“Sorry! No. No, he’s not. He’s not being an arsehole.” I glance at her worried face, her crinkled forehead.
There’s no point in this conversation, I realize suddenly. Caro doesn’t know what I should do. She has no idea. She doesn’t even know that much about me. Not really. I mean, we’re friends but we don’t really know each other. I’m not going to find any answers here. I need to talk to Mark. I’m just making a mess here, with this conversation. We should be talking about flowers and cake and hen weekends. I snap myself out of it.
“You know what, I think I’m just hungry! No breakfast,” I confess. “Nothing’s wrong, really, I think I’m just getting jittery about the wedding. And low blood sugar. What I need, what I really need, is a Caesar roll and some of those straw chips. And wine.”
Caro’s smile returns instantly. I’m back. Everything is fine, all stress forgotten. Confession erased. Slate wiped clean. I’ve turned a corner and she’s completely on board. We move on. Thank you, Caro. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why she is my maid of honor.
* * *
—
It’s late afternoon when I finally leave Caro, joining the rush-hour commuters, tipsy and slow, as they pour underground.
On the tube home I think about what I’ll say to him. We need to talk properly. About everything, actually.
Or maybe we just need to fuck. That always seems to reset us. It’s been four days now since we slept together, which for us is long. We’re usually a, at least, once-a-day couple. I know, I know. Don’t get me wrong; I know that’s not a usual amount. I know that after the first year has passed, that is ridiculously sick-making. I know because before I met Mark sex was more of a once-a-month ticketed-event type of thing. Overhyped and ultimately disappointing. Trust me, I’ve been in my fair share of shitty relationships. But we—Mark and I—have never been like that. I want him. I want him all the time. His smell, his face, the back of his neck, his hands on me. Between my legs.
God, I miss him. I feel my pulse racing. The woman in the seat opposite me looks up from her crossword. She frowns. Perhaps she can hear my thoughts.
Underneath my dress I can feel the soft brush of peach silk on skin. Matching underwear. I always wear matching, since I started dating Mark. He loves silk. I cross my legs slowly, feeling skin against skin.
The first wedding-related thing we did, after getting engaged, was to look at venues. We dived straight in. We went to a lot of places: quirky, austere, opulent, futuristic, earthy. You name it, we’ve had a walk-around tour of it. But it was clear once we stepped into the bookish wood-paneled reception rooms at the Café Royal that that was what we wanted. Whatever that was.
Today they’re laying on three options of every course for us to taste privately in the reception rooms, along with wine pairings and champagne choices. We’ve been looking forward to this for a long time, but now that it’s here it seems a tiny bit like a formality. It also seems odd celebrating when Mark is going through all this. But we can’t put life on hold.
In the underground on the way there, Mark reads news on his phone. I try to do the same. At Covent Garden he turns to me.
“Erin, listen. I know you’re excited about this but can we just decide now that we’ll go for the cheapest options on food and drink? Like, sure, we’ll try it all and it’ll be an amazing day, but moneywise, at the end of it let’s just go for the cheapest, okay? I mean, it’s a five-star restaurant already, so everything’s going to be good, so, yeah? Can we agree on that? Is that all right?”
I see what he’s saying. He’s right, of course. It’s dinner for eighty people, we do need to be sensible about it. And to be honest, their house wine is fucking amazing. We won’t need anything more than that.
“Yes, okay. Agreed. Can we do it properly, though? Can we make all the right noises until the end? I want to try it all, all the stuff. I mean, why not, right? We’re only going to do it once. We’ll just try it and then we’ll say at the end. Okay?”
He relaxes. “Okay! Great. Thank you.”
I squeeze his hand. He squeezes back. Something shifts almost imperceptibly behind his eyes.
“Erin. Thanks for being, you know…I’ve got a lot on my plate right now and I know maybe I’m not expressing it in the best way.” His eyes drift around the nearby passengers. They’re all absorbed in phones and paperbacks. He leans in to me, quieter now. “I tend to clam up when I’m stressed. And, you know, I don’t usually get stressed, so it’s hard finding my way through this. So thanks.”
I squeeze his hand harder and let my head fall onto his shoulder.
“I love you. It’s okay,” I whisper.
He shifts slightly, straightening up in the tube seat. He’s not finished. There’s more. I lift my head.
“Erin. I did something last week—” He falls silent.
He studies my face. My stomach flips. Sentences like that always chill me to the core. Words of preparation for something. Worse news to come.
“What did you do?” I ask it gently because I don’t want to scare him off. I don’t want him to shut down.
“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this before. I just, I thought it wasn’t the right time and then the right time didn’t come and then it became a thing and now here we are.” He stops. His eyes remorseful.
“I canceled our honeymoon.”
“You what?!”
“Not all of it. I just, I’ve canceled a week of it. Bora Bora is only two weeks now.” He studies my face. He waits to see what will happen next.
He canceled our honeymoon. No, he didn’t cancel it; he just rearranged some of it, that’s all. But without asking me? Without saying anything? Without checking with his future wife? Secretly? And now, now that I’ve agreed to pay less for the food today, he’s decided that it’s okay to tell me. Right. Okay.
My mind races as I try to process it. To find out what this means. But nothing comes. Is it important? Maybe it’s not. I can’t really make myself care. I can’t make myself care about a vacation. It doesn’t feel like a thing. Dare I say it: I don’t mind. Should I mind? But then maybe the point is, he lied. Yes. Or did he? He didn’t really lie, did he? He just did something without telling me. And, come on, at least he’s telling me now. But then, he had to tell me at some point, right? Didn’t he? What was the alternative? Not tell me until we were on the plane? No, of course he would have told me. It’s fine. I’ve just been busy. I’ve been too busy with work. Besides, two weeks on a tropical island is fine. More than fine, bloody fantastic. That’s more than some people get in a lifetime. And I don’t need any of it anyway. I just want him. I just want to marry him. Don’t I?
We’ll work it out later. But right now I won’t scare him away. Won’t make it worse. He’s made a mistake and he’s sorry, so that’s it.
I raise his hand, still interlaced in mine, and kiss his knuckles.
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. We’ll have a chat about money later. Let’s just have a lovely day. Okay?”
He smiles, eyes still sad.
“Done. Let’s have a lovely day.”
And it is a lovely day.
* * *
—
In the twinkly mirror-and-oak-paneled ballroom, we sit at a white-clothed table floating adrift on a sea of buffed parquet flooring. A cheerful waiter brings us intricate plates artfully arranged with seasonal fare. Once all the starter options are placed on the table, the ma?tre d’ explains each one and hands us a discreet card listing the dishes and prices. And disappears back through the oak paneling, leaving us to it. We peruse the card.
STARTERS:
Lobster with watercress, apple, crème fra?che vinaigrette,
￡32 per person.
———
Rock Oysters with shallot vinegar, lemon, brown bread & butter, ￡19 per person.
———
Asparagus with quail egg, beetroot & celeriac rémoulade,