What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?

by Claire Allan

  “Erin, I say this with love in my heart, but you need to lighten up. Celebrate it. Enjoy each other. Plan a Big Day like no other and start thinking you might actually enjoy it. You might surprise yourself, you know.”

  I took a deep breath and looked at Paddy. “You’re good with figures. You listen and listen good. Write it all down, or get her to write it down. Do not be swayed into upgrading to the more expensive fizz. Prosecco is fine. Don’t let her bat her eyelids at you either. You’re marrying me, remember?”

  He smiled and kissed me. “I promise to behave.”

  Fiona was a five-foot-two-inch powerhouse of a saleswoman with exceptionally blonde hair and exceptionally white teeth. She wore a power suit and high heels which made my feet hurt just to look at them. She also wore a headset, which she barked into frequently. I, at times, wondered if it was actually connected to anything or just to the voices in her own head. She seemed efficient – exceptionally, ball-breakingly efficient. I admired that, in my own way. I couldn’t cope with a job which required that kind of organisation. Given Fiona’s responsibility of making sure everything ran very smoothly on countless wedding days for countless hopeful couples, I would combust with worry over the whole thing.

  “Right,” she declared loudly, sitting down and clapping her hands. In front of her on the table sat a clipboard which was as much of an accessory for her as her headset and her killer heels. She opened it and smiled. “Let’s get down to business.” She handed us each a photocopy of the proposed schedule for the day and ran through it at a lightning pace without looking down to double-check the details or, it seemed, even taking a breath. She was like a robot. A very scary robot.

  We nodded along, occasionally offering a “yes” or “hmmm” or maybe even an “okay”. At one stage I looked at Paddy who seemed genuinely very interested in the notion of speeches before the meal and cutting the cake just before the buffet. I wondered if there was such a thing as a Groomzilla.

  I just listened and tried to think ‘big party, big party, big party’ while visualising how amazing my arse looked in the dress.

  As if she could read my mind – which was entirely possible given her determination to know every single little detail – Fiona turned to me and asked if I had my dress yet.

  “Yes,” I said, “I think so. Well, yes, I do. I’ve chosen one. I just need to order it.”

  She looked horrified. Absolutely as-if-a-zombie-had-just-walked-in terrified. “You haven’t ordered it yet? But it’s less than a hundred days until your wedding. Wedding dresses don’t just appear,” she said, nodding in Paddy’s direction for support. “They take months to order in.”

  “I, erm, I didn’t know. But sure we have months – it will be fine.”

  “Three months may not be enough,” she said solemnly. “But all we can do is hope. Where are you ordering it from? Maybe I could put in a call?”

  She poised her pen over her paper while reaching into her pocket for a phone. I wondered who she would phone. The wedding-dress mafia?

  “The Dressing Room,” I replied reluctantly because I really didn’t want her to phone Kitty and tell her I was a slack bride who had left wedding-dress buying until the relatively last minute. And I didn’t want Fiona with her super-sense of efficiency to know why this whole wedding was a little bit last-minute and rushed. “But I’m sure it will be fine.”

  She wrote the name of the shop down anyway. “I know Kitty, and she is very good. But I’ll still make a few calls. We have to have you looking your best. And Paddy – have you arranged your suit yet?”

  “All sorted,” he said smugly and part of me wanted to elbow him right in the ribs just for being such a smarmy smuggy teacher’s pet. “We got them last week. Best to be prepared.” He winked at me. The pig, he was enjoying this a little too much. Maybe it was the time to elbow him after all.

  “Good man,” Fiona said, as if he were three years old and just told her he had managed not to pee his pants for one entire day. “That’s what I like to see.” She grinned at him, her sharp pearly whites glinting in the daylight and then looked at me – just a short glimpse but one which I couldn’t ignore, and I knew that I had just crashed through the floor in her estimation and she would forever see me as a slack bride.

