White Wedding

by Milly Johnson

  ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Jane Eyre herself.’

  ‘Strangled any brides recently?’ she smiled up at him, sounding more composed than she felt. Her heart appeared to have traded places with her cochlea and was booming in her ears.

  ‘It’s so good to see you,’ he said, his eyes grinning as much as the lovely curve of his mouth was.

  ‘You too,’ she said, thinking, how could I ever have imagined you were a loony psychopath? His eyes were gentle and shining and looking at her with sheer undisguised delight.

  ‘Are you—’ he began, then his eyes shifted focus to the man who had just appeared behind Bel and who didn’t look that happy to see another man’s hands on his wife’s shoulders.

  Dan’s arms dropped to his side. Bel thought she saw the light fade in his eyes, as if a dimmer switch in them had just been turned down.

  ‘Dan, this is Richard,’ she felt obliged to add, ‘my husband.’

  Oh God, she hoped Dan didn’t hit him.

  ‘Richard, this is Dan. He’s an . . . author friend of Dad’s.’

  ‘Hi,’ said Dan, making no attempt to hold out his hand. There was a stiffness to his jaw that hadn’t been there seconds ago.

  ‘Hello,’ returned Richard, politely but cool. Then he swivelled his head round imperiously and looked bored.

  ‘Well, I’d better get back inside,’ said Dan, taking a step backwards. ‘To my adoring fans.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Bel, not wanting him to go.

  ‘It’s been really great seeing you again,’ he said, flicking his eyes towards Richard. ‘I’m happy for you.’

  No, I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet, she wanted to shout, not that she could really do that with Richard at the side of her, his hand now possessively on her arm.

  ‘Take care,’ said Dan – and he was gone, swallowed up in the crowds inside the book shop. Bel felt as if the temperature around her had dropped by twenty degrees.

  ‘Who’s that, did you say?’ said Richard.

  ‘He’s an author called John North,’ said Bel, drifting reluctantly away from the bookshop behind Richard. She tried to catch another glimpse of Dan through the window but there were too many people standing round the desk.

  ‘Never heard of him,’ Richard sniffed.

  ‘Let’s go for a coffee,’ said Bel, hoping to divert her chaotic thoughts with cake.

  ‘Okay, where?’

  ‘There’s a lovely little shop down by the old post office,’ said Bel, steering Richard in that direction.

  ‘What, here?’ he said, when they arrived at it. His nose wrinkled at the shabby facade and the blackboard menu swinging at the side of the door.

  ‘I know it doesn’t look much from the outside but the cakes are delicious. I always come here when I’m in the centre.’

  ‘There’s the Queens Hotel nearby. If you must insist on having afternoon tea that would be a better place, surely?’

  ‘I’m not bothered about a posh afternoon tea,’ Bel pushed open the door to the café. ‘You’ll love it. They do the best coffee and walnut cake in the world.’

  ‘Coffee and walnut cake? Are you sure you’ve got the right person, Bel?’ Richard snickered. ‘Come on, let’s go to the Queens. It’s just over there.’

  Bel let the door close and allowed Richard steer her to the Queens. But she had no appetite for the tiny macaroons and minuscule scone rounds that came with the tea. Because it wasn’t just about the cake.

  Chapter 87

  Violet had not managed to visit Carousel at the weekend because Nan had fallen, sprained her wrist and shaken herself up and Violet had spent a large chunk of Saturday sitting in the hospital with her, and then keeping her company at home on Sunday. Nan appeared to be fading before her eyes. She looked as tiny and frail as a spring chick.

  When Violet returned to her ice-cream parlour on Monday, she’d found that Pav must have been working solidly over the weekend. The mural was almost complete; it was almost time for him to go. He had not turned up that day, or for the two days after. As Violet made test batches of ice cream she keenly felt his absence, though she knew it was going to be something that she would have to get used to.

  The shop was beautiful but Violet had little energy to appreciate it at the moment. All she could think was that she felt as trapped as one of the horses that Pav had drawn on her wall – destined to go round in circles in one direction only, operated by someone else’s will, never riding free.

