by Adele Parks
‘Still ignoring your calls?’
‘She seems to have a very active social life at the moment,’ says Fern with a sigh. ‘She still hasn’t given me her measurements. I’ve had her dress made up in a size eight and a ten. It seems extravagant to make two, as the dresses are costing over a grand each, but –’
‘Well, we can afford it so don’t worry about it,’ I say, turning her round and leaning her face into my chest. I kiss the top of her head; her hair smells great. ‘She can try them on when she gets here.’
‘Mmmm, I suppose,’ mumbles Fern. She still seems distracted.
‘So there’s nothing else you are worrying about, right? Everything is super cool.’
Fern tilts her head up to look at me. I see something play in her eyes and almost make it to her lips. I swoop down and kiss her. Silence her. To be honest, I’ve done my share of sensitive guy stuff for tonight. Above and beyond the line of duty, I’d say.
We stand there for ages just holding each other. Content just to do that. After a bit Ben comes to find us.
‘Darlings, I’ve brought refreshments! Champagne supernova for me and Fern, and non-alkie drinkies for you, Scott.’
Perfect.
59. Fern
‘Come on, time to get up.’
Ben draws back the bedroom curtains, allowing a ferocious shaft of sunlight to flood into the bedroom. He swiftly tugs my duvet off too. Luckily for us both I’m wearing pyjamas. I always do now. It’s not like I sleep with anyone who might appreciate the feel of my naked skin pressed up against theirs, plus living here is a bit like living in a hotel; you never quite know when someone is going to bring flowers into the room or adjust the air-con or something. Birthday suits are not an option; I’d rather save everyone’s blushes.
‘What is it today?’ I ask as I swing my legs out of bed. I manage to make it into the bathroom without actually opening my eyes; quite a feat. I’m so tired. Who would have known that the quest for perfection could be so exhausting?
‘Forty minutes in the gym, then sauna, swim, shower, blow-dry and then we need to meet Colleen and the photographer to footprint the wedding.’
‘Footprint the wedding?’
‘Walk through the event to decide on the best photo opportunities.’
‘I thought we agreed that the photographer was going to be discreet and unobtrusive. I wanted natural reportage shots,’ I yell over the sound of my electric toothbrush.
‘Of course you do, darling. They are by far the loveliest. We just want to know where exactly those reportage shots ought to be taken so that we get everybody’s best side,’ says Ben, seemingly unaware of the crazy contradiction.
My mouth is full of toothpaste so I can’t argue, and by the time I’ve done a full two minutes for both upper and lower set (as instructed by the hygienist), the conversation has moved on and I can’t be bothered to pick it up again. I’m finding it’s often easiest to go with the flow.
After visiting the gym, the stylist and the wedding venue, I insist that Ben and I go for lunch and I also insist that we have pizza, chips and full fat Coke. Ben appears scandalized and says he’s going to tell on me. My nutritionist and Colleen will have kittens; they’ve decided I still need to lose more weight before the wedding; perhaps I could cut my toenails and have my hair trimmed again. I ensure Ben’s silence by offering to pay for lunch and buy him the set of matching luggage from Louis Vuitton he’s been coveting.
We make a brief stop at Rodeo and then go to eat. After just one bite I decide that I don’t care I’ve had to spend thousands of dollars to be allowed carbs. The pizza is sublime; it seems like good value to me.
Ben squeezes my hand. ‘You know, you didn’t really have to buy the very stunning luggage – although thank you, thank you, thank you – I’m just delighted that we are out together. I would have let you cheat the diet without telling.’
‘You say that now!’ I laugh.
‘It’s been such a long time since we’ve had a good old scandalous natter.’
‘And even longer since we talked about anything other than the wedding,’ I add.
‘It is becoming all-absorbing.’
