I watch him eat silently, and stare at the television screen at intervals, before a newsflash appears to override the weather.
I turn the volume up on the remote control, stuffed behind the marl grey cushion, and listen to the reporter’s melodic voice.
'…Marcia Lubovich has been investigating the mysterious death, and confirms tonight she was able to speak with one of the suspects, though for confidentiality, she is unable to provide us with details of where she sourced her information…'
I glance back to where Joel sits, with his mouth held wide open, his fork held in the air, mid-route to his mouth.
A flash of unease crosses his face, then is gone without a trace. It gnaws at me. Anxiety creeps up my spine, as he swallows hard, and places his fork down onto the plate with a clang.
'Is it not up to your standards?'
He shakes his head, and looks blankly back at me.
'The food is fine, but I don't think I can stomach anymore.'
'You probably shouldn't have drunk.'
'No. I don't think that was a very good idea,' he says, leaving his plate on the dining table for me to clear away, as he retreats upstairs to the bedroom, closing the door.
The house is large, but I can hear every sound between the walls, and I know in which direction any noise is coming from. Just as I'm aware Joel likes to spend half an hour in his study each night before bed. I assume he's tidying up any loose paperwork prior to the following day.
I trail after him, when I realise how late it is. I'm not planning on saying anything, but my mouth often overrides my internal monologue, and I find myself thinking aloud.
'You're troubled by something.'
'What makes you think that?' he says, his tone lacking any emotion.
'Who was that woman?'
'What woman?' He glances from me the moment my eyes fall on his.
'Marcia, whatever her name was, on the television?'
He takes a while to answer me, but I'm sure he isn't being completely honest with me when he speaks.
'She's covering the Hargreaves case.'
'I take it you're the confidante?'
'I had no idea she was a reporter. I wouldn't have spoken to her otherwise.'
'You'll have to be more careful in future.'
He nods his head in silent agreement. His eyes light up, when I continue talking.
'The media will start talking, if you keep meeting up with women in bars.'
I leave the words hanging in the air, but he doesn't seem to want to catch them.
'You're the only woman for me.'
I notice how sketchy he seems, despite his words, but I don't want him to think I'm accusing him of anything. I trust him wholeheartedly.
'Nobody else comes close to the way I feel for you,' he says, heading toward the open bedroom door. 'Are you coming to bed?'
I catch the scent of aqua shower gel on his skin, as he leans to switch off the light.
I can feel his eyes on me, as I undress, slipping a silk chemise over my naked flesh.
Joel presses a light, almost thoughtless, kiss onto my forehead, and turns away. In the dark, I listen to his breathing, as it deepens, and within minutes my mind is in overdrive, reeling with questions I cannot answer. I try to shut my inner voice up by running a song on a loop through my head, until eventually, I must fall asleep, because I awake to a powder blue sky I can see through the slats in the blind.
The feeling of uncertainty I felt the night before should have been cleansed by the light of a new day. But, despite not having a valid reason to doubt him, I cannot help but wonder if Joel was telling me the truth about Marcia. If she is a reporter, then who is Chris Hollins?
JOEL
It's been three months since Erica gave up work, and she seems lost. To cheer her up, I decided to give her the task of organising the wedding. The idea seems to have worked, because she stands in front of me, waving her plans in the air, like a fan of goodwill.
'I love the estate. It will look so good in the photographs.'
'Whatever you want, I told you. This is your special day. I'll pay for everything. All you have to do is plan it. I'll even let you handle the invites. I just want you to be happy.'
'I am happy,' she says, planting a kiss on my lips.
'These last couple of months have been hard on you, I can see that. But, I want you to know I'm here for you. Don't keep your thoughts from me. If you're worried about something, and you love me, you'll talk to me.'
She doesn't seem to hear the intent in my voice, but stares blankly at me, as if she's still holding on to visions of the big day in her head.
'Shall I book it now?'
