The Falling in Love Montage

by Ciara Smyth

  Dimly I took stock of the fact that Ruby had a little brother. I hadn’t realized. Was he on holiday with her parents too? What was wrong with them? There was something really weird about their family. Although right now the more pressing issue was Ruby had hit on my number-one thing I didn’t want to talk about.

  “Mum can’t help,” I said firmly.

  My mind went blank when I tried to think of a good reason why. I didn’t want to make up some elaborate lie I’d have to keep track of so I hoped she’d drop it at that.

  “Why?” Ruby asked. “Are you being sexist? She’s a grown woman. I’m sure she’s had a dead battery before.”

  “Trust me, she’d be no good in this situation.” I felt my irritation grow. It was like she knew what she was doing. She couldn’t, though, right? Oliver said he wouldn’t mention it.

  “Well, maybe she can tell us what to—”

  “Jesus Christ, Ruby, give it a rest,” I snapped. “She can’t help.”

  Ruby blinked. Her eyebrows furrowed and her lips parted slightly. Guilt washed over me immediately.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I shouldn’t have snapped, I’m just stressed about the car. Dad will kill me.”

  He wouldn’t. He’d be annoying about it, but he wouldn’t really get too worked up.

  “We better figure out what to do, then,” she said, but her tone was cool and she didn’t look at me.

  Shit. Shit shit shit.

  I dialed a contact on my phone. It was the only person I could think of who might be able to help. That said a lot about my total lack of friends, but that was something to worry about another day.

  Oliver drove up in his stupid fancy Jeep twenty minutes later. Twenty long minutes where the air around us cooled down literally and figuratively. Ruby spent most of it on her phone. After the first ten minutes, I couldn’t take it anymore so I got out of the car and sat on the hood. What was I supposed to do? I’d apologized. It wasn’t that bad, was it? I’d been a bit snappish, but I hadn’t run over a cat or anything. I realized I’d been stupid. If Ruby had known about my mum, she would have just come out with it; that’s what she was like. I was paranoid.

  “Ladies.” Oliver jumped out of his Jeep and tipped an imaginary hat. “I hear there are damsels in distress?”

  “Oh, bugger off.” I knew I’d have to listen to his nonsense if I called, but honestly, the boy never let up.

  “I’m here to rescue you like the manly man I am.” He used a voice that was at least an octave lower than his normal voice and swung a set of jump leads seductively.

  “Why are you doing a man voice? You are, in fact, a man.” I rolled my eyes.

  Oliver shrugged. Ruby got out of the car and our eyes met. I tried to apologize again with a smile.

  “Any idea how to jump-start the car?” She directed her conversation at Oliver only.

  “Obviously not, but that’s what YouTube is for.”

  Ruby’s smile was full of gratitude and relief. It made her a little less scary. I’d talk to her on the way home, I decided. Once the stress of being stranded had passed, she might be in better form.

  Between the three of us, we managed to figure it out. I nearly wept with joy when the engine started making proper engine noises again.

  “Want a lift home?” Oliver nodded at Ruby.

  She hesitated. I tried to communicate via telepathy that I was really sorry for being a dick and that I wanted her to come with me. Going back to my place was obviously off the table. I didn’t want it to happen like this anyway (“it” is sex, you know that by now, right? I don’t have to keep saying it?). If it was going to happen, it should be on a perfect day.

  “Saoirse’s going to drive me home,” Ruby said.

  Apparently, I did have the power of psychic thought transmission. Would I use it for good or evil?

  It was only when I dropped her off with a good-night kiss (and a good-night hand on the boob—high five!) that a terrible thought occurred to me.

  Did that count as a fight? And if it counted as a fight, did we make up? Had I invited one of the harbingers of doom?

  No. Surely not. It wasn’t a fight. It was so tiny. It was barely even an f. A fight would be like a big disagreement about something important. A screaming match. Horrible words exchanged and tears shed. That’s obviously what I’d meant when I said fight. Everyone has little tiffs. That’s normal, even for a montage. It’s all part of the antagonistic nature of the chemistry.

