by Claire Allan
In fact I had stood, on a Scottish heath, the wind tossing my Bosco-like hair and had vowed, in a dramatic style that would have made Scarlett O’Hara proud, never to fall in love again. What’s more, in a Scottish pub I had sung ‘I’ll Never Fall in Love Again’ – or at least my own unique version of it loudly after eight Peach Schnapps and pineapple juices – which I have never had the stomach for since, funnily enough. Peach-flavoured boke will do that to a girl.
Paddy could see right through me, so hair-ruffling done and printer churning out 1500 words on the wedding that never was in the opening throw at a series of articles on weddings, cancer and happy-ever-afters was his way of grounding me. He was good at that.
After the big diagnosis of cancer – after he had walked away in a bit of a mood (which I could hardly blame him for) – he had spent precisely thirty-six hours moping before crawling into bed beside me.
“Frig it,” he said. “Sure I’m balding a wee bit anyway. The chemo will save me having to buy one of those hair-clipper sets for a while at least. And I’ve kind of regretted I’ve not lived a wilder life – so, you know, getting some quality hardcore drugs on the NHS could be pretty trippy. And it could be worse. I’ve not got the worst-case scenario.You know, it’s not the best-case scenario either – but what’s a bit of chemo among friends? And we have the wedding to look forward to.”
“The wedding?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, the wedding. My darling, lovely Erin. I love you. I love you more than anything and I would be so happy if you would, finally, agree to marry me.” His expression changed and he looked at me intently. “You see, I need to marry you.”
In that moment, as we were together digesting what lay ahead, what had been and where we were just then, I knew I would agree to anything. And I wanted to make him happy – to make this better. I nodded my yes and he pulled me to him, kissing me softly.
“I’m not him. I won’t hurt you,” he whispered after a while.
“As long as you don’t jilt me at the altar,” I had whispered back, trying to keep my tone light.
“I solemnly promise I won’t,” he said.
“Then I’m a happy woman.”
“As long as you don’t mind marrying a bald man with one testicle.”
“Even with half a pair you have more balls than Ian ever had.”
“And I’m better in bed, obviously,” he had said.
“Goes without saying.”
“And you love me more?” he asked and that was the first time I had noticed any sort of hesitation in Paddy’s voice.
“You never, ever need to ask me that question,” I said, looking into his eyes in the dark of our bedroom.
“Don’t I? It’s one thing when we were having fun together – when it was all rosy in the garden and the craicwas flying. When we didn’t have to worry about surgery and fertility and our future and whether or not I’ll be here in five to ten years.”
I put my fingers to his lips, as much to try and stop my hands from shaking as anything. “The craic will still be flying. We will still have fun together. I mean, Jesus – wig-shopping will be a hoot. And as for your fertility – sure we have Paddy Popsicles in the big freezer in the hospital. And as for your being here in five or ten years – you will be. You said it yourself. This is not the worst news we could have received. This is shit news – but not the worst news. But anyway, as for being here – if you manage five minutes after we say our wedding vows sure you will have already beaten Ian the feckwit hands down. So everyone is a winner.”
And though we both plastered smiles on our faces and kissed each other gently, we didn’t quite feel like winners that night.
Grace looked up expectantly as I walked into her office. Sinéad was there and she spun around with that look in her eye that we knew all too well in the newsroom. When Sinéad was on the hunt for a good story – when she could smell that something could be that little bit different – she was like a woman possessed.
“Well?” she said, not giving either myself or Grace the chance to speak.
I handed her the printed article, adding that I had emailed copies of it to her and Grace just then but that I still had some reservations. Sinéad brushed those away with a simple hand gesture, as if she was brushing crumbs off her shoulder, and sat down, her back to me, and started reading.
Grace raised an eyebrow at me before shrugging her shoulders. “I know this has been tough,” she offered, “but I have a feeling it will be worth it. We’ve just been talking and we were wondering, could we make this a real human-interest series? Would you have pictures of you and Ian? You know, back in the day, that you could share?”
