It Ends At Midnight, page 10
‘Nothing,’ I said, but my mouth wasn’t working properly, the word refusing to come out. I started to laugh, but the laugh got caught up with a sob and then I was crying, the sky spinning around me.
‘You’re shit-faced,’ she said. ‘Oi, Campbell. Get the fuck off her. She’s off her head.’
Somehow this must have been enough to persuade Campbell to let go because I was free now, no longer held in his grip, and as I’d thought I would, I stumbled, started to fall, but there were so many people around that they broke my fall and then someone was hanging onto my arm, pulling me up, steadying me against them, and it was Tess, the anger gone from her face.
‘You silly cow,’ she said. ‘You know you can’t handle Baileys. Come on, let’s get out of here.’
She pulled me behind her, not stopping to snog people any more. It was like walking through tar, the crowds so thick that at a couple of points we were actually picked up off our feet and pulled with the sway, this way and that. I knew it was frightening but I didn’t feel it, my viewpoint again somewhere above my head. Tess was shouting and swearing but I felt safe because I was with her, away from Campbell’s predatory hands.
At last, we were out of the crowds, down the side of St Giles near to Parliament House. It was quieter here, only a few people standing there as if to catch their breaths before returning to battle. There was a couple getting off with each other, a boy and girl, leaning against the statue of Charles II that stood in the middle of the car park.
‘Get a room,’ Tess jeered. Now that we’d stopped, everything was spinning properly around me, lights dancing in my eyes while my vision slowly dimmed. I was about to be sick, I knew it, and I dropped down to my knees on the cold pavement, breathing in deeply to see if I could avert it, though the waves of nausea were mounting.
‘Seriously, get a fucking room,’ Tess shouted again. I looked up to see the couple disengage, turn around to seek out the source of the insults.
‘Go fuck yourself,’ the man said. Even through my sickness there was something familiar about his voice and I looked up, moving my head slowly. It was Stewart, I could see his face wavering in the dark in front of me. Behind him, Linda, pulling at her clothes, zipping up her coat.
I jerked my head inadvertently and the movement was too much, a wave of nausea flooding up on me again and this time taking me down as I spewed what felt like gallons of Baileys over the granite pavement. Stewart and Linda was a problem that I knew I’d have to confront some time, but it would have to wait.
‘Fucking hell, that’s disgusting,’ I heard a voice say somewhere above me, but I didn’t know whose voice and I cared less. Nausea gripped me again and this time I fell headlong into its depths.
15
I go straight to Tess’s house after court finishes. There’s a layer of nerves running under me about what she might want to discuss, but superficially, I’ve decided to take her word for it that tonight is only about the vow renewal. She hugs me as I go in and pours me a glass of wine before we both sit down in the kitchen. I start talking to her about the case but it’s clear she’s not that interested, flicking through the magazine on the table in front of her, saying uh huh and yeah without looking up at me.
I persevere for a while longer, describing the conflict I’m feeling about Philip’s guilt, Liam and Daniel’s prison pallor, set against the fact that Ryan’s been so traumatised he’s run out of the court room.
‘Why are you so bothered about it?’ Tess says, finally looking up. ‘If you don’t believe them, find them guilty. If you don’t believe the defendant, acquit them. Isn’t that your job?’
‘I suppose,’ I say, slumping back into my chair. I’m tired, wired with the thoughts of all the evidence I’ve heard today, not ready to engage with Tess about her plans for the reconfirmation of her and Marcus’s vows. I’m still in court, still sitting behind the wooden desk, breathing the recycled air in the windowless room, not ensconced in one of Tess’s new designer dining chairs, the subtle scent of Pomegranate Noir from a Jo Malone candle burning somewhere in the kitchen.
Tess keeps going, ‘Anyway, I don’t want to talk about your work. Not today. I want to talk about how we’re going to do it.’
I’m only half listening, my thoughts still full of it all.
‘Sylvie,’ Tess says, and she’s practically shouting. ‘Will you pay attention to me?’
‘Sorry, Tess. Sorry,’ I say. ‘There’s just something about it. It’s got to me.’