I force myself to try and ignore her energetic attitude.
'As you wish. Just pass the phone to me when they ask for the deposit.'
Erica swings her arms around my waist. 'I feel like I'm walking on air.'
I kiss her forehead, and wait until she's turned around, laying a slap to her arse, as she walks away.
She feigns annoyance, but I know she likes it.
I let her get on with planning the wedding, because deep down, I know it's helping her to forget about Patrick. He meant something to her, and I have to bite my lip whenever his name inadvertently appears in a conversation. It doesn't help that the cases I'm working on at the moment are keeping me on edge.
My job is stressful; I can't lie. But, the one thing which makes it easier to cope with is returning home to a cooked meal, and Erica's smile. When she's unhappy, it saddens me. When she's annoyed, I have to remember being at home all day must make the smallest tasks seem huge. At least the wedding planning is keeping her mind away from Chris Hollins, and his impeccably regular visits to the house. She doesn't know it yet, but I've caught him standing at the end of the path, waiting for a sign of movement from the house twice this week alone. His presence is becoming a huge risk. Not only that, but my loose-lipped conversation with the Bristol Times reporter, Marcia Lubovich, has unsettled me.
Whilst Erica is booking the wedding venue at Ashton Court, ordering the flowers, and arranging the decorations, catering, and bar, she doesn't notice me slip out of the house, in order to catch Chris in the act of stalking our driveway.
I close the door silently, and walk right up to him, as he treads up and down the gravel, staring at his shoes.
'I'd have thought the threat of a harassment charge would've caused you to think twice before bothering me again.'
He looks up at this; his eyes defy his smile. 'Does she know?' He changes the subject.
'No, and I don't intend on telling her.'
'That's an odd thing to say.'
'It depends on who's hearing it.'
'Jessica was too young to die.'
'Life is cruel. You'll get used to it.'
'I'll be in touch, Mr. Heath.'
'No doubt you will. But, try not to attend my property next time, or I might be inclined to call the police.'
'I'm sure you wouldn't do that, Mr. Heath. You never know what else they'll dig up.' He turns on his heel, and makes no obvious show of having any willingness to leave my property.
As soon as I step inside the house, a cool wave of air brushes past me. I imagine Chris being here has awoken the spirits of the past, and shudder at the thought of what else his presence might have stirred up. I breathe in a long deep gulp of air, as I train my eyes on Erica, leaving the dining room, with the phone clutched to her chest.
'They need to take the payment now,' she says.
Before I offer the woman on the end of the phone my card details, I take the opportunity to confirm Erica has catered for everything, and alter several things I think would suit us better. Like the reception, for instance. I make sure there is no gap between the ceremony and the reception, so the guests aren't hovering around, waiting for something to eat for hours. Besides, I'd like to take my wife to the bedroom early to consummate our vows.
I pour Erica a second cup of tea, and she thanks me, holding the
warm china between her hands. Her faraway gaze and the smile painted on her face prove to me how beneficial it was giving her something to do.
'Have you thought any more about taking a course?'
'I've applied to four already.'
'Really? You never said.'
'I'm sorry. I forgot with the wedding and everything…'
'So, what have you applied for?'
'One is an MSc in clinical psychology research. The others are conversion courses in mental health.'
'Sounds expensive.'
'I didn't think it mattered?'
'Well, now we've got the wedding covered, perhaps you should wait until it's over, before you busy your mind again. What do you think?'
'You've got a point. Maybe I should take a short course, to get my feet back under the study table.'
'Sounds like a plan.'
'I'll have a look online, and see what I can find.'
'That's my girl.'
ERICA
Five months of planning, and now, I'm standing beside Rose, in front of the mirrored wardrobe, while we both coo over the cream dress I'm wearing.
A delicate embroidered pattern adorns the upper half of the dress, and the straps are disguised by a matching bolero. My shoes are covered in a cream and silver woven damask pattern. As I spin around, admiring myself in the mirror, the hem of my dress sparkles from the spring sun, hitting the crystal chandelier.