  It didn’t count.

  Shut up.

  15.

  Five days later I began the process of boxing up the entire house to get ready for the move. I knew Dad would be lax about getting everything together. He always underestimated how long things took, resulting in him being late for basically everything. It made me mad that while I was the one who didn’t want to move, I was still doing all the work.

  I thought maybe it would be sad, packing away the last ten years or so. I had visions of myself wistfully examining knickknacks and crying a single tear of reminiscence. Actually, it was so painfully boring that I didn’t have the energy for that kind of carry-on. I cut myself several times when I overenthusiastically used the tape gun to seal the boxes and lost control, the momentum swinging the sharp end into my knee. Which meant I yet again had a life-threatening knee injury. The worst part was thinking about maybe doing it all over again in Oxford. I couldn’t quite picture being there and yet I couldn’t picture being with Dad and Beth in the new flat either. I felt in limbo, unable to settle even in my own mind, so I played music incredibly loud while I worked to try to drown out my inner voice.

  Packing up the whole house was eating into my falling in love montage time and that was unforgivable. Ruby and I had taken a walk on the beach the morning after the drive-in and I was confident we had moved past the non-fight, but I hadn’t seen her since. She’d gone with Oliver’s family to visit their grandparents for a couple of days; and when she wasn’t out of town, between visiting Mum, packing, and filling in ten more job applications, there hadn’t been time. We’d texted but it wasn’t the same and it was making me antsy.

  And yet here I was again, in Dad’s room of all places, folding his shirts into a box.

  “Saoirse, if you bleed on that carpet I’m going to have to get it cleaned again before we move out.” Dad loomed over me, which, given that he was only about five foot ten, was quite the feat. He was dressed in his day-off outfit. A long-sleeved, fitted shirt, tweed waistcoat, jeans from the children’s section rolled up at the hem to show off his lace-up brogues with no socks. Honestly.

  “Your concern for my well-being is touching, Father.” I hoisted myself up and leaned against the bed. “How can I help you today? Would you like Dobby to press your underpants or shine your shoes?”

  “Less cheek would be a great start and then after that if you could let Beth in when the door rings. Make sure you listen out for her over your death music.”

  “By death music, you mean Scandinavian folk singers?”

  “Yes, I saw a news report that Norwegian girls with acoustic guitars lead kids to witchcraft and heroin.”

  “Can’t you let her in?” I whined.

  “I have to go down to the home. I was supposed to take your mum out later for—” He cut himself off. “Anyway, she’s having a bad day. Was she OK this morning?”

  Your mum. Like she had nothing to do with him.

  “She seemed fine this morning.”

  A bad day meant she was distressed, crying, shouting, possibly violent.

  “I tried ringing Beth to cancel, but she didn’t answer,” Dad said on his way out. “I bet she left her phone at home. Tell her I’m sorry and I’ll call her later. Oh, and if you can do that pants thing too that would be great.”

  “I can’t promise I won’t sacrifice her to the Goat King if the music tells me so,” I said, half joking. I was inclined to be a little kinder knowing he was going to make sure Mum was OK. Especially as I hadn’t offered to go with
him.

  “I understand that. What kind of unreasonable tyrant do you take me for?”

  I was loading books into boxes when the doorbell rang. Technically, in some mature part of my brain, I knew I had no right to be mad at Beth, but I wasn’t going to let that part win. I wasn’t some kind of quitter. I trudged to the door. Beth stood in front of me, a big grin on her face that slid off, comically, when she saw it was me. She replaced it as quickly as she could.

  “Saoirse. How lovely to see you again,” she said.

  “I’m sure. Look, Dad had to go . . . out.” I didn’t know whether I was supposed to tell her where he really was. Obviously she knew about Mum, but it felt weird to bring her up.

  “Should I wait? Did he say if he’d be back soon?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  He would likely be at least an hour or two, but who was I to make wild predictions?