  I, however, reminding myself of how much this meant to Paddy, bit my tongue and stopped myself telling her to stick her colour schemes and complimentary cake knife. I’d take my wedding elsewhere . . . although in fairness, with just three months to go, the chance of getting any kind of a venue outside of a chippy were slim to none. Although, I’d have been happy with the chippy. I glanced at Paddy who was smiling widely, wider than he had done in a while, and I reminded myself that this would all be worth it.

  Chapter nine

  Kitty

  The shop was busy when we arrived and an excited bride, who had come in to view her newly arrived dress, accosted me almost as soon as I walked through the door.

  “Is it here?Is it gorgeous? Is it just perfect? We did get the underskirt, didn’t we? I’ve lost half a stone. Do you think it will still fit? Can we get it taken in? And the bridesmaid dresses? Can we look at those too?”

  I blinked at her, the brightness of her pre-wedding tooth-whitening temporarily blinding my hung-over eyes. I wondered if I still smelled vaguely of vodka. Normally I could rattle off answers like you wouldn’t believe – appeasing even the most excitable of brides. Normally I’d have rattled back a very quick ‘Yes. Yes, Perfect, yes. The underskirt is here. If it doesn’t fit, alterations are no problem, and come at no extra cost. Yes, we can look at bridesmaid dresses, whenever you want.’

  Today was different though. Today I was in a grief-stricken slump, Mark’s cheery “Hello?” still playing in my head. He had been in a bar. Drinking things. Sounding carefree. The bastard.

  I turned to Ivy and back to the toothy bride whose name was escaping me. Amy. Or Anna. Or Andie. Or something.

  “Yes, yes,” I muttered, waving my hand around, “all that yes. Can you just give me a few minutes?”

  I turned to the reception desk where Rose was mouthing the name ‘Angie’ at me in an exaggerated fashion and I spun back on my heel.

  “Angie,” I said more confidently, “if you want to go through to the dressing room, I’ll have your dress with you in just a few minutes.”

  She squealed with delight – as did her mother and her three bridesmaids and the sound actually made me wonder if my brain was going to explode and seep out of my ears – before she clacked her designer heels loudly across the wooden floors to where Rose was now holding open the doors to the dressing room.

  Once they were ensconced inside, with Rose nodding and smiling and telling them she would bring them Prosecco, the door was closed and Rose looked me squarely up and down.

  “She spoke to him, and he was having a good time,” Ivy said.

  Rose looked to me for confirmation of same.

  “That’s not entirely accurate. I phoned him. I hid my number and he answered. He sounded fine. He sounded more than fine . . . he was in a bar or somewhere like that . . . and I hung up. I just couldn’t . . .” I felt my voice trail off, my head swim a little, whether through the realisation that Mark could be fine without me or through the crushing hangover.

  “He won’t be fine,” Rose said. “Mark my words. He won’t be fine at all.”

  “Well, I’m certainly not,” I said, feeling myself shake.

  “You should go home,” Rose said.

  “After madam here dragged me out of the house – no,” I said, nodding atIvy who was standing, arms crossed, looking at the pair of us. “And besides we have Angieand her dress. Jesus, we do have Angie’s dress, don’t we? It is ready?”

  “Steamed and in the dressing room, behind the curtain, as always. Now, why don’t you get yourself a glass of water? I’ll get some of the fizz and we’ll do what we do best.”

  “And I’ll head on now,” Ivy said gruffly. “But you’re to behave yourself, Kitt
y. No more scenes like that. Not over a man. And certainly not over Mark.”

  All traces of her previous compassion were gone. She seemed snitty and grumpy and cold and I forgot it was she who had tidied my house and helped me brush my hair when all I wanted to do was sit on the bed and stare at the wedding picture on the wall.

  She had turned and walked away before I could say feck off and, as the door slammed, the brass bell ringing above it, I heard Rose say, not too quietly, “That one will learn some day.”

  “You sent her to me,” I said, accusingly, as we walked up the spiral stairs to the office.

  “I couldn’t leave here and Cara wasn’t answering her phone. I’d have got your daddy to call round to you but I was afraid of what he might find and your dad has a weak heart.”

