A Groom With a View (24 page)

I felt myself choking up, and noticed the middle-aged man across the aisle looking at me nervously, as if he thought he’d been caught up in the beginning of some control-underwear promotional flashmob, and loads of scantily clad women were about to emerge from the toilets and chorus, “We can’t imagine life without Spanx!” So I ended the call and blew my nose surreptitiously.

At last I emerged from the Tube station and dashed down our road as fast as my high-heeled boots would allow me, pausing only to look up into trees and under parked cars and go, “Spanx! Spanx!” like a woman possessed. There was no sign of him, but there was also no sign of a squashed ginger body in the road.

I was starting to feel a bit more hopeful when I passed a sign on a lamp-post with a picture of a little white ferret. I paused to read it. ‘Please help us find Laurel. She has been missing since 24 January. She is a sweet, tame ferret but very shy. Our kids are heartbroken. If you see her, please call the number below or email [email protected].’

I thought about poor, lost Laurel and the children who loved her, and imagined setting up a ‘Find Spanx’ account and all the emails we’d get from nutters and perverts, and started to cry again.

So by the time I got upstairs to the flat, I was a bit of a mess. My mascara had run and was stinging my eyes, and it took me three tries to get my key in the lock. At last I opened the door and called, “Hello?”

There was silence, but there hadn’t been the moment I opened the door. I could have sworn I had heard a familiar sound, like very, very distant firecrackers on bonfire night. A sound like many threads breaking at the same time. The sound Spanx’s claws made when he scratched the sofa. Then I heard another, even more familiar noise. “Bwaaarp?”

Spanx strolled nonchalantly into the hallway, then clocked me and went, “Bwaaarp!” and trotted over and started rubbing himself avidly against my boots. He looked just the same – possibly a bit fatter. He didn’t look like a cat that had survived a dangerous adventure in the outside world. I picked him up and pressed him against my face.

“What’s going on, Spanx? Where have you been? Why have you been hiding from Auntie Erica and driving me demented with worry, you naughty cat?”

Spanx fixed me with a steady gaze. It was like looking into a pair of orange traffic lights. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he seemed to be saying. “I’ve been here, sleeping on my cat tree.” Then he squirmed out of my arms and thudded to the floor. “Bwaaarp?” he said again, and walked purposefully through to the living room, glancing back over his furry shoulder as he went. It was a summons, and I followed.

If our cat was attempting to expose Nick’s sloppy housekeeping, I didn’t get it. Everything looked just the same as when I’d left for South Africa three weeks before. Not exactly immaculate, but certainly not a hovel either. There was a cobweb hanging between the ceiling and the curtain rail that could do with Erica’s high-level dusting strategy – I’d noticed that for all her talk, she was as lax with the feather-duster as I was. The cushions on the sofa were squashed in the place where Nick liked to sit, just as usual. Spanx wandered over to the door that led to Nick’s studio, which stood ajar as it always did.

“Bwaaarp!” he said.

I pushed open the door. All the wedding things – the little zinc tubs that Erica had ordered to plant the snowdrops in, the easel that had held the seating plan, the piles of silver-bordered RSVP cards – were gone. But hanging from the wardrobe door was an unfamiliar white fabric garment bag, which bore the unmistakeable marks of Spanx’s claws. He walked determinedly over to it.

“No! Just because you haven’t been squashed by a bus, doesn’t mean you can scratch people’s things,” I said. “That might belong to Erica, or Suze. Paws off!”

Spanx jumped on to Nick’s office chair, tucked his tail around his chest and regarded me balefully.

“What is this, anyway?” I unhooked the hanger and pulled down the zip on the bag, and actually gasped. It was my wedding dress. The dress I’d left behind on the train in Johannesburg and given up for lost. It was every bit as beautiful as I remembered. I was holding it at arm’s length, bemused, when I heard the front door open and the familiar sound of Nick throwing his bag down in the hallway.

Still holding the dress, I walked hesitantly through to find him.

He was wearing a navy blue suit, but it was covered in white fur, and there was a long scratch on his cheek, beaded with blood.

“I came as quickly as I could, Pip,” he said, “but I got delayed. You see, I found this ferret. . .”

I started to cry.

Twenty minutes later, Nick had made tea for himself and found a can of Diet Coke in the fridge for me, and we were sitting on the sofa with Spanx between us. He was sitting upright, like an Egyptian statue of a cat, and looking distinctly smug.

