by A J Waines
14
Rachel
‘I can’t believe you invited Peter here without asking me!’
‘I thought you’d be over the moon, sweetheart, given how little you’ve seen of each other lately,’ I retorted. I hadn’t expected Beth’s face to fall.
‘How can I be chatty and light-hearted when this horrible mess is the only thing I can think about,’ she snapped.
‘I thought it would be just what you needed…to refocus on your future.’
She glared at me. ‘You seem so…unaffected…’
‘Believe me, that’s not true. I’m struggling in my own way.’ I don’t want her to know how many hours I’ve prowled around the house at night, how many times I’ve had to rush to the loo because my digestive system wants to explode; the palpitations, the sweating whenever I see a police car. But if I buckle under, we’ll be in real trouble. I have to be strong, to hold everything together for our own safety.
‘It’s just the timing’s terrible,’ she muttered.
I didn’t mention that the real reason for inviting Peter for lunch is to have a long-overdue conversation about the wedding finances before my bank account is bled dry.
Beth’s face is deathly white when she answers the door. I stand to one side, behind her.
‘Wow, I’d forgotten how similar you look, like peas in a pod!’ Peter says as he offers me a hug instead of a formal handshake.
‘Thanks for coming all this way,’ I tell him, as I invite him into the sitting room.
The first thing I notice is how expensive he smells. Not just his aftershave, but a ‘just showered’ kind of fragrance that’s slightly peppery. I feel the fabric of his suit against my chin, spot the high shine on his handmade shoes and I can’t avoid feeling utterly relieved that Beth will have this level of luxury for herself soon. Only then can I stop fretting about being so hopelessly ill-equipped to give her a good start in life. There’s no two ways about it – Peter, with all his wealth and good standing behind him is going to get us out of a mess.
We can’t afford to take him out to eat, so I’ve prepared one of my speciality dishes, hoping he likes coq-au-vin made with budget ingredients. I’m lucky there’s a bottle of wine left over from Russell’s wake to put on the table.
He’s brought a bunch of velvety red roses for Beth and a bottle of Cognac for me.
I invite him to sit at our only table – the one we dragged through from the kitchen, an hour ago. He takes off his jacket, hooking it carefully over the back of the chair. Beth is in a hurry to pour us all a glass of wine before he’s even got settled and I sit with the two of them as I wait for the oven timer to ping.
Peter is obviously delighted to see Beth, but he’s gracious enough to ask lots of questions that only I can answer; about the house, my job, the cooking.
His next comment is about my skirt. ‘Lovely colour – really suits you.’
‘Oh, it’s an old one of Beth’s that she never wears,’ I tell him.
‘Would you call that shade turquoise, teal, or petrol, do you think?’
I smile. It’s good to have a banal conversation about shades of blue after the brittle exchanges Beth and I have been having lately.
Peter’s sensitive, hooded eyes are never still. They find their way into every corner of the room, making me feel self-conscious about how lowly this place looks with its cracked tiles around the fireplace and threadbare carpets. More to the point, his eyes track every fold and curve of Beth’s body.
He and Beth continue the discussion about the colour of my skirt while I dish up the main course. Since Russell’s death, I’ve lost nearly a stone in weight, so that many of my dressy garments hang like sacks on me – hence turning to Beth’s wardrobe. I was tempted to put up my hair for Peter’s visit, only realising in time that it might seem like I was trying to emulate her.
He’s diplomatic about our cramped home, making me feel like he’s touched to have been invited. He pretends not to notice that we keep banging our ankles under the table, because it’s so small. He says all the right things about the meal, too. Beth leans against him, nuzzling into his neck and takes his hand under the tablecloth, but she isn’t her usual carefree self. She seems to me like she’s trying too hard.
As I watch the two of them eat, I wonder how compatible they are. It’s not the first time I’ve tried to figure out what they might have in common, apart from a love of keeping fit. It’s only been nine months since they met, and everything happened inordinately fast between them. Furthermore, they’ve had extended periods apart. How can they really know each other?
