‘But—’
‘I don’t need to take some time out or think about things or do anything that would further screw up my life. I know what I want, and what I want is to spend this weekend with my fiancé, planning our wedding, safe in the knowledge that when I get back, Jackson will be on his way back to America, and I’ll never have to see him again.’
‘What about the divorce?’
‘He promised he’d send the papers regardless of my decision.’
‘And you believe him?’
I paused to consider this. She had a point – there was a chance that Jackson would refuse to file the papers. I could sue him for them, sure, but not without a long, protracted battle, one I might not be able to hide from Christopher. Still, something told me he’d be true to his word. ‘I do,’ I said softly. ‘I know he would do it.’
I heard Isla take a deep breath. ‘You know I’ll support you whatever you decide. If Christopher is the man you want to marry, I promise you I will be the happiest goddamn maid of honor you’ve ever seen. I’ll wear whatever disgusting lime-green monstrosity you want me to, I’ll wear one of those stupid monogrammed terrycloth robes while we’re getting ready – hell, I promise I won’t even sleep with the best man, at least not until the reception is finished. But I want you to be sure that this is what you want.’
‘It is,’ I said firmly. ‘I’m sure of it.’
14
Christopher and I were careening through the countryside, the wind whipping through our hair, the verdant rolling hills of Somerset stretched out before us like a plush carpet, the air filled with birdsong and lavender.
Wait, that’s not true.
In reality, we were stuck in traffic on the M4, inhaling exhaust fumes while horns bleated mournfully and the carload of children next to us (really, it was like a goddamn clown car – they were packed in like little jam-smeared sardines) pulled faces at us and stuck boogers to the windows.
In other words, a typical Saturday morning journey out of London.
‘We should have left earlier,’ Christopher fumed.
‘I know,’ I said sheepishly. ‘Sorry I overslept.’
The truth was, I’d been up until the early hours of the morning, trawling the Internet for a free room anywhere in the vicinity of the wedding venue. Who were these people, taking up the rooms of every hotel, B&B, inn and coach house in the greater Farmborough area? Judging by the complete lack of availability, there were huge hordes of people cavorting around Somerset that weekend, though God knows what they were doing. Walking through fields ringed by electric fences? Getting too hot next to a roaring fire? Secret S&M parties? It was a mystery.
Finally, just as I was about to crawl into bed and admit defeat, a room popped up on TripAdvisor at a place called the Red Lion. It looked nice enough from the photographs, and the reviews were decent, though there was a surprising number of complaints about the paucity of their gravy servings. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and I’ve never been much of a gravy woman myself, so I entered in my credit card details, clicked reserve, and tried not to think about the extortionate price. Mental note to self: if ever in need of a quick buck, become an innkeeper in Somerset.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’ Christopher cried as an articulated lorry began an elaborate nineteen-point turn on the slip shoulder, but my spirits couldn’t be dampened. The further from London we got, the clearer my head seemed to become, and the more certain I was about my decision.
After I got off the phone with Isla, I’d pulled the dog-eared list out of my bag and read it again for the thousandth time. The clarity, the order, the clear sequentialism of a life well-led … I tucked it back in my bag confident that I was on the right path. It was the life I’d chosen for myself, and I was going to follow it to the very last stop (Number 87: Die peacefully surrounded by loved ones).
Four and three-quarter hours, two thermoses of coffee, one can of Diet Coke, and a Snickers bar later and we finally saw a sign for Farmborough. ‘Thank Christ,’ Christopher muttered. ‘Now, do you want to check in first or go straight to the wedding venue?’
I checked the time – it was a quarter to one. ‘Let’s go to the venue,’ I said. ‘Maybe we can have lunch there.’
He punched the coordinates into the satnav. We followed the slightly frosty woman’s voice down a series of increasingly narrow and dilapidated roads until we emerged into a clearing marked out by a stone wall. In the center of a gently rolling field of wildflowers sat a tall barn built of pale stone. The slate-tiled roof peaked towards a suddenly cloudless blue sky, and the enormous arched doorway was propped open to allow a glimpse of the bare-brick walls and vaulted ceilings inside.
