by Heidi Lowe
Once the pasta's boiling and the vegetables are under the grill, I join Emily in the living room. As I'm about to draw the curtains shut, I see movement behind a shrub on the front lawn. Someone's there.
I wait it out, a little shaken. They're going to great pains to not be seen. Could it be a child hiding out, and not some stalker spying on me? Or could I have imagined the whole thing?
I unlock the window, push it open. "Who's there?" I say into the air.
For a second it's still, just a slight breeze making the leaves rustle. And then someone steps out. It's difficult to recognize the face at first, due to the overgrown beard and scruffy hair. But his eyes give him away. His eyes are not just his – they're Nikki's, too.
"Bernie?" The incredulity in my voice is heavy. He's really let himself go.
I rush to the door and let him in. He smells like stale cigarettes and booze. He's clearly in yesterday's – or the day before's – clothes...
"What were you doing out there? Why were you hiding in the bushes?"
I sit him down in the kitchen, put the kettle on. He looks like an image of the prehistoric man depicted on television. The soul has abandoned his eyes. There's just an emptiness in them now.
"I didn't want to disturb you. I didn't know how you would react to seeing me."
I sit beside him. "You know now, don't you?"
"That my fiancee left me for my daughter? That the two were sleeping together while we were engaged? That she wouldn't give it up to me but happily spread her legs for my only child? Yeah, I know."
We're both silent for a moment – the two wronged parties. And I thought I had taken it badly. He looks like he's about to take a bunch of people hostage. But I've had seven months to come to terms with my grief; maybe his is new.
"When did you find out?"
"She called it off months ago. Then I started hearing things from my nephew. He said they were an item and weren't making a secret of it. The little tramp didn't even have the decency to tell me herself."
Who is he referring to? The pejorative can apply to both of them.
"She sat there and listened to me pine for that woman. They must have been laughing at me. At us."
I'd thought the same, that they lay in bed having jokes at my expense. It's hard to feel anything but crippling loathing when you have that image in your head.
"When was the last time you spoke to Nikki?" I'm about to make his day a lot worse.
"About a month ago."
I look away. "They're getting married next weekend."
I let the words hang in the air. Bernie says nothing, and when I look at him again, his face says the same thing. Then, without warning, he lets out a maniacal laugh.
"I feel like I've just stepped into the Twilight Zone. You couldn't make this stuff up."
I know exactly how he feels. The whole situation is so absurd, it's almost comical. Almost. But I can't laugh. Not yet. I'm thirty-seven, a single mother, and my ex-wife is the only person I have ever loved. The day I finally find amusement, even sarcastic amusement, in what she's done to me, is the day I stop breathing.
He looks at me and stops laughing. "I'm sorry. That's insensitive. But if I don't laugh I'll cry. Can you imagine that? A grown man with my mileage, crying over a woman. A stupid old man who let himself fall in love again despite being adamant that he never would after his wife died. I used to laugh at men like me who fell for the younger woman. When did I become one of them?"
"You can't blame yourself for being blindsided, Bernie."
"Oh, I don't. This is their doing. And they'll rot in hell for it."
There's something sinister in his voice, something that unsettles me. It sounds like a thinly-veiled threat. Maybe it's simply the anger talking. I wouldn't like to think he means them any physical harm. Nikki's still Emily's mother, and as much as I hate her, I don't wish physical harm on her.
"How are you holding up?"
I shrug. "I'm managing. One day at a time."
He places a hand over mine. "She doesn't deserve you. She never did. I thought that the moment I met you."
It's easy to say that now, with the benefit of hindsight. But there's a real sincerity in his eyes that suggests he's telling the truth.
Now I have to believe it myself.
TEN
I can feel Sandra's eyes on me as I help Emily into her jacket. She hasn't said much since she got here. But she has this sort of sheepish look about her, like she's guilty of some heinous, unforgivable act. She doesn't have to say it; I know exactly what's weighing on her heart.