  “I’ll wait for a bit then,” she said. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Knock yourself out,” I said, and I turned to leave. Beth was sitting primly on the edge of the sofa like she was waiting in a doctor’s office for bad news.

  Sighing heavily, I made myself turn back. “Do you want a cup of tea or something?”

  Her face brightened. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

  I brought her back her tea and I sat in the armchair next to the sofa to be polite. I realized I was also perching on the end of the seat. Maybe that’s just how you sit when you’re planning to bolt any second.

  “So . . .” I searched for any topic of conversation except the wedding. “What are you doing today, then?”

  “Dress shopping for the wedding.” Beth smiled.

  This was my first lesson that when there’s a wedding being planned, there is no such thing as conversations not about the wedding.

  “Wait, with Dad?”

  Beth nodded. Steam from the mug rose in front of her face and fogged up her glasses.

  “Isn’t that kind of against the rules?”

  Beth shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t really have anyone else to go with me. My mother passed away when I was little. I don’t have any sisters. I don’t really have very many girlfriends here.”

  It’s a pet peeve of mine that straight women call their friends “girlfriends.” They are not your girlfriends. If you are not getting up close and personal with the lady garden then there are words for that: friends, mates, buddies, pals, etc., etc. Leave us our word, OK?

  But I didn’t say anything. I vaguely remembered Dad saying Beth moved to Ireland a couple of years ago to open a branch of her business in Dublin and yet she still didn’t have any proper friends. Having had no friends for a while now, I thought it could be kind of hard on someone. If they were the needy type like Beth obviously was. So I didn’t suggest she take Mum’s friends too, even though it was the first thing that occurred to me. I actually felt kind of sorry for her.

  One-nil for maturity.

  She waved her hand, insisting it didn’t matter. She wanted Dad to be there for the dress shopping anyway. I didn’t know what was more pitiful, that she had no mates or that she only had Dad to make up for it.

  Then something happened that I can’t quite explain, even now. The pity I was feeling for her somehow morphed into the words:

  “What if I go with you?”

  As soon as they left my mouth I wanted to snatch them back and I prayed she’d say, Oh, I couldn’t ask you to do that and I would nod and run upstairs before I got myself into any more trouble.

  “Really?” Her whole body perked out of a slump, and her eyes shone.

  “Well, I’m sure you don’t actually want me there—”

  “No, no, I do. That would be brilliant. You know, they give you free champagne and everything,” she said, like it was a bribe.

  I checked my pretend watch. “Well, it’s about time for my three p.m. drink so that works out well. What time is the appointment?”

  “In half an hour.”

  “I’ll get dressed,” I said, pasting on a smile and trying my hardest not to shudder visibly with regret.

  Half an hour. How had Dad thought he would be able to get in and out of the home in time to make that? Classic scatterbrain. They’d have missed this appointment if I hadn’t agreed to go, or she would have ended up going alone. This was like my good deed for the year, maybe even the decade. That remained to be seen.

  We were greeted at the door to Pronuptuous by a woman with a mess of gray curls bound up in a colorful headscarf, some completely indecipherable age between sixty and a hundred.

  “Come on in, girls, come on in,” she ushered us in, in delighted tones. I had been expecting someone younger, snooty and disdainful, because my only experience of wedding dress shops was from TV and films. Everything else was fairly spot on, though. She led us into a huge dressing room with so many reflective surfaces I felt like I was in a hall of mirrors. Why would anyone want to see every inch of themselves at once? Some things are better left unseen if you ask me. The old lady pushed a glass of something bubbly into my hand and I obliged, taking a sip. There was a plate of chocolate truffles wrapped in gold paper too. Oh well, it would be rude not to partake.

  “OK now, dear, tell me what is it you’re looking for? A-line, flared, trumpet, ball gown, tea length, princess, mermaid, sheath, sweep train, court train, panel train, watteau train, chapel train, cathedral train, no train at all—” The woman took a breath.

  “Uh . . .” Beth blinked several times.