She looks at me, her eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t know why you care so much,’ she says again, ‘though I know you’re always obsessed about work.’
With that I realise why I’m so preoccupied. Dissimilar as they may be in many respects, it’s still taken me back over twenty years. Tess, in court, telling the jury what she’d seen, what Linda had done. When I’d argued, asked how she could be sure, she’d leaned to me, one hand clawed tight on my wrist, and she’d narrowed her eyes. I don’t know why you care so much. For a moment I feel completely cold, my fingers curling into my palms, but then Tess smiles and the warmth returns to the room.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again. ‘I’ll pay attention properly. What do you want to show me?’
‘Well,’ she says, and settles back into her chair. ‘I’ve organised loads already. It’s going to be perfect. I’ve got carte blanche to do exactly what I want.’
Marcus has agreed to everything Tess wants to do, she says. She opens her laptop and runs me through everything she’s booked so far.
‘I’ve found this amazing house on a holiday booking website, a special luxe one for big house parties. It sleeps twelve so at least some of us will be able to sleep there, and it’s not as if there’s any shortage of tourist accommodation in Edinburgh.’
‘When are you planning on doing this?’
‘Hogmanay, of course. It’ll be brilliant. We haven’t done New Year in Edinburgh for years.’
Thoughts of New Years past fill my mind but I push them away. I’m looking forward, not back.
‘Where’s the house?’
‘Regent Terrace,’ she says, pushing the laptop over to me. I admire the photographs of the imposing house with its four stories, three windows wide. The big front door is a glossy green and the railings at the front are resplendent with decorative spikes, painted black. There’s an ironwork balcony across the first-floor windows, and along another low row of spikes at the front of the roof.
‘It looks impressive,’ I say.
‘Doesn’t it,’ she says. ‘I looked at bars and restaurants, that kind of thing, but I thought it would be too restrictive. It’ll be far more relaxed having a house party.’
The thoughts of New Years past are becoming more intrusive. I push them away, even harder this time. ‘I’ve never found house parties that relaxing,’ I say.
‘This’ll be different,’ she says, laughing at me. ‘I’m not meaning a load of cans of lager and some crisps if you’re lucky. This is going to be much classier. Canapés, bowl food, champagne. A good view of the fireworks, and only a quick stagger up the stairs to get to bed. Nothing like the debauchery of our youth.’
‘Canapés? Bowl food? Do you mean we’re going to have to cook?’
‘Don’t be daft, Sylvie. I’ll get a caterer. Look – they’ve got a list here on the website. They can sort it all out for me.’
She clicks on a tab of the website that advertises the house, opening a page with photographs of smoked salmon blinis and miniature Yorkshire puddings. There’s a list of links to various caterers. I skim through it out of force of habit, not expecting to see any names I recognise, but then Gareth’s company jumps out at me. White Rabbit Catering – because we can always pull something out of a hat, he explained to me – is at the bottom of the list. I can’t help but let out a surprised snort, though I try and suppress it.
‘What?’ Sylvie says, never one to miss the smallest of tells.
I take in a deep breath. I was going to have to tell her sometime, I guess. Might as well be now. ‘You know I said I’ve been seeing someone,’ I say.
‘Oh yeah?’ She’s back looking through her magazine now, not much interest in her voice.
‘Yeah. Bloke called Gareth Quarry. Thing is, he’s a caterer. This one,’ I say, pointing to the link on the web page.
This gets her attention. ‘You mean he’s this caterer? What are you doing going out with an Edinburgh-based chef?’
‘We got talking when I was at that law conference a few months ago. I did start telling you before.’
‘Right,’ Tess says, distracted again. She’s staring off into the middle distance as if she’s doing some kind of calculation in her mind. ‘Do you think he’d do the food? Would he be good enough?’
She still hasn’t registered what I’ve said – time was, me going out with someone would have her all ears. But she’s completely fixated on the screen in front of her, the information contained therein.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘he is good enough. The food at the conference was excellent. His cooking is fantastic.’
