Seven Lies (ARC)

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Seven Lies (ARC) Page 10

by Elizabeth Kay


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  “Can we maybe . . .” she says. “Maybe just not today?”

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  “Ah, come on,” he replies.

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  “No,” she says. “I’m being serious. Can you just . . .”

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  “But you said,” he says. “You said today. And what? You’ve changed

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  your mind?”

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  “Next time,” she says. “I promise. But my parents. They’ll be back

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  any minute.”

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  “You’re doing it with someone else, aren’t you?” he says, unprovoked.

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  “I’m not,” she replies. “I promise, I’m not.”

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  “You’re a fucking slut, that’s what you are.”

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  “I’m not! I promise I’m not,” she says. “There’s no one else. I promise.”

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  “You know that if I wanted to, I could, right? You know that, yeah?”

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  “Please, Tom. Let’s not— ”

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  “I can do whatever I want. You know that.”

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  “Stop it,” she says. “Come on, now. Don’t threaten me.”

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  “You think that’s a threat? It’s a fucking promise.”

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  She starts to cry.

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  “My parents are away next weekend,” he says, and he stands up—

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  the creak of the mattress— and he opens the door— the bristle of the

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  weight of the wood on the carpet— and then he leaves.

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  E L I Z A B E T H K AY

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  I stopped recording but I stayed crouched inside the wardrobe.

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  Marnie went to the bathroom a few minutes later and I crept back

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  out of the window and down the trellis. I sent the recording to his

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  rugby coach with an accompanying email from an anonymous address

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  and Thomas was quietly dismissed from the team. He sent some abu-

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  sive messages to Marnie but we read them together and she never saw

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  him again after that. She invited me to take some self- defense classes

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  with her, some sort of martial arts medley, and it was— it still is—

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  rewarding to know that my actions have made us stronger, tougher, less

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  vulnerable.

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  I think that she knew it was me who recorded him and sent that

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  email. But she never said anything. And I think that if she thought I’d

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  overstepped, she would have done. Still, in the months that followed

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  she would occasionally turn to me, as though about to speak, and then

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  change her mind and close her mouth.

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  Now, I suppose, I hope that she knew. I hope that, in that moment,

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  she realized that our roots were so tightly locked together— the thicker, 18

  barkier skin so eroded at the tightest junctures, flesh on flesh— that we 19

  were entirely inseparable. I hope that she knew that we were both all

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  in, at all costs, for always and forever.

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  The wedding was due to take place eight months after Charles’s pro-24

  posal, on the first Saturday in August. I had wondered if their engage-

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  ment would change things, but thankfully the steady rhythm of our

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  everyday seemed unaffected. The intervening months passed without

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  issue. Marnie and I still talked to each other regularly, sometimes sev-

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  eral times a week. We still had dinner together every Friday evening

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  and while, admittedly, our conversations often turned to floral arrange-

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  ments, I had expected far worse. And so I had been relieved to discover

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  that we were still very much the same people we had always been.

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  At the beginning of her last unmarried weekend, on that Friday

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  S E V E N L I E S

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  evening, Marnie and I were sitting together on the floor of her flat,

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  stringing silver name tags to small boxes of sugared almonds. The many

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  lists of things to do had dwindled over the previous weeks until there

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  were just these few final details, the last of the legwork that needed

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  completing.

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  “When’s Charles’s mother arriving?” I asked. “Is she staying here?” It

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  was a struggle to negotiate the thin silver thread through the small

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  paper hole, and that kind of meticulous, detailed work had never been

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  my strength.

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  “Eileen?” said Marnie. “Oh. I don’t know. I don’t think so. But

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  then . . . I don’t know where else she’d be staying. Hang on.” She went

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  into the kitchen and returned with her laptop. She sat down on the sofa

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  and lifted the screen. “I don’t know,” she said again. “I hope she isn’t

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  staying here. I’d have to make up the bed and everything.”

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  “I can help you,” I said. And then we moved on to the menus, all of

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  which needed hole punching at the top and ribbon looping through the

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  punctures to be tied in a bow.

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  Charles arrived home an hour or so later. It must have been nearly

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  nine o’clock. We knew that he was in a foul mood from the slam of the

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  door behind him, the crack of his briefcase on the wooden floor, the

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  grunt as he hung his jacket over the banister.

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  “I’ll check on him,” whispered Marnie.

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  I heard her voice in the hallway, a soft buoyant murmuring, with its

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  own tune, almost a song. And his replies, short and sharp and snapped.

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  And initially it was just the unpacking of a day, the unraveling of a rage, 25

  but then her voice began to shift, too, undulating, and instead of her

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  calming him, he was riling her.

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  “I’ve literally just walked through the door,” he said, and his voice

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  was loud now, carrying in that way that a proud man’s can. “And you’re

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  asking me about wedding things. And I don’t have a clue, Marnie. I

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  couldn’t tell you anything about anything to do with the wedding.”

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  “I asked about your mother,” she said. “She’s your mother.”

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  E L I Z A B E T H K AY

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  “It’s in hand.”

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  “She’s on the table plan.”

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  “Well, why is she on the table plan?” he replied.

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  “Because she’s your mother,” insisted Marnie. And then quieter,

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  kinder: “Isn’t she coming? We haven’t seen her in ages and— ”

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  “I’m going to have a shower,” he said, and he marched up the stairs

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  and she groaned and walked into the kitchen.

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  I heard the tap running and the clicking of the hob and her speaking

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  into the camera, melodic again. I continued cutting, threading, tying

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  ribbon, and piling the finished menus into boxes.

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  Charles came into the living room a few minutes later, wearing jeans

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  now, his hair damp, and he slumped onto the sofa beside me. He was so

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  big, so tall, over six foot and with broad shoulders and the sort of phy-

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  sique that men hone simply because they want to seem strong.