"I didn't have time to do her hair," I say. It's a lie. I just didn't want to. I'm not going to make this day easy for Nikki.
"No one would expect you to, Faye. I'll do it."
"And her outfit?"
"Nikki bought her dress a couple of weeks ago. It's at my place."
Inside, I'm silently commending myself for keeping it together, for staying reasonable, even when I have every right not to.
"Where is the ceremony being held?" I know I shouldn't ask, and that it's none of my business, but my curiosity is killing me.
Sandra doesn't respond straightaway, just looks at me uncertainly, as though unsure whether or not to tell me. Then she says, "The Moonbeam Country Club."
My heart sinks. I want to throw up. I wanted their venue to be a local dive bar, or a bare bones registry office with nothing going for it. Instead they get the Moonbeam – a beautiful twenty-acre paradise with its own lake, and rolling green hills the likes of which only exist in fairy tales. I know the place well... After all, it was the setting for my own wedding!
"Why would she...?" I start but don't finish. Can't finish. It's as if Nikki is doing everything in her power to twist the knife in; as if she hasn't hurt me enough already. To remarry in the same place she married me? That's just sick.
"She didn't want you to find out. I don't think it was her idea," Sandra says.
"She could have refused!" Now I'm shouting, so furious my skin feels like it's on fire. "Does she make her own decisions anymore?"
"Faye–"
"Don't bother!" I hold up a hand to shut her up. I don't want to hear her make excuses for my despicable ex-wife. "You're okay with all of this, clearly. You're both okay with it."
"This isn't just about the venue, is it?" She sighs, looks at me sadly. "So you are mad with me for agreeing to go."
"No, why would I be mad?" Sarcasm drips from my words. "You act like you can't stand that...witch, that she repulses you, yet here you are, supporting this charade."
I hadn't intended to lay into her like this, but I can't help it. I know none of this is her fault, I just hate how damn loyal she is to Nikki!
"I refused to be the bridesmaid, and it nearly cost us our friendship. I can't miss my best friend's wedding, even if the woman she's marrying is a...witch." She's watching her words, just like I am, because Emily's present.
I wasn't aware that they'd fought about the wedding, but it doesn't surprise me. Nikki has always sought Sandra's approval, even if she doesn't admit it. Sandra's attendance at the wedding is about as important to Nikki as the bride herself.
"Whatever. Just go. Wouldn't want you to be late," I say bitterly.
She takes Emily's hand. "I'll have her back by eight, maybe later."
I don't say goodbye to them, I turn and head for the stairs.
The house is eerily quiet, more so than usual. Today is full of ghosts – relics of my past with Nikki. I hear her laughter ringing around the bedroom. I hear her voice as she whispers sweet little nothings to me first thing in the morning, before we're fully awake and have brushed our teeth.
"Pinch me so I know I'm not dreaming." I lie on my bed, cradling myself, mouthing those words – her words. "I'm the happiest woman alive."
Our venue. Of all the places on this planet, they chose that one. It's as though they're trying to erase everything Nikki and I had.
In a deathly quiet house the sound of my sobbing is
amplified. When you hear yourself cry, it only makes you cry harder. I thought I was all out of tears. I've wept an ocean already for this woman. I know that, before the day is out, I'll weep some more.
I sit up and peer around the room. It's been over an hour since Sandra and Emily left. The ceremony will be starting soon.
I wipe my tear-streaked face, take in a deep breath, and resolve to do something so incredibly stupid, it's as if someone else is controlling me.
I hurry down the stairs, grab my keys, and head out.
Someone else drives the twenty minutes to the Moonbeam; I'm merely a passenger in my own body. I don't know what I'll do when I get there, or what I'll say. In a romantic comedy this would be the point where the ex-wife bursts into the hall or church just when the priest asks if anyone objects to the union. In a romance, Nikki would never have cheated, and she'd realize I was the one she wanted all along.
But this isn't a romance, and we're so far past reconciliation that we might as well have been lifelong enemies.