‘Holy shit,’ Christopher muttered, and I nodded silently in assent.
It was, in every visible way, perfect, like something snatched directly from the endless Pinterest boards I’d assembled before we got engaged. There was even a vintage Range Rover parked outside, a plume of white ribbons tied to its back bumper.
Christopher held out his hand. I entwined my fingers with his, and together we proceeded with stunned caution towards the barn. Through the pretty little wrought-iron gate, up the stone path, through the small garden in first bloom.
We peeked our heads through the door and saw the full scope of the place. The beamed ceiling must have been at least twenty feet high, and the light pouring in through the high windows took on a particular golden cast through the tempered glass. At any minute, I expected an angel to appear and start singing down at us, but instead we heard a door open at the back of the barn, followed by clipped footsteps on the flagstone floor. A middle-aged woman with a bob of glossy brown hair and an open smile appeared.
‘Hello!’ she called. ‘Can I help you?’
‘We – uh – we were … I mean, we might …’ I trailed off and shot Christopher a helpless look.
‘We’re getting married,’ Christopher announced, his tone slightly defiant, as though he expected her to tell us off for it.
Instead, her face broke into an even wider smile, and she clasped her hands together. ‘You are? How lovely!’ she said with an enthusiasm usually reserved for close relatives or people who owed you money.
‘Yes,’ I declared, suddenly emboldened. ‘We are!’
The three of us beamed at each other, and I wondered briefly if I’d slipped into a Richard Curtis film. I hoped I had.
‘Well,’ she said, bustling over to us. ‘You’ll have lots to sort out. Did you want to take a tour of the grounds?’
I gestured around the room. ‘This isn’t it?’
‘Good heavens, no!’ she laughed. ‘At least, not all of it. This is Tillbury Barn, where some of our couples choose to marry. There’s also Tillbury Hall, and Tillbury Mill.’
‘There’s a mill?’ I said weakly. I’d had a whole board dedicated solely to mills.
‘Of course there’s a mill!’ she said, as if it would be absurd – almost criminal – not to have a mill. ‘Come on,’ she said, taking us by our elbows and leading us back out the door. ‘I’ll give you the grand tour, and then we’ll sit down and have some lunch and talk things over.’
Over her head, Christopher and I exchanged a disbelieving look. (She was very small.) Had we fallen into an alternative space-time continuum? Was this actually a Richard Curtis film, and had this very convincing character actress mistaken us for the leads? Or was this some kind of elaborate trap that would lead to our body parts being sold on the black market?
The woman must have noticed the shocked looks on our faces, because she stopped and let out a tinkling little laugh. ‘Gracious,’ she said, ‘how rude you must think I am! I’m Deborah, and I’m the events coordinator here at Tillbury Manor.’ She held out a tiny hand, which we both shook while we introduced ourselves.
‘There,’ she said, satisfied that we were no longer appalled by her bad manners. ‘Shall we go?’
Tillbury Hall was a squat, hulking sandstone structure capped with the crenellated teeth of a
medieval castle. Christopher and I gazed up at it in silence.
‘Did anyone die in it?’ I asked finally.
Deborah’s head snapped towards me. ‘What do you mean?’
I felt myself blush. ‘It’s just … it seems like a place where people would be killed.’ It was the parapets, I decided. I remembered them from fifth grade history class, and associated them with people getting lanced through the eye.
She laughed. ‘No, at least not intentionally,’ she said. ‘It was only built in the late eighteenth century. The architect had a penchant for Arthurian legend, so built it according to an artist’s rendition of Tintagel.’
‘Oh.’ I couldn’t believe it. I’d loved all of that King Arthur stuff as a kid – I’d watched The Sword in the Stone so many times the tape wore out – and now I was being offered the chance to get married in a replica of his castle. ‘It’s very nice,’ I added lamely.
‘There’s a formal dining room inside that seats one hundred and fifty,’ she said, ‘plus a ballroom for the reception.’
‘Right,’ Christopher nodded. ‘And is there a bar?’
