by Fiona Harper
Us? I almost say, and then I realise she’s talking about Dan – that while I’ve been away they’ve become a unit of two. United in their disappointment with me, I suspect.
Becca stands up and looks at me. ‘It’s been almost three months. No card, no phone call …’
‘I was going to send a card, but … but they were all so ghastly and fake-looking, and my Italian never really did get good enough to handle a trip to the post office …’
I regret the lame excuse as soon as it’s out of my mouth. But I couldn’t tell her that while my boyfriend would smile and tell me to do what made me happy, there was always an undercurrent that he would be disappointed with me if I did. That would just be throwing unnecessary ammunition her way.
I pull the bracelet from my pocket and slide it across the mahogany bar. ‘I got you this …’
Becca stares at it, then picks it up. For a moment, I think she’s going to soften, but then she puts it back down on the bar and pushes it back to me. ‘Sorry, don’t take gifts from strangers.’ And then she turns and marches off through the swing doors, which bang satisfyingly behind her.
I sit there, stunned, for a second. Big Belly Man glances in my direction and just shrugs. When I realise that Becca isn’t going to come out again, I slide off the stool, the melody of ‘It’s A Hard-Knock Life’ mocking me as I slink from the theatre.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
My eyes are closed but I’m aware I’m awake, although I haven’t been for long. I shift in the bed and let out a comfortable sigh. Everything feels so homely and familiar. It even smells familiar. Every morning I’m glad of that feeling, glad I’m not waking into a new reality where I have to find my bearings and play detective.
I stretch and reach out a hand for Jude, but where I expect to find him there is only fresh air. And not just the space where he’d been lying moments before. My searching hand finds no sheet, no bed.
I open my eyes and sit bolt upright.
No!
Not again.
I’m back in my childhood bedroom with the stripy wallpaper and the ugly brown shaggy carpet. I just didn’t realise at first because a part of me knows it better than my current home.
I quickly throw back the duvet – a grass-green one with strawberries and sprigs of white flowers on it – and check myself over, then I flop back down on the pillow and let out a juddering breath. Oh, thank God for that. For a second, I thought I might have gone even farther backwards, to my teenage years, but I seem to be roughly the same age as I was when I went to bed next to Jude the night before.
So why am I here? Did Jude and I break up? My chest cramps at the thought.
I let the sadness, the anger, come. Not just for whatever might have happened between me and Jude, but because I’ve skipped time again. How much have I missed? Who am I now? All of this is making me feel rather disconnected from myself, as if I’m an actor in a play of my own life, swapping scenes and parts at random.
Just as I’m starting to properly wallow, there’s a soft knock and my mum puts her head round the door. ‘You up, love? Big day ahead!’ Without waiting for an answer, she nudges it open and enters. She’s balancing a cup of tea and a plate of Mother’s Pride toast cut into triangles, and she places them carefully on the bedside table.
‘I suppose so …’ I say, then take a sip of the tea. After my last ‘jump’, I learned that short and non-committal answers are the safest.
Mum lets out a surprised laugh. ‘I’d say!’ she adds, still chuckling, and her gaze falls on a garment covered in dry-cleaning plastic hanging from the front of the wardrobe door. For a moment, what I’m seeing doesn’t compute, but then my heart skips into overdrive.
It’s a wedding dress.
I push the duvet back and climb out of bed, feel the thin slippery plastic of the covering between my fingers then lift it slightly to look at the bottom of the skirt. It’s plain. Pure white taffeta. Not dissimilar from my wedding dress the first time around. Obviously, my tastes haven’t changed much.
I look at my mum, an expression of wonder on my face.
I’m marrying Jude?
I let out a little hiccup of a laugh, just because I can’t help it, but then I stop. How far have I jumped forward? There hadn’t even been a hint of that between us in the time and place I’ve just come from.
‘Drink up,’ Mum says, glancing at my mug of tea. ‘Becca will be here in half an hour.’