‘Can I tell you something?’ I lean closer to whisper in Ben’s ear although I seriously doubt there’s any press about as we’ve picked a grimy, low-key pizzeria – much to Ben’s disgust. But I thought a change is as good as a rest and, somehow, I was hankering after a place with plastic tablecloths and hopeless waiters. At least this way we won’t be continually disturbed by someone refolding our napkins or pouring gallons of water every two seconds; that level of attention is distracting and detrimental to a good old gossip. Still, I take the precaution of whispering; I’ve learnt that I have to be careful about everything I say in public now.
‘Tell,’ urges Ben.
‘I’m using the wedding to suppress my sexual desires.’
‘What?’ Ben looks surprised, confused and amused.
‘I once read, somewhere, that in the old days – when soldiers were serving long stretches away from their wives or even a convenient lady of negotiable affection with loose lips and knicker elastic – their superiors used to put bromide in their tea to suppress sexual urges. My equivalent is planning the wedding.’
‘You’re insane,’ shrieks Ben.
‘Not really, not when you think about it. Weddings are all about romance, the lace and flowers and white dress sort of romance. They have nothing to do with lust and shagging and lewdness. Perhaps they are supposed to be, that’s what relationship experts would have us believe, but it’s not actually the case.’
Ben is laughing out loud now. ‘Women, you’re a funny lot. I’ll never understand you. It’s such a relief I have no ambitions that way.’
‘If they were honest, I’m sure most brides would agree that being taken roughly, behind the rose bushes on their wedding day, is the very last thing on their mind. The dress will get creased, perhaps muddy – oh, hell on earth – maybe even torn.’
Ben chuckles some more. ‘And here’s me thinking that was the exact reason you asked Colleen about the thickness of the foliage in the hotel today.’
‘The purpose of the rose bushes is to make a nice backdrop for the photos. The copious champagne consumed is not to make the bride feel frisky, it’s to make her feel pretty and chatty and expensive. Wedding days are refined, exquisite, look-don’t-touch days and every bride knows it,’ I say firmly. ‘I think that’s why I’ve recently found I’m handling Scott’s sexual embargo better than I expected.’ I cram a really fat slice of pizza into my mouth and chew. The cheese sticks to my teeth.
Something like surprise or concern, certainly extreme interest, flickers across Ben’s face. ‘You mean you aren’t desperate to do Scott.’
The funny thing is, no, I’m not. Or at least, I’m not as desperate as I was a month ago. I know this is back to front. I know my desire should be increasing, but no, no, I’m not. The shock on Ben’s face stops me from saying quite this much. He’s looking at me as though I’m a circus freak.
‘Of course I am. I’m just saying that I find if I concentrate on the wedding plans, the impulse to hijack Scott at every given opportunity slowly subsides. He’s the same. He channels his energies into Wedding Album. We’ve both had to find distractions or else we’d go insane. As it is, I eat, sleep, breathe wedding plans.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s understandable. You’ve wanted this day for such a long time – longer than you’ve been engaged, actually.’
‘Thanks, Ben, I’m pretty sure that’s the sort of thing a friend is supposed to conveniently forget,’ I say as I reach for my Coke.
‘Although all the hours you put into planning a wedding to Adam were wasted, weren’t they? You could have used your time more wisely, perhaps tried to find a cure for the common cold. I mean, besides the fact you were never actually engaged to Adam, it’s not like any of that learning can be recycled. The plans you made then just don’t compare to the wedding you’re actually goin
g to have.’
True. When I imagined my wedding to Adam I took into account that there would be budget constraints. I imagined that a fair amount of time would be spent walking from one shop to the next, comparing prices and hunting for sales stuff and cheap deals. I also expected to have to cut corners by perhaps making the invites myself: I’d have arranged the flowers, my mum would have made the cake and perhaps we’d have bought the bridesmaids’ dresses off eBay. Funny to think I got so much pleasure planning that simple wedding. Naturally, planning my wedding to Scott is quite unlike anything I could have imagined. For a start I don’t take a step out of doors; everyone comes to me with their wares. I never look at a price tag; well, there aren’t any – and it’s clear
‘You’re right. This wedding is nothing like the wedding I imagined.’ I push the final slice of pizza into my mouth. Ben hasn’t eaten half of his. He’s trying to shift a few pounds for the wedding too. He’s likely to be more successful, as he enjoys being a gym bunny. I nibble a chip and add, ‘In fact, no matter how many lists Colleen and Saadi provide me with, I’m not sure exactly what this wedding is like. Obviously, it will be beautiful, exquisite and gorgeous, that much is clear from the mood boards, samples and books that litter the many, many rooms of Scott’s house. It’s just that it has become hard to keep track of all the detail.’
