Carolanne and James said very little. Those at work nodded their approval. Tatiana huffed and commented they didn’t look natural as they were too round but it was Mark’s reaction which reassured me I had done the right thing:
‘Fantastic,’ he said as I revealed them for the first time once the bandages were finally removed and the swelling had receded. ‘Fantastic, Ol, really fantastic. They’re just what I envisaged, just what I wanted for you. You see, I was right, right all along.’
It was two in the morning and we were both in bed, He was lying with his toned, muscular arms behind his head and I was kneeling in front of him to fully display his new piece of art. The bed side light gave an amber glow to the white silk bedroom. Mark sighed and then looked up at me. His black hair drifted over his dark eyes.
‘I’m right about you aren’t I, Olivia?’ He paused and nodded to himself. ‘Yes, I know when something is right and that’s you. I need you and you need me so let’s make this a permanent contract. Let’s get married.’
He looked at me for my answer but a chill tickled my back. I covered myself up with the duvet as I felt exposed to the morning air and I didn’t want to be naked at what I envisaged should be the pinnacle of my romantic experiences; a flash moment in my life which would lead to a memory I could relive whenever I chose. In that memory I did not want to see myself naked having just discussed the size of my breasts. A loving gesture felt crass.
‘Are you asking me to marry you? Should you not tell me you love me first then ask for my hand in marriage on a summer’s evening beside a babbling brook?’ I smiled at him to show I was joking.
‘I don’t need to tell you I love you Olivia… The words “I love you” are secondary to what I feel for you, they’re just a by-product of a thought of love to reassure the other. I don’t need to tell you; you know I do, and I know you love and need me. But if you need to hear it then, yes, I love you Olivia. I love and adore you very deeply.’
‘I do too!’ I gushed out clasping my duvet firmly around my body. He looked at me still with his hands supporting his head upon the pillow. Moonlight mixed with the electric light and the cold night atmosphere whispered we were alone in this apartment and alone in this vast city; we were the only ones in this country and the only ones living on this planet. I shivered and he gave me his hand to rest my hand in.
‘Well?’ he whispered. ‘Are you going to say yes or no?’
‘I don’t have a ring,’ I shivered again, ‘Shouldn’t there be a ring?’
He squeezed my hand tightly momentarily hurting my fingers as they compressed together.
‘I need you Olivia. Will you marry me?’
‘I suppose so, yes,’ I whispered.
I did not sleep that night. Instead I listened to the rasping snore from Mark who had fallen asleep only a few moments after receiving my, “Yes”. I no longer hugged the high I had from my operation and I no longer felt the brief kiss of romance from Marks’ question of marriage. Instead I was confused at the low feeling I sank into whilst lying in the bed.
The next morning I followed Mark around the apartment whilst he went through his morning ritual. I was waiting for another discussion about getting married but he seemed oblivious to my search. He was eating his cornflakes in the kitchen, standing by the coffee machine that had faithfully given him his morning Columbian espresso shot. Bizarrely, I envied the machine – it knew its role and delivered its assigned daily product. It did not need to question its being and it was content just sitting in the kitchen until such time that it would be replaced by an updated coffee machine.
Mark finally broke the silence whilst munching on his cornflakes.
‘What? What do you want?’ He spat his question at me and slight flakes of soggy corn landed on my chest.
‘Oh nothing,’ I replied.
‘I’ll be late tonight.’ He turned to throw his half empty bowl in the sink. I winced at the gloopy mass of cereal dripping from the bowl ready for me to scrape out and throw into the bin once he had left. He strode out of the kitchen to the hallway to grab his coat.
Just before Mark left the apartment he always looked into the gothic mirror hanging next to the door to smooth his hair and readjust his tie. As he began this familiar ritual I grabbed this moment to blurt out:
‘So…the wedding, er, should I start planning?’ I was clenching my dressing gown waiting for a look of dismay at the effrontery of my question. I was also waiting for a snigger of ‘Darling, I was only joking.’ I ventured further.
‘Maybe September this year I thought? September is a good month to marry as it’s usually a warmer, sunnier month than August. I could have a quick look at venues.’ I paused to allow him to reject my suggestions but again he did not flinch so I meekly continued:
‘Or maybe Christmas, whatever you prefer. Or we can wait, maybe wait? After all it’s so soon from well, last night and you asking me and so maybe just wait. Yes, just wait, okay.’ My voice trailed off as he opened the front door but as he joined the outside world he turned back at me.
‘No, September is good, whatever you want. I know the Crayford’s had a wedding planner. Don’t know the name but she organised the Tote’s wedding. And Olivia, don’t worry, I meant what I said, every word. I love you and you’re the first woman I have ever said that to.’
He winked as he left and I remained in the hallway spinning in love. But, within minutes of Mark leaving, my mobile phone rang and it was your mother who screeched down the phone:
‘He asked me, Ol, he asked me!! I’m getting married!!’ Janet screamed her joy at me.
‘Seriously? Ah, so am I,’ I replied.
‘Eh? You too? Spooky. Though you don’t sound too happy?’