Beth needs to mix with lots of people and has strong attachments to key friends. Will Peter want to whisk her away from them and have her all to himself? As I wipe my mouth with my napkin, I wonder if I should be concerned.
When I bring through the lemon-meringue pie for dessert, he asks about Beth’s latest audition.
‘Oh, I had an email this morning,’ she says, ‘I didn’t get a callback. They said they wanted someone who was more “effortless”.’ She sends her eyes to the ceiling, then glances across at me. ‘That’s probably why I’m a bit quiet.’
I don’t react, even though I know nothing about this. A wave of dizziness hits me when I realise that, before long, I’ll never be the first person to hear her news.
After lunch, Peter suggests we take a walk. He seems to know his way around and leads us past Winchester College and along the river towards the top of the high street.
‘I need to ask you both something,’ he says, stopping on the bridge beside the old mill.
He looks serious. ‘Since we booked the registry office, I’ve had a chat with my mother. This is a bit tricky, but…’ He runs his tongue under his top teeth. ‘I’m thinking of changing the venue. How would you feel about that?’
I jump in before Beth can respond, seeing only escalating pound signs before my eyes. ‘Wouldn’t it be too late to book somewhere else at this stage?’
‘Well…’ he smiles, putting his arms around both of us. ‘I’ve actually had a chat with someone this morning, just in case you were happy to go ahead.’
I clear my throat and bite the bullet. ‘I’m just a bit concerned about the costs of everything,’ I tell him.
There, I’ve said it.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that.’ He flaps his hand. ‘We’ll take care of all the wedding costs at our end. Everything. I should have said sooner, I’m sorry.’
‘Oh…right…’ I feel tremendous embarrassment that I’m not in a position to argue with him, nevertheless a huge weight tumbles off my shoulders.
‘Send me all the wedding payments to date, okay? Every last penny.’ His eyes rest on mine and I have no doubt he means what he says.
He points ahead of us. ‘Let’s take a look at the place I’ve got in mind, shall we? Follow me.’
It doesn’t take me long to realise we’re heading straight for St Andrew’s Church. Beth must have mentioned my connection there at some stage. As I’m a member of the church and mother of the bride, they would be entitled to marry there.
Beth stiffens as we approach, then hovers at the gate, is if we’re about to enter a field full of bulls.
‘Here?’ she mutters. I see her swallowing hard.
‘Don’t you think it looks perfect?’ Peter says with a chuckle.
Beth puts her hand over her mouth. ‘I can’t…I’m really sorry.’ She gives me an imploring stare, then backs away. ‘Actually, I don’t feel too well.’ She clutches her stomach and hurries out of sight.
We find her outside the florists a few doors down, chewing her thumbnail. I go to put my arm around her, but Peter gets there first and pulls her away from me. For an instant I feel put out. I’m not used to someone else being the first port of call for her and it stings. It’s something else I’m going to have to get used to, though, because after April 15th, she’ll be gone for good.
I trail my fingers across the arm of her jacket. Not long ago, it occurr
ed to me in a flash of horror that she might even move to America, given Peter’s connections there, although I haven’t mentioned it to Beth for fear of putting the idea into her head.
‘You don’t like it?’ he asks her gently, lifting Beth’s chin with his finger. ‘It’s my fault. We haven’t really discussed it properly, have we?’
Beth looks dazed, as if he’s speaking in another language.
‘It’s not that,’ Beth tells him, a deep frown taking over her face. ‘Isn’t there another church? It’s just…’
I step in. ‘This one might be difficult…’ I say, ‘for me, that is.’ I take a moment. ‘Russell was buried here.’
‘My goodness, I had no idea,’ Peter says, turning to face me.
I drop my head. ‘No…it’s…don’t worry,’ I say.
