“I’m more than okay with it. I’m thrilled.” This time, she brushes his hair out of his face. “You need a haircut. Go start in on the gin. I’ll be there in a second.”
He trots back inside, and she wanders out onto the lawn. Behind her, the limestone of the house bleeds red against the late afternoon light. Bending over, she picks up a twig and begins to tear away the bark—anything, she figures, to keep her hands occupied. The ground’s still wet—she can feel her heels sinking into it when she stands still—and she worries about whether that will be a problem before she forces herself to stop. She can’t keep doing this. She can’t keep going over every possible thing that could go wrong.
Framing the perimeter of the lawn are the long strings from which half the lit votives will eventually hang. The other fifteen hundred will illuminate paper lanterns dangling from the branches of the property’s elms. No one will notice the candles are crème instead of white. And if they do, fuck them; they should be enjoying the free wine, instead of inspecting the color of her votives. So yes, fine—Eloise is being crazy. Not just detail oriented, but certifiably crazy.
Unfortunately, this has been a feeling to which she’s become more and more accustomed. Lately, there have been a few nights when she’s found herself second-guessing her decision, and they’ve shaken her. She reminds herself, though, that they’ve only occurred during the two weeks when her own mother and siblings have been here, in England. And that makes sense; that’s reassuring. Who wouldn’t be apprehensive about starting a family after seeing how Alice behaved at her hen do, or witnessing the spite with which her siblings spoke to their mother? Who in their right mind would want to get married and have children, only to have those children turn around and spit in their face? She’s quick to catch herself during these moments of panic, though, reminding herself to look at Ollie’s family and the easy respect they have for one another. And she tells herself that for her that’s not far off: only three thousand tea lights and a walk down the aisle away.
And perhaps there’s hope for her own family, too—she must keep reminding herself of this. Earlier today, as she was driving to Sherborne, she received a text from her mother saying that she and Henrique were having a wonderful time. Okay, fine—the communiqué was a bit more guarded than that (wonderful was never once used), but Eloise could read between the lines: Donna was happy to see Henrique again.
She’s also made significant headway with Paul. First, she helped to rid him of that awful boyfriend—maybe not directly, but surely her coldness toward Mark at dinner had played some sort of role in effecting the split. And thank God she had the good sense to do that, she nearly says aloud. The prospect of having to attend family gatherings with that farce of a man was enough to send her screaming for the hills. She thinks back to a few days ago when Paul had called her to ask, sheepishly, if he could stay at her flat. Incrementally, her brother has been warming to her—or at least she senses that he has—which, she hopes, bodes well for the next few days. Last night, when she was drunk, she asked him if he’d give a few remarks at the wedding reception. At first, he’d looked at her incredulously.
“You mean, like, a speech?” he’d said.
“Yes. A speech.”
When she awoke this morning, though, she was terrified that she’d made a horrible mistake—that somehow he’d find a way to humiliate her, or their mother, or both of them. But now, remembering how she had let Paul cry in her lap after watching Mark pull away in a cab, she allows herself to be cautiously optimistic. Debts need to be repaid, and he owes her this. He owes her a goddamned speech.
From the house, Ollie calls to her. The ice in her gin and tonic is melting.
Ollie
July 10
He pulls aside the curtain and looks down onto the lawn, where the rehearsal dinner is already in full swing. Guests—most of whom he knows, some of whom he doesn’t—gather around high-topped tables as black-tied cater waiters bob between them. The sinking sun turns the gray bricks of Horwood Hall lavender, and the branches of the trees that line the lawn stretch their arms into endless shadows. He often forgets how much he loves coming home; when he’s living his life in London it’s so easy to write off Dorset as a bumbling backwoods, a place that’s fine to visit, but that he’d just as soon relegate to the confines of his past. Standing here now, though, it’s impossible to imagine ever doing such a thing—instead, he finds himself nostalgic for the southwest’s idyllic pace. Let the rest of them have London, he thinks, pulling the curtains wider apart. The traffic clogging up anemic alleyways that lead to nowhere; the persistent and suffocating smog. Sidewalks filled up with people who never look anywhere but past you, their eyes cutting through you like you’re nothing but smoke and mist. Buildings built on other buildings, towers of steel and glass that reduce history to foundation in the crudest sense of the word. The relentless and insatiable appetite of a city whose ambitions are too large, too ravenous, for the quaint island that houses it. Yes: fine. Let them have it. Ollie, though? He’ll take Dorset; he’ll take the southwest, yokel-stocked backwoods and all.
On the far end of the green, beneath the leaves of a knotty old wych elm, he spots Donna, his future mother-in-law, huddled over her purse. Above her a thousand tea lights cause the elm’s leaves to shimmer in a gorgeous cascade, but Donna’s not paying them any mind—she’s too busy with whatever’s occupying her hands. Probably rolling a joint, Ollie thinks, smiling.
Two nights ago he pointed out to Eloise that her mother had become a certified pothead, and she’d been terribly offended.
“Knock it off, Ollie,” she’d said. They’d just arrived at Horwood Hall and were unpacking their bags in Ollie’s childhood room, where he’s presently standing, spying on the proceedings unfolding below him. “That’s an awful thing to say.”
“Why?” He’d laughed. “I think it’s brilliant that she managed to smuggle a few emergency joints through customs. Besides, didn’t you smell her when we had lunch at the Shard? I thought I was liable to get a contact high just by giving her a hug.”
“I asked you to please stop,” Eloise said, hanging up a dress. And so, he did. He set down the shoes he’d just retrieved from his suitcase and walked over to hug her from behind, holding her until he felt her muscles start to soften.