St. Gregory’s church in Berkshire is pretty. It’s Norman, set centrally in a graveyard with old, leaning headstones, the names on them smoothed away by the wind or partially hidden by moss. Before the wedding, I walk around, trying to make them out, forming images of Emily Jane Goode, who died in 1830 at the age of twenty-one, and Henry Watson, who perished in a foreign field in 1809, at the age of twenty-nine. And those who lived to be old, Ernest Norwood Richardson, ninety-three, who is buried with a dozen or more of his descendants, perpetually guarded by a mournful stone angel. I sit on a rickety bench by a wall, and find that I’m missing Wilf. I wish he were here today, that the incident with the Mail had never happened. I would find his big, earthy presence comforting, and I need comfort. I’m in a troubled daze, knocked almost senseless by the occasion, unable to work out whether I’m happy for my sister or whether she’s on a path that has nowhere to lead other than her own death.
Mum weaves her way through the graves towards me, unsteady in high heels, and I grin at her, feeling suddenly affectionate. I’d helped choose the floral chiffon dress she’s wearing, with dangly bits at the bottom, and the shocking-pink fascinator. I’m a little unnerved by the ankle tattoo, but it’s not as bad as I’d feared.
“You look lovely.” I notice that her complexion looks fresh and youthful. Sometimes it is infused with the high blush of too much alcohol, but not today.
“You too, darling.” I’m wearing the blue dress that Daphne bought me, and the suede ankle boots. I didn’t want to buy anything new.
“The Nordberg parents have arrived, all the way from Boston, come and meet them. Erik and Alana. They seem jolly nice. . . .”
She takes my hand, pulls me up from the bench, and we join Mr. and Mrs. Nordberg in the vestibule of the church. They each kiss me lightly on my cheek, and welcome me into their family. Erik comments on the beauty of the church, and Alana says, “We’re both so happy for Felix and Tilda,” in a light, vague voice that somehow sounds regal, like she is the queen of Sweden. She’s wearing a simple beige silk dress, no hat, and her husband looks chic in a well-cut dark suit. They are both skinny and tall, and they make our curves and Mum’s chiffon seem provincial, almost tacky. Lucas appears and ushers us into the church, and we are sent to the bride’s side, while the Nordbergs sit behind Felix, who turns to chat to his parents, his arm draped languorously along the back of the pew, not reflecting the tension that he holds in his gray eyes, which dart around the church, checking everything is in place—the walls, the roof, the congregation.
It’s the smallest of weddings, a cluster of a dozen people each side of the aisle. I recognize Paige Mooney (definitely obese now, dressed in ruched layers of green polyester) and Jacob Thynne (from his appearance on-screen), but no one else. Kimberley hasn’t made it, apparently, or Sasha. Felix’s guests look like they belong to a single tribe, financial people, slick and neat. I lean my head on Mum’s shoulder, like I used to when I was a child, and she says, “Chip, chip.”
“Will Tilda be all right?” I say.
“Let’s hope so.”
“I love the church.” It is simple and ancient, and the air inside is heavy, infused with the cold scent of rain and stone.
“You were christened here. My parents were married here. . . .”
“Tilda told me. . . . It’s weird that I didn’t know.”
The wedding march starts, and we stand and turn to look at the bride, and I’m confused by what I see. She’s beautiful, of course, wearing a simple white satin dress with long sleeves, and she has small white flowers in her hair; there’s a hint of A Midsummer Night’s Dream about her. My heart skips a beat at the sight of those long sleeves, covering up who-knows-what injuries to her arms; I am stung too by the sight of the man standing beside her, linking her arm, and I turn to Mum and say, “Did she tell you?” and she shakes her head. Liam Brookes is leading my sister up the aisle, with the hint of a smile, and there is something so comfortable and easy about the two of them, it seems like they are from the same family. He looks just the same as when I last saw him ten years ago, his long, honest face and relaxed way of walking. After he leaves Tilda facing Felix, ready to take her vows, he slips into our pew, beside me, and whispers, “Hello, Callie.”
“I didn’t know you and Tilda were still so close,” I whisper back.
So quietly I can barely hear him, he says, “I’ve always been her safety net. . . .”
As the service begins, I think, This is the moment, and she says, in a clear, confidant voice, “With this ring I thee wed.” I try to go along with the spirit of the day, ignoring the side of me that is scared, that is in free fall. I’ll put my sister’s wishes first. I think, I’ll be friendly to Felix, give him the benefit of the doubt. At least until I’ve stolen back the memory stick after the wedding. Tilda and Felix are off to Santorini for a week. It’s a Greek island apparently.
The vicar says, “I now declare you husband and wife,” so that’s it—there’s no going back—and I conquer my nausea and smile as Tilda and Felix walk away from the altar, amongst us, their eyes sparkling, Tilda laughing out loud with happiness, doing a tiny skip with her feet, Felix’s arm squeezing her tight. It’s just like any normal wedding. That is, until we leave the church and find three press photographers hanging about outside—two scruffy middle-aged men and a young woman looking cool in black jeans and black T-shirt. Felix says, “For fuck’s sake,” and Lucas dashes over and tells them to take a couple of pictures and “Please leave, guys. Allow Felix and Tilda to enjoy their day.” Nobody expects them to actually go, but they do, the young woman waving good-bye as she slings her camera over her shoulder and climbs into an old, open-top sports car. “Assholes,” says Lucas. “How did they know?”
“They always know.” I’m thinking about Wilf.
The reception is in a nearby country-house hotel, a gray stone Edwardian pile with vast bay windows and castellated walls, and freshly mown grass that stretches down to the Thames. The weather’s overcast and breezy, but fine, and champagne is served on the lawn. I take a glass and find myself in a small group with Mum, the Nordberg parents and two friends of Felix’s, expensive-looking men. They’re talking not about the wedding, or how gorgeous Tilda looks, but about the international debt crisis, and the European outlook. Felix’s friends are quizzing Erik, the eminent economist, while Alana smiles on softly, in a way that has obviously been honed and perfected over the years. Erik’s glass of champagne is in one hand, and he’s gesturing with it, with large swinging motions, as he pronounces on the failings of the Greek finance minister and the euro. His other hand is on the small of his wife’s back, one finger moving back and forth. I wonder whether this is the model for Felix and Tilda’s marriage, the one desired by Felix at least, because, despite her recent attempts at wifeyness, I can’t see Tilda being submissive in the long term. It’s not in her nature.
I slip away, unnoticed, and am ambushed by Paige Mooney, a gigantic vision in lime, tottering on silver sandals with a six-inch heel. Her toenails are painted green, neatly and professionally, but they belong to lumpy uneven toes that have grown at strange angles to each other.
She gives me a big damp kiss on one cheek. “Callie! You’re looking so lovely . . . so different!”