The Stranger at the Wedding, page 23
You see, I have a box. Annie’s Box. It’s 7 by 8 feet; it’s cramped, it’s dark, and it’s buried far beneath the earth in a location known only to me. Like Pandora’s, it contains all the evils of the world along with my deepest, darkest secret.
I have a box that I have sanded and decorated and fitted and adorned.
I have a box that is girded by lock and key.
I have a box, and one from which Hope shall not escape. For Hope was not the sugar that made the medicine go down. Hope was not the salve. Hope was the ultimate ill, the radix of a broken heart and the root of all misery. Hope was not the light, but the darkness. And now she has company. Misery loves company. He too struggled, briefly, before all the struggle went out of him, quit his body in a great exhale. The uninvited stranger, the interloper, now the permanent guest. My guest, but her bedfellow. She may not have found a new man in life but she was gifted one in death.
On the night before my wedding, I crept out of bed under the cover of darkness. The stars shone just enough to pick out my steps down the gravel path, down the rolling hill of the field and across the fence; just enough to find my way into the pillbox on the abandoned lea, to lie down on the hard earth within, press my ear to the floor beside the protruding metal pipes and listen to the sound of heavy, guttural rasping, for the very last time.
My heart beat fast against the soil as I told her of the wedding, of the guests, the dried-flower centrepieces, the columns of champagne that would be hoisted in our name and in celebration of our love, of the car, the vows, the promise of forever, of the husband who had forgotten all about her, of the end to her suffering. I would be married in the morning, by which time I would have taken everything from her.
Had I lain there for longer that night after the pipes were stuffed with mud, scratched from the soil by mine own hands, had I been there as the final rasping came to a close, I might have heard, somewhere in the distance, the sound of a grasshopper beating its wings.
PART FOUR
THE HAPPILY-EVER-AFTER
41
The scent of lavender from the nearby fields catches on the air, as Karen, dressed in a bright white suit, makes her way down the aisle towards Hannah, who stands under the bough of a great oak tree in the heat of the midday sun, waiting for the woman, my sister, with whom she intends to spend the rest of her life. K smiles as she looks ahead to Hannah, to her future; she smiles at Mother who walks proudly beside her in a summer frock, ready to give her away, the very image of a very modern mother for a very modern wedding. There are no flower girls – the flowers are all around us – no maids of honour, no best men; just two best women, exchanging vows and sealing their love before fifty pairs of seated eyes.
‘But I thought you two were going through a rough patch?’ I said when K first told me the news.
‘We were. But that was Berlin, the distance between us. When I decided to move back, well … Things took a turn. We realised as soon as we were in each other’s lives again that we didn’t ever wish to leave them. All the petty squabbling, the arguments we once had over who last replaced the loo roll, went out the window, and the only thing that mattered was the fact I loved her, that I will always love her, and that she makes me happier than I ever thought I could be.’
‘Then I’m happy for you,’ I said, and I was. She too deserved her happy ending. I was living mine.
Had anyone asked me several years ago whether I believed in happy endings, in a resolution that was anything other than cheerless, anything other than a bag of bones interred in the ground or a scattering of ashes on the wind, I’d have answered no. I’d have said that happiness is an ever-dwindling resource that peaks at the instant of one’s birth and then is spent, often carelessly, in the pursuit of a good life. And then, well, as that life ebbs, as the thing we have all been running towards proves itself forever just beyond our grasp, we look down at our wasted limbs, our sallow skin and bent frame, all happiness lost to us, and realise that we would have been happier had we never chased happiness at all, had we stayed put and allowed the very thing we sought to find us.
But now … now I’m not so sure. Had I stayed put, had I not pursued my happily-ever-after, had I not done everything within my power to claim Mark for my own, then I would still be sitting in my small flat in London, swiping left and right in an endless game of chance to find Mr Right Now.