“He wasn’t missing, was he?” I said. “Your bloody. . . your mother made it up.”

“I expect Suze put her up to it,” Nick said. “She said she was going to the V&A today with her and the girls. I’m sorry, Pip, it was a stupid thing of her to do.”

I shook my head. “She meant well. It’s just a bit awkward, isn’t it?”

Nick looked down at his hands, and the dimple in his cheek appeared. “We had to talk sometime. And I wasn’t going to call you, and you weren’t going to call me, so. . .”

“I tried! I tried to call you loads of times, but then. . .”

“You chickened out. Me too.”

“But, Nick, the dress. I don’t understand. How is it here?”

“Pippa, you lack confidence in modern technology,” he said. “All I did was email the Gautrain lost property people. Phoning them clearly didn’t work when you tried it, but they responded to my email in a couple of days. Then I contacted your mate Valli on Facebook and asked him to go and collect it, which he did. And couriered it over here. All for less than a hundred quid, not counting the case of champagne I’m having delivered to his and Sanjay’s wedding, but don’t mention that to him, it’s a surprise. You see, when you told me you’d found a dress, I didn’t exactly believe you. I did at first, but then whenever Mum or I mentioned it, you got all evasive. So I thought I’d try and get this one back for you, just in case.”

“Nick. And now our wedding’s not even happening. Oh, God. I’m so terribly sorry.”

He laughed, but it didn’t sound quite right. “Yeah. I guess if I’d known, I could have avoided World War Three with Mum. I said I thought her idea of posting the wedding invitations in separate batches in case there was a terrorist attack and they blew up postboxes was brilliant, and then I made out that the cousins’ batch must have got lost in the post. It didn’t work, of course. I had to fess up and tell her we didn’t want them at the wedding, and then all hell broke loose.”

I laughed shakily. Then I said, “All the stuff about the wedding. The tomato soup and all the rest. It didn’t matter that much. The trouble was, I wasn’t certain, once it all started seeming so real, about us. And because I wasn’t sure, I convinced myself you’d done a bad thing, a really bad thing, that something was going on with you and Bethany, and I thought that made it okay for me to do something much, much worse, because I needed to end it. But the thing is, it’s partly about when things really started to go wrong, and that was a long time ago.”

Nick said, “Yes?”

I said, “Is there any more Diet Coke?”

He went and fetched me another can, and I waited for him to come back, stroking Spanx, thinking that I might not see either of them again for a long, long time. When Nick came back, I told him everything: about how I’d been pregnant with our baby and not told him, but told Erica. About the blog. About how I’d felt when the plans for our wedding seemed to be turning me into a person – a bride – I didn’t feel I could be. I told him how I’d used the fact of Bethany coming into his life again and my imaginings about what was going on between them to excuse the way I’d behaved with Gabriel. And I explained to him how relieved I felt when I found out that I hadn’t done what I thought I had, after all.

By the time I’d finished, Spanx had gone to sleep, sprawled across both our laps, because we’d moved much closer together on the sofa.

Nick said, “Okay. We should have listened to each other, about the wedding. I thought I was doing what you wanted, you didn’t tell me that you wanted something else. Or nothing. It was fucking stupid of both of us. That’s partly why I started the blog – I needed other people to talk to – to enable me, I guess, to carry on with what I was doing, because if I’d listened to you, properly listened, I’d have known you weren’t that keen on the whole massive wedding thing.”

“Once we’d signed up to it, it got a bit tricky, though,” I said. “It’s kind of hard to say, ‘You know that dream wedding in a castle? How about we downgrade to a keg of beer in a field somewhere?’ Or, ‘Marriage, schmarriage. Let’s just tell everyone it’s off, and live in sin some more.’ It’s like, once you’re getting married, either you have the full-on wedding or you call everything off.”

“And when Beff got in touch, I felt sorry for her. She’s back in London with no husband and no job, and she needed a mate to talk to, and so did I. I shouldn’t have let her get the wrong impression about how I felt, but I did, and I’m sorry.

“But the other thing,” Nick said, “about whatisiname.” I could tell, just looking at him, that he knew exactly what Gabriel’s name was, and would remember for a long time. “That’s a tough one. I’m going to have to think about that some more. Like, a lot more. It makes a difference that you didn’t fuck him, I won’t lie about that. I’m glad you didn’t. But still, the intent was there, as they say.”

