Martha lifted and gulped her own wine, managing to drink half a glassful at once. She waited for everyone to start eating again before she turned back to Zelda. “What plan?” she repeated.
But Zelda gave her head a shake. She held a finger to her lips. “Not now, Martha. You heard what Gina said. Enjoy the moment.”
When the tiramisu and other desserts were passed around, Martha shook her head politely. She fended them all off with, “Not for me,” and “I’ve eaten far too much already,” and “Yes, it does look delicious, but so many calories!”
She smiled and watched as everyone else plunged their spoons and forks into cream, sponge and cheesecake. She drank another glass of wine. It made her armpits feel hot and she plucked at the long sleeves of her sweater.
Sensing movement in the chair beside her, she turned to find that Harry had taken the place of the lady with the mole.
“I notice that ye haven’t had any cake and thought ye’d like a slice of my fruit loaf,” he said in a soft Scottish accent. “I soak the fruit in whisky, and only use the best ingredients. It’s a recipe that’s been handed down over generations in my family. Can I tempt ye with a slice?”
His eyes were a soft gray color, and his moving mustache was mesmeric. To refuse him would be like kicking a puppy, but Martha couldn’t eat any of his cake. Her father’s words would make it stick in her throat.
“It’s lighter than yer usual fruitcake,” Harry continued, eyeing it with pride. “But it has all the taste. Would ye like to give it a try?”
Martha liked how he didn’t cut into it and force a slice onto her plate. He waited while she considered his offer. About to refuse, she caught a whiff of its aroma, rich and with a warm, spicy smell. Her mouth started to water and she could almost taste it on the tip of her tongue.
“You’re getting a little chubby,” her dad said in her head.
“Oh, shut up,” she mumbled to him. “Leave me alone.”
Harry’s mustache dropped a little. “Sorry?”
“Oh.” She blushed. “I wasn’t talking to you. Just someone, um, never mind...”
Perhaps a small bite would be good, to sweeten her mouth after the meal, and to help soak up the wine. She closed her eyes and thought of the sweetness of the funfair candy floss on her tongue, before she threw it away. She ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth, imagining the sugary fibers dissolving.
Giving the smallest nod of her head, she wasn’t sure if she was agreeing to a slice or not.
Harry beamed as he took up a knife and delicately cut a piece. He slipped it onto her plate. “I hope ye enjoy it. Ye can tell me later. And you and Zelda let me know about the football ground when ye’re ready. I’ll see what I can do.”
Martha waited until Harry moved on to serving the next person before she picked up her cake fork. She dug it in, slicing off the smallest corner. Before her dad could speak again, she stabbed it and raised it to her lips. She pressed the cake against them for a moment, inhaling the aroma of juicy cherries and sultanas. After popping it into her mouth, she closed her eyes and chewed.
Her dad’s voice tried to come through, but it sounded quieter, just a murmur.
So she took another forkful, then another. And with each chew his words vanished.
When she looked down at the few remaining crumbs on her plate, it was such strange sight that she laughed. Catching Owen’s eye, he glanced across at her plate and his eyes appeared a little hurt. He stood up and made his way back over to her. “You told me that you don’t eat cake,” he said. “That’s right, isn’t it?”
“I usually don’t—”
“It’s a special cake,” Harry cut in from the other side of the table. “It’s made with love.”
And Martha thought she saw the two men give each other a slight glare.
By the end of the evening, Martha was full of potatoes, fruitcake and too many glasses of wine. Her stomach pressed against the waistband of her pencil skirt and when she stood up, the room started to rotate. She tried to focus on the photographs on the mantelpiece and the bowls on the table, but she felt like she was on the fairground carousel again.
“Whoops,” she said to herself, unable to remember when she had last drunk this much alcohol. Probably when Joe told her he was marrying someone else.
She wasn’t sure if the hazy feeling was divine or too peculiar to enjoy. Moving away from her chair, she walked towards Owen. On the way, she glanced at a photograph on the wall of Zelda. She looked to be in her sixties and stood in front of a powder-blue clapboard house. Gina stood alongside her and she held up a basket of freshly cut flowers. They both looked happy and serene. Zelda didn’t wear the exasperated expression on her face that she wore around Thomas.
She was happier away from us. Away from me, Martha thought.
She felt her ankle buckle a little and Owen reached out and took hold of her elbow. His fingers felt strong and safe. “Careful.” He laughed.
“I’m absolutely fine,” Martha said stiffly. She tore her eyes away from the photo. “These shoes are just causing a hindrance to my mobility.”
“You can kick them off in the car. We should get going in a few minutes... I have an early meeting tomorrow.”
“Spoilsport,” she said, then thought how it was a word she didn’t usually use.
“Why don’t you go and freshen up, then we’ll head off.”
Martha concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as she searched for the bathroom. She opened a couple of doors, a storage cupboard and a small sitting room, before deciding that she really needed to sit down. Behind a third door, she found a small bedroom with a single bed. It was covered with a pretty patchwork quilt and the pillow looked fluffy and inviting. It reminded her of her childhood bedroom and suddenly she wanted to be young again, to shut herself away from the adult world. Surely Owen wouldn’t mind if she had a little rest.
The mattress squeaked beneath her, and one of her shoes fell off as she curled up her legs. Slowly, she felt herself tipping over to the side until her cheek pressed against the cloud-like pillow. Closing her eyes, she smiled to herself and everything seemed to fade into the distance.
Maybe she had time for just a small nap.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been there when she saw silhouettes standing in the doorway. She heard whispering and could detect who the voices belonged to.
Owen. “Maybe it’s better to leave her here tonight.”
Gina. “You do not want her to be ill in your car.”
Zelda. “Let her nap. We could drop her home tomorrow.”
Harry. “Oh. Is she asleep? I have another slice of fruitcake waiting.”
Martha decided to wave an arm, to show how absolutely fine she was. Her eyes followed her fingers as they swept through the air. She stopped to gaze at the full moon, which shone through the window. Blinking at its beauty, she thought that she’d like to wrap her arms around it and give it a hug. She tried to sit up, but her cheek felt like it was glued to the pillow.
“Look at the moon, at how big it looks, everyone,” she said, thinking that her voice sounded a little slurred. It couldn’t be the wine because she’d only drunk three, um, four, perhaps five, glasses full. “It looks like a button that’s fallen off a giant’s waistcoat, or a white chocolate drop...”
A shape moved across the room and she felt a hand slip into hers. “It’s a silver sequin on black velvet,” Zelda said. “It’s a round of Edam cheese, cut in half. If you look closely, you can see mice lining up to take a nibble.”
Martha felt tears welling in her eyes and she wasn’t sure if they were happy, sad or wine-induced. “It’s a giant eye looking down on us, or the head of a flashlight,” she said. “It’s a silvery porthole in the sky...”
Words danced in her head, appearing as if from nowhere, and they were nothing to do with her tasks. They were all to do with what she saw and felt. And she liked it. In fact, she liked it a lot. Squeezing Zelda’s hand, she asked woozily, “Does anyone have a pen? I’d like to write some of this down.”
22
Marriage Certificate