Even though I’m usually quite an impulsive person by nature, I knew it would probably be a very bad idea to tell my bosses to frig off. I don’t think, in that situation, I couldeven have got away with a ‘feck off’. Instead I sat down, beside Sinéad and opposite Grace.
“Look, here is the deal. I’ve changed Ian’s name and any identifying details in the piece. He is to be known from here on in as ‘Tim’. Because of that I really don’t think I can be plastering his picture in full gloss across our pages.”
“We can Photoshop his face,” Sinéad offered, glancing up over her glasses at me before going back to reading.
“What? And make him George Clooney or something?” I said, my voice dripping sarcasm.
“We could pixelate him?” Grace offered.
“I’d like to do more than pixelate him,” I muttered before immediately getting annoyed with myself. The fact that I was thinking about Ian/Tim/George Clooney in such a way unsettled me. My rage towards him had dissipated years before – and now for some reason it was bubbling under the surface again. Which, of course, made me worry that I was feeling something for him again. And I didn’t want to feel anything for him anymore except maybe apathy.
“It’s a great piece,” Sinéad said, handing it over the desk to Grace. “And I don’t care if we do put George Clooney’s face on him – as long as we use it. It’s great stuff – open and honest and from the heart and the perfect scene-setter for next month when we run the great love story, and that wonderful piece about your relationship and the cancer battle and then we can follow it up with the wedding. Loads of pictures – full glossy. It will be perfect.”
Perfect was not the word which sprang to mind, but I resigned myself to the fact that this article would appear in print in precisely eight days and my disastrous relationship history would be there for everyone to see.
“Remember that time I almost married George Clooney, but he jilted me at the altar?”
“Yeh wha’?” Jules asked, and over the phone I could hear her choking on whatever it was she had been drinking.
“It’s a long story, but let me tell you, this month’s Northern People is going to be a real hoot.”
“You do realise,” she said, “that you are making very little sense at all right now. Are you feeling all right? Have you been drinking? Do you need a wee lie-down?”
“I’ve not been drinking – but I might need a wee lie-down,” I said, brushing my hair back from my face with my free hand and sitting back in my chair. “Grace has persuaded me to tell the Great Ian Saga in the magazine.”
“I thought you were doing the whole wedding/cancer/happy-ever-after story?” she asked, sounding as confused as I felt.
“I’m doing that as well, but we’re doing a whole Erin’s-life-in-shameful-memories thing first.”
“And George Clooney comes into it where?”
“Photoshop,” I offered, lifting a pencil, tapping it against the desk, but losing my grip on it. As I watched it fly across the room, I heard Jules sigh.
“I think I preferred it when you were simply freaking out about your wedding dress and the big party.”
“I like to vary my routine from time to time,” I smiled, having given up on trying to retrieve the pencil without appearing to any onlookers as if I was doing some strange and slightly fri
ghtening aerobic workout. “But if you must know, I may well do the dress-freaking-out thing again when we go to The Dressing Room later this week to choose a bridesmaid dress.”
“No, no, you won’t,” Jules said. “Just hang on a minute there, Bridezilla – that will be my day to shine! After all, I will be the wearer of the dress on that occasion. There will be no freaking out allowed from you, Missy! I want my moment in the gorgeous-dress sun!”
“Well, if I’m not allowed to freak out then, surely I’m allowed a double-freak-out now?” I dropped my voice to an almost-whisper. “Jules, all this thinking about Ian. I never thought I would think of him again. Not this way – not dragging over everything that happened. I thought that was very soundly locked in my past and filed under Tough Lessons – but thinking about him now . . . I’m worried.” I felt myself blush, almost afraid to speak in case voicing my feelings made them even more real. “It’s dangerous to revisit the past. What if I find I’m not as over him as I thought I was?”
“Bullshit,” she said. “You no more have affectionate feelings for Ian than I have feelings forJimmy Carr. And you know how Jimmy Carr gives me the rage.”
That was a fact. She could never watch the TV when he came on – she would start to hyperventilate with resentment.