I glance through the window, down to where my dad, Graeme, and a small selection of nosy neighbours I don't recognise, stand rooted to the pavement, beside the open wrought iron gate.
It isn't until my eyes land on the Rolls Royce, parked at an angle on the driveway, I'm suddenly overtaken with a swarm of butterflies. I'm going to be getting married today. Having been swept along with all the planning, my head has been buzzing with details for so long I'd almost forgotten the end result.
My eyes settle on my dad. He glances up at the window, and I raise my hand to wave, noticing the car is adorned with white ribbon, not the lavender I chose especially. I try not to concern myself with the mistake, but something begins to gnaw at me, increasing my anxiety.
We were lucky to have been able to afford the luxury wedding suite of the Ashton Court Estate, so I focus on that, proud there was enough time to book the wedding in April, just as Joel had requested—the season of rebirth and new beginnings. This is more than a new start, but a whole new experience.
Rose takes one last look at me, and smiles, passing me the bouquet containing lilac flowers, dotted with lilies.
'This is it, Erica. You look gorgeous. Let's go.'
I follow her down the stairs. It isn't until I'm seated inside the car, with the door closed behind me, that my nerves get the better of me. Rose must notice the slight tremor, because she reaches across the empty seat between us and takes my hand in hers.
'It's not too late, you know…' she says, leaving her words to hang in the air.
'I'm not having second thoughts. I'm overwhelmed.'
'Take a deep breath. This is your special day. It's normal to be a little anxious.'
The journey is a blur. I try to calm my racing pulse. The car drives up, breaking a path between a small gathering of ex-work colleagues. I leave the car, and focus my attention on my dad.
He steps forward, with his arms out ready to embrace me. 'You look beautiful.'
I make my way through the small gathering of people I don't recognise, trying to convince myself they must be Joel's friends and acquaintances at the law firm. In fact, he didn't invite any of his family. At the time, I didn't ask any questions, but now it seems strange. Did his parents not want to attend their son's wedding?
Jared appears at Rose's side, having made his own way to the venue. His face looks flushed. He must have been in a rush.
Rose holds Jared's hand, and wipes a tear from her face. I know she's thinking of Patrick. He should be here with us, but his absence is felt just as strongly as if he had been standing beside her. I can imagine his face beaming amongst the small gathering of people I barely know.
Chloe taps my arm, and as I spin around, she snaps her arms around me, crushing the fabric of my dress. 'Congratulations. You look fabulous.'
I wasn't sure if I should have invited her, but now I’ve seen with my own eyes how empty the seats on my side of the grand hall are going to be, I'm glad.
My dad links his arm through mine. 'Shall we go?'
I nod my head, to stop my voice from cracking. There is one other person missing here today, and it almost breaks my heart my mum can't see me, her only daughter, getting hitched.
We enter the building, which has been lavishly decorated. The entrance looks almost identical to the photographs I saw on the website. Only the colours of the ribbons adorning the threshold aren't the shade of lilac I had expected.
My dad propels me along the red carpet covering the stone hall, and into the room where our guests are seated, whispering oohs and aahs.
Above the hush of anticipation, I say my vows, while Joel takes my hands in his, and gives them a light squeeze, reassuring me I'm doing just fine. In less than twenty minutes, I am married.
As the fifteen or so guests depart the large open hall adorned with flowers and ribbon, in a dark shade of what I can only describe as purple, unlike the ones I hold in my wedding bouquet, Joel's hand finds mine, and he walks me out into the hall and away from our guests.
I was thinking they'd follow us outside for photographs, but he tells me there have been a few changes to my plans. The photographer won't be arriving until later.
We walk the grounds, while Chloe, Rose, Jared, and two men I've never seen before leave the estate. As I turn back to see the building behind us, I notice Rose light a cigarette beside a small gathering of smokers standing in the dappled rays of sunlight filtering down through the clouds.