  Violet locked up shop and wondered what she had to go home to because she’d had a very strange call from Glyn at eleven that morning. Did she have a favourite font, he’d asked. She didn’t but answered ‘French Script’ to satisfy him because she’d just used that for her menus and it was the first one that came to mind.

  Whatever Violet imagined would be waiting for her fell short by a golden mile. She parked the car and got out. When she looked up it was to see Glyn’s face at the window. He was grinning and waving at her to hurry up.

  ‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ he said, trotting so close behind her as she walked into the kitchen that he trod on her heels.

  ‘Oh have you?’ she tried to inject some enthusiasm into her voice. ‘What is it?’

  He waggled his finger at her. ‘Ah-ha. Can’t tell you. You have to spot it.’

  Violet looked around the room. ‘Is it in here?’ she asked, bored already by this game.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, grinning. It wasn’t a nice grin. It was almost manic. The sort of grin that Jack Nicholson did a lot in The Shining. He was practically tittering with childish excitement as Violet pretended to be interested in searching the room. She hoped he didn’t expect her to open every drawer.

  ‘Am I getting warm?’ she asked.

  ‘Nope,’ he grinned.

  She shrugged her shoulders impatiently.

  ‘Come on, guess,’ Glyn urged. ‘What do people in love do?’

  He’d bought her some jewellery and had it engraved, it was obvious.

  ‘Oh Glyn, I hope you haven’t spent a lot of money on me.’

  He grinned even more widely. ‘Not on you. But for you.’

  He was making The Times crossword look like a two-piece jigsaw.

  Violet pretended to think, but everything she guessed at resulted in a ‘Nope’.

  ‘Give up? Okay, then, I’ll tell you,’ he said. ‘Ta da.’

  He presented her with his arm and started rolling up his sleeve. Violet’s first thought was that he had a new watch, but it was just his old one that his parents had bought for his twenty-first and that he always wore. Violet noticed the skin on his arm was getting redder as more of it was revealed. Then she saw the black writing, a tattoo in French Script: Glyn & Letty. The words were bordered with a long twisted stem of tiny roses and thorns. Violet’s eyes focused on it all but seemed reluctant to pass the information to her brain for then it would be real, not a mirage. A swell of claustrophobia overcame her, as if it was she and Glyn themselves who were bound together in a tight and inescapable rope of thorns and not just their names.

  ‘Don’t you like it?’ he said, puppy eyes pleading for approval.

  ‘What have you done?’ said Violet, her voice a horrified whisper.

  ‘I’ve done it for us.’

  ‘You’ve scarred yourself for life,’ said Violet.

  ‘Oh the redness will die down and it doesn’t hurt that much,’ he chuckled. ‘I thought you’d like it. I know you are partial to a tattoo or two.’

  ‘I said Johnny Depp had a nice painted tattoo in a film, I didn’t mean for you to go out and copy him.’

  ‘Well, I know I’m not exactly Johnny Depp,’ said Glyn, his spirits nose-diving before her eyes, ‘but I thought you’d be a little bit pleased at least.’

  He had rolled his sleeve down but the sight of that tattoo was ingrained on her retinas.

  Glyn & Letty, Glyn & Letty. He was the only one who ever called her that and she didn’t like the version of her
name, never had. She’d thought it churlish to say, ‘Don’t call me that,’ so she had left it, but it grated on her. She should have spoken up. About that and everything else. She was a fool, an idiot. How had things got this far?

  She was picking up her wedding dress tomorrow. Then, the next day they were having a birthday tea with the Leachs Senior as it was Joy’s birthday. There would be more wedding talk about caravans and babies. It was just a non-stop thrill fest.

  Violet feigned a headache and went to bed early without having a bath. She didn’t want to feel Glyn’s hands massaging her shoulders, neither did she want to see his curled and sulky hurt lip if she shrugged him off. When she eventually got to sleep, it was to dream that Glyn had tattooed their names all over her body in all sorts of different colours and fonts. Glyn & Letty, Glyn & Letty, Glyn & Letty.