"I'm here for the wedding," I say to the girl on the front desk before she can open her mouth to ask me. "Nikki and Angelique."
She smiles. "It's out by the lake. Enjoy your day. The bride looks stunning."
It's the last thing I want to hear. And this, I realize, is why I've come. Angelique stole my wife, stole the future I had mapped out for myself, and then she stole my venue. The last ounce of hope I'm clinging to is that here, in this setting, where I took my own vows, her wedding won't hold a candle to mine.
But as soon as I step outside, as soon as the lake comes into view, and I see her – I see them standing beneath a floral wedding arch, holding each other's hands, gazing lovingly into each other's eyes, while their guests watch on mesmerized – my world falls apart all over again. The receptionist is right: The bride does look stunning. Angelique's white dress is so Princess-like, she could have stolen it from Kate Middleton herself. Her long blonde locks glisten in the sun as she recites her vows to her future wife. I can't hear what she's saying from this distance, and I won't go any closer to listen. I've seen enough.
They get the lake, but I had to settle for one of the function rooms because it rained heavily the day of my wedding. Now it looks like a sign.
I take off running as fast as I can, as far away from them as I can get. I run to my car, scramble inside, and explode in a sob as I rest my head on the wheel.
I really thought I was over it.
It's after five when I wake from my slumber, in my bed. I can't even remember driving back home.
The house is still again. Emily won't be back for a few hours yet, and I don't want to be alone here. If I'm alone my thoughts will be plagued with images of the wedding, and before long I'll fall back into a state of depression. I don't want to feel like that again.
There is somewhere I can be, even though I'm not in the mood to socialize with a bunch of strangers. Ivy's having a cocktail party; I need to drink. That's all the incentive I need to climb out of bed, change my clothes, fix myself up a bit, call a cab, and leave the house.
"You came!" Ivy greets me loudly over the pop music blasting through her house. I'm barely through the door before she shoves a cocktail into my hand. She doesn't tell me what it is, but I see something that looks suspiciously like passion fruit floating on the top. "Get that down you."
I don't argue.
Ivy's house is enormous. This is my second visit, and I'm no less impressed now than I was the first time. Her husband's rich (though I'm still not one-hundred percent sure what he does for a living).
"You don't look yourself today," she says out of the blue, regarding me curiously. Is my despondence that blatant? I thought I'd gotten rid of all traces of the tears from my face. "And it normally takes more arm twisting to get you to drink. What's wrong?"
I made a promise to myself before I got here that I wouldn't bring up the wedding, or my unwanted attendance. I just want to forget about everything. So I don't bite.
"Nothing," I say. "I'm fine."
"Okay, well that's a lie, and you're terrible at it, by the way! But hey, if you don't want to talk, I won't push."
"Thank you," I say.
After telling me to go have fun, mingle, and get so wasted I can't remember my name, Ivy abandons me and disappears outside. Most of her guests are gathered by the pool, where the music is playing. For that reason, I'll be avoiding that area like the plague.
I smile a hello at some of the stragglers in the living room, whose glass doors lead to the expansive garden. I receive friendly hellos before everyone returns to their conversations. They don't want to mingle with me any more than I want to with them, clearly.
It takes only a few minutes for me to wonder why I came here. I feel out of place among so many happy people. Seven months ago I was just like them. Now the very sight of them makes me sick. Was that how miserable people felt when they looked at me in my wedded bliss, with the perfect career, perfect family, and loving, doting wife? It seems absurd to think about it now, that I was ever happy. That I was ever in love.
I help myself to some food, get the barman to whip me up a cocktail of his choosing, and settle into a corner of the room where no one will pay any attention to me.
A woman with a towel wrapped around her torso, and pool water clinging to a toned body that could give Olympic gymnasts a run for their money, steps through the glass doors and heads for the bar. I regard her simply because she seems to be the only person availing herself of the pool – the only half naked person at the party. Her dark hair is cut in one of those trendy styles – a short bob with shaved sides. Her skin has that sun-kissed tint to it, like she's just come back from vacation.