  “Cathedral veil, chapel veil, waltz veil, mantilla, double-tier veil, square neckline, scoop, V-neck, sweetheart, Grecian, bateau, sheer, off the shoulder, Queen Anne, halter, strapless, basque waist, dropped waist—”

  “Stop.” Beth held a hand up. “Words have lost all meaning now.”

  The woman chuckled. “One of those,” she said, without judgment.

  “One of what?” Beth asked.

  “The ones who don’t know what they want. There’s two ends of the spectrum, dear. The brides who know exactly what they want down to the number of sequins on the bodice, and the ones who have no clue. Worry not, Barbara knows what you want before you do.”

  I stuffed one of the chocolates in my gob and shrugged at Beth. I guessed this was Barbara.

  “OK, let me see you.” Barbara made the universal gesture for “give me a twirl” and Beth turned slowly and uncertainly on the spot.

  “Well, you have a cracking figure, dear, but no tits whatsoever.”

  Beth’s eyes widened in disbelief and I burst out laughing, dribbling chocolate mush on my chin.

  “It’s nothing to laugh about,” Barbara said, shaking her head at me. “It is what it is. We must be honest with ourselves.” She turned again to Beth. “Do you want the chicken fillets then or are you happy enough as you are?”

  “As I am,” Beth said, bewildered, “I suppose.”

  “No supposing here. You have to be certain. I have plenty of dresses for a flat chest, but if you’re going to stuff your bra with those jelly tits then you need to tell me now.”

  “No, no. No . . . jelly,” Beth said.

  I got the feeling she was a little bit scared of Barbara. I thought Barbara was incredible and I wanted her to be my grandmother. I sat on the little tufted couch at the side of the room to watch it all unfold, the plate of truffles in my lap.

  “How do you want to feel on the big day?” Barbara hooked a tape measure around Beth’s hips.

  “Happy?”

  “Well, I would hope so, but that’s not what I mean. Are you wanting to feel like a fluffy pretty princess or a sensual seductive woman? Or are you thinking more of the refined older bride look? Virgin, whore, or crone? Those are your only options, dear.” Barbara looked shrewdly at me. “And never a truer word spoken,” she added with her lips pursed.

  “Preach, Barbara.” I held my hands up to her inviolable wisdom. I briefly considered getting my phone out to record this and send it to Ruby, but I had a sne
aking suspicion Barbara would happily snatch it from my hands and flush it down the loo or something.

  “Um, sexy, I guess?” Beth half glanced at me, embarrassed. I tried to block off the part of my brain that connected Beth looking sexy to anything to do with my dad and popped another truffle in my mouth, letting it melt on my tongue.

  “Good choice. I don’t like to judge, you know, but at your age, the princess look is a little bit sad. And you’re not old enough for the wedding skirt suit quite yet.”

  There were some very strict age and gender roles in the world of getting clothes to wear to your own wedding.

  “You hold tight there, have another glass of champagne, and I’ll be back in a couple of minutes with some options.”

  Beth sat beside me and gulped down some champagne.

  “This is kind of intense,” she whispered.

  “I think if you make the wrong choice Barbara will put you in the stocks and pelt you with truffles,” I whispered back.

  “Why are we whispering?” Beth asked, still whispering.

  “Because she’ll tell us off for talking in class.”

  Barbara returned with a single dress in a plastic cover.

  “With your skin tone, dear, you could wear whatever color you like, but I thought a brilliant white would be pretty.” She unzipped the plastic and held a bit of the fabric up to Beth’s face. Sure enough, it popped, making her glow. Barbara nodded, satisfied.

  Beth took the dress uncertainly and shuffled into the changing booth, giving me a bewildered look behind Barbara’s back.

  “Not you, though.” Barbara rounded on me. “Whenever you come to me, it’s ivory or a champagne gold for you. That pasty pink skin of yours won’t take anything else.” She pointed at me like my pasty pink skin offended her.

  “Cheers,” I said, “but I won’t be getting married.”

  “Why not?” She twisted her face, personally offended by my rejection of marriage. “Sure the lesbians can get married now.”

  “How do you know I’m a lesbian?”