‘I knew you lost your partner, of course, but…no…I’m so dreadfully sorry…we’ll leave things as they were.’
‘Unless we can find another church at short notice?’ says Beth.
‘I’ll look into it,’ he says, patting my arm. ‘I do apologise.’
Beth squeezes my finger in gratitude.
I link arms with her on one side, just as Peter does on the other. We each walk either side of the greatest treasure in our lives, returning to the house for coffee, before he has to catch his train back to London. As I’m pouring from the cafetiere, Peter’s phone chirps.
‘That’s odd,’ he says, reading the message. ‘It’s the wife of a friend of mine.’ He addresses Beth. ‘You’ve met them: Amelia and Carl.’ Beth’s hand visibly shakes as she reaches for the jug of cream. She puts it down hastily.
‘What’s happened?’ I say in a bland tone usually reserved for conveying polite interest.
‘Amelia’s had to call in the police. Carl’s gone missing. She’s not heard from him since in over a week.
15
Beth
I’ve been bracing myself all along for this moment. I knew that following Carl’s disappearance, the police would be brought in with their metaphorical searchlights blazing. They’d start probing Carl’s final movements: who he was with, where he was going – and Mum and I would need to be on our guard for potential scrutiny. Just in case.
We’re meant to be ready for this.
Once I’ve walked Peter back to the station, Mum makes me sit down beside her.
‘The police won’t come to speak to us, will they?’ I ask her for the umpteenth time.
‘I can’t think of any reason why they should, but the more we expect them, the more prepared we’ll be.’
Mum’s trying to sound cool and collected, but it’s all a front. I can hear the catch in her voice.
‘It’s a long time to notice your husband isn’t around,’ she adds, looking puzzled. ‘The accident was over a week ago.’
Mum seems to have settled on calling the whole situation ‘the accident’, as though what took place was an unfortunate event we had no control over. As though it could have happened to anyone. I know what she’s doing, she’s trying to take the sting out of it, but it doesn’t fool me.
Mum takes me through our stories once more, but I’m not really concentrating. What’s worrying me is that Peter appears to know Carl and Amelia a lot better than I thought he did. I thought they were only acquaintances. The last thing I want to do, though, is draw this to Mum’s attention.
‘I’m going to my room,’ I tell her, and slip away before she can object.
It was difficult seeing Peter for lunch. I wanted to tell him the whole story. I wanted him to wrap me up in his arms and tell me everything was going to be all right. But, of course, I couldn’t mention a word of it.
Moreover, seeing him again made me feel overwhelmingly ashamed. What Carl and I got up to in the last two months was terribly wrong. It was barefaced cheating, but Carl had a weird hold over me right from that first meeting. For sure, he was a playboy, but there was something dark and dangerous about him that I couldn’t resist.
With the news from Amelia, I’m flung right back into the vivid flashbacks. If only she knew. Carl’s body laying lifeless on the cellar floor. Having to move him. That was bad enough, but it didn’t end there; creeping around the graveyard in the dead of night with spades. Totally sick! All so I can marry Peter.
With the pub still closed, Mum’s been at home a lot, fidgeting all the time, picking things up and putting them down again. She keeps asking how I’m coping and I’m finding it claustrophobic. It’s all we seem to talk about and it’s doing my head in.
I change out of my posh dress and comb out my hair. Having spent most of the morning before Peter arrived, at the gym, I’m at a loss as to what to do. I’m waiting for the worst to happen.
I can’t stand it any longer.
With no job anymore, I’m going to escape for a bit and take a bus over to see my grandfather.
Mum is flitting around with a duster when I leave.
‘Apart from checking how he is,’ she says, ‘it will give you a genuine visit you can tell the police about.’
Even Mum’s comment about Grandad is really about Carl.
The bus trundles through open countryside between villages. I try to switch off and lose myself in the wispy branches on either side, coming to life now it’s Spring, but all I can think is that this is the journey I’m supposed to have taken on the night Carl was killed.
