I slipped my hand out of Frank’s and moved up the last few stairs to join Matthew in the circular room.
It was his daughter’s bedroom: girly in the extreme, frilly and pink. The sickly smell of rose and vanilla pervaded the air – from cheap candles on the windowsills, I thought. Carefully, I avoided looking at the display of family photos on the ledge. I looked out of the other window, towards the town.
‘Blimey.’ Frank opened a casement and leaned out. ‘It’s like Sleeping Beauty’s castle or something. You wouldn’t want to get an attack of vertigo up here.’
‘Careful,’ I couldn’t help myself saying.
‘It’s quite something, isn’t it?’ Matthew clapped his hand onto Frank’s shoulder, leaning out too to survey the view with a trace of pride. I was glad Frankie had shown his approval, and I was sure it would be all right between them; this might even be the beginning of a bond. ‘Makes all the long hours at the office worth it.’
The creepers creep-creep-creeped around the windows – the red roses didn’t make it this high – and peering through the window behind them, down at the street, where a small figure was running towards the fields, onto the Chiltern Hills, I thought Matthew and Frank were quite right. It was magnificent: the views were immense.
I looked at my son and my lover standing together, gazing out, and then Matthew turned and smiled at me – a smile full of what I could only read as love, and I felt my skin tingle.
Or was it tingling because of the figure I’d seen scurrying away down the road?
I turned to Matthew.
My husband-to-be.
This time on Saturday, I would be Mrs King.
My home.
If you’d told me six months ago I’d end up here, the day before I met Matthew at Jill’s terrible office party, I’d have said you were a fantasist. I’d have said the same the week after. Two weeks after.
But here I was.
In the distance a motorbike revved, and then it sped away.
Three
Marlena
I meant to make the wedding. I did, really.
Oh come on! I bet you’ve had to miss an important occasion for work; we all have, haven’t we?
What?
All right, it wasn’t entirely work. I mean, it was, but it was kind of more like a hunch, and I was hoping it would lead to bigger, better things, as I inched my way out of the wilderness I’d found myself in four years ago. I had a lot of ground to make up, a lot of apologising to do, a lot of proving myself journalistically, all over again.
The wedding photos looked lovely, really. She looked gorgeous, so gorgeous, my Jeanie, and I could see why exactly, despite all his money and his posh house and flash car, Matthew would’ve fallen for her.
The most pure of heart, my dear Jeanie. Wouldn’t hurt anyone; really, truly, wouldn’t refuse anyone. Would always manage to be kind, even when times were hard.
As she learnt to her huge cost.
But she’s paid for that shit, hasn’t she? More than once.
This was her once upon a time all over again. This was the happy ending she’d been longing for since Simon’s worst betrayal had lacerated her. Since the days of Uncle Rog and his pissed-up paedo mates at the Star & Garter off Peckham High Street. Since the subsequent inflicted damage. Jesus.
Let’s leave that for another time, yeah? It sours everything.
Happy endings? In my book, they’re what you get down the massage parlour on the Old Kent Road. They are not real life.
* * *
I stared at the wedding picture my big sister had just emailed me.
Jeanie in her white velvet dress and big fur hood, eyes shiny and huge with hope; Matthew very debonair in an undoubtedly expensive dark suit, looking down at her with – I couldn’t dispute it – something definitely akin to love. Not that I’m an expert though.
Still, there was something about the picture I didn’t like: something I couldn’t quite put my finger on immediately.
Something about the look on his daughter’s face, perhaps – a teenager whose name escaped me, whom I hadn’t met yet. Slinky, skinny little thing: too much black eyeliner, wearing a long, tight purple dress and wedge-heeled boots.
Pudding brother, not nearly so handsome as his twin, but at least his smile was benign.
And lanky Frank, freckled and mop haired, in his borrowed suit and old black Converse, grinning lopsidedly. Probably dying for a roll-up if I knew anything about the boy.
I looked at the twins, these kids that Jeanie had met only a few months ago, who were taking a while to warm up, apparently, despite all her best efforts. Well the girl was, by all accounts. The boy was quite chilled, at least. But they weren’t ready for a stepmum, it seemed.
Jeanie had even bought a book, bless her, when we met in London in September for a lunch soon interrupted by a call from my new editor. (I dare not leave work calls unanswered these days.)