by Beth O'Leary
‘You try having a baby,’ Deb tells Marcus. ‘And see how heavy you get.’
‘Never been much interested in babies, myself,’ Marcus says, grimacing as Deb shifts on his thighs. ‘Where did you even get yours from, anyway? You’re single, clearly.’
He’s trying to act normal, but I know him too well to buy it; his voice is reedy and he looks exhausted.
‘Contrary to popular opinion, you can acquire a baby without also acquiring a life partner,’ Deb says.
Marcus makes an oh, really? sound, an effort at interest. I stare at the fine threads of Addie’s hair in front of my nose and try not to imagine how it’ll feel between my fingers.
‘I used a sperm bank,’ Deb explains. ‘I did think about asking a friend, but . . .’ She shrugs. ‘I didn’t want it to get complicated.’
‘Love a sperm bank,’ says Marcus. ‘Great way to get a little booze money once Dad and India cut me off. I was in and out of the Chichester one like a bloody boomerang. So, how far away are we?’ he asks Kevin, while Deb absorbs that particularly terrifying piece of news. ‘Could do with getting there before my legs go completely numb.’
‘It’s this turn-off,’ Kevin says, checking his satnav. ‘We’re fifteen minutes away.’
Fifteen minutes. I can cope with another fifteen minutes.
We hit a pothole and I close my eyes, trying not to groan.
‘You’re our hero,’ Addie tells Kevin as he pulls into the large car park. ‘Thank you. Will you come and join the party?’
‘D’you think I could?’ Kevin says, breaking into one of his particularly alarming grimace-smiles.
I’m finding Kevin very useful right now; Addie has just climbed out of my lap and down to floor level, and before I move into a standing position I am going to need to spend the next few moments concentrating on Kevin’s grimace.
‘I’m sure Krish and Cherry wouldn’t mind,’ I say, immediately realising that they absolutely, definitely would.
‘I warned Cherry about the situation, by the way,’ Deb says, still perched in Marcus’s lap.
‘What!’ Addie and I say in unison.
Deb turns bemused eyes our way. ‘What?’
‘Didn’t she totally panic?’
‘It was a text. Hard to tell,’ she says, handing me her phone. ‘You know what Cherry’s like with the exclamation marks.’
Addie pulls a face as I climb down from the cab and show her the message. It starts with a string of emojis, followed by:
Call me as soon as you get here!!! And HURRY UP!!!!
‘I think she might have panicked a smidgen,’ Addie says.
‘The Mini is in the car park,’ Marcus says, pointing. ‘Looks like Rodney’s parked up and gone inside.’
Addie swears.
‘What now?’ I ask.
‘Break into the Mini so we can change?’ Marcus says, looking down at his clothes with distaste. ‘I can’t turn up at a wedding looking like this.’
Addie rolls her eyes. ‘We need to get to the venue and find Rodney before he does any damage. If we’re not already too late.’
‘Gah,’ Marcus says, but he follows us as we head out of the car park.
There are signs directing us to the wedding venue itself; they are all intricately hand-drawn with curling calligraphy and watercolour explosions of fireworks at their edges. It takes about a minute of following the trail to clear the towering pine trees around the car park, and as soon as we do, we let out a collective gasp.
Above us is an enormous, ornate castle. It’s definitely not a genuine castle – or rather, it’s a castle, but when it was built, nobody was thinking about defending this area from marauders – but it’s so impressive it doesn’t matter. There are turrets with flags flying, there’s a thickly flowering vine climbing up almost as high as the battlements, and there’s a moat complete with drawbridge.
We cross the water in stunned silence. We all knew Cherry and Krish were planning a large and fairly extravagant wedding, but this is something else.
There are guests already milling on the vivid green lawn at the front of the castle, a cacophony of colour: elaborate headpieces and hats, full-length ballgowns, saris and lehengas. Beside me, Addie looks down at herself, as if just remembering that she’s still in the same white dress she put on this morning, with a shirt collar and a belt at the waist.
‘Shit,’ she mutters. ‘It had to be white, didn’t it?’