'I wish Rose didn't smoke so much,’ I murmur.
'It's a disgusting habit.'
'What's yours?'
'I don't have one.'
'You must have at least one vice. Everybody does.'
'What's yours?' says Joel.
'Chocolate.'
A pause fills the air between us, before Joel interrupts the silence. 'I suppose my only vice is you.'
'That doesn't count.' I slap him lightly on the forearm.
He raises his eyebrows, and continues to walk. With my hand in his, and the warm spring sun on my head, I feel blessed.
Later, we enjoy a three-course, sit-down meal, before joining the photographer on the wide expanse of grass beyond the great house. A light splattering of rain begins to fall, and he barely has enough time to take a few group and single shots of us. It begins to pelt down heavily, soaking through our clothes instantly. We all run for cover inside the building, and wait in the corridor for the reception to begin. The day is turning out to be quite stressful. I've no idea what to expect next, as it seems Joel has altered all of my carefully laid plans.
By the time we've danced, and left the warmth of the large hall—the disco lights flickering in the background behind us—I'm looking forward to the serenity of our hotel room, which is only a short drive away.
As I step out of the car, tired and a little dizzy from the third champagne I'd downed before we called the taxi, I'm still seething slightly over the changes Joel made to the arrangements. I want to ask him why he left me to organise the wedding, if he intended to alter several of the things I'd planned afterwards. I wait until we pass through the reception area, and round the foot of the staircase, which leads up to the second floor, before I speak. I know it isn't the right time to confront him, as we make our way inside the graceful king-size bedroom, but I have to know.
'Why did you move the reception, change the colour of the ribbons and flowers, and why wasn't Rose my bridesmaid? I don't even know your friend's daughter.'
'Don't be so ungrateful.'
'I'm not. I would've liked you to tell me what you had planned. We could have come to some
sort of agreement.'
'You're my wife. That's the only consent I need.'
I don't really understand the meaning of his words, and I can see his face has grown rigid at my questions, so I choose not to press him further.
'It was lovely, wasn't it?'
'You think so, after suggesting I ruined your plans?'
'I didn't mean that.'
He lets go of my hand, jolting me backwards, so for a single moment, I think I will tumble over on my heels, and into the large rosewood desk in the corner of the antique-looking suite.
'I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I wasn't thinking.'
'You never do. That's your problem. You're selfish. You only ever think of yourself.'
'Please, Joel. I don't want to fight. It's our wedding night. I've said sorry, and I meant it.'
'You didn't actually apologise. But, you can make up for it in bed.'
I know he doesn't mean to speak to me so dryly, or in any way bossy. I know he doesn't; he isn't like that. But, a small part of me cannot understand why our perfect day has already become a fleeting memory. In an instant, Joel has become cross, and I can't reason his snappy attitude. It doesn't fit. It's our wedding day, for Christ's sake.
He shuts the door to our room, and stands in front of it, waiting for me to walk toward the large four poster bed.
I lay down my small clutch bag, shimmering in the low lighting of the beautifully ornate lamp on the bedside unit, as he comes to stand behind me.
'What you said,' his finger held rigid to my face, 'was out of order. Anyone could have heard you. It's not the way I want my wife to speak to me, do you understand?'
'Joel, I—'
His hand lands sharply against my cheek. The sting of it shocks me into silence.
He makes his way across the room, where he begins to undress, hanging up his suit and shirt, folding his socks and boxer shorts neatly in a pile, which he places into a carrier bag for me to wash tomorrow. Tomorrow, when we return home to the house I now share with my husband, who, seconds ago, slapped me hard across the face.
'Come here.'
Something propels me into action. I think it's a mixture of shock, alcohol, and the realisation this is how mine and Matt's relationship could have gone, had I stayed. I find myself on the other side of the room, stuffing my clothes into a suitcase.
Beautiful Liar Page 15