‘No, no I’m overjoyed,’ I mimicked her delight but, truthfully, I was overwhelmed at the coincidence but also frustrated that my news had been eclipsed by Janet’s.
I listened to how Colin had arranged for them to go out to some secluded spot by the River Thames in Richmond but it had rained heavily so they dived into a transport café along the A3. However, Colin was momentarily overtaken by intense love for her so that he had to ask her right there over their sausage sandwiches whilst waiting for a bowl of chips. Apparently, the owner had overheard his proposal and he gave the chips for free. They laughed that they only had the money for one bowl but if they had known it would be free they would have ordered two. But Janet didn’t care as it was the most romantic day of her life and she was going to marry the man she loved.
They were getting married in August and that was all she could focus on now. I copied her happiness from the ‘Oh my’s to the ‘I can’t believe he’s asked me,’ that sprinkled through Janet’s phone call. I evaded her questions on my sedate proposal but instead I focused on the wedding day, boasting that I already had a wedding planner.
‘I would expect nothing less Olivia.’
‘She has organised the Totes marriage at St Catherines – you saw that in Hello magazine? Well that was one of hers.’
‘Hello magazine you say? No wedding day is complete without a social photographer to help finance the day – those romantic multi-millionaires. Unfortunately, it’s just me and a WH Smith clipboard and pen.’
Within a couple of weeks I met my wedding planner. She was a tall lady in her late forties, called Kiki, she had been married and when her marriage broke down she received enough money from her ex-husband to give up work and start her own business. She had been organising wedding days for fifteen years and she rattled off a list of famous people forwhom she had created a perfect day. The fact that only a handful of these wedding days had led to a marriage was irrelevant.
‘If you can cherish the first day of your marriage then you will always share one perfectly happy day together. What a great and binding gift to have with each other no matter what subsequent days give,’ she said whilst leaning on my balcony overlooking
London. I looked at her quizzically and she continued her rehearsed script:
‘A wedding day is a perfect memory that displays to your family and friends that you are in love. At that moment no one, can question this, including the parents and close friends who are the first to voice their opinion over your life choices. Am I right?’ She winked. ‘They can’t question anything especially if they are sipping champagne and eating oyster canapés… am I right or am I wrong here? Trust me Olivia, your wedding day will give a lifetime of happy memories and it will be talked about by others for years to come, right? And look at it this way, one beautiful memory is worth hundreds of cloudy memories, correct? Leave it to me and you will not be disappointed.’
She left and I was left feeling confused as to my role in the planning of my wedding but it soon became apparent with the subsequent emails: I was to be presented with a number of options about various aspects of the day but the one I was to choose was the one Kiki recommended.
The only input I gave was for my wedding dresses. I chose three, all designed by McQueen. But even here my involvement was limited. I had an initial fitting for each dress but as a bust was made of me they did not need to see me until they were ready for a final fitting. I had lost a bit of weight by the time my wedding day arrived but they merely made the odd adjustment; for example, they cleverly padded the bottom area to fill out the dresses and give each one the ideal silhouette. It also meant I had my own portable cushions whereever I went.
As summer approached I was reminded of Colin and Janet’s wedding day when an invitation fluttered through my front door. The invitation was handmade and I confess, Mark and I were impressed by Janet’s craftsmanship. It was made of translucent peach paper adorned with individually cut butterflies and tiny flowers, all made from school tissue paper. When I opened the card more paper butterflies floated over my lap and on to Mark’s red leather sofa. Although it was irritating to have to get the vacuum cleaner out to clear away these stray butterflies, the invitation did give me a June day smile.
She had not included a wedding gift list and when I rang her to ask she just said she knew her friends were as broke as she was, but as I had money then she would be very grateful if I could contribute to the ‘Colin and Janet wedding fund’. I asked Mark and he wrote a cheque for £500 and I sent it off to her. A few days later she rang to thank me for funding her whole wedding.
‘Seriously?’ I exclaimed,
‘Don’t start, Olive,’ she paused.
‘But it costs less than a cheap weekend away! Oh, find the funny side, Janet,’ I interjected.
‘No, I won’t react, I know you, I know you think that comment is funny but I’m happy so, today I can rise above it.’
‘Of-course I’m joking, but actually, in all seriousness, hopefully the fact we’ve paid for your wedding lightens the blow that I’m afraid Mark can’t make it, he has a business trip to Singapore. Really sorry sis, but I’ll be there.’
‘The blow is light – thank you for letting me know; he has already been scrubbed off the wedding list.’
‘Thanks for understanding I can explain…’
‘No explanation needed sis. Our loss is Singapore’s gain or the other way round depending on the way you look at it,’ she concluded.
August 21st arrived. I wore a Prada black and white panelled, off the shoulder fitted dress. As I dressed I thought about what £500 paid for when the shoes I was wearing to her wedding cost nearly that much.
The reception office was in the white Edwardian council building in Leatherhead. The room was elegant with wood panelling all around and happily that August day was bright and warm as it had emerged from a week of torrential downpours. I took my seat amongst the other guests and I was slightly alarmed they were all carrying wellington boots. A lady with a round cheerful face came over to my row and leaned over to my chair and presented me with a green pair of boots with dried mud all over them. I must have looked shocked.