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  “You didn’t invite her,” I said as I measured lengths of ribbon be-

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  tween my fingers.

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  “What?” he said.

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  “You’re lying,” I said. “You didn’t invite her.”

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  I don’t think he wanted to confide in me— if he’d had a choice he’d

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  have chosen not to— but his pause revealed the truth. “I don’t want her

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  there, okay?” he said.

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  “I get it,” I said, and I did. “I didn’t invite my parents to my wedding.”

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  “Exactly,” he said.

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  And I think that he misunderstood, that he thought that our par-

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  ents were the same, that we were the same and we weren’t at all.

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  “Because she’s sick,” he continued. “And I don’t know that I can deal

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  with that on my wedding day, you know. If she’s there, it becomes all

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  about her. You wouldn’t believe it, the way people are around sickness.

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  I’m out with her and they want to talk, all of them, about her bloody

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  wig and her ongoing nausea and about diets that eradicate cancer. It’s

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  absurd. I think she likes it: the attention. I think it gives her a purpose, 32N

  gives the sickness a purpose. Anyway, it’s much easier to not invite her.”

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  S E V E N L I E S

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  “But she’s your mother,” I replied.

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  “What?” He had already pulled his phone from his pocket and was

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  distracted by someone different somewhere else.

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  “You can’t not invite her because she’s sick,” I said. “Does she know

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  that it’s happening?”

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  “Maybe,” he said, and he didn’t seem embarrassed at all. “I guess my

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  sister might have said something at some point.”

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  “But isn’t she devastated?”

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  “I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t asked. We aren’t close.”

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  “It’s cruel,” I said.

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  He put his phone down on the side table and ran his fingers through

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  his wet hair. “I don’t think you have any right to say that,” he said, and 12

  then wiped his hand dry on a cushion. “When you didn’t invite your

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  parents either. And it’s my wedding, so it’s my decision. And I don’t like 14

  sick people.”

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  “You don’t like what?” said Marnie, catching only the very end of his

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  sentence as she entered the room with blue and white ceramic plates

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  and silver cutlery piled in her arms. She lowered them onto the table.

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  “I haven’t invited my mother,” he said.

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  “Because she’s sick,” I said.

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  “What?” asked Marnie, as she arranged first the knives and then the

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  forks. “Because she’s sick? Surely that’s a reason to invite her?”

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  “Exactly,” I said.

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  “No,” he said. He wasn’t angry, not like he’d been before, not like in

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  the hallway, but he was firm and determined. “It’s my choice,” he said.

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  “And I don’t want her there. I don’t like sick people.”

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  “What if I get sick?” asked Marnie as she placed the plates in their

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  positions on the table.

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  “That’ll be different,” he said.

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  She looked at me and she raised an eyebrow and a conversation

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  passed unsaid between us, one that acknowledged that it really wasn’t

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  that different at all. And yet, while I was horrified by the sentiment, I N32

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  E L I Z A B E T H K AY

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  think Marnie was mostly frustrated. The table plan would need re-

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  drafting.

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  “As long as that’s true, then I’m just going to pretend that this

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  conversation never happened,” she said nonchalantly. “I think that’s

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  probably the best thing.” And then she went back into the kitchen and

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  Charles turned on the television and I finished the menus and then we

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  sat down for dinner as though it genuinely hadn’t happened.

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  But it stayed with me, this strange exchange. Because it confirmed

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  that he wasn’t good enough for Marnie and that he never would be,

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  never could be. I had a concrete moment that I could return to in which

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  he had vociferously reassured me that he wasn’t right for the woman he

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  was about to marry.

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  I felt smug.

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  Is that bad?

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  Because it was confirmation that he really was detestable, that my

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  hatred wasn’t unfounded or undeserved but justifiable and fair. And

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  more than that, because it proved something that I hadn’t felt confident

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  articulating before then: that I really was better than him. I took care

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  of those who needed me: I understood that it was part of the contract

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  of love, of duty, of family.

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  I could see then that he wasn’t all in— not at all costs; not at all.

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  Chapter Nine

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  he day eventually arrived, the first Saturday in August, and de-

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  spite an unpromising forecast, the weather was unexpectedly

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  warm, the sky unexpectedly bright. There were hundreds of guests,

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  from every avenue of their lives— school, university, work— and some

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  they had never before met: partners of cousins, friends of their parents, 16

  and new infants squalling and then giggling, seemingly without reason.

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  Guests had traveled to Windsor from all over the world: Charles’s sister

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  and her husband arrived from New York early that morning, his aunt

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  and uncle interrupted their yearlong sabbatical to join us from South

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  Africa, and Marnie’s brother, Eric, jetted back from his high- flying job 21

  in New Zealand to be there for the celebrations.

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  You will think that I am lying when I say this, but I promised you the

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  whole truth and this is that: it really was one of the best days of my life.

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  Marnie and I spent the morning together at her parents’ house and we

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  ate toast layered with jam in our pajamas and she had a bath and I sat on 26

  the floor beside her and stretched out across the tiles and we talked

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  about how we met in that long, thin queue and the various strings that

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  had been pulled and released and that had led to that very moment.

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  I watched her marry a man whom I hated but whom she loved and

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  it wasn’t as horrible as I thought it would be. I watched her exclusively—

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  absorbed in the way her red hair was curled into a bun at the back of

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  E L I Z A B E T H K AY

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  her head; the diamond necklace; the full white skirt; the long lace

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  veil— and I enjoyed her joy. I felt so proud to be part of such an impor-

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  tant moment in her life. I ate too much and I drank too much and I

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  danced until my feet were blistered and sore, and yet I felt wonderful.

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  His speech was quite charming, really. I’d expected it to be

 

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