‘Becca’s coming?’ My heart catches again. Oh, thank goodness for that. We must have made up. Relief washes through me.
‘Of course she is. She’s your maid of honour!’ Mum shakes her head. ‘You’re in a strange mood this morning, but I suppose if a person is going to be in a strange mood, it might as well be on their wedding day.’
I launch myself at her and hug her hard. ‘I love you, Mum!’
She laughs again, kisses the top of my head and extricates herself from my grasp. ‘Like I said … strange mood. You’d better watch it, or you’ll be in a buckle-up-at-the-back white jacket by the end of the day, not a white dress.’
I grin at her, then peel back the flimsy covering from over the top of the wedding dress to get a good look at it. It’s almost identical to the one I wore when I got married to Dan, except for the puffy sleeves. I’d loved them at the time, but years after the wedding I’d never been entirely sure about them. I’m really glad I saw sense this time around.
Mum comes and stands next to me, and we both stand and smile at the dress. ‘I love it,’ I whisper. I can’t wait to put it on and walk down the aisle to the man of my dreams.
‘It is beautiful,’ Mum says wistfully, and then she turns and gives me a wink. I always loved it when she did that. Mum always seemed a bit older than my other friends’ mothers, a little more buttoned-up and fixated on manners, but when she winked you could see her mischievous side sparkling underneath.
She takes one last look at the dress and heads for the door. ‘Dan is going to think he’s the luckiest man alive when he sees you in it.’
I spit out my tea at that point, only just managing to avoid spewing brown spots all over the skirt of my perfect white wedding dress.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dan? My mum didn’t really say that, did she? She meant Jude. She must have meant Jude. It was probably just a slip of the tongue.
My heart rate evens out.
That must be it. Stressful day and all that. Easily done when she and Dad had been willing Dan to propose for months before he actually did. They’d been pretty invested in that outcome.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, rest my elbows on my knees and support my head with my palms.
Phew. OK … you can calm down now, Maggie.
I’m still sitting there, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, when Becca bursts in, laden with a garment bag and two plastic carriers stuffed full of make-up, curling tongs and hair products. She drops the bags on the floor, throws the other one over the chair in the corner, then pulls me into a bear hug. ‘I am so happy for you!’ she breathes into my ear.
I squeeze her back. Oh, I’ve missed her so much. ‘I’m so glad we were able to get over the whole Jude thing …’ I say. Obviously, she supports me now, otherwise she wouldn’t have agreed to be my maid of honour. I knew her unswerving loyalty would have to kick in at some point. ‘I know he’s going to make me really happy.’
Becca pulls back and the top of her nose wrinkles. ‘Why on earth are you talking about The Jerk on a day like today?’
‘I … I …’
‘I mean, talk about making a girl want to lose her cornflakes or something!’ Becca says, laughing, and starts pulling cosmetics out of her plastic bags. ‘Now … do you want to do barely there make-up, or are you going to go for something a bit stronger? I think your features can take it, if you do, and I’ve got a really nice shade of berry lipstick that’ll – ’
‘Becca?’
She stops and turns her head. ‘What?’
&nb
sp; ‘Who am I marrying today?’
She looks confused at first, then beams back at me. ‘The most wonderful man in the world, of course.’ She thinks this is banter, but instead of making me smile her answer makes me feel queasy.
‘And that would be …?’
‘Your mum said you were being a bit weird. Wedding-day jitters, she reckons.’ Becca stops smiling and studies my face carefully. ‘It is just that, isn’t it, because I really don’t think – ’
I hold up my hand to stop her. ‘Who, Becca?’
Her expression says, ‘I don’t really want to play this game’, but she humours me: ‘Dan, of course.’
My stomach goes cold and my skin prickles all over. The floor seems to rush towards me. I wobble, and I’m surprised when I look around and find that my legs are still supporting me. I put a palm on the edge of my bed and ease myself down onto it.
Becca rushes over. ‘Are you going to be sick? You look like you’re going to be sick.’ She tips everything out of my wastepaper basket onto the floor and holds it under my face.
