Then I opened yesterday’s post that I’d stuck in my bag earlier.
At first I thought the hard-backed envelope was a late Christmas card, and I studied my name written in swirly black writing across the front, wondering which friend had tracked me down so soon.
But of course I was wrong.
After I saw what was inside the envelope, I couldn’t move for a bit. The hairdresser’s that had seemed so noisy a moment ago suddenly seemed very quiet, and everyone in my peripheral vision seemed to be moving in slow motion.
I sat staring at the picture. It wasn’t a good picture of me anyway, and it had been doctored with black biro: the artist had had to go over his ‘work’ a few times, by the looks of things, to make the noose really stand out.
The noose around my neck.
When I’d calmed myself a little and put the horrible picture away, I realised what I had to do.
Something I should have done weeks ago. Something I should have done before the wedding.
* * *
Now, on the driveway, all I want is to get inside and make sure the scary caterer’s doing all right on her own before I take Matthew aside.
I need to talk to him quietly and tell him the truth. Before all his smart friends – I imagine they’re smart anyway – before they all turn up and see me for the fraud I am.
Before it all implodes.
But before I reach the front door, the elderly lady, who I recognise now as Miss Turnbull from next door, bears down on me like a Rottweiler on a squirrel in the park.
‘Hello there.’ My jolly smile’s meant to say: please let me go; I’m sorry, but I’m pushed right now. ‘Just dashing inside to see—’
‘I think these are yours.’ The stolid lady is already halfway up the path. She extends a woolly-gloved hand; she’s holding something.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘The postman must have gotten the house numbers confused.’
Or maybe it’s because Miss Turnbull lives in a bungalow called ‘Heaven’s Gate’, and the postman doesn’t recognise that celestial address as being located in suburban Hertfordshire.
She waves a wodge of envelopes held by an elastic band. My redirected mail. I see the handwriting on the top one.
I don’t want the letters, but I don’t want her to have them either. I stick my hand out as best I can, given I’m holding a box of glasses under one arm and trailing a man’s suit from the other.
Reluctantly Miss Turnbull relinquishes her cargo.
‘Thanks,’ I say as I move off. I refuse to look at them this time. Later. Later will do.
She’s still hovering. I realise she’s waiting, her whiskered chin quivering with some sort of emotion I can’t quite make out.
‘It’s odd, you know.’
‘What is?’ I am bright, fumbling for the key.
‘I thought I recognised your name…’
‘Oh it’s a common-enough name,’ I say, trying for breezy. ‘Well thanks so much. I’d better get inside before I drop this lot.’
It’s not enough apparently.
‘Where exactly did you say you moved from?’ the old woman asks.
Nowhere. I moved from nowhere, I want to shout.
But she knows already, if she’s looked at the forwarded mail. And I’d bet my last pound she has.
‘Sussex,’ I mumble.
Please go away now, I think fervently. God, I wish I was more like Marlena. I’d just turn my back, forthright and assertive with my boundaries.
But I am not like my sister. I am the least assertive person I know – except with my students. The only place I ever came into my own was in front of my class.
Back then.
Pushing the thoughts down, finding the key, I move to the door – but she’s still there.
‘Thanks again,’ I say.
‘Having a do?’ Miss Turnbull glares at the catering van parked next to the bashed-up old Fiesta Marlena bought Frankie for his eighteenth. The only other rubbish car parked on the curved drive.
I couldn’t afford to get Frankie anything much last year – but at least Marlena saw him proud.
This year I can do better.
‘I don’t know why people bother seeing New Year’s in,’ Miss Turnbull sniffs. ‘I do hope it won’t be too loud.’
‘I’ll make sure we keep a lid on it.’ The key’s in the door now, thank God. ‘It won’t be too noisy, I promise.’
A rash promise to make, if my Frankie has anything to do with it – but we’re so detached in this big old house, I doubt The xx will reach Heaven’s Gate.
The New Year’s Eve bash was definitely not my idea. I don’t know anyone locally, not yet, and I’ve invited no one apart from Marlena and Jill. Honestly I’d be happier nodding my head along to Jools Holland with my new husband, accompanied by a glass of Cava and a tube of Pringles – but my new husband (God, how odd that still sounds!) has different ideas.