‘Of course!’ she trilled. ‘Fully stocked and licensed. Shall we take a look?’
Tillbury Hall was, without a doubt, the grandest place I’d ever set foot in. The vestibule alone was the size of the house I’d grown up in. The floors were laid with jewel-colored tiles, the tall windows hung with plush red draperies, and the walls lined with expensive-looking oil paintings. The formal dining room was all elegant wood paneling and long trestle tables decorated with ornate brass candlesticks and huge vases of flowers. But it was the ballroom that took my breath away.
It was octagonal, and absolutely enormous. The floor was shiny, pure-white tiles, and the walls were painted duck-egg blue and trimmed with gold. If I listened hard enough, I was sure I would hear a string quartet playing as hoop-skirted women and top-hatted-and-tailed men swooped across the floor.
Christopher tugged at my sleeve and pointed towards the ceiling. I craned my neck and looked up to see an elaborate fresco depicting a man and a woman, both in the nude save for carefully-placed fig leaves, wrestling around a tree.
Deborah followed our gaze and smiled. ‘The Garden of Eden,’ she murmured. ‘Very fine work, though I’ve always thought the snake looked a bit too pleased with himself.’
She was right, the snake did have an unsettling air of self-satisfaction as it watched Adam and Eve writhe around in shame.
‘He was a bit of a bastard,’ Christopher pointed out.
‘Very true,’ she agreed. ‘Now, enough about Satan – would you like to hear about our tasting menu?’
We heard about the tasting menu, and the canapé options, and the local florists, and the honeymoon suite located in one of the turrets. She showed us around Tillbury Mill – all craggy stones and candlelight and quaint rustic charm – and then led us back to Tillbury Hall for lunch.
‘Let us know if it’s too much trouble,’ we begged, but she waved away our protests.
‘None at all! Now, why don’t the two of you sit in here,’ she said, gesturing towards a cosy snug tucked behind the formal dining room, ‘and I’ll just run down to the kitchen and see what the cook has for us today. Any special requests?’
‘No,’ we chorused, ‘Anything at all! We’ll eat garbage if that’s what you have!’
She laughed her funny little laugh and then disappeared, leaving Christopher and I to goggle at each other in bewilderment.
‘Well,’ he said nervously.
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Well.’
It was perfect, that much was obvious. How could it not be perfect? It offered every possbile variety of idyllic English countryside wedding. If we wanted quaint, it had quaint. Grand, it had grand. Rustic? No problem. And yet the pit of my stomach roiled with anxiety.
‘It’ll cost a fortune,’ Christopher muttered, and I felt myself sag with relief.
It was strange. Here I was, touring the wedding venue of my dreams with the man of my dreams, but I couldn’t bring myself to feel excited about it. It felt unreal, like planning an exotic holiday you know you’ll never actually take, or envisioning telling your boss to go take a hike the next time he asks you to work late when you know you’ll just smile and nod. This is your life, I reminded myself. This is what you planned. But Isla’s voice kept ringing in my head.
‘Yes!’ I said. ‘It will definitely cost a fortune.’
‘We’ll have to give them our first born,’ he said, picking up an ashtray and weighing it in his hand.
‘Probably,’ I nodded. Poor little Number 38.
‘Feel this,’ he said, handing me the ashtray. ‘It feels like it’s made of solid gold!’
I took it from his hand and nearly dropped it. It weighed a ton. ‘I think it might actually be made of solid gold,’ I said, placing it with some difficulty back on the table.
‘There’s no way we’re going to be able to afford this place,’ Christopher said.
I looked over at him. Was it just me, or did I see a glimmer of relief on his face? ‘Maybe not,’ I agreed. ‘And we definitely shouldn’t go over our budget.’
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head gravely. ‘Definitely not.’
Deborah returned holding a tray groaning underneath the weight of a full tea set. ‘I’m afraid we’re too late for lunch,’ she said apologetically, ‘but we should have enough for a nice afternoon tea.’ She set the tray down on the table and proceeded to unload a truly insane number of silver teapots, jugs, dishes, bowls, spoons and strainers. ‘The rest is coming,’ she assured us, misreading the shocked looks on our faces.