“Why is it getting to me then?” I asked.
“Because you are human and it’s only natural to look back at past relationships when you are about to make a big commitment.”
“I’m sure about the commitment I’m making,” I said loudly – perhaps too loudly – which in itself made me feel strange, because I was sure. I loved Paddy. I wanted to be with him.
“You can’t Photoshop Ian out of your life, not really,” Jules said. “So just acknowledge it was something that happened. Jesus. It was a lifetime ago. It was the late nineties for god’s sake. Everyone did something a bit stupid in the late nineties.”
“You were in your early teens,” I chided. “What did you ever do that was stupid?”
“Oh, sister of mine,” she said with a laugh, “if I ever told you I would have to kill you. I had my wild days.”
I thought back to the geeky younger sister who had welcomed me back from university at holidays as if I was bringing the plague back in with me and I doubted she ever put a foot wrong. She never seemed to leave the house in those days – preferring to lose herself in internet chat-rooms and alternative music. Those were the days before she found her inner fashionista and party animal.
“Aye, right,” I said.
“You better believe it. Look, sis, stop freaking. Let the article run. And then next month write the big ‘I love you’ about Paddy. Then get married – and then can we all just get on with our lives, cancer and other such matters permitting?”
She was right of course – it was time to acknowledge the past and move on to the future. Even if none of us were particularly sure what that future would hold.
“I know, I know,” I agreed.
“Now,” she said, “speaking of bridesmaid dresses, which are infinitely more important than your crisis of the day – no pink, no peach, no frills, no flounces. No netting. No puffballs. No powder blue. No yellow – not with our hair colour. No shiny polyester. No bows. Definitely no bows. And none of that wrap/shawl shit – I would probably end up throttling myself on it. And while we are at it, the shoes must also be fabulous – but vaguely comfortable. Oh, and back to the dresses – whatever we get must be compatible with Spanx – the full-length down-to-your-knees, up-to-your-boobs ones.”
“Is that all?” I asked.
She paused. “I think so.”
“Grand then,” I said, realising I was still at work and this conversation was stretching beyond the acceptable time-limit for a private call during office hours. “Look, I’d better go and start trying to find alternatives to the yellow-and-blue puffball with the bows on each shoulderthat I had picked out for you then?”
“Ha! You’re fecking hilarious, Erin. Hi-lar-ee-ous.”
“I know. I do try.”
“Look, sis,” she said. “It will all work out. I love you.”
“I love you too,” I said and hung up.
Then I dialled home.
“Paddy,” I started, “how do you feel about the fact that I once nearly married George Clooney?”
Chapter twenty-one
Kitty
I’m not sure there is an accurate way to describe how I felt when Iarrived at the shop ready for work. My head was whirling – and notjust from the after-effects of the migraine. It’s a wonder I made it tothe shop in one piece. There had been a few near-misses on the driveinto town as my mind wandered from my mother’s unexpected return, mymother’simpending marriage, Mark’s pleading phonecalls and James’ admission. Not that James had said much – not in that way where youknow for certain what he was thinking. But it was clear. Thetouch of his hand left no room for debate. The look in his eyes lefteven less.
And my heart was thumping. I’m not sure if it was anxiety, worry,stress or lust. I’m not sure that it wasn’t simply gratitude that someonehad looked at me with genuine affection when I had seemed to have goteveryone else’s back up.
We had held hands for probably less than a minute after he stoppedtalking – a little bit too long for ‘just friends’ and I had been thefirst to move away. The moment, while nice and comforting in a way,was wrong and the warmth of his hand while initially welcome soon feltclaustrophobic. This was just too much to deal with. Mark’s jitters.Mum’s wedding. James’ warm hand.