  Richard had kissed Bel properly on the mouth when they parted. His lips had been soft and insistent, his tongue entered her mouth and his arms crushed her to him. Bel had let him because she wanted to be sure, and experiencing his kiss she was now as sure as she could be.

  Once at home, she took her wedding ring out of her jewellery box and studied it. She had wanted to show off that ring so much when they bought it. It was a symbol of their union. The next time she saw Richard she would, once again, be wearing it.

  Chapter 88

  ‘When do you want it back?’ Violet asked Freya as she picked up the dress, protected in its plastic cover.

  ‘Within a calendar month of the wedding, please,’ said Freya, wrapping ribbon around the box that contained Violet’s veil and tiara. ‘You can leave the dry-cleaning to me.’

  Then she surprised Violet by taking her chin in her hand and tilting up her face. ‘You are a very lovely girl,’ said Freya in her soft voice. ‘I wish you all the best that life can give you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Violet, pushing down the rising tide of emotion. ‘It’s a beautiful dress and I’ll take good care of it.’

  ‘The dress is a good fit on a happy bride,’ smiled Freya, ‘but wild horses shouldn’t be able to drag down an aisle anyone that doesn’t want to be there.’

  Violet bravely attempted a joke. ‘Thank goodness there’re no aisles in the registry office, then.’

  Freya looked into Violet’s large sad eyes, which were the colour of spring bluebells. She saw all the thoughts, the frustration, the panic, the guilt in them before Violet dropped her head, picked up her gown and the box and turned to go.

  ‘Be happy,’ called Freya, as Violet closed the door behind her. ‘Be as happy as I was.’

  Chapter 89

  Violet hung the gown on one of the hooks at the side of the door in the shop and put the box of bridal accessories on the floor underneath it. Then she went into the kitchen, washed her hands and started to weigh out ingredients to make some strawberry and white-chocolate ice cream.

  The mixer was on full blast so she didn’t hear Pav enter. She wasn’t aware of his presence until she felt his hand upon her shoulder.

  She cried out in momentary shock, whirled round, saw it was him and then felt his hands upon her arms, steadying her – his beautiful big hands that she would soon never see – or feel – again. She couldn’t have stopped the tears with the Hoover Dam. Down her cheeks they poured while she stood there in embarrassment, trying to escape his hold.

  ‘My God, Violet, Violet, whatever is the matter?’ For a few moments he was unsure whether to let her go or hold her closer to comfort her. Then he pulled her against his chest and Violet abandoned herself to his force, breathing in the smell of his leather jacket and the fresh-scented cologne that he wore. His arms were a sweet cage around her, then, suspecting that he might not know how to let go, she stiffened and removed herself from his embrace.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Come sit down,’ he said, draping his hand over her shoulder and leading her into the front of the shop and over to one of the tables. He stripped off his jacket and sat down opposite her, a golden horse pole between them.

  ‘I am a very good listener,’ he said in his deep rich voice. ‘Last night I had to listen to my brother telling me that he is going back to Poland and leaving his wife. Again. It’s not a good place to be, in that house. I come here for smiles and find you crying.’

  Violet shrugged and dabbed at her eyes, hoping that she didn’t look like Chi-Chi the panda.

  ‘We are friends, I would like to think,’ said Pav. ‘So you can tell me what is making your big violet eyes so red.’

  Violet swallowed hard at the intensity of his attention. She could feel that his sea-blue eyes with the thick dark lashes were locked on to her face and when she raised her head it was to see that the stubble on his chin was longer in some places than in others as if he had been using a rubbish razor.

  ‘It’s nothi—’

  ‘Ah.’ Pav raised an admonishing finger. ‘Don’t say nothing. This is not nothing.’ He lifted a tear from her cheek with that same finger only for another to take its place immediately.

  ‘I can’t say it,’ said Violet. Her head fell down again.

  ‘Try,’ said Pav.

  ‘Really, Pav, I can’t.’

  She made to stand, muttering that she should carry on mixing, and Pav and his big artist hands reached over and pushed her down into her seat again, and the walls holding everything back inside her began to crumble.