‘Well, it is a twenty-four-hour event with one thousand guests,’ points out Ben.
‘Many of whom I’ve never met in my life, a few of whom Scott hasn’t met.’
‘All the more reason to impress them,’ says Ben as he carefully puts his knife and fork together and pushes his plate away. He flings his paper napkin over the chips to put temptation out of sight.
‘For example, I’m not sure what we decided to have for a starter. In the end, did we settle on the ballotine of foie gras marinated in white port, served on toasted brioche, or did we choose the ravioli of blue lobster and salmon, with a basil dressing?’
‘We chose the ballotine of foie gras.’
‘Really? And what is ballotine anyway?’
Ben laughs. ‘Oh, don’t worry. Put these details out of your head. That’s why you’ve employed Colleen. Anything you aren’t sure about will just be a lovely surprise on the day. It’s almost like being a guest. A guest and the centre of attention at once. What could be finer?’
What indeed?
Ben passes on dessert but I order banoffee pie. Just as I’m spooning the first delicious bite into my mouth, Ben asks, ‘Have you heard from Adam?’ Suddenly Coke and banoffee pie no longer seem enough; I could really do with a glass of wine.
‘No, why would I hear from him? We’ve said all we have to say to one another.’
This isn’t actually as true as I’d like it to be. I can’t count the number of times I find myself going over an imaginary conversation I want to have with Adam. Mostly these consist of me saying, ‘And another thing…’ How dare he warn me about Scott’s behaviour? How dare he imply that I’m rushing into this marriage? Oddly, these imaginary conversations bother me less than the other types of conversation that run through my head; the ones full of sweet memories rather than angry reprisals are much more distressing.
Plus there’s something I daren’t confess even to Ben.
I’ve been having a lot of sexy dreams recently. No doubt it’s my subconscious dealing with the lack of any conscious sex with Scott, and the other night I had the most sexy dream ever. This dream was full of deep back-of-throat groans as his hand worked his way over my body, his kisses trailing along behind. Starting at my neck,
The eyes were chocolate brown, not sparkling green. Adam!
The shock woke me from the dream instantly. Remembering it now causes me to blush again. It’s wrong. Wrong. I shouldn’t be dreaming of Adam! My heart was beating so fast with shame and panic it took me a good hour to fall asleep again. Of course this dream doesn’t mean anything. It’s just because Scott and I haven’t actually had sex that somehow my memories got muddled up in my fantasies. But still.
‘Is he coming to the wedding?’ asks Ben.
‘I’m not sure. As you know, Jess has invited him. I don’t know whether he’ll come. I don’t even know if she will.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘She’s never threatened a no-show but clearly things between us are strained, which is horribly sad. Initially I thought she was a little bit jealous, but since my phone call with her, when she asked if she could bring Adam, I’ve been inclined to think the awkwardness between us is something altogether more complicated.’
This is the first time I’ve hinted to Ben that Jess and Adam may possibly be getting together. I’m not sure why I’ve found it difficult to broach the subject; maybe because we are always with other people or maybe because I don’t want to hear Ben say Adam and Jess were always destined for one another, that they make a perfect couple, and it’s none of my business who Adam dates now.
‘They’ll come,’ Ben says confidently, giving me a big reassuring smile.
The thing is I’m not sure if their attendance is something to smile about or not.
60. Fern
It takes a great deal of courage but I drag it from the depths of my toes and call Jess to ask her whether she is bringing Adam to the wedding. I try to kid myself that I need to confirm numbers, but this is a lie. So far, we have seven hundred and thirty-eight confirmed ‘yeses’ and one hundred and nine ‘regrets’, which leaves over one hundred and fifty people who have yet to reply. I can’t pretend that Adam’s attendance or absence will have a profound effect on the catering. No, not the catering. But I do need to know.