Had I not pursued my happily-ever-after, I would not be sitting here today, beside the man I love, who clasps my hand like a collector holding a precious timepiece; a man who looks across at me and smiles, just as his mother did at our wedding, with the punch of a thousand headlights; a man who reaches down with his free hand, lovingly, adoringly, to the small bundle of my belly and rests it there as he thinks on our future, our very own ending, and realises, at last, that I have been able to give him what she never could.
42
‘Oh, Annie, you’re so wicked,’ said Beth, as she leant across the table to me and dropped a sugar cube into her espresso. Her nails are so long, so perfectly pointed, that she could slice open a cantaloupe with a flick of the wrist.
‘All I’m saying is: the woman thought a wax was something you rub on your car. Her poor husband …’
The table roared with laughter, and I was enjoying it. I was enjoying being the person they wanted me to be, expected me to be. The person I could have been.
‘Are all your colleagues so frightfully tragic?’ asked Mathilde.
‘Classics doesn’t exactly attract the young, glamorous types.’
Beth smiled wryly. ‘Present company excluded, of course.’
‘Of course,’ I conceded.
‘Especially with those new blonde locks of yours.’
‘You do look annoyingly good, Annie,’ said Mathilde, before turning to Beth. ‘Your handiwork, I presume?’
Beth bowed.
‘I was sat in that chair for four hours,’ I said.
‘One mustn’t rush perfection. Speaking of … how’s Mark?’
‘On a tight leash, I should imagine,’ added Mathilde, who threw in a raised eyebrow for good measure.
‘That’s all behind us now. It wasn’t easy – it wasn’t easy to admit there was a problem, not at first – but we worked through it together. I guess old habits die hard.’
‘I thought they might have died with her.’
Beth gave Mathilde a look that said too far. Sometimes the conversational ball volleyed to the other side of the net can land with an excess of topspin.
‘What? Are we just going to sit here and pretend that she’s still out there somewhere after nearly three years?’
‘She was your friend,’ said Beth sadly.
‘Was,’ emphasised Mathilde. ‘And yours too. If she’s still out there, then why hasn’t she been in touch? Either she’s dead or selfish. You choose, though neither is particularly pretty. Besides, even before she went missing, it was always Charlotte this and Charlotte that. When we saw her, that is, when her time wasn’t spent elsewhere. No, she was done with us long before we were done with her.’
Hope had always spoken of Mathilde, of her laser-cut bob and leopard-print jumpsuits, her enormous hooped earrings and white-sequinned handbags, in a way that would indicate a skelf; a nuisance more than a friend. It wasn’t until Mathilde came calling at Mark’s door as we readied his house for sale, until I answered, paint-splattered and wearied, that I realised just how wrong Hope had been. There, on the doorstep, a new friendship, a real friendship, was born. Hope appreciated so very little of her adornments, discarded them like a spent match. Her life was wasted on her. And so it was wasted.
‘Actually, I’ve heard something,’ said Beth.
My heart beat a little faster. ‘Heard what?’
‘Well, apparently Mark’s father hired some sort of investigator, an ex-policeman to track her down.’
Frank. I should have known.
‘And?’ urged Mathilde. ‘What did he find?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘What do you mean we don’t know?’
‘He went missing too, about eight months back. His car was discovered in some woods in Kent, torched.’
I had taken great care, of that I was sure; not a trace of him remained. Once his body was moved to the pillbox, I took the car keys that I’d fished from his coat pocket, fetched some kerosene from the disused labourer’s shed that bordered the stream at the foot of the farm, retraced his steps down the gravel drive to his car and drove it five miles to the other side of the nearby wood. There, I watched the flames dance in balletic fashion before me, in arabesque and pirouettes, as his notebook, into which he’d fed all his leads, all his suspicions, suspicions about me, was consumed entirely by the fire. Four weeks later, a policewoman, a detective, I think, an older woman, contacted by Cameron’s wife or else Frank, I suppose, came by the farm to enquire as to whether I had seen a man out alone a month previous. No, came the answer. And it came so easily.