“Okay.” My mouth felt very dry, and I took another fizzy sip from my can of Diet Coke. “I can see why you need to think about that. I do too. It was awful, and stupid, and I wish I hadn’t done it. But I got a bit carried away, not with the idea of sleeping with someone else, but with being in another world. I loved doing work that excites me again. And there’s another thing. Guido’s asked me if I want to go and work in Dubai for a bit. Three years, maybe five. I’ve said I’ll think about it. It’s a great opportunity. I was sure I’d take it, but I wanted to talk to you first. And now I’m not sure at all.”

Nick said, “Pippa, there’s no way I’m going to make that decision for you. We both need to think about this. Maybe for a couple of days, maybe for a couple of years. Maybe this is the end. I don’t know. But I’m not going to do a whole, ‘No! Don’t go!’ thing, and have you feel I’m trapping you again into something else you don’t want. So we should probably leave it like this for now.”

“Okay.” I shoved Spanx gently over and picked up my bag. “Thanks for listening, I really do appreciate it. And I’m so glad you found that ferret. I was worried about her.”

“She had a lethal set of claws,” Nick said, walking me to the door. Then he hesitated, his hand on the latch. “Pip? There’s another thing. Mum told me about you being pregnant. She told me after she got the email you sent her. She feels really shit about not supporting you, and letting you go through all that alone. I do, too. I wish I’d known, and been able to be there for you. If I had, I would have understood why you felt – why you feel – the way you do about having a baby.”

“I could have told you,” I said, dry-mouthed. “But I never did. It felt like such a huge thing to have done, when you want to have children so much.” Right then, looking up at Nick’s sad, serious face, I felt the strangest sensation. My eyes were stinging at there was a massive lump in my throat, but at the same time I felt a lightness, a relief. A weight I’d been carrying alone for a long time was gone, or at least shared.

Nick said, “Mum keeps saying how sorry she is about the way she behaved, Pip. She hopes one day she’ll have a chance to tell you herself. I guess that’s why she pulled this mad stunt today. I hope you’ll be able to be friends some time, anyway.”

I said, “Me, too.” I made a move to hug him, and he made the same move towards me, but we both changed our minds together, and the door closed between us.

CHAPTER TWENTY

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Saturday

Hey Callie

Just wanted to wish you and Phoebs a fantastic day on Saturday. I’m sorry I can’t be there. I just. . . can’t. It’s all a bit too soon. I’m sure you’ll understand. Let’s have a beer sometime soon.

Love

Nick

Being a guest at your own wedding is a bit weird. I guess it’s one of those things like Marmite or harem trousers or
Made in Chelsea
– lots of people won’t even entertain the idea of trying it. But don’t knock it until you do – you might end up enjoying it as much as I did.

I was woken up in one of the sumptuous suites at Brocklebury Manor – although not the ultra-swish tower bedroom, that was the brides’ – by brilliant winter sunshine streaming through the leaded windowpanes. I was brought breakfast by a charming waiter. I had a long, luxurious shower, straightened my hair and put on makeup and a new frock. It was quite like my own wedding morning would have been, except it wasn’t. I felt a mixture of happiness, sadness and excitement, but mostly happiness. So maybe it wasn’t all that much like
Made in Chelsea
, come to think of it.

Once I was ready, I made my way up the spiral staircase to the bridal suite, and knocked on the door. Phoebe opened it, wearing a fluffy white dressing down, her wet hair hanging down her back.

“Pippa! We thought you might be the hair and makeup lady. She’s ten minutes late and Callie’s starting to stress.”

“No I’m not.” Callie appeared behind her, wrapped in a towel. “I’m perfectly calm. We’ve got loads of time to get ready. Come and see Phoebe’s dress, it’s stunning.”

Phoebe held the dress up on its hanger. It was a calf-length prom dress in the palest primrose yellow, with a sweetheart neckline and a silvery-grey sash that exactly matched the colour of Callie’s simple satin shift.

“That’s gorgeous,” I said. “Where did you get it?”

Callie looked a bit embarrassed. “I don’t know if you remember, Pip, but when you were looking for wedding dresses, I mentioned the shop near home that makes them? I was worried you weren’t going to find a dress, because you’d left it so late. So Phoebs and I went and had one made, just in case, because you’re the same size.”