I scan the crowd for any sign of Rodney, but there are scores of people here already, perhaps hundreds, and I don’t know what he’ll be wearing. He could easily have changed into his suit, given that he had access to the entire contents of the Mini. Or he could be in Deb’s pyjamas, come to that.
‘Addie!’ comes a voice from behind us.
We all spin. The synchrony is becoming uncanny. I think it must be the two days of poor air conditioning and endless country music: we are united now, as one, having breathed the same stale air for so many hours.
‘Yeah?’ Addie says, bewildered. Nobody nearby seems to be looking at us. We’re near the building, right by a flowerbed overflowing with pink and purple flowers and . . . something . . . white.
‘Addie,’ I say, pointing to the offending patch of white fabric just visible behind a large bush.
‘Addie! Get back here!’ the voice hisses.
It’s Cherry. She’s in full wedding dress with her hair in pins; for a brief moment her face pokes out from behind the bush, eyes wide, cheeks rosy.
We all crowd in around her. Cherry scans us with the expression of a woman who does not have the mental energy to absorb anything that isn’t immediately relevant to the crisis at hand – she barely even blinks as she registers the presence of the burly lorry driver beside Deb, and the large, technicolour bruising around Marcus’s nose.
‘Well? Where’s Rodney?’ she hisses. ‘Is he here?’
‘Happy wedding day,’ I say, leaning to kiss her on the cheek and getting a faceful of leaves. ‘How are you?’
‘Insane,’ she says. ‘I’m insane. Don’t ever get married, Dylan. It turns you into a monster.’
‘OK, noted,’ I say, trying very hard not to look at Addie. ‘Listen, we haven’t found Rodney just yet, but . . .’
Cherry groans, burying her face in her hands.
‘Don’t worry! We’re on it!’ I say, as Addie plucks a leaf out of Cherry’s hair. ‘Can you give us any clues as to what he might be planning? Given what you know about him?’
‘I don’t know him! I just slept with him! Once!’
‘That hardly counts,’ Deb says kindly.
‘He likes romantic gestures, though, right? Hence the poems and stuff,’ Addie says. ‘Don’t you think he’ll try and find you before the ceremony? To change your mind?’
‘Why do you think I’m in this fucking flowerbed?’ Cherry says. ‘This is Vivienne Westwood, you know. And that’s bird poo,’ she says, pointing to a leaf bobbing perilously close to her dress. Her hand is covered in beautiful, intricate henna art, ready for today’s wedding ceremony.
‘We need to lure him out,’ says Marcus. ‘And then pounce.’
He demonstrates pouncing. Cherry jumps.
‘Where would he expect you to be?’ Addie asks.
‘I’m meant to be having my hair done in the bridal preparation chamber,’ she says.
‘That sounds unpleasant,’ Deb says.
‘Yeah, I think they went for “chamber” because of the castle vibe,’ Cherry says, waving a vague hand at the battlements above us. ‘But it’s a bit unfortunate, isn’t it, with all the torture associations?’
‘So let’s go there,’ Marcus says. ‘We’ll hide, jump out on him . . .’
‘And tie him up!’ Deb finishes triumphantly.
Addie and I look at each other. The tying-up plan is sounding like qui
te a good one, presently, which I think shows how far we have all fallen. I have a feeling that if this journey had been any longer, it would have become progressively more Lord of the Flies, and Marcus probably would have eaten somebody.
‘Addie? Dyl?’ comes a voice from behind us.
Cherry squeals and ducks down again. ‘Get him away from me! Get him away!’
‘Cherry! It’s just Krish,’ Addie says, as we turn.
Krish lifts his hand in a slightly bemused wave. He’s dressed in a traditional wedding sherwani, and looks magnificent in its golds and deep reds. ‘Are you all all right?’ He cranes his head. ‘Is . . . Cherry? Is that you?’
‘You can’t see me! It’s our wedding day!’ she calls. ‘Go away!’
Krish starts to laugh. ‘What are you doing in a bush?’
‘Last-minute crisis,’ Deb says.
‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ Addie says, as Krish’s grin drops. ‘All under control.’ She tucks a corner of Cherry’s wedding dress behind her.
‘You go mingle,’ she says, waving a hand at Krish. ‘We’ll just . . . sort . . . things.’
Krish’s expression turns suspicious. ‘Is this very bad?’ he says. ‘I’m getting very bad vibes.’ His eyes settle on Kevin and his frown deepens.
I straighten up and pat him on the arm. ‘Absolutely not,’ I say. ‘You go and enjoy your special day.’
He is still looking unconvinced. I glance over his shoulder.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Is that your grandparents? Talking to Mad Bob?’
Krish’s eyes widen. Mad Bob makes Marcus look like the picture of restraint: he is known for compulsively undressing every time he has more than three drinks, and has been arrested so many times he couldn’t get a job even if he needed to, which he doesn’t, because he’s just inherited half of Islington.
That gets rid of Krish. But it also draws my attention to something that, in all the excitement and stress and joy, I had genuinely forgotten I’d have to confront today.
My father is making his way towards us across the grass. Dressed in white tie, he looks as severe and sharp-cut as his top hat; there are new harsh lines on his face, scores on either side of his nose, blueish bags beneath his eyes. My mum’s nowhere to be seen, which is unusual – she’s generally by my father’s side – and her absence makes my stomach turn. It’s always safer if my mum’s here too.
‘Oh my God, is that . . .’ Addie begins. ‘Shall we go? Let you talk?’
I reach for her as she moves to walk away. ‘No,’ I say firmly, but my heart is racing. ‘Stay with me – please. Deb, get Cherry back inside, and take Kevin, would you?’
‘On it,’ Deb says. ‘Come on, Cherry, mind the bird shit.’
Marcus moves to stand beside me; he’s on my right, Addie’s on my left. I can feel Addie looking at me uncertainly; her sore wrist is cradled at her chest, and I slide my hand into her free one, locking our fingers together.
‘Dylan,’ my father says.
I’m holding Addie’s hand too tightly, but I can’t seem to loosen my grip. I’ve thought of this moment often; I’ve imagined telling my father, Look how well I’ve done without you; I’ve imagined saying, You know, you could have been kind, just once. I’ve imagined telling him that I’ll never forgive him for the way he’s always treated Luke.
But now that I’m here, I’m afraid. The truth is, I haven’t done well without him – not in his terms, at least. I’m still a part-time Masters student with a small but significant debt on my account; I’m single but in love with a woman who I hope has it in her heart to give me another chance. To him, I look like I’m still on pause – the lost boy wandering the world, weak-willed and daydreaming and achieving nothing.
‘Who’s this?’ Dad says, eyes settling on Addie.
‘This is Addie,’ I say. My voice comes out in a squeak, and I clear my throat.
Addie lets go of my hand for a moment to shake my father’s; he looks her up and down, and his expression is so blatantly critical that I start to tremble with a familiar quiet rage.
‘I remember hearing about you,’ Dad says as he shakes Addie’s hand. ‘Taken him back, have you?’ He shoots a grin at Marcus. ‘Joel told me you two had fallen out – you’ve done the same, then? Taken my son back?’
‘It wasn’t quite like that, Miles,’ Marcus says, voice pleasant.
My father’s eyebrows rise. ‘No?’
‘No. It wasn’t so much a falling-out as a—’
‘Fisticuffs, eh?’ my father interrupts, nodding to the bruises on Marcus’s face. ‘But no. Can’t have been my Dylan who punched you, he doesn’t have it in him.’
Addie slips her hand into mine again.
‘Would you just shut up, actually,’ Marcus says, ‘and let me speak?’
There is a vast, shocked silence. I look at Marcus, expecting to see that his mood has shifted with its usual irrational speed, but it’s not that, he’s not angry: he’s clearly trying hard not to cry.
‘Your dad needs to know what sort of man you are, Dylan.’
Marcus is hardly ever serious, not really serious; there’s always the suggestion he might just be taking the piss, or winding you up, or playing a part that’ll slide away in less than a minute. On the rare occasions when he really cares about what he’s saying, his voice is completely different – smoother and less drawling. It’s like that now.