‘They don’t have a single lead, of course, though I’m sure there is no shortage of people harbouring a grudge from his police days,’ continued Beth. ‘And no one knows what he was doing out there. He left behind a wife too. A young one. No kids.’
My heart returned to its slower, rhythmic pounding.
‘Is this true, Annie?’ asked Mathilde. ‘Has Frank said anything?’
I did my best to conceal my unease. ‘Nonsense, surely. It sounds like something out of a film.’
Beth pushed her empty espresso cup away from her. ‘Hey, I’m just telling you what I’ve heard. A lot of loose tongues at the salon.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Well, this has been fun, but I better get back before Mrs Jenkins wakes up for her blow-dry.’
‘Wait. Before you go … I have some news.’
Beth and Mathilde looked to one another and then back to me, expectant. Beth’s eyes narrowed to a point, traced up and down, as though weighing the possibilities, weighing me.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ said Mathilde slowly. ‘You’re not? Are you? You are …’
My smile widened. ‘I am.’
A fug of screaming filled every inch of the little corner café. The girls threw themselves at me in a crush of arms that swallowed me whole.
‘Oh, I’m so very happy for you!’ said Beth.
‘You’re going to be a mum!’ cried Mathilde. ‘God, I hate you.’
‘And I love you too.’
‘What did Mark say when he found out?’
I bit my lower lip. Mathilde stared at me, puzzled.
‘I’m telling him tonight.’
‘Are you nervous?’ said Beth.
‘About what?’
‘About telling him. He’s not exactly been pushing the idea.’
Mark had always been reluctant to discuss children. We’re not ready, he would say. We don’t need another complication in our lives – not yet. I’m back at work; you’ve got another promotion. Things are going well. You can see that, surely? And I would nod and smile and agree, but only because I feared I’d lose him again – if not in body, then in spirit – as I did on our honeymoon. He seemed so very far from me then. I didn’t want that again. I wanted him close. I needed him close.
The truth that I did not dare utter was that I was nervous to tell him, but I had put it off long enough. A child will bind us in ways that marriage couldn’t. He might not see that now, but he will.
‘He’s ready to be a dad,’ I said defiantly. ‘He wasn’t then; he wasn’t with her. But he is now.’
‘And are you ready to be a mum?’
The question fell on me from a great height. I was so concerned about telling Mark, about what his reaction might be, that I didn’t stop to consider whether I was ready. I mean, is anyone, ever?
‘I think so,’ I said.
‘You’re going to be a terrific mum,’ said Beth warmly. ‘Just look at Karen; how wonderful she is. That’s your doing, that’s your influence.’
I’m not sure my mother’s lack of parenting should be the barometer by which my own suitability for steering a child through life is measured, but Beth meant well.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘She’s right,’ said Mathilde. ‘Besides, you mother us. We were two lost lambs before you came into our lives.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Beth.
Mathilde cupped her hand to her mouth, so as to form a dividing line between us and Beth.
‘She watched Erin Brockovich last weekend and suddenly she’s on an independent-woman trip. It won’t last.’
‘I heard that,’ laughed Beth.
As we got up to leave, she took my hand and held my gaze firm. ‘You two make far more sense than he and Hope ever did.’
*
‘Darling. Would you come in here a moment?’
The stairs groaned under Mark’s weight as he made his way up to our bedroom, what was once my parents’ bedroom. He looked tired as he bent down to kiss me where I sat on the ottoman at the foot of the bed.
‘Long day?’
Mark didn’t answer immediately. He unbuttoned his baby-blue shirt and removed his trousers until he stood, slightly bowed, in just his boxers and a white vest.
‘Six-hour surgery. Some poor roofer fell from the fourth floor of a council block.’
‘That’s horrible. Is he going to be OK?’