“And we chose the sash to match Callie’s bridesmaid dress,” Phoebe said. “So it all worked out quite well, don’t you think?”

“I can’t believe you bought me a back-up wedding dress, you loons!” But I couldn’t help laughing. “You’re right, it did work out well.”

Then there was another knock at the door, and this time it was the hair and makeup lady, and soon the photographer arrived, and the florist with the two bouquets she’d made instead of just one, and Callie and Phoebe’s mums, and the bridal suite filled with laughter and clinking champagne glasses and clouds of hairspray.

I took my glass and sat on the chaise-longue and let the excited chatter wash over me. I ought to feel sad, I thought, that my wedding day had come and I wasn’t getting married. But I didn’t – it was more Callie’s day than mine, it had been all along. And she and Phoebe were radiant with happiness, the most beautiful brides ever. There was only one thing that stopped it all being perfect.

At last, everyone was ready. The glasses of champagne had been drunk. The last pearl was wired into place on Phoebe’s cloud of auburn hair; the last flower pinned on to Callie’s sleek blonde chignon. The mums had checked their hats in the mirror for the thousandth time. The photographer said she had all the shots she needed for now. Imogen had rung up to confirm that the guests were all seated and waiting.

Callie and Phoebe posed for a photo together, holding champagne flutes, gazing into each other’s eyes and looking quite serious. But anyone looking at them (or at the photo, it’s up on their bedroom wall now) could see the laughter just below the surface, about to break through. For the first time that day, I felt a pang of envy. It could have been Nick and me there (well, we’d have got ready separately, but you know what I mean). It could have been me in the perfect dress, now hanging in our wardrobe in its garment bag, probably destined to be charity-shopped by Erica in a fit of altruistic decluttering. It could have been us, about to celebrate and declare our commitment in front of a crowd of people who loved us. It could have been my Mum dusting powder on her nose where it had gone all shiny from crying, and saying how proud she was of me.

But it wouldn’t have worked, I reminded myself. I wouldn’t have been happy and glowing like Callie and Phoebe. I’d have been white and drawn with nerves about saying such important words in front of all those people, cousins or not. I’d have been seething with resentment about the tomato soup. I’d have been fighting with every sinew not to rise to Erica’s subtle gibes. I’d have been wanting nothing more than to be on my own with Nick, at home on the sofa playing with Spanx, or in bed holding each other’s warm, sated bodies. Okay, the last bit I did want, right then, more than anything.

“I think it’s time for us to go downstairs,” said Callie at last, and down we went.

One of the dark-suited minions was hovering at the bottom of the staircase.

“There’s a gentleman here,” he said. “He says he doesn’t have an invitation, but would it be possible. . .”

My heart leaped. I could see the dark head and dark-suited shoulders of a man sitting in one of the brocade armchairs, his back to the staircase.

Then he stood up and turned around.

“Dad!” said Phoebe.

“Vernon!” said Phoebe’s mum.

It was the first time I’d seen this ogre in the flesh. He looked old, thin and embarrassed – not the fire-breathing tyrant I’d expected.

He walked over to Phoebe, slowly and hesitantly.

“I’ll quite understand if you want to have me thrown out,” he said. “But before you do, I’d be very grateful if you’ll allow me to say one or two things. The first, and most important, is that I’m sorry. The second is, I’ve been a bad father, but I’d be a worse one if I didn’t take the chance to wish my beautiful daughter and her new wife well on their wedding day. I don’t have the right to give you away and I don’t want to make a speech, but if there’s space for me to sit – or stand – at the back. . .”

Callie looked mutinous, but when she saw Phoebe run to her father and hug him, smearing lipstick on his white collar, her face relaxed back into a smile.

“I think he means it,” I whispered to her.

“He bloody well better had,” said Callie.

And so we all trooped into the Great Hall to take our seats and wait for the brides to make their entrance.

“If Callie ever gets disbarred, or whatever, from being a lawyer, she could so go into wedding planning,” I said later to Callie’s brother James, as we milled around in the drawing room sipping champagne and eating canapés (I was relieved that a last-minute consultation between Callie and Hugh, the chef, had resulted in Erica’s raw vegetable crudités being nixed in favour of nice, normal things like cheese straws and quails’ eggs with celery salt).

“She’s ace, isn’t she?” said James, and we beamed happily at each other.

