I glance up at the sky through the back window of the limousine. It looks cloudy, but no sign of rain yet. It’s forecast for later today though, and everyone outside looks cold. The women are holding on to their hats in the stiff breeze. In top hats and with tails flapping, Dominic’s ushers peer down the path to check I’ve arrived safely, then one nips back inside the church. To tell the organist I’ve arrived, presumably, and give Dominic’s best man the nod.
We went through it all at the wedding rehearsal. Twice. It should go like clockwork, the vicar said, assuming no last-minute problems.
So far, so good.
I’m nervous, all the same. Not sick-nervous, thankfully. But my knees are a little shaky, and the distance between the limousine and the church door suddenly looks like a long way.
Dad studies my face. ‘You okay, darling?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Sure?’
‘It’s my wedding day, Dad. Of course I’m fine.’ I manage a tremulous smile. ‘Better than fine, in fact.’
My lips are numb though, and it feels as if all the colour has drained from my face. Probably last night’s excesses still having an effect, even after several large glasses of water and some pick-me-up Alka-Seltzer. Or the chilly weather. This new wedding dress, while not as elegant or clinging as the mermaid style, is almost as flimsy. And mid-December is not exactly the right weather for short puff sleeves and a low-cut bodice.
‘I can ask the driver to take us back home, if you’ve changed your mind,’ he tells me, his voice low and earnest. ‘It’s not too late. We wouldn’t be cross.’
I stare at him. ‘Changed my mind?’
‘You look so pale . . .’
‘I told you, there’s nothing wrong.’ The chauffeur has come round and opened the door next to me. I gather my flouncy white skirt in one hand, my bridal bouquet in the other. The delicate white roses smell amazing. Wind tears at my hair arrangement and I fear for my silk rosebud tiara, carefully pinned in place by the hairdresser less than an hour ago. ‘Come on, let’s get inside before we get blown away.’
I climb out and the smartly liveried chauffeur gives me a helping hand, his smile admiring.
‘Lovely dress,’ he says.
‘Thank you.’
My father appears from the other side of the car, still looking uncertain, and takes my arm, guiding me towards the entrance porch. The wind drags on my skirt, but I just laugh. My nerves are still there, my legs trembling, but I’m excited now, too. ‘You look gorgeous, love!’ somebody shouts from the street, and I turn but can’t see who it is.
One of the ushers is talking to my father, but in such a low voice I can’t hear what’s being said.
‘Problem?’ I ask nervously.
My dad squeezes my hand. ‘They’re ready,’ he says in my ear, ‘if you are.’
‘I’m ready.’
My bridesmaids come running up, giggling. Louise looks skinny and smashing as always, her face rosy with cold. She hugs me briefly, then whirls aside, and there’s my cousin Jasmine, grinning too.
‘You make a fantastic bride,’ Jasmine tells me. She sniffs my bridal bouquet enthusiastically. ‘Oh, those roses and freesias smell amazing. Super combination.’ She does a quick twirl. ‘See, not a spot of dirt.’
I was worrying before she and Louise left the house earlier, after the visiting hairdresser had finished with us, that Jasmine would get her bridesmaid dress dirty. She’s got the most spectacular looks, dark-skinned and stunning, with a fabulous afro crown teased to perfection; her father is originally from Jamaica, her mother one of my mum’s cousins. But, by her own admission, she’s a bit of a tomboy. She nearly tore the hem of her dress running downstairs too quickly this morning, and I was fretting by the time she left in case she shut the dress in the door of the limousine, or caught it on one of the vast holly bushes near the church door.
‘I’m impressed,’ I tell her.
‘So what’s up? You look a bit peaky.’
‘Just nervous.’
Jasmine mock-punches my arm. ‘You’ll do brilliant, babe.’
I smooth out the skirt of my new wedding dress, wishing I still had my other one. It shimmered, and clung in all the right places, and made me look thinner than this one does with its big white lace flounces. But I push that thought aside. I’m not going to let the memory of what happened to that dress darken my wedding day.
‘Is he here?’ I ask in a whisper.
Louise, adjusting her bridesmaid’s tiara, looks round at me, perplexed. ‘Who?’
‘Dominic, of course.’
‘You bet. In fact, he insisted on getting here a full hour early, Richard said.’ Jasmine laughs, throwing her head back. ‘They couldn’t believe it when I said we were out on the razz last night. They had pizza and watched an action film on the telly, then got an early night. Apparently Dominic was terrified of oversleeping.’
I smile.
Dominic’s best man, Richard, is one of his work mates from the hospital. He’s a big guy with a bushy brown beard and hardly any hair, despite only being in his late twenties. I can just imagine him and Dominic sprawled on the sofa at our flat in front of a film, discarded pizza boxes everywhere, reminiscing about good times as single blokes.
‘Time to go,’ Jasmine says.
The wind whips Louise’s hair into my face and I blink, suddenly nervous again. Of course I’m fine. That’s what I told my father in the car. But is it true? Am I ready to marry Dominic? Marriage is such a huge step.
I peer inside while everyone is fussing around me. The parish church interior is vast and surprisingly ornate. It’s a Church of England service, but quite High Church. There are painted ceilings, and fluted pillars on both sides of the carved wooden pews, and the glow of candlelight is everywhere, augmenting the dull December daylight that comes streaming through the stained-glass windows. The pews to the back are empty, but further forward several rows are full. Mostly Dominic’s friends and work colleagues, by the look of it, though I recognise his aunt and uncle from photos. Since both his parents are dead, and he’s an only child, he was only able to invite a few members of his family to the wedding, which breaks my heart. Though my own family is hardly well-represented either, and he more than makes up for it with his friends, who are numerous and noisy.
Georgia and some of the others from my book club have come along too, even though I haven’t been recently. And I spot Petra and Sharon seated together near the front, heads bent, presumably reading the order of service pamphlets that are on all the pews. Unless they’re on their phones. Online shopping while they wait for the bride . . .
The organist has been playing an upbeat tune to keep everyone happy while they wait. We heard it from outside while the bridesmaids were getting into position behind me. But as I step through the porch door on Dad’s arm, there’s a short, pregnant pause, then the organ strikes up with the familiar opening bars of Wagner’s Bridal Chorus . . .
I see my mother, in the front pew, turning to look at us. Her face lights up under the cream brim of her hat.
Tears come to my eyes, and I stumble over the worn stone step.
‘Careful, darling.’ Dad clutches my arm. Then he asks again, hanging back slightly, watching me, ‘Are you sure you’re okay, Catherine? Do you need a minute?’
‘I’m fine,’ I repeat fiercely.
He gives a nod and we start the long walk to the altar. I only hope it’s true and I’m not kidding myself. Because if I trip up out of sheer nerves, and fall on my face going down the aisle . . .
Then I see Dominic, waiting for me in front of the altar. Everything comes rushing back into focus, like a zoom lens suddenly tightening on one vital spot. To my relief, the numbness vanishes and I can feel again. All my love for him, all our adventures together since we met, all the excitement and passion of our lovemaking, even the tender way he kissed me goodbye before I left for my parents’ house a few days ago.
I find myself breathing fast, my heart thumping wildly as if I’ve been running.
‘I love him,’ I gasp.
Dad jerks his head towards me. ‘What’s that?’
I shake my head silently.
‘I’m here for you, Catherine,’ he says. ‘Just lean on me.’
But I don’t lean on him. I stand straight and walk firmly, arm in arm with my father, towards the man in the grey-striped morning suit who has turned now to look at me.