‘Oh I’m sorry, I’m Claire,’ her voice bubbled. ‘I only have these spare in the shed and Janet said she couldn’t get hold of you to bring some boots and then she said you probably don’t own a pair,’ she smiled. ‘We did giggle at that, sorry! But please take them with my love. Ooh, she’s here, I’ll let you be. Lovely, to meet you!’
I forced an appreciative but confused smile then placed them by my side. I turned to see Janet walk in with you, a handsome eleven-year-old boy dressed in a suit and converse trainers. You held my beautiful sister’s hand and walked her down the aisle. Your mum was discreetly shaking in a pretty pale yellow 1960s’ dress with embroidered daisies around the hem, which she had found in a charity shop. Her bouquet was made up of three white gerberas and a further white gerbera clipped into her hair. Janet looked radiant and her innocent happy face was reflected in the look of the groom.
When Colin turned to see his bride for the first time I caught his look towards your mother of intense pride, happiness and love. His eyes shone with tears which threatened to fall upon his cheek and his smile was for Janet only. His gaze did not waver from her as she walked down the aisle. As the vows were read their hands clasped each other as if their fingers were twenty little people who had found each other after a long absence. My heart forgot that it was here alone and it forgot it felt lonely amongst strangers, instead, it sang for my sister.
After the ceremony, everyone piled into one another’s cars. I crammed into a Ford Fiesta and I tried in vain to protect my dress from wellington boots, which were thrown onto the laps of the passengers in the back seat. It became apparent why we needed the boots when we parked at a farmer’s field owned by a friend of Colin. I delicately tumbled out of the car and saved my fall by grabbing the jacket of the driver who helped me to my feet.
‘Best put those on now,’ he said, ‘it’s a muddy walk to the reception.’
I followed everyone else to a small open field which was about the size of a junior football pitch. Around the sides Janet and her friends had spent the previous day hanging Christmas fairy lights, which were lit by a generator. This generator powered a burger van and a music system. Hanging from the string of fairy lights were old camera pictures of Janet and Colin when they were children then pictures of them together on holiday, at parties and just generally in love.
Bottles of wine adorned school chairs and bottles of beer sat proudly in tubs of ice. There was cheer all around and people danced to music and drank wine and ate burgers under the stars and the bright, full moon until early hours of the morning when the sun crept above the horizon to join in on the celebrations. I no longer felt awkward in a designer dress whilst wearing borrowed wellington boots and a borrowed orange fleece jacket. I forgot how Mark would have scoffed at my family’s wedding and instead I joined in and kissed my sister and my new brother and I wished them a long and happy marriage. I mostly danced with you, my sweet Jason and laughed at your attempt to teach me how to do a ‘pop’ or ‘bop’ dance.
When it was time for me to leave I rang James and told him what a wonderful wedding I had attended. It was a joyous celebration for a marriage that I believe has just celebrated its’ twenty-fifth anniversary. I wish I was able to have joined you and your parents in celebrating their marriage. I wish I could have eaten burgers in your parent’s garden and danced to 1990’s music and reminisced over that day with their friends but alas, I spent that day looking at the sky and imagining the fun you all had.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jason
My dad came around early – too early for a bank holiday Monday. I was enjoying a rare lie in when the door clicked open. My initial thought was I need to get back my temporary key I had given to Dad when I had moved in two years ago, and my second thought was I need to cancel the breakfast date with my new girlfriend, Jessica.
Jessica left through the front door and I went out the back to help Dad sow the green beans which he insisted I was to water every day
(he ignored me when I told him that these baby seedlings would definitely shrivel away as their ancestors had done in previous years).
‘You’re a heathen, young man; these plants will give you great beans just for the payment of a few drops of water.’
‘Naa Dad, trust me, the rent is way too low for the amount of effort I have to put in to house them,’ I replied.
I offered a fork for my sixty-two-year old dad to turn my earth whilst I slouched into my garden chair with beer stains all over it from past BBQ parties.
‘Dad, what was Aunt Olive’s wedding like? I don’t remember it.’
‘Why would you want to know?’
‘Just this letter I suppose, it’s got into my head.’
Dad stood to his feet to ease his back;
‘Well you don’t remember because the gold invitation didn’t invite you so you stayed with Hayley and her kids for the weekend.’
‘Gold invitation? Was Willy Wonker guest of honour?’
‘Many Wonkers were invited but strictly no children – would have ruined the look of the wedding. Anyway, the invitation was indeed gold, with diamanté studs that wrote out Mark and Olivia’s name – the thing actually shone. As I recall, in a separate gold envelope were directions for the day; not how to get there but where we were to stand at various times and best of all, the colours we were allowed to wear. I say ‘colours’, it was either blue or white. Your Mother was furious with me as I wore my blue jeans with a white shirt. Apparently, that wasn’t posh enough and she was worried it would offend the bride and groom, I’m afraid her protests were met with apathy. Ooh, pass me one of those, Jay.’
The Society Game Page 15