‘I did things that Dylan hated – I ruined the best thing in his life – but he didn’t give me up for good.’ He’s looking at my father, unblinking. ‘He’s always shown me that all I need to do to be worthy of his friendship is to try. And to say sorry.’
‘Marcus . . .’
He looks at me and Addie.
‘And I am. Sorry. I’m not good at saying it, but I’m trying with that too.’
‘This is all rather dramatic,’ my dad says with distaste, as I turn towards Marcus and meet his eyes. They’re wet and frightened, and somehow very bare.
I reach with my free arm to hug him but he steps away, shaking his head, not done.
‘Do you know what an achievement it is, to turn out that way growing up in your house?’ Marcus says to my father, straightening up. He meets my dad’s gaze like it’s no effort at all, like he isn’t even frightened. ‘Do you know what it takes to be a good man when someone’s always told you you’re not good enough?’
My father stiffens. ‘Marcus,’ he says warningly.
I know that tone; it turns me cold.
‘No, I know what you’re about to say, and fuck your job,’ Marcus says, swiping an arm across his face. ‘I’ll find something else. I’m not working for you when you’re still looking at Dylan like that. When you still treat Luke like he’s less. Christ. What a spineless, bigoted bully you are.’
My father’s eyes flash and it makes my throat tighten instantly, like the air’s thickened, clogging in the back of my mouth. He takes a step towards Marcus; Addie and I withdraw, and I hear her breathe in sharply, but Marcus doesn’t even flinch. He laughs.
‘Well,’ he says. ‘I’ll leave you to get to know Addie.’
Marcus turns to meet Addie’s eyes. He looks very tired, but that fire’s still there even now, that quintessential Marcus energy that never quite runs dry.
‘She’s a better person than you or I could ever be,’ he says, ‘and Dylan’s lucky to have her.’
Addie
I don’t know what to do with myself. My eyes are pricking with tears. Dylan’s holding my hand so tight it aches as we watch Marcus walk away, his shoulders hunched. She’s a better person than you or I could ever be.
I’ve carried all that crap Marcus said about me for so long. How I wasn’t good for Dylan. As if I had something bad in me, like I was holding a live grenade. It tainted me even before Etienne tried to break me.
Now I think he was right, in h
is way. I could have hurt Dylan a thousand ways, and sometimes I came close – sometimes my foot slipped. Back then, when we all met, I could have been that woman, and maybe that woman would have loved a man like Marcus. Maybe that woman would have kissed Etienne back.
But I know who I am, now. I’m the woman who holds Dylan’s hand tight and looks up at the father he was always too afraid to introduce me to. The man whose contempt for the two of us is drawn on every grey inch of his face.
‘Well,’ I say to Miles Abbott. ‘I don’t expect we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, unless you’re going to take a leaf out of Marcus’s book and ask for your son’s forgiveness. But it’s been a pleasure to see you. As in, it’s been a pleasure to see you get totally demolished.’ I flash him a grin, then turn to Dylan. ‘Come on, Dyl. We’ve got a wedding crasher to catch.’
Dylan’s shaking as we wind our way through the corridors in search of the bridal preparation chamber. He tries calling his brother, but Luke doesn’t pick up, and that seems to make Dylan’s shaking even worse.
‘Hey, you’re OK,’ I say, pausing for a moment. Our hands are still linked. ‘You did it. You saw him and walked away.’
He draws his free hand across his forehead, eyes drawn tight. ‘I didn’t even say anything.’
‘You didn’t have to. Staying quiet is powerful too, especially since he was clearly expecting you to come to him cap in hand.’ I squeeze his fingers between mine. ‘Marcus and I have your back. And maybe next time you will say something, if you want to – maybe you guys will figure it out, the way you and Marcus are doing.’
He leans back against the wall, and finally loosens his grip on my fingers, letting our palms slip apart. ‘Does it bother you?’ he asks quietly. ‘That I . . . that I let Marcus back into my life after what he did?’
I think hard. It’s too important a question to brush over, though that’s my instinct at first.