I push it away and gulp. ‘No … I’m fine, really I am. It’s just … like my mum said … wedding-day jitters. I’ll be OK in a moment.’
Becca stands there looking at me suspiciously. She doesn’t put the wastepaper basket down.
‘Actually,’ I say, as an idea pops into my head. ‘I could really do with a glass of water.’ I look at her hopefully. She takes the hint, places the bin carefully near my feet, and goes to fetch one, giving me the space and silence I need to process what she’s just told me.
Dan?
I’m marrying Dan?
How can that be? I changed things …
I stand up, feeling the sudden urge to move, although I don’t really know why.
I can’t marry Dan today. I can’t. It would be … wrong. I’m with Jude. It would be like cheating on him.
Only … hadn’t I felt that way when I was first with him too? And that hadn’t been real, had it? I mean, you can’t be unfaithful to someone you’re not actually with, can you? I close my eyes, knowing that, logically, this makes sense. I just wish I could get my emotions to believe it.
I don’t love Dan. Not any more. I love Jude.
And I really don’t want to marry Dan. Ever. Not in the other reality and not even in this one.
That thought slices through my confusion and it falls away.
OK, then. That’s all I need to know. I’m not marrying Dan today.
I walk over and cover the wedding dress back up with its filmy plastic sheath. I put Becca’s blusher and berry lipstick back in her Miss Selfridge carrier bag, and then I pull on my dressing gown and prepare to go downstairs and break the news to my parents.
I’m still holding the bag when Becca bustles back in with a glass of water. She sets it down on the dressing table, takes the carrier bag from my hand without commenting – I don’t think she’s even noticed anything is amiss – and starts gathering everything she needs to tame my mind-of-their-own waves into regimented ringlets.
I’m sitting staring at myself in the dressing-table mirror and Becca’s on her second corkscrew when I put my hand up and push the curling tongs away. ‘I can’t do this,’ I say.
‘It’ll be fine,’ Becca says and picks up the next strand of hair. ‘I can work wonders with these things, I promise you.’ And she brandishes the tongs, grinning at me in the dressing-table mirror.
‘No. I mean, I can’t do … this.’ I wave in the general direction of the wedding dress hanging off to my left, refusing to actually make eye contact with it.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ she says lightly, and returns her attention to my hair.
I pull away so the strand she’s feeding round the tongs slips off. ‘It’s not just nerves, Becs. I know this is a huge mistake!’ I stare at her in the mirror, willing her to understand. The look of slight annoyance she’s been wearing since I unravelled the last ringlet disappears and she puts the tongs down on the dressing table then sits on the edge of the bed. I turn to face her.
‘What’s going on?’ she asks gently.
‘It’s not supposed to be like this!’
‘Then what’s it supposed to be like?’
I lift my hands and drop them again. ‘I don’t know … more. It’s supposed to be more.’
A flicker of irritation passes across her features. ‘You’re living in fairy-tale land. What you’re thinking about is for story books and chick flicks. It doesn’t happen in real life.’
But it does! I want to yell back at her. I have it with Jude. In my other life. ‘It should,’ I say. ‘I’m tired of settling. I want to go big, live big.’
She ponders my words and then she sighs. ‘You know what your problem is?’
I shake my head.
‘You’ve always thought you were a little bit better than Dan.’
I blink, sit back a bit on my stool. ‘I have not.’
Becca cocks her head and raises an eyebrow, as if saying, really?
‘I don’t,’ I say, but it’s more a reflex than an actual considered opinion. We fall into silence as I do just that – consider her words. Her judgement.
She softens her voice. ‘You take him for granted, you know, and you really shouldn’t. He’s your biggest fan, he clearly adores you and sometimes I even get jealous because I feel as if he’s muscling in on the “best friend” part too.’
I look at her. ‘Really?’
She nods. ‘Really. I don’t know how you can even think of saying no to all that.’