‘That’s great,’ Tess says. ‘Can you ask him for me? I think there’s going to be about twenty of us in total. Maybe he can send me some menus? I know he’s based up north but maybe if he’s down seeing you sometime soon we could do a tasting.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ I say. ‘I’d love you to meet him anyway. I think this one might be serious.’ She still doesn’t react, but I try not to take it too personally. I’m wryly entertained to think there’d been a point when I hadn’t wanted to mention him to Tess in case she got too overexcited about it . . . I shake that thought off, too. She may be obsessing over this stupid ceremony, but it’s better than obsessing over her health. I glance over at the laptop screen – aside from the website relating to the house in Edinburgh, there are five other tabs open. The Mayo Clinic, the NHS website, three for brain tumour charities. I need to engage myself fully in it.
‘What are you going to wear?’ I say, injecting as much brightness into my tone as possible.
She turns to me, enthusiasm radiating off her. I’ve made the right call. ‘Now that’s what I call a really silly question,’ she says.
‘Why’s it silly? Aren’t you going to get something new? Maybe something in purple like they do in that Bridget Jones film?’
‘Honestly, I do wonder sometimes if you’re not the one with the brain tumour,’ Tess says, shaking her head.
‘OK, maybe I’m being stupid. I have no idea what people wear to renew their vows, though. I’ve never been to anything like it before.’
‘I’m going to wear my wedding dress, of course. I can still get into it, you know,’ Tess says with a broad grin.
‘Of course you can,’ I say, striving for the same brightness. There’s a shadow on the horizon, but I’m doing my best to ignore it.
‘And you’re going to wear your bridesmaid dress,’ she says. The shadow’s turned into a solid object, knocking me out of any brightness into a dark gloom.
‘Seriously? But . . .’ I start. Stop. I’ve never told her how much I hated it. I smiled my way through the service, doing my best not to look down at the shiny mauve fabric that encased me like a sausage skin. That was then, though. Perhaps I’ve learnt enough about boundaries over the years to be able to tell her no.
‘That’s really not going to work,’ I say. ‘It won’t fit me any more, and besides, it never suited me that well. I’ll get something new for this – we can go shopping together. It’ll be fun.’
‘Sylvie, no,’ she says. ‘That really won’t work for how I want it to be. This is going to be like our wedding, but better. It’s really important to me that we’re all wearing the same thing. It gives it the right sense of renewal, like a reset.’
The gloom isn’t lifting. But then, a spark of hope. ‘I’m so sorry, though, Tess. I’ve no idea where it is. You know how many times I’ve had to move. I haven’t seen it for years.’
‘That’s because it’s here,’ she says triumphantly. ‘I saw it looking all sad and wilted in your wardrobe a few years ago and I thought it needed some TLC. I’ve had it cleaned – it’s all ready. Why don’t you come and have a look?’ She leaps up and marches out of the kitchen, turning round to beckon me on behind her before she skips up the stairs two at a time. I follow, leaden-footed.
If I’d realised I was going to be undressing in front of someone I’d have worn better pants. A better bra, too. Tess makes a face as I peel off my jacket and shirt. Mismatched, washed out. Saggy.
‘I thought you said you’d got a bloke,’ she says. ‘You’re going to have to make more of an effort.’
‘He’s not in London at the moment,’ I say. ‘No one’s going to see.’
‘You might get hit by a bus tomorrow,’ she says. ‘Then everyone would see.’
She’s right, but I can’t be arsed to argue. I take the dress that she hands to me without focusing on it, trying to let its appearance skim over me. Unfortunately, this tactic only serves me until I look behind myself to try and find the zip, pulling it up until it sticks halfway. I can’t pull it up any further. Wincing, I look at my reflection. I last wore the dress in my twenties, when I was still lithe and relatively taut. Whilst I’ve kept myself around the same size, gravity has taken its toll, and what was stretching it back in the early 2000s is now fit to bust, the contours of my tummy moulded in harsh relief in shiny purple fabric, the tops of my breasts thrusting obscenely against the sequinned crumb catcher.
‘I look like a Quality Street,’ I say, pulling in vain at the zip. ‘It’s not going to do up any further.’