A mousy young woman with a tangle of blondish hair appeared in the doorway. ‘Here you are,’ she said, quietly depositing two enormous tiered stands on the table. One was stacked high with a selection of cakes, scones and petit fours, the other with delicate little slivers of crustless sandwiches bursting with different fillings.
‘Shall I play mother?’ Deborah asked, holding the silver teapot aloft. Christopher and I nodded mutely and she poured the tea in a smooth stream into three bone china cups.
The three of us made polite conversation as we picked at the sandwiches and cakes – all uniformly delicious – but I was aware of the silent tension building in the room. Deborah had been so nice and had gone to so much trouble, and now she was going to tell us that we would each need to sell a major organ to afford a wedding here. We’d then have to extract ourselves awkwardly from the situation by nodding sagely and pretending we needed time to think before making a decision, while really making a break for the getaway car, Benny Hill music trumpeting in our wake.
‘So,’ Deborah said when the plates had been removed and the crumbs whisked away. ‘I expect you’ll be wondering about costs.’
‘Oh, yes, I guess so, hmmm,’ we murmured, as though the thought hadn’t occurred to us and indeed we were unfamiliar with the concept of financial transactions altogether.
‘Well, I’ve got our brochure here, complete with pricing lists.’ She slid it across the table and averted her eyes as we opened it, like waiters do in fancy restaurants when you’re entering your PIN.
Christopher was the first to look, and by the way his eyebrows sprung up into his hairline, I was sure we were in for a shock. How much could it be, I wondered? Twenty thousand pounds? Thirty thousand pounds? Really, it’s absurd how much people were willing to spend on weddings these days. It was just one day, in the end. There were so many more sensible things that money could be put towards, like a down payment on a house, or a nest egg for a pension, or an emergency fund in case one of you ends up a vegetable. Not romantic, I know, but you had to consider these things—
‘Here.’ Christopher shoved the pamphlet towards me with trembling hands. God, it must be worse than I thought. My eyes scanned down until I found the price list. And then my hands started trembling, too.
‘Is this including food?’ I asked.
Deborah nodded. ‘Of course!’
‘And drink?’ Christopher asked.
‘No—’
‘Ah!’ Christopher crowed triumphantly, as though she was Mrs Peacock and he’d just discovered her with the lead pipe in the Billiard Room.
‘—but we charge at cost, and we’re happy to keep the bar open for the entire night.’
‘Right,’ Christopher said, clasping his shaking hands together. ‘Right.’
It was under our budget. Way, way under our budget. So far under our budget, I started to wonder if we were secretly signing up for one of those reality wedding shows, and the catch would be that the whole thing would be planned by a bunch of pre-schoolers. Or maybe it was a cult, and we were actually volunteering to be part of a mass wedding where we all wore clothes made out of burlap sacks and chanted to the Moon God Zoltan during the ceremony.
Finally, the speculation was too much for me to bear. ‘What’s the catch?’ I asked, narrowing my eyes suspiciously.
Deborah looked taken aback. ‘There’s no catch, my dear, though if that price is too high, I’m sure we could negotiate on a few points. Some people forego the harpist, for instance, though I do think it adds to the atmosphere.’
A goddamn harpist. Could you believe it? Next she was going to tell me that a flock of doves would be released when we went in for the big kiss.
‘And there’s also the matter of the doves,’ Deborah continued.
Unbelievable. ‘What about availability?’ I crowed triumphantly. ‘I’m sure you’re booked up through the year!’
‘Let me see,’ she clucked, whipping out a leather-bound calendar. ‘It looks like we have weekends free in June and July.’
‘That’s too soon,’ I said hurriedly. ‘We’ll never get it organized in time.’
‘I can help with all that,’ she said, smiling indulgently. ‘But if you feel it’s too much of a pinch, we have slots free all the way up to Christmas.’ She closed the book and beamed at us both. ‘I have to say, this is a lovely place to have a winter wedding.’
Jenny Sparrow Knows the Future Page 24