  ‘You aren’t leaving this table until you talk,’ he said.

  Violet’s eyes were in full betrayal mode now, pumping out tears faster than she could wipe them away. ‘I . . .’ she began.

  She was shaking, as if things inside her were physically breaking down, shifting, rushing to freedom. Oh God, dare she say it? She sensed the words rise within her, rumble past her voice box; she felt her mouth form itself for their exit.

  ‘I don’t want to get married,’ she said on a frightened low breath. She felt engulfed by a crashing weight of guilt for releasing the sound to the air.

  ‘Then don’t,’ said Pav gently. ‘Tell him.’

  ‘I can’t,’ sighed Violet. ‘I’m everything to him. Really. Everything he does is for me. When I met him, sixteen months ago, he was like a kicked puppy. He was so gentle and caring and desperate to love and be loved.’

  She didn’t think he’d understand.

  ‘Let me guess,’ Pav mused. ‘Maybe you had not been treated so well in the past and this attention was . . . nice for you.’

  ‘Yes, it was,’ Violet nodded, and she felt encouraged to go on. ‘It was so flattering to be cared for the way he cared for me. Nothing was too much trouble;he sought my approval for everything he did. It felt lovely to be so . . . so revered. I moved in with him too quickly, I know that now, but he was so kind and I wanted to return the favour by helping him through his breakdown.’

  ‘Do you love him?’ asked Pav, taking a serviette from one of the opened boxes on the floor and handing it to her.

  ‘No.’ Violet took it, shook it open and buried her head in it.

  Even talking like this was making her feel as if the air had been removed from the room and replaced with something difficult to pull into her lungs.

  ‘You need to calm down and breathe deeply,’ said Pav slowly, breathing with her, inviting her to join the rhythm until she felt able to carry on talking.

  ‘I began to feel trapped, stifled, buried. More and more I started to do all the trademark things like tell him he was silly when he tried to kiss me, say I was tired when we went to bed. I never liked it that I couldn’t have any privacy in the bathroom.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just lock the door?’

  ‘He had the lock taken off. He was scared that I might have an accident in the bath, he said.’

  She saw Pav’s expression darken.

  ‘Violet, you must not marry this man.’

  ‘I know, but I can’t get out of it.’ There was real rising panic in Violet’s voice now, bordering on hysteria. ‘I want to stop it but everyone has b
ought outfits and is looking forward to it and my nan wants to see me married and she’s ill. And his parents have bought us presents and they’ve had their caravan cleaned especially . . .’

  Pav’s hands came out and grabbed her wrists and it shocked her into silence.

  ‘These are not reasons for getting married, Violet. This is why you get married.’ He dragged her hands on to his chest where his heart was. She felt the slow, steady thump underneath his shirt, the rise and fall of his ribcage. ‘Because you feel a person in here.’

  ‘You aren’t telling me anything I don’t know, Pav,’ Violet cried. ‘But if I don’t go through with it . . .’ Her voice folded again.

  ‘What?’ Pav was still holding her hands on his chest. ‘What will happen if you don’t get married?’

  ‘He’ll kill himself,’ wept Violet, totally breaking down. ‘That’s what he tried to do the last time I left him. He won’t fail again and it will all be my fault.’

  Chapter 90

  ‘Where’ve you been, Susan? You were hours,’ said Nan impatiently, as Susan appeared in the doorway with a cheese sandwich.

  ‘I’ve been in the kitchen getting this for your lunch,’ said Susan, quelling the urge to snap. Not because she was angry at the old lady, but because she was dog-tired. Nan had wet the bed again during the night and she’d had to get up and strip and change the sheets. And Susan was worried. Nan was going downhill too fast. And it was killing them both that such a proud woman was wetting her bed.

  ‘I don’t like cheese. I never have,’ said Nan, wrinkling up her nose as Susan put the sandwich plate down on the table in front of her.

  ‘You do,’ said Susan. ‘You love cheese.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what I like and what I don’t like,’ Nan said crossly, as if Susan were a naughty child.