“He knows you. He’ll know there are reasons you need to ask him. And if he asks, we’ll deal with it together. Okay?” He pulls back and meets my gaze.
I nod reluctantly. “Okay,” I whisper.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
I smile. “Implicitly,” I say.
He grins. “Well, okay then! Let’s dinner-party the hell out of this.”
And with that the doorbell rings.
At knee level, a friendly Irish woman is hemming the folds at the base of my wedding dress. Her name is Mary. I stand there in the delicate Edwardian crepe de chine, observing the whole scene, detached and unsure of how to feel. Caro is looking on, my wedding attaché. She helped me find the dress. She knows a few costume designers who work in film. Costume designers tend to have a lot of vintage stock; they buy it up at auction, copy it for productions, and then sell it online. All in mint condition. This gown is one of those. It’s perfect.
We’ve come to a tailor’s basement in Savile Row for a few tiny alterations. The dress doesn’t need much; it fits like a glove.
It’s the tailor Caro’s father used to use when he was alive. I’m not sure how he died, probably a heart attack, he was old. He’d had Caro late in life; I think she only caught his sixties and seventies. I don’t know that much about him really—only tidbits slipped into conversations, never enough to grab hold of. There’s a check framed and hanging in her house, in the downstairs loo, for a million pounds, payable to him. The house itself, left solely to her, is five floors in Hampstead with a garden the size of Russell Square out the back. He was a proper millionaire, an old-school millionaire; at least that’s what I glean. There’s a Warhol in the living room, propped casually against a wall.
So anyway, when Caro gives me advice I tend to take it, if I can afford it. They’re doing my alterations for free. I’m not sure why, but free I can afford.
“Right, all done, sweetheart.” Mary rubs the lint from her knees as she rises.
* * *
—
Back out on the street Caro turns to me.
“Late lunch?”
I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since last night. In an unusually irrational move, I decided to skip breakfast this morning, not wanting to distort the dress-fitting measurements. I know, I know; I’m going to eat on the actual wedding day. In fact, I’m very much looking forward to it—the caterers we’ve chosen look amazing. Booked, deposit paid. The menu tasting is next week. Amazing. God, I’m starving.
“Lunch would be ideal.” I check my watch; it’s 3 P.M. Later than I thought, but I really need to talk to her. Mark’s barefoot pacing is stuck on repeat in my brain. I need to talk about Mark’s job. I don’t want to but I have to. I have to talk to someone. Even though it feels like a betrayal talking about our relationship to other people. It’s usually the other way around, Mark and I discussing them. We don’t talk about each other to outsiders. We’re our own unit. Impenetrable. Secure. There’s us and then there’s the rest of the world. Until now. Until this.
It’s not Mark, though; he’s not the problem. I just don’t know what to do. How to fix what’s happening. Caro must read it on my face.
“Come on. We’re going to George,” she declares.
Yes, George. George will be quiet at this time of day. It’s a gorgeous members-only restaurant with a canopied deck set back from the street in deepest Mayfair. Her gallery gets Caro in everywhere. She takes my arm and guides me further into Mayfair.
* * *
—
“What’s up?” she demands once the waiter deposits two dewy glasses of ice water and disappears.
I eye her as I gulp my water down, the lemon tapping insistently against my top lip.
She smirks. “There’s no use telling me nothing’s up; you’re an awful liar, Erin. And you’re obviously desperate to tell me. So talk.” She lifts her glass to her lips and sips expectantly.
I’ve run out of water. My ice rattles. “If we have this discussion, you have to forget it afterwards. Promise me.” I put the empty glass down gingerly.
“Bloody hell, babes. Yeah, fine, promised.” She leans back into her chair, eyebrows raised.
“It’s Mark. He’s been fired.” My voice is slightly quieter than before; I’m aware of the businessmen three tables away. You never know.
“Huh? Laid off?” She leans forward, lowering her tone to match mine. What a pair we are. Bloody hell.
“No, not laid off. They’re paying his garden leave but there’s no financial package. No lump sum. They made him resign in exchange for references. If he said no, they’d have just fired him anyway, no references. Apparently that’s what they wanted to do until his boss talked everyone around to the voluntary resignation.”
“What!? What the actual! That’s just—that’s ridiculous! Bloody hell, is he all right?” Caro’s shifted up an octave. A businessman swivels in his chair to look over at us. I hush her.
“It’s fine. I mean…he’s not fine, but it is fine. It’s tricky because I really want to be there for him but at the same time I don’t want to…you know, emasculate him by actually helping him, you see? It’s delicate. I have to sort of fluff him up without him noticing. And don’t get me wrong, it’s not because he needs bolstering or anything. It’s because I love him, you know, Caro. I want him to be happy. But he won’t let me make him happy. It’s like he thinks the worrying focuses him or something, like it’s going to help fix it all. I’ve never seen him act like this, you know? He’s always got a plan, but this one’s falling apart. This whole EU situation, fucking Brexit, the bottom falling out of the pound, sterling at an all-time low, the government, the new prime minister, the new foreign secretary, for God’s sake. Donald Trump! Everything is fucked. It’s the worst possible timing for this total shitstorm.”
“Humph.” Caro shakes her head in solidarity.
I charge on. “And I know as well as he does, it’s ruining his chances of getting something else. And not only that, but even if someone is looking, it’s going to be hard to sell the idea to a future employer that he resigned from his job before getting another position. He says they’re going to wonder why on earth he did that. It just looks weird, apparently. Well, that’s what he’s saying. But I say: Just tell people you didn’t like it there. Or say you wanted a break from work before the run-up to the wedding. I mean, it’s not a crime to take some time off. But then, I do see what he means. It looks weak. To them, I mean. Like he can’t handle the pressure and had to ‘take a break.’ Like he had some kind of breakdown or something. Argh! God, it’s so annoying. Seriously, Caro, it’s driving me nuts. I can’t fix it. Everything I suggest gets batted down. I don’t know what to do. So I just sit there, listening and nodding.”
I stop talking. She shifts in her seat. Looks out at the street and nods sagely before answering.
“I don’t know what to say, hon. It’s fucking frustrating. It’d drive me mad. Mark’s a smart guy, though, isn’t he? I mean—come on, he could do anything, right? Why doesn’t he just get another job? He could work in any industry, really, with his experience. Why doesn’t he just look for something else?”
The answer to that is simple. It’s the same answer I’d give if Caro asked me to change my career. I don’t want to do something else. And Mark doesn’t want to do something else either.
“He could, definitely. But, you know, hopefully it won’t have to come to that. We’re still waiting to hear back about a couple of things. It’s just that the wedding’s coming up and it feels like he’s checked out of it a little bit.”
“Of what? The wedding planning? Or the actual relationship?”
“The…the planning? I don’t know. I don’t know, Caro. No, not the relationship. No.” I feel bad now.
“Is he being an arsehole?” Her tone is now uncharacteristic in its extreme earnestness. I can’t help but laugh out loud.
Caro looks instantly concerned; I guess I’m not acting very characteristic myself right now. I must look nuts.