It was true. Callie and Phoebe had taken the remains of Nick’s and my wedding plans, brought them back to life, and made them entirely their own. Okay, the pots of snowdrops might have been Erica’s idea and the canopy of fairy lights Nick’s, but Callie’s sense of extravagant style and Phoebe’s exuberance were everywhere.

In amongst the all-white colour theme were pale yellow roses to mach Phoebe’s dress. Sparkly crimson hearts were dotted in amongst the fairy lights. There were bowls of ‘Mrs and Mrs’ love hearts on the tables and the cake topper was two brides in dresses made of fondant icing that matched Callie and Phoebe’s. The Amazing Archibald proved to be an ace at table magic, and there wasn’t a balloon animal in sight – in fact, he was totally awesome and I felt very guilty about how much I’d dissed him and his fluffy white rabbit. And, most impressively of all, Phoebe and Callie had managed to get a hundred of their friends and family to drop everything at two weeks’ notice and be there to celebrate their wedding.

Callie had even worked her magic on the seating plan, putting me in between James (who I’ve known for so long it feels a bit like he’s my brother as well as Callie’s) and a university mate of Phoebe’s called Edward, who was not only extremely hot but extremely funny too. Between the two of them, they kept me in stitches throughout the meal, and tactfully no one mentioned Nick once, which was a relief, because to be completely honest every time I thought about him I wanted to cry. The idea that I might soon be in the market for a new boyfriend, sizing up the likes of Edward for the role, didn’t feel exciting in the slightest. It just filled me with aching sadness for what I’d had and lost.

Throughout the ceremony, the drinks reception, the dinner and the speeches (made by James, Phoebe’s mum and the two brides), the atmosphere was just easy, spontaneous and happy. Unfortunately I missed most of Callie’s speech because when James talked about his love and pride for his sister, I did start to cry great, embarrassing sobs, and had to take myself off and redo my makeup in the palatial ladies’ loo. But by the time I got back, I’d composed myself enough to enjoy the celebration and witness the cutting of the cake and the first dance.

The lights dimmed, the band played the opening chords of
One Day Like This
, and Callie and Phoebe walked out on to the dance floor. If they’d had more time, they might have splashed out on a few dancing lessons, like Nick and I were going to do, but they obviously hadn’t. There was nothing choreographed about their dance – in fact, they didn’t actually move much at all. They just stood together in the spotlight, staring into each other’s faces like there was no one else in the room – no one else in the world. I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people look so happy. I felt tears threatening to squeeze out of my eyes again, and James gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. Then the song finished, Callie and Phoebe were kissing each other and laughing, and everyone was rushing out to join the dancing.

I danced with James, with both the brides, with Callie’s dad and Phoebe’s dad, and Edward claimed me for a few slow songs. Then the band started to play
Beautiful Day
, and I couldn’t keep up the pretence any more.

“I think I’ll sit this one out,” I said to Edward.

“Awww, no, come on!” he protested, pulling me closer.

“Honestly, I’m quite tired,” I said, and it was true. Suddenly I was feeling weary and sad, my feet were hurting, and the best strategy seemed to be to find a quiet corner and a bottle of champagne and get quietly pissed by myself, then go to bed.

Then a voice behind me said, “I’ll borrow Pippa for this one, if you don’t mind.”

I turned around, and there was Nick. He wasn’t wearing a suit like all the other men – he was wearing old, faded jeans and a jumper with cat hair on it. He hadn’t even shaved. But I’d never seen any man, ever, look as gorgeous.

“I wasn’t going to come,” he said. “But I said I’d think about things, and now I’ve thought, and I needed to tell you as soon as I could. I’ve decided that everything’s better with you, Pippa. I don’t care about getting married. If you’ve decided it’s over, and you’re sure, that’s cool. I’ll go. I don’t want to pressure you. But I do want to be with you, for the rest of our lives, if you want to be with me.”

“I’ve never wanted anything so much,” I said, and Nick took me in his arms.

“Slowed-down, sexy tango with some lifts?” he said.

Perhaps if we’d kept up with Giovanna’s classes we would have nailed it, but we hadn’t, so we were truly crap. We were out of step and the one lift Nick attempted ended with me over his shoulder like a sack of spuds. But we didn’t care. We laughed and danced and I cried again, and when the song ended we did go and find a quiet corner and a bottle of champagne, but long before it was finished we went to bed.