Forget Yourself (19 page)

Then came a list, all letters and numbers. Blondee turned the page again. And again.

Grooming the Groom: Getting Him to Match

More large words, ‘Co-ordinate’, ‘Ties’, ‘Disaster’ and ‘Focus’. There was another man, choco-shake brown hair this time, a huge frown and sad eyes. His mouth was bent downwards. ‘Take control’. You can spend years searching for the perfect match, only to find a clash on the big day! The page was lined, mauve and lilac. Keep track not only of what he’s wearing, but his friends as well! Novelty ties.

Page-by-page there were pictures of the world, of the big world—the one outside.

City Brides

There were buildings, high as the clouds, spiralling upwards. Shops and offices and apartments blurred into the background, behind a smiling tan-skinned woman and her wife. They were each holding glasses with stems, tall and thin as the towers which surrounded them, filled with a golden fizz. The words here were stuck to a small white box. The month’s hottest city, Barcelona, home to all the celebrity weddings. Honeymoon in the Spanish deserts, air-conditioning, bride-sweat, planning ahead. Sun-sets. Wedding-nights in luxurious mini-pools, six-star hotels, the only water for tens of miles around: all yours. All night casinos and real Catholic priests. Words without meaning. Round-the-clock caviare with real cod. Real love.

The women were watching one another, their eyes gleaming. They were both laughing as the sky hung in a dozen colours behind them. Nipples had been drawn on their dresses in blue biro.

Three pages over and there was a new woman, holding her arm out, heavy silver rings circled over her arm, ‘Le Prins’ huddled in curled letters into the corner. Her smile showed no teeth but it was wide, the edges of her mouth almost touching her yellow hair; hair which collapsed to her shoulders. She too wore a near-white dress, which matched her big smile.

The Flowers You Pick Say Everything About You

Pictures of plants in a dozen shapes and colours. Some curled around and around, blood red. Some drooped white-yellow. Passionate love, timeless friendship. Be careful what you choose. Don’t fall for the tricks of the florist! Florist.

Wrong Flowers, Wrong Function

Turn the page again, glossy-under-skin, a group of women laughing together, stepping from a huge red car with rows and rows of windows.

The Perfect Hen Night

This is your big goodbye. Make it a send-off to remember. Not the night before the wedding, first-time-bride mistake. The street was slick-wet with puddles, flagstones shimmering in a hundred coloured lights chasing away night. No tacky discount-store accessories, give them something special. A broach or matching watches. Lists of bars: city, region, country. Don’t drink too much, beware photos.

Wear Your Feet

A dark black page and a pair of pale feet, sparkling silver shoes hung on precariously.

A Simple Touch

A man and a woman were stood outside a smart small hut, walls white and elegant. She had a smile on her face, not too big, but showing enough teeth to bare her happiness to the world. He had a silly grin, which was unthreatening, somehow kind. A good wedding doesn’t need to cost your house, as long as you plan it right. The key to your future, sincere vows. Select party. Securing your hopes. Her dress was cream-white too, but around her neck were strings of beads she made herself. A home-cooked meal for all the guests. Modern values. Her hair was brushed smooth and lapped around her milkshake-coloured shoulders. His hair was short, and finely tousled. They’re both young, younger than anyone gathered between the pages so far. Both were staring directly at the camera, not pretending to look somewhere else. They held their hands together, matching rings glinting in the half-light of morning.

A few pages on and there were lists of vows, each one next to a pair of rings locked together.

The modern: I give myself to you whole, to you and to no other. To you I will be observant and tend to your every need. I will be your wife and you will hold and protect me in return. You shall stay strong for me and I will assist you as long as I shall live. A vow for proper roles, getting off to a good start. Ideal to raise a family.

Then the religious: In sight of God I take this sacred, solemn vow. To be with you eternally, that we may serve His will together, that we may shine in His everlasting glory. I promise never to give myself to another of the flesh, I promise never to break our union, I promise to live in purity until the day we dwell with Him. Spiritual. More and more popular. Exchanging chastity rings for wedding rings.

The classic: I take you to be my everlasting husband. My eternal friend, my faithful partner and my love from this day forward. Here before all I take a solemn vow to be your partner in sickness or health, wealth or poverty, in good times and bad. Forsaking all others, I will love and support you without limit, to honour and give respect to you and to cherish you as long as we both shall live. Longer, not for all. Requires both bride and groom to speak.

Which vows are right for you? None: fuck off, came the biro reply.

The next page was covered in more illegible words and an endless stream of numbers.

Then there were two more women, arm-in-arm. Choosing your chief bridesmaid. Your chief bridesmaid is there to help you up the aisle. She can handle any last-minute crises and cheer you on from the sidelines. A loyal, dependable friend. Someone you can count on. She should be unmarried herself, she can be next. A gown that goes with yours, but doesn’t overshadow it. Sombre deep colours. Her own speech, at the meal afterwards, her way of helping you into your new life. Someone important, someone who wants what’s best for you. Someone you know intimately. The two women were laughing together, like the women stepping from the big red car, but these ones had tears in their eyes, above wide crimson mouths.