I call the flat. There’s no reply so I leave a short message.
‘Hi, it’s me. Erm, Fern. Just wondered how you guys are and if, erm, you’ve made a decision about, erm, LA and things. Who’s coming? I mean, have you decided, Jess, who you are bringing?’ I pause and then as an afterthought I add, ‘As your non-date.’
Bugger. I hang up. That wasn’t too clever a message. I wish I could delete it. I wanted to avoid sounding as though I was pairing them up but, at the same time, I was trying to sound cool in case they’re already paired. I think I failed on both counts. I hope to God Jess listens to that message before Adam does and that she deletes it. Surely fourteen years’ friendship has earned me that small mercy.
My phone rings back almost immediately. It’s the flat. Hurrah, Jess has listened to the message and is calling me straight back. Hopefully to confirm she is not bringing Adam.
‘Hello, Adam here.’
Those three words wound me on so many levels. One, he’s obviously heard the stupid message I left (how humiliating). Two, he thinks he has to introduce himself when he’s talking to me because he sees a certain distance and formality between us is required (however predictable this is, it’s sad). And three – three I don’t understand at all – I feel a weird physical blow low in my gut; his voice turns my belly to liquid. Damn, why did I leave such a pathetic message?
‘Hi Adam,’ I say as calmly as I can.
‘I picked up your message.’
‘It was intended for Jess, really.’
‘I know, but I figured you’d be doing numbers for the wedding and things and that you might need a quick response,’ says Adam.
This is unusually thoughtful of him. I had no idea he had any concept that RSVPs had a purpose at all. I’m so surprised by his consideration, I almost forget to lie. Almost.
‘Yes, that’s it. I need to confirm the numbers to the caterers.’ I cross my fingers on my left hand.
‘Jess said you’re OK with me coming to the wedding.’ There’s some hesitancy in his voice.
‘Of course, delighted.’ I nearly drop the phone as I cross my fingers on the other hand too.
‘Really, you don’t think it’s weird or anything?’
‘No, no, not at all. We’re all grown-ups.’ I kick off my flip-flops and try to cross my toes too. Yes, yes, it’s completely weird. He can’t be
serious! He’s not really thinking of coming, is he? Surely he’d find it uncomfortable? Who wants to see their ex get spliced? Who wants to get married in front of an ex? It’s so civilized. It’s so passionless. It’s wrong. If he comes it shows he does well and truly have closure. If he comes it shows he really wants to please Jess.
‘OK, well, I’m a yes then. Count me in.’
Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.
‘Great, great, great. Any special diet requirements?’ I blather, in a pathetic attempt to hide my embarrassment and annoyance.
‘Er, no, Fern, we went out for four years and lived together for three of those, I think you’d have noticed if I was a vegetarian or lactose intolerant.’
‘Well, yes, but things change,’ I twitter mindlessly.
‘Don’t they,’ he says.
There’s a long pause. I should probably hang up.
‘Well, I’ll see you in two weeks then,’ I mutter.
‘Yeah, looking forward to it. Jess showed me those photos you e-mailed over. His gaff is like a set from a James Bond movie.’ That should be a compliment but somehow I know it isn’t.
I decide the way forward with Adam is to be determinedly upbeat. It can’t be so hard after all. Not under the circumstances – I’m marrying Scott Taylor in a fortnight. ‘Well, doesn’t every man secretly harbour a desire to be James Bond?’ I ask pleasantly.
‘Not me. You know, I’ve always been happy with simply stuff. It makes a man pretty damned attractive. Pretty damned likeable.’
This is not the first time I’ve been forced into defending my relationship with Scott, and I doubt it will be the last; but it’s not a position I wanted to be in with Adam. I really don’t want to be drawn into these dangerous waters. Doesn’t he realize that the decent thing for an ex to do is stick to polite small talk about the weather? What makes him think he can be this direct?