I picked up the coffee cup which Ihad been fake-drinking for the last ten minutes and took it with me – sipping from it without thinking as I sat in the car, wishing it wassomething stronger.I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry – so I did a bit of both beforefixing my make-up in the car mirror, tossing the coffee cup in thenearest bin and heading into work where I vowed I would keep a verytight lid on my emotions and go about selling wedding gowns andordering stock as efficiently as possible. No hint of hysteria wouldshow on my face. No squeak of emotion. No sly tears or deep sighs – nothing at all which would alert Rose to the fact that yet more drama hadplayed itself out in my life.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed open my beloved purple door and walkedin to find Rose packaging up a tiara in our special lilac-crepe paperfor a grinning bride.I smiled as I watched the exchange, Rose sprinkling silver stars intoour sturdy white paper bags, emblazoned with the shops’ name indelicate cursive writing, before tying the handle with purple ribbonand handing the package over. Although I was only looking at the back of ourbride’s head, I listened to her chat excitedly about her plans forhair extensions and natural-looking make-up while Rose told herto make sure to bring in a picture after her Big Day so we could see it.
Grinning, her eyes filled with hope, love and excitement, the brideturned and bustled past me. And I grinned at her too andwished her well.
“A happy customer?” I said to Rose as the door swung shut and the bellabove it tinkled.
“Exceptionally. Said she had been looking everywhere for just theright thing and sure didn’t we have it all along?” Rose smiled warmly.
I nodded and asked which tiara she had chosen.
“Are you okay?” Rose asked, as I made a note to reorder stock of thatparticular model.
“Fine,” I said. “Headache mostly all gone.”
“You don’t look okay,” she offered. “You know Ivy was only actingin a typical Ivy way. She feels it differently to you.”
I just nodded again. “Rose, I love you very much but can we keep itstrictly business today? Business is the least complicated thing in mylife right now and I’d very much love to just lose myself in prettydresses and sparkly jewellery. I might even rearrange the dressingroom a bit.”
“You only rearrange the dressing room when you’re stressed . . .”
“That’s not true. I also do it when I’m premenstrual and feeling alittle OCD, or sexually frustrated, or in a cleaning mood. Sometimes Ijust d
o it when I want to play with the pretty dresses.”
“Well, then, you go right ahead, my darling.”
“And you know what – the purple dress?”
“Our dream dress?”
“I think I’ll put it away for a while.”
Rose looked at me as if I was losing my mind, and I glanced at myselfin the silver gilded mirror behind her and wondered myself if I was losing mymind just a little bit.
I’m aware this next bit may make me look like a complete nutter, but when the last customer of the day had left and Rose had, somewhat reluctantly it has to be said, gone home, I set about taking down the purple dress to put it into storage. Mark and I had chosen that dress together – when I was in the first flush of excitement at opening the business and now I couldn’t look at it without thinking of him.
But as I took it off the mannequin the notion struck me that I’d never actually tried it on. It had come from the supplier and Rose and I had oohed and aahed at it an appropriate amount before dressing the mannequin in the centre of the dressing room and toasting it with a glass of something cool and sparkly. And there it had sat ever since – dazzling every bride who walked through our doors. Many fell in love with it – few ordered it. Few were so bold. Some ordered it in white – but the purple was something else. As I felt the weight of it in my hands, the softness of the material, the urge became too strong.
Stripping to my underwear in the middle of the deserted shop felt a little strange, as did stepping into the dress and wrestling to try and zip it up by myself. But it wasn’t long before it was on – an almost perfect fit – and I was looking in the mirror at myself as I swished around in it. Sure, my hair was a bit frizzy, and my make-up had most definitely migrated from where it was meant to be to somewhere halfway down my face. I didn’t look my best but, seeing myself in the mirror, swathed in purple satin, trussed into a bodice which pointed my boobs in the right direction, I looked better than I had done in days. I even slipped my feet into a pair of our sample shoes – high ones with lots of bling which made my feet scream for mercy but which elevated me in the dress to a whole new level. I figured as I was only going to pack the dress up and put it in storage anyway I might as well enjoy my moment, so I swirled and twirled and may even have sung a little as I went. The rest of my life was getting so surreal that I might as well act out a little Disney-princess magic as well.