  She spoke with her usual upbeat intonation but the message was clear. I’d scared her – scaredher so much she’d called in the big guns in the form of Ivy and her acerbic ways.

  “I’m sorry,” Isaid to her back as she continued on her way.

  “Never mind. Let’s just deal with Angie now.”

  Yes, no matter how crap things were I had to go in there now, to where my bride-to-be – the most important person in the shop – was waiting with bated breath to see the dress she had probably dreamed of since she was five years old and wandering up and down her mammy’s bedroom wrapped in an old lace curtain and too-big high heels.

  Get a grip, Kitty, I told myself and took a deep breath. Don’t think about Mark, not for the next half hour anyway and then you can mope all you want. Happy face, Kitty, happy face.

  Steadying myself further, I opened the door to the dressing room – to where Angie sat, tapping her feet on the floor and looking as if she might combust with excitement.

  “Okay, Angie, the dress is here – behind that curtain. We can just bring it out, or you can go in and try it on and then come out to show your mum and your friends. It’s your choice.”

  “Can I try it on?” she asked, her voice cracking with emotion.

  It wasn’t unusual for even the most seemingly confident woman in the world to crumble with emotion at the thought of her big frock. I had seen it time and time again and usually a little bit of me crumbled too. This time however I fought the urge to tell her to get a grip and sagged with relief when I heard Rose walk into the room with the Prosecco to whoops of delight from the assembled women.

  Angie’s gown was exquisite – in shot silk with delicate beading on the bodice, and a full skirt which screamed fairytale. We had already looked at accessories and decided that less was definitely more and a stunning crystal-encrusted headpiece would finish the look off perfectly. I could feel her shaking as I helped her step into the gown and zipped it up. I handed her a hanky and told her she looked stunning and felt utterly wretched because, for the first time ever, I was simply going through the motions and not really feeling what I was saying.

  When she left, deliriously happy by all accounts, I felt I had cheated her and myself and the guilt hit me like a ton of bricks. It was three o’clock and I knew we had two brides-to-be coming in to look around our collection and all I wanted to do was close the shop and go upstairs, lie on the floor of the workshop and sob my heart out.

  “It’s always darkest before the dawn,” Rose said, kissing me on the head. “I’ll put the kettle on and make us a nice cup of tea. I even have some chocolate biscuits – fancy ones, with chocolate chips and everything. You can have two if you want.”

  The hangover which was hanging heavy in my stomach surfaced and demanded feeding.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Okay,” Rose said. “Don’t let this hurt you too much, pet.”

  “I won’t,” I lied and watched as she made the tea and allowed me to choose my biscuits from the tin before she chose hers.

  I had just ushered out another bride – a very fussy one who had tried on twelve dresses in total and still wasn’t convinced any of them were for her – and was at last able to turn the sign on the door, lock up, sit down on the purple chaise longue and survey the carnage of the dressing room. I was just willing myself to have the energy to get up and deal with it when I heard my phone beep – a message coming through.

  It wasn’t going to be Mark. I knew that. I just knew. But I wasn’t expecting it to be James. Kitty, can we meet? Need to talk to you? Dinner? On me? Custom House? Eight? Yes?

  My brain ached. Too many questions. And dinner? Out? With a man who wasn’t my husband? These were questions I just couldn’t cope with.

  “Rose!” I called and she walked into the room and looked at me. “I have a text, from James. He wants to talk in a restaurant.”

  “Do you think you should?”

  “He’s his best friend,” I offered. “If anyone has any idea of what’s going on in Mark’s life it will be James. Well, you know, it should have been me but, since I don’t have a clue, James is the next best thing.”

  Rose sat down beside me and lifted the phone, scrolling through the message. “But did you not talk to him on Thursday? Did he not say he didn’t know where Mark was?”

  She had a point, but I was clutching at straws and I couldn’t see why he would want to see me if he didn’t know something that he hadn’t perhaps known on Thursday night.

