I plunged a spoon into my crème br?lée and shoved a giant dollop into my mouth.
—Are we getting married?
I nearly choked out the custard in response to her question, but I somehow held myself together.
—Let’s discuss this later, shall we?
My reply caused a deep frown to emerge on Claire’s face. Grasping about for a suitable course of action, I promised her that we would meet again for lunch tomorrow to discuss things further. Claire did not look satisfied by my response, but she agreed to show up at the Backstreet Bistro at 13:00. I then walked back to my college room in a daze, narrowly escaping a bicycle heading down Trinity Street the wrong way.
What the bloody hell am I going to do? I’m screwed from screwing a virgin during the wrong time of the month.
I frown. Is Claire trying to reacquaint herself with any of the facts I’ve read? If so, what, exactly? That entire sorry business about Anna, perhaps? This is most unlikely. Claire, to the best of my factual knowledge, never figured out the name of the girl who fought with me on Jesus Green.
It was such a long time ago, too.
Could she be trying to work out what really happened on the morning of our wedding?
Our wedding day. Damn. Fact: I was nearly late at the altar. What a ghastly mess. If only I’d managed to sort things out with Anna before that. If only I’d been kinder to her, a little more delicate with my words (and I dare to call myself a wordsmith). With a sigh, I turn to the entry for 8 July 1995:
I decided to visit Anna in the hospital this morning. I tiptoed through the door leading to her room, terrified of her reaction to my arrival. But I need not have worried. She gave me a timorous half smile, as if our quarrel never happened, before lowering her eyes back to the book in her hands (Alice in Wonderland). I sat down next to her bed, noticing that she looked both gaunt and withdrawn. Definitely not her usual fiery self. After all, didn’t one of my previous diary entries describe her as a “veritable tigress in bed with claws to match”?
—I’m sorry we got into a stupid little fight that night. I deserved all the punches I got.
Anna merely kept her eyes on the book in her hands. Her muteness implied forgiveness, which emboldened me to ask why she went missing in the first place. But she merely sighed in response.
—I hope I’m not to blame, Anna.
—You made me so mad that night. I hit the lamppost. Everything just came back.
Her lower lip began to wobble.
—What came back?
—The past. All of it. In a surge.
—Huh?
—Truth’s a burden. Especially the truths you’ve hidden from yourself after your twenty-third birthday.
—What do you mean?
—After you left, I just sat on Jesus Green and howled. Too much to digest at once. Way too much.
—You aren’t making any sense to me.
—Yet something good might have also come out of it. Some memories are shit. But others give you hope. The devil’s in the detail, Mark. Because small details matter.
—I really don’t get it.
—I remember the day we first met. In the foyer of the Fitzwilliam Museum, at the bottom of that long flight of stairs. I saw a sparkle in your eyes when I walked up to you. You knew, even then, that we had something between us. We were kindred spirits, even though we were strangers. The sparkle lingered in your eyes as you shook my hand, holding it for longer than you should have. It’s come back to me now. Your sparkle.
—Maybe you’re right about the sparkle, but…
—The curl of your lips. I remember that, too. You begged me for my phone number, your lips curling in desperation, as if you couldn’t bear the thought of losing me.
—I’m amazed you wrote all these facts down.
—I remember your smallest gestures of affection. Each and every one of them. Like the way you once brushed a lock of hair away from my face, your fingers caressing my skin like a butterfly’s breath. No guy—not even Alistair—has showed me such tenderness before. I see that now. You do care about me, Mark. Deep down inside.
—You must spend all your time writing down facts.
—I love you, Mark. And you love me, don’t you? Tell me. I need to hear the words from your mouth.
A fact darted into my head at that precise moment: I’m due to marry Claire Bushey a few weeks from now. That was followed by a second bleak certainty: I shouldn’t be leading Anna on any further. Even if it was flattering to hear that she loved me.
And so I sighed before saying in an awkward, desperate rush:
—I’ve…er…met another girl in the meantime. And I’m…er…going to marry her soon. I’m sorry, Anna. Really sorry.
She gasped, eyes darkening in shock. I spent the next few seconds fumbling for the right words before coming up with the gentle but lame:
—It wasn’t supposed to be like this. But I’m so relieved you’re no longer missing. Please take care of yourself, Anna. Please get well soon.
I clambered to my feet and departed from her room, not daring to look at her face. Yet a torrent of relief flooded my soul as soon as I stepped out into the brilliant sunshine. I think I’m off the hook; Anna isn’t holding me to blame for her temporary disappearance (though I still wonder why she vanished for nineteen days).
I should have suspected from our exchange that something wasn’t right. And I shouldn’t have blurted out—in such an abrupt, unkind fashion—that I’d met another girl in the meantime and was about to marry her. Factual hindsight is a curse when it’s accompanied by the awful realization that one could have done much better. Especially when viewed in light of what happened on the day I married Claire. With a groan, I turn to the entry for 30 September 1995:
The phone in my room rang after I finished buttoning up my dress shirt. It was Pippa.
—I made a last-ditch attempt at persuading Mum and Dad.
—Let me guess. Dad’s still refusing to budge.
—’Fraid so. He won’t attend a Duo-Mono wedding in his lifetime, he said, even if it involves his only son.
—Did he go on another long rant about my stupidity?
—Er…yes…he did. To be honest with you, Mark, he said that only a stupid son would marry a stupid Mono, and he wants nothing to do with stupid sons. Just so you know, Mum had been thinking of defying him and traveling up to Cambridge today. But Dad has since won her over.
—That’s all right. I’ll see you later this afternoon, won’t I?
—Well…actually…
—You’re no longer coming, are you?
—I’m sorry. But Dad will disinherit anyone who attends your wedding. That includes me. He apparently doesn’t suffer failed fools, stupid sons, and daft daughters.
—That’s fine. You don’t have to come. Not if it makes Dad angry.