I slump into myself and let out a heavy breath. Becca’s words make sense, but I can’t help how I feel about Jude, and I can’t just marry Dan because he’s a nice guy, even if he is going to be the one waiting for me in the church today. I don’t love him. Not any more. And even if I did, I know how that story ends.
‘And what are you going to do, anyway? Are you really going to leave Dan standing there at the altar?’ She stands up and picks up another strand of my hair, winds it around the curling tongs. It steams softly as she holds it there for a few seconds.
I stare straight ahead. Becca knows me too well. She knows I have a thing about movies where someone leaves someone else standing at the front of the church while they run off with the person they really want.
I don’t understand why people think those scenes are so romantic. As the music swells and the lovers run off out of the church, laughing, I can’t help feeling angry on behalf of the poor chump left behind. How humiliating, to be abandoned to deal with the fallout on your own, publicly rejected in front of all your friends and family. And the truth is that the jilted party often isn’t evil; they don’t deserve their sentence. Mostly, their only crime is not being The One.
And maybe Dan isn’t my ‘One’. That still doesn’t mean I can do this to him.
As Becca works her way round my head, creating thick twirling ringlets that will probably drop out in half an hour, I start to think about how I’d been intending to take control of my life, to make decisions rather than letting circumstances dictate my destiny.
So maybe I should choose to marry Dan today, instead of just letting it happen to me. I can do this because I’m not going to be here forever. I have a feeling this isn’t the end of my jumping around. Somehow I know I’m going to find my way back to Jude again soon.
I’ll just have to last.
It’ll be like marking through a dance. I’ll be doing all the right movements at the right times but my soul won’t be in it. That way it won’t be real. That way I can do this without betraying anyone, not even myself.
The rest of the morning disappears in a blur. It’s like when you’re waiting for something – a bus or a hospital appointment – and the first half-hour seems to crawl by but after that you hit your groove and time just starts to slide past you. Even the people become blurry: Becca, my mum and dad, my cousin Francesca, who is the other bridesmaid. Before I know it I’m stepping out of a vintage Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow in front of
our local Baptist Church. I can hear the organ playing inside. The September day is fresh and clean and warm beneath a deep-blue sky and a slight breeze ruffles my veil. It’s a perfect day to get married.
I only get through it because my body knows what to do and goes through the motions, like a robot. That version of Maggie smiles shyly at the gathered guests as she walks down the aisle, says her vows without a single trip or stutter; but all the while, the inside Maggie, the real Maggie, is looking away slyly, crossing her fingers behind her back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Dan closes the door behind him. ‘Thank the Lord that’s all over!’ He smiles at me. We are completely alone for the first time today and the crust of numbness that’s been clinging to me since I put my wedding dress on this morning starts to crumble.
It was easy to stay detached in a church hall crammed with people, all the cheers and smiles and toasts blurring together. I’d even managed to remain remote, in that weird floating-above-yourself way, during our first dance, when we were supposed to be locked in a bubble with eyes for no one but each other.
But now it’s just the two of us in a tiny little country hotel. There are beams on the low ceiling, a Persian rug on the floor and a hefty-looking four-poster in the middle of the room, quietly confident that, despite its age, it will be able to withstand any amount of wedding-night gymnastics.
And smiling at me from the other side of the mattress is a hopeful-looking man with a tell-tale look in his eyes. My stomach bottoms out but, more surprisingly, once the feeling of standing on fresh air while a trap door has opened up underneath me subsides, I discover there’s a humming warmth low in my abdomen too.
Oh, heck.
Why, oh, why had I agreed to Dan’s old-fashioned idea of saving ourselves until this day? Until this very moment? It would have been so much easier to keep that floating-above-myself feeling going if this was just another night in the sack, despite our attempt at grand surroundings on our shoestring budget.
My gaze fixes on the panelled door that leads to the en-suite bathroom. I gather up my overnight case and scuttle off inside, closing the door behind me as I say something about needing to get ready.