the person who finishes your chips and I’ll never allow anyone else to scrub your back for you. For a split second Zannah felt something like a sharp pain all over. How come thinking about Cal could still do that to her sometimes? It was as though her body was remembering a sorrow it was meant to have forgotten long ago. Pull yourself together, she thought. You’re lucky to have Adrian. Lucky to be having a new start, a new marriage and a perfect wedding day.
Adrian was kissing her, and making moaning sounds in her ear, and soon they were naked together on the sofa and the quarrel was forgotten. Everything she’d been thinking was swept away by the smell of him, his mouth on hers, his hands touching her where she needed to be touched.
Much later, Zannah lay in bed suffering from Wedding Head. The ‘head’ was a Gratrix family tradition, started by Joss. When one of her
daughters found it hard to fall asleep, she’d say: ‘Oh, you’ve got Exam Head.’ Or ‘you’ve got Christmas Eve Head’. Or ‘Boyfriend Head’. Anything that filled the space in your mind and prevented you relaxing was labelled in that way. It felt to Zannah like an endless loop of thoughts going round and round in her brain, repeating themselves over and over, which she couldn’t stop. Since her engagement, Wedding Head had been responsible for quite a few hours of lost slumber.
There was nothing to do for this condition but live through it. She tried to distract herself by thinking about Adrian’s bedroom. No expense had been spared but it wasn’t to her taste. In her opinion, it said ‘debonair bachelor about town’ far too loudly. There was an awful lot of maroon. Those curtains, for example, wouldn’t have been out of place in the kind of corporate hotel she hated. She didn’t altogether trust Maureen’s taste, although you couldn’t fault the quality of what she’d chosen. The most expensive wasn’t necessarily the most beautiful. Zannah was sure, though they hadn’t discussed it, that they wouldn’t stay here after they were married. For one thing, there wasn’t a bedroom for Isis. No, they’d have to find a house, and she was determined to oversee the decoration. She’d consult Adrian, of course, but he wasn’t really interested in such things and, best of all, he wouldn’t keep going on about how much things cost. Briefly, she wondered about their bedroom, its colours, then firmly put any such daydreams out of her head. One thing at a time, she told herself. I have to concentrate on the wedding.
She looked at the curve of Adrian’s shoulder in the bed beside her and touched it gently. He wouldn’t wake up, she knew. No Wedding Head for him. She remembered their lovemaking. The sex they had was always athletic, imaginative and thrilling. She sometimes found herself at odd times of day, even when she was in the middle of teaching, remembering something from the previous night then feeling herself blush. Her bloody redhead’s skin could be a real pain sometimes.