Mark looked at me and shook his head slightly. I didn’t understand how he did it; how day after day he could deal with trauma, real trauma, and leave it behind in the hospital. He has an extraordinary ability to compartmentalise anguish, so long as that anguish is not his own. I get upset if one of my bright students turns in a bad essay, and I’ll be upset for the rest of the evening. Mark must think me silly, but he never says anything. He’s good to me in many ways that I never fully stop to count.
Mark went to the bathroom to brush his teeth, and called back to me through foamed mouth, ‘Have you picked up my suit from the dry-cleaners?’
‘I collected it this morning.’
Mark spat into the sink and turned off the tap. He re-emerged in the bedroom, a line of toothpaste down his vest.
‘What have we got them, by the way?’
‘A stoneware cook set. K asked for it specifically.’
‘Colour?’
‘Terracotta.’
Mark laughed as he climbed into bed. ‘I feel like the president receiving his briefing.’
‘Would you like me to call you Mister President?’
His eyebrows shot up. ‘Do you even have to ask?’
‘Well, Mister President, before you get too excited and impossibly distracted, I have some news for you. I’ve been waiting for you to get home.’
‘Oh?’
‘Your anniversary present has arrived a little early.’
Mark sat up straight in bed, then scanned the room as though trying to locate the present.
‘Well, what is it?’
I took a deep breath and fought back a knot of nerves before the words came out.
‘I’m pregnant.’
At first, the words didn’t seem to register; Mark stared out through the window to the old chicken coop. His eyes darted left and right in quick, sudden movements as though he was trying to read a script before him, but the sentences were swimming. And then the flitting stopped. He looked around, looked at me finally, grinned from ear to ear, and then opened his arms wide to me. I fell into them.
‘I’m going to be a dad,’ he whispered.
‘You’re going to be a great dad,’ I replied. And just like that, I wondered why I ever feared telling him. We were going to be a family at last.
43
The clink-clink of a butter knife tapping against a champagne flute rings throughout the marquee tent, and a hushed silence falls upon us. Several heads turn to the front, to the top table, as mine turns to my right, to my neighbour, to the woman holding the knife: Mother.
A prick of panic creeps down my lower back. All I can think of is the last time she delivered a speech. The embarrassment, the shame … I don’t want that for K. She deserves better. But it’s too late. Mother has clambered to her feet and she holds the room in the palm of her hand. The microphone hisses on the table before her.
‘I’d like to start by thanking you all for coming,’ she says. ‘I know many of you journeyed from slightly further afield to, well, a field.’
There are a few ripples of pitying laughter, nothing more. My stomach tightens as I brace for worse. Had there been crickets around, had evening fallen, we might have heard a gentle chirrup.
‘I’d also like to thank those who couldn’t make it today,’ she continues, before pausing for effect. ‘You’ve saved us about fifty quid a head.’
The drummer in the wedding band rolls off a ba-doom-boom-tssss, which gives rise to more laughter, genuine this time. K and I look at each other in astonishment.
‘Of course, this is not just any wedding. Today you get two brides for the price of one.’
Ba-doom-boom-tssss.
More laughter. Mother is enjoying this; and, I have to admit, so am I. Hannah and K laugh into their napkins.
‘I’ll leave the rest of the jokes to a professional, but I did wish to speak from the heart for a moment, if I may. You will all be most surprised to learn that this is not Karen’s first wedding.’ A few unnerved, furtive looks among the gathering do little to deter her. ‘That’s right: she is technically a bigamist. When she was a little girl, her father married her off to a Ken doll in our back garden. All her favourite toys gathered around, watching – unflappably, it has to be said – the union. Karen was blissfully happy. And I recall that moment now because although her father couldn’t be here today, it warms me to think that he got a chance to attend one of her weddings.’ Mother turns to K. ‘Darling … had he been here, he would have been so proud, as I am, to see the strong, powerful woman you’ve become.’ She turns to me. ‘He would have been proud, as I am, to see the strong, powerful women you have become. He raised two very fine daughters, and though I’d like to claim some of the credit, the truth is that I can claim very little.’