I pull myself back to the present and focus for a moment on where Peter and I might go for our honeymoon. We haven’t talked about it yet. I don’t know whether his idea of a dream getaway would be Iceland or India or whether he’d prefer a world cruise. Does he ski? I have no idea. Would he like to see a Formula One race or watch a performance of Cirque du Soleil, while we’re away? I haven’t a clue. All in all, it’s becoming clearer to me that we’ve barely scratched the surface in our discussions.
Seconds later, Peter phones me from the train. He wants to know Mum’s favourite flowers, so he can send her a bouquet to thank her for lunch. He’s so giving and thoughtful. I do love him. I can’t believe I’ve betrayed him so badly.
Before I know it, he’s talking about Carl again. ‘He’s gone missing before,’ he tells me, ‘so it may not be too serious. Sometimes he disappears on the yacht for an impromptu break. Amelia said on one occasion he didn’t even tell her, he just took off because he didn’t want to be contacted. She’s got used to his free-spirited attitude, but I can’t say I approve.’
This news should buy us time and make me feel better, but it doesn’t. Sooner or later, it will become clear that Carl isn’t swanning around topping up his tan in the Bahamas. There’s no way he’s coming back from the place he’s gone to.
‘I hope he gets his act together before the wedding,’ Peter adds. ‘He’s my best man.’
Best man!
‘I didn’t know that…’ The words slip out. I didn’t mean to say them out loud.
Why didn’t I know they were such good friends? Carl must have played it down, but then he would, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t have wanted to bring my fiancé into the equation left, right and centre.
He’s speaking again. ‘I’ve been doing a ring-round on my journey home and I’ve found us another church. It’s on the opposite side of the city: St James’s. Know it?’
I can’t picture it from the name, but I conjure up an old chapel with melodic bells ringing out, splashes of bright colours cast across the floor through the stained glass and a smell of lavender furniture polish.
‘I’m sure it will be perfect,’ I tell him.
Shame we didn’t get to choose it together, but at least his mother will be happy.
I’m so busy daydreaming about our special day, I almost miss my stop and charge down the aisle of the bus just in time. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, there are big gaps between stops and I don’t want to have to walk back for miles.
Grandad is leaning over the water butt in his front garden, fiddling with the downpipe when I arrive. In the last few years, Mum has called
him ‘Adrian’. It’s since he started getting Mum and his long-dead wife, Vera, mixed up. It got to the point where he would only answer when she used the same name that Vera used for him. Mum only calls him ‘Dad’ these days, if she’s angry or upset with him.
I never knew my own dad. Mum fell for a ‘lovely boy’ – that’s always the way she describes him – when she was only fifteen, but he took off when she got pregnant, so that part is blank on my birth certificate. There are no photographs of him and she’s never even told me his name. Maybe I chose an older man like Peter because there’s always been a hole in my life where my father should have been.
It’s so sad to watch Grandad losing his marbles. Mum said he didn’t recognise her when she came over last time, but he waves and smiles when he sees me trot up the path.
‘Hello you,’ he says. ‘Cuppa?’
I bring the bag I’ve been hiding behind my back into view. ‘Ta-da…left-over lemon meringue pie.’
He makes a satisfied chewing sound, yum-yum-yum, like a child.
I save time by boiling the kettle myself. Simple tasks like making drinks and getting dressed take him ages. He stops to think halfway through, then loses his way, then starts another job without finishing the first one. Nevertheless, having exchanged a few sensible sentences with him already, today seems like it’s a ‘good’ day for him.
‘Way-way said your young man was coming over for lunch,’ he says, as we sit in a thin band of sunshine in his lean-to, using teaspoons to eat the pie. He always calls Mum Way-way; apparently, she couldn’t say Rachel when she was little and her attempt at it stuck. It makes me think that Peter and I don’t have nicknames for each other.