She laughs easily with the barman as she orders her drink. Then she leans back against the bar, elbows resting on it, and surveys the room while her drink is being prepared. My gaydar beeps like crazy.
When her eyes finally land on me, she catches me watching her. I promptly look away, feeling my cheeks burn.
My eyes are down on my plate when I hear a voice beside me. It's her. "This is usually my spot when I come to Ivy's parties," she says with a laugh. She has the softest blue eyes I've ever seen. Soft and familiar, but I can't place them. Her voice is gravelly.
"I can stand someplace else, it's not a problem," I say, and make to leave.
She laughs again. "You'll do no such thing. There's plenty of room for both of us."
Great! So much for being left alone and ignored.
"I gotta say, I didn't expect you to be so reserved in real life."
With furrowed brows, I stare at her, dumbfounded. "I'm sorry?"
"On your blog you sound like the life and soul of every party. Just saying." There's amusement in her voice.
"You read my blog?" It's rare that anyone recognizes me in these types of private settings. Nikki used to say I look like a completely different person in my photos than I do in real life.
"What woman in New Haven doesn't? You're like the go-to guru for exotic recipes to impress your friends with."
She's obviously exaggerating, but I'm stunned no less. My blog does get millions of visits a month, though, and many of those are from unique users, sometimes as far flung as Africa.
I'm not sure how to respond besides blushing. I don't have the constitution or mental fortitude to be a celebrity. Especially not now, with my private life in the state that it's in.
"I don't meet many people who read the blog, besides at events."
"I have your book, too. My kitchen wouldn't be complete without it."
"I'm flattered," I say with a little laugh. "What were you doing before my book?"
She shrugs. "Who knows. Fumbling my way around, trying not to give myself food poisoning, I guess."
I let out a laugh, and it's genuine. A rarity since the break up. The sound almost sounds alien.
"Well, it's lucky I wrote it, then."
We talk casually about cooking, recipes, and my blog, and before I know it I'm
at ease. Laughing, chatty, slightly less reserved than I was when I got there.
"You haven't written a new post in weeks. I feel like a crack addict who hasn't had her fix! I hope you haven't abandoned it."
"I've had some stuff to deal with. Family stuff," I say, my good mood wavering.
She seems to read my tone, and her smile fades. Those soft eyes become even softer. "I'm sorry."
For some reason, I feel the urge to confide in this woman whom I've just met. It must be her eyes. Eventually I'll have to inform all of my blog readers that my wife left me, so I figure I might as well start now.
"I've just been through a really rough divorce."
She sighs. "I know what that's like. Well, I've never been married, but my girlfriend and I had been together for a decade, lived together, everything. So I totally understand how hard it is to muster the will to do...well, anything." Girlfriend? My gaydar was right.
I said I wouldn't bring it up, yet here I am discussing it with a complete stranger. There is something cathartic about confiding in strangers. They don't know you well enough to judge you; and if they do judge, you don't know them well enough to care.
"It's been months since she left, but I..." My nose gets that tickly feeling, and my throat feels tight all of a sudden. This is precisely the reason why I didn't want to talk about it – the fear of how close it will bring me to tears.
She must see it in my eyes, because she takes my hand and leads me out of the room, away from the curious eyes that have now taken an interest in me.
It takes all my might to suppress the tears, though a couple escape and are seen by her.
"Let me get you a tissue," she says, rushes off and returns with a wad. "Here. It breaks my heart to see beautiful women cry."
I'm too distraught to appreciate the compliment.
She sits me on the stairs, where it's quieter and we're alone. Her towel almost falls off, but she catches it with one hand and tightens it again. She takes a seat beside me.
"Look at me, crying like a fool and ruining the party."
"Hey, you're allowed to be upset. And you're not ruining anything. Not for me, anyway."