  Sharing this theory with Rose, she shook her head – just a little – and sucked in her breath. “I’m not sure this is a good idea, Kitty. Why not come home with me? You have your old room. Your daddy would love to see you – you know how he worries. And if James really does have something to tell you, he doesn’t need to take you to fancy restaurant to do it.”

  “But he just might know something . . .”

  “He might,” Rose said softly. “But last night you drank yourself into near oblivion and I had to send your sister round to rescue you. Consider the possibility you might be just a little vulnerable right now and going out, to a very public place, with your husband’s best friend, who might know something about why your husband has cleared off, may not end well. Come home. Invite him round if you want. I’ll make egg and chips, like you always liked, and I’ll tell your dad we’re watching Casualty and James can come and you can talk in the front room and then when he’s gone I’ll know you are okay.”

  The thought of Rose’s egg and chips, and watching Casualty on the sofa with her just like I did when I was a teenager was appealing. Life was easier then. So much less complicated. There was no Mark or James or disappearing acts or strange invites to restaurants on a Saturday night but at the same time I had to know. I couldn’t not go. If I did I would only spend the evening watching the clock, and my phone, and driving myself clear bonkers.

  “I’d love to come home,” I started, and Rose looked at me, knowing me well.

  “But?”

  “You know I have to go, Rose. If there is something to know, I can’t go on not knowing. And even if there is no big bolt out of the blue, hopefully James can help me make sense of it.” He knew Mark as well as I did, or at least as well as I thought I did. I don’t want to bombard him with my entire family – I think we need to talk alone, well, kind of alone. A restaurant is perfect. Hopefully it will stop me making a complete eejit of myself. I want to keep my cool.”

  “You will call me after?”

  “I promise.”

  “I know,” she said, momentarily dropping her cool and calm exterior, “that I’m not your mum. Not your real mum. But I do worry.”

  “You’re more of a mum to me than she ever was,” I said, hugging her closely. “And I know you worry even if you don’t show it much and I love the very bones of you for it. But Rose, you know me enough to know I can be a stubborn cow when I want to be – and I need to be now.”

  She nodded and smiled. “That’s why I love you,” she said, pulling away from our hug and brushing herself off. “Now, lady, let’s get these frocks back on their hangers before we go home. It’s almost six and your daddy will be getting weak from hunger. You might not want my egg and chip
s, but your dad loves them. And that’s not a euphemism. Now, will I put on my Andrew Lloyd Webber CD while we tidy? Or are we in a Doris Day mood?”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her neither appealed, so we settled for a rousing chorus of ‘Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina’ while my stomach churned and I wondered what on earth James could have to say to me.

  I went home, showered, stood in front of the mirror in my bedroom and wondered what to wear. What do you wear when you’re going to meet your husband’s bestfriend to discuss said husband’s disappearance from the face of the earth? What I wanted to wear was pyjamas and bed socks. What I wanted to do was lie down, on the floor, and cry and not have to face any of it. I was tempted to phone Rose, to get her to drive on over in her wee yellow Smart car to pick me up. But no, I steadied myself. I would do this.

  Picking out a pair of dark jeans and a pale lilac sweater, I dried my hair and pulled it back in a loose pony-tail. I applied the lightest layer of foundation and a dash of blusher and decided that was enough. This was not a social occasion. This was a not a fun occasion. This was not a nice meal out with a friend. This was business. Picking up my car keys, I decided I wouldn’t drink. I would use driving as a perfectly reasonable excuse for keeping my wits about me. The last thing I wanted to do was make a show of myself in the restaurant. I would be calm. I would be collected. I would be just like Rose.

  James was waiting for me when I arrived. He stood up as I walked into the room and, as he looked at me to acknowledge that he had seen me, I noticed it. It was almost imperceptible but it was there – a shake of his head. I felt my stomach lurch again and I gripped the car keys in my hand tighter so that I could feel them digging into my hand – anything to ground me a little in the moment.

  “Kit,” he said, awkwardly kissing me on the cheek.

  “Just tell me what you know, James,” I said, pulling back from him and steadying myself on the back of the chair.