Sylvie moves in behind me and tugs at the zip. It catches at my skin, but she ignores my yell and keeps going until it’s fully done up. It’s so tight I can hardly breathe. I’m starting to panic, I feel so constricted.
‘You look lovely,’ she says, so kindly it’s as if she almost means it.
I try to wheel round and glare at her, but my movements are restricted by the dress. Rather than an angry swoosh it turns into an uncoordinated hobble, somewhat undermining the effect. My mouth’s open to tell her to fuck off but once I see her, the words die on my tongue.
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘You look amazing.’
It’s true, she does. Her wedding dress cost a fortune at the time and it looks as good as new. Its pristine condition isn’t really the point, though. It’s how much it still suits Tess, how well it fits her. Soften my focus a little and she could pass for the bride she was then, the only significant difference being a better haircut and softer highlights. She moves over next to me and we face the mirror side by side. The comparison is not kind to me. Nor was it back in the day.
16
‘Wow, look at you both!’ Marcus says, walking straight into the spare room. I didn’t hear him coming up the stairs and I jump when I hear him, stepping backwards so fast in the dress that it makes an ominous creaking sound. I breathe in again. I don’t want to rip it – it’s bad enough as it is.
‘Get out,’ Tess shouts. ‘You’re not meant to see this.’ She’s nearly shouting, but her voice is more upset than angry.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he says, and I hear his footsteps retreat out of the room, the door shutting behind him gently, as if he’s taken extra care not to slam it. Constrained by my too-tight skirt, I hobble over to the bed and perch on the side of it.
‘You OK?’ I say to Tess. She’s standing immobile, still facing the mirror. I peer over her shoulder and see that her eyes are tight shut. Her shoulders start to quiver as if she’s about to cry. I’m about to haul myself up and hobble back to her when she spins round and comes over, sitting on the bed next to me. There’s a tear trickling down her left cheek. She raises her hand and wipes it off abruptly, smearing mascara across her eye.
‘I wanted to surprise him,’ she says. ‘I didn’t want him to know that I was going to wear this.’
‘I bet he barely noticed. He was out very fast,’ I say.
‘Still. I just want this to be perfect. Like the wedding was.’
I reach over and put my hand over hers. After a moment she turns her hand over, wrapping her fingers through mine. ‘It will be perfect, Tess. You’ve put so much work into it. How could it not be?’ Her fingers tighten until the pressure is almost unbearable, before she lets go, her hand falling back into her lap.
‘It was perfect, the wedding. Wasn’t it? Everyone had such a brilliant time.’
‘Of course it was,’ I say. ‘We all loved it.’ There are other things I could say, other comments I could make, but I hold them in. We’re looking at the same view through completely different prisms, hers coloured with rose, mine black as night. But just as I never told her how much I hated the bridesmaid’s dress she made me wear, I’ve never told her how much I hated her wedding, either.
‘I’m so lucky I get to do it all again,’ she says. ‘It’s going to be amazing.’
I stand up, careful not to rip the beastly frock. ‘Right, can you undo me, please? I’ll take this with me, go and get it taken out by a tailor. It definitely needs something done to it.’
Tess takes hold of my hand again, her nails digging into my palm. ‘It’s perfect,’ she says. ‘You mustn’t mess with it. I don’t want anything changed. Nothing at all.’
‘It’s way too tight,’ I say. ‘I’ll end up splitting it halfway through the evening.’
‘It’s all in your head,’ Tess says. ‘Honestly. You look fantastic. I know you think I’m being unreasonable, but I’m sure it’ll bring bad luck if anything is different.’
I’m about to tell her to stop talking such bollocks, when it all comes crashing back to me: her diagnosis, the tumour, her illness. The real reason we’re going through this, the shadow that’s turning it from farce into near tragedy. ‘I’ll cut out some carbs,’ I say. ‘That should do it. It’s not that far off, after all.’
‘You don’t need to cut any carbs,’ Tess says, all smiles now that I’ve surrendered. ‘It fits just as well as it did. I promise you – you always think you look terrible, but you never do. You’re gorgeous. And it’s as good as new. I even had a tear fixed on the back that I found. You must have been giving it some on the dance floor.’
