—I did not try to kill him. Please don’t call the police. Please. I just want things to go back to the way they used to be. But I know they won’t. Not when I remember everything. And that’s what makes it worse.
I struggled back to my feet and looked down at Anna. She was still trembling with the force of her tears. Her scarlet lipstick had smeared. Her mascara had streaked all over her face. She looked haggard and skeletal. A shell of the once vivacious girl who (as this diary says) had walked up to me in the foyer of the Fitzwilliam Museum and said with a wide grin that I must be either a poet, a politician, or a polecat-slaying ax murderer. A sense of pity began to envelop me. A flicker of recognition—but only a passing one—that we once had a physical connection. Even a flash of regret—but only a minuscule one—for what could have been. What we could have possibly enjoyed together if circumstances had not intervened. Anna, despite her mental instability and her foul temper, was still the most intelligent, perceptive, and quick-witted woman I’d ever met (this diary indicates as much; I’ve documented quite a few heated discussions we’ve had about the relative merits of Ibsen, Wagner, and Woolf). My entry for our fateful first encounter even says that “there was something truly mesmerizing about Miss Winchester’s personality despite her slightly protruding ears,” although there was no way I could have admitted this to Anna this morning. Not when I was due to marry another woman later the same day.
But the thoughts that flashed into my mind were soon drowned out by an overwhelming sense of relief. While Anna is smart and sassy, she may well be a closet psycho. I’m definitely doing the right thing by marrying the woman bearing my child. I’m also 100 percent certain that the sweet and charming Claire Bushey isn’t crazy.
—Let her go.
The frown on Paul’s forehead indicated that he thought I was just as mad as the girl.
—She tried to stab you, mate.
—Let her go, Paul.
Paul released his grip.
I walked over to Anna’s side. I did feel sorry for her when all was said and done.
—Leave. Just leave. And please don’t bother me again. If you do, I’m afraid I’ll have to report you to the police. After all, my friends have just seen you pull a knife on me.
I held up my right arm with its sodden red sleeve.
Anna recoiled, as if she’d just seen my bloody arm for the first time.
—I didn’t mean to hurt you, Mark. I really didn’t.
Her words came out as a whimper.
—Just get out, Anna.
She pulled herself up and stumbled out of my room, shoulders heaving with sobs. William, however, began clucking as he strode over to inspect the damage she’d inflicted.
—I can’t believe you let her go. Look at what she’s done to your arm. But you’re lucky. The cut looks shallow.
—I was kidding about the police, actually. But I’ll call Addenbrooke’s tomorrow. She’s gone mental. They should get a doctor to look at her head.
(NTS: I should indeed ring Addenbrooke’s first thing tomorrow morning. Poor Anna’s definitely gone cuckoo. I should tell them that she pulled a knife on me and may be a danger to those around her. It’s for her own good.)
Paul, however, was frowning at his watch.
—Aren’t you due to exchange vows in about five minutes from now, mate?
—Shit.
I ran over to the wardrobe and pulled out my morning suit coat. Both Paul and William gasped as I threw it over my bloodstained shirt and pinned a boutonniere on it.
—No one’s going to see the bloodstains. We must run. Chaplain Walters will have a fit if we’re not at the altar when Claire arrives.
So we did. We got there at 12:29, scampering by the stone statues of Newton, Bacon, and Tennyson in undignified fashion. Thankfully, there was no sign of Claire and her father; I should have been grateful to her for being fashionably late. As the three of us pelted down the aisle, we saw Claire’s mother and her four sisters—all seated on the left, wearing the most gaudy-looking hats I ever had the misfortune to encounter at a wedding—turn to look at us with relief on their faces (I suppose there was always the possibility that the desirable Duo groom would bail out at the last minute). The right-hand side of the aisle, predictably, was devoid of people. Chaplain Walters was pacing up and down with an enormous frown on his forehead. The poor man was probably not used to grooms arriving at the altar a minute before their appointed ceremony times.
I came to an abrupt halt before him, trying to catch my breath.
—Sorry, Father. We were held up on our way here.
—I was beginning to wonder if you’d changed your mind.
As Chaplain Walters eyed me with disapproval, I realized that the man must have never presided over a Duo-Mono marriage before (well, I suppose there’s always a first time for everything).
—No, I haven’t.
—You sure?
—Of course.
There was a sudden flurry of movement in the antechapel. The doors burst open. Emily began walking down the aisle in a frilly mauve dress, carrying a bunch of pink and white roses. She was followed by Claire and her father, dressed in a morning suit three sizes too small for him. His face was an alarming shade of red; he was bursting either from excitement or an overdose of whiskey. A radiant expression filled Claire’s face. She looked stunning, despite the slight bump beneath her surprisingly tasteful dress.
—You look beautiful.
I meant it. At least I’m marrying a looker with indisputable inner grace and charm, even if she is a Mono. At least I’m marrying a woman who radiates refreshing, down-to-earth unsophistication. A simple finesse that warms my heart. She must have heard my whisper as she gave me a beaming smile. Thankfully, the ceremony proceeded without incident (although it was interrupted at times by loud sobs from the left-hand side of the aisle).
—Mark, will you take Claire to be your wife? Will you love her, comfort her, honor and protect her, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?
—I will.
—Will you remind yourself, each morning of your life, of the fact that you love Claire?
—I will.
Yet I saw my new wife’s eyes narrowing when I bent over to kiss her, just before our guests erupted into cheers. The first thing she said to me, right after we’d stepped out of the chapel doors to the refrains of Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March,” was:
—What’s happened to your collar, Mark? There’s blood on it.
—I cut myself shaving. A small nick. No big deal.
The words tripped off my tongue with ease. I even produced a glib shrug.
—There’s also red lipstick on your forehead, Mark. It’s partially hidden by your bangs. But I’m sure it’s lipstick.
My mouth fell open like a gaping wound, which was the worst thing I could have done in view of the circumstances. It signified guilt, at least in Claire’s biased opinion. To make matters worse, I reached up to touch my forehead with two fingers, causing the lipstick to rub off on them in an accusing smear of scarlet. If only William and Paul had spotted what Anna had left behind. But I suppose that most men—including me—tend to be oblivious to the small things that matter to women.