The pages flicked by faster and faster, there was less room to take things in and the words were getting more complicated, more exotic and strange. Hire-carriage services. Specialist catering services. Professional make-up engineers.

At the very back there was another double-page with few words. Proposal. The scent of surprise. A woman alone in a street, in the dark. She looked scared. A hundred shadows were cast by the street lights and she was holding her bag with both hands, which were sheathed in delicate off-white gloves. She was alone. Little does she know her soon-husband is stepping from a car around the corner, flowers in hand, ready to meet her. Any moment, stepping from the shadows.

I HAD TAKEN THE MAGAZINE
and hidden it, beneath the lino, beneath the dirt floor, wrapped in plastic to keep it fresh. Beneath my feet the brides smiled up at me, sharing my memory. I had been one of them. I had worn a dress and recited vows and smiled a big big smile. How had I done it?

“Burberry.”

“Yes my dear?” An arched eyebrow.

Had I donned my cream white dress by the ocean?

“I was just wondering—”

Had I recited vows in a forest?

“What were you wondering?”

In a city? Lights towering over us.

“Does it bother you?”

I and my love, my spouse, for better or worse.

“Does it bother you,” I repeated, “when I go to see Frederick?”

Forsaking all others.

“I have a question for you,” Burberry replied.

For the rest of our lives.

“Go on.”

The rest of our lives, until we’re taken and placed somewhere else, wiped clean.

“Do you love me?”

“I love you,” I replied.

“Then no, it doesn’t bother me. I love you, too.”

Burberry left to cook at the fire tap—I told her I was unwell. I couldn’t tell her about the magazine—she had hated the book, this would be worse. Really, I needed to keep it to myself.

I unfurled the lino, took the magazine and hid it beneath my fraying jumper, then stepped into the warm air. Rain fell in a series of flecks, weakly spattering my face as though it had run out of energy. Nobody had found the page, it hadn’t been mentioned. It was gone.

Of course they hadn’t found the page. They never would. Each line about the end of love had been wrong. There was no end to love. There were no tearful goodbyes, no shattered promise, no break-up sex. There was marriage, there was union, and it was eternal. The page had been wrong and so it had been corrected.

I took the magazine to my mock-living room, by the deserted, discoloured section of wall. The plank that was my mantelpiece still rested on the ground. I sat on it and flicked through the magazine once more.

The Great Outdoors

Another page, another wedding: the great outdoors. Endless piles of trees under an ever-blue sky. Two men: one older one younger, both handsome. Rows of words surrounded them from both sides. One was holding a pole with a wire dangling from the end, the other looking at him with unmatched adoration. The older one had thick eyebrows and set his eyes in the middle distance, toes on the edge of a stream which had frothed itself into frenzy. The ground was a neat carpet of wood chippings. For the alternative wedding, try the great outdoors. Fresh air, new love. The sky has faded purple-blue and clashed with the green trees.

The next page and another couple, her curly black hair was tied up above her head, her dress nearly-white. Him with a closed-mouth grin. They had their feet in water and were surrounded by sand which almost matched her dress. Red flowers scattered around them, swirled crimson shells. Tiny letters passed unnoticed beneath her feet, dress by Regina Ingrid Norman-Gotes. Exclusive. An ink-scrawled knife stuck into her gut.

Words filled the sky: the best beaches this time of year. Sand beaches, shingle beaches, or for the very edgy, post-urban beaches. Sand or pebbles or slabs of salt-water-soaked concrete. A new season of bridal gowns for the very thing. Disaster-relief styles. Louisiana chic. Chapel Wave Weddings will give a service in a water-lapped church, waves dancing by your toes and stained glass above your head. Celebrities.

Or the great outdoors indoors. A winter wedding. Actual snow. A projected sky, you won’t know the difference. It’s the great Alps of our parents. Ice-themed accessories. A couple in matching copper-toned ski-gear.

I stopped reading. Burberry would be wondering where I was. I buried the magazine beneath the mantelpiece and left.

There were footprints everywhere. All around the bush, all around the courtyard, to and fro. One line of craters were half the size, someone sprinting on their toes, trying to be somewhere quickly. The footprints were crossed by another pair, slow and sure, feet firmly planted. What could they have been so sure of?

I followed a series of them to the fire tap.

“Blondee,” my neighbour greeted.

“Fluffed.” I hadn’t seen him for a while.

“I haven’t seen you for a while,” he said.

“What’s been happening?” I asked. “Why are you naked?”

“I came out to keep an eye on things. It’s all been pretty strange lately, you’ll have noticed. Not that things have been especially normal at yours, eh?”

“What?” I asked.

“Well, your two—”

“Oh.” My two lovers. The crime seemed least now. I watched a drop of water crawl from his temple, down his face, zigzag through stubble, cross his jawbone and ride down his neck, through the light hair on his chest and down over the flat surface of his stomach. It rested in the curve of his belly button.

“Blondee, what’re you looking at?”

“Nothing.” I moved my gaze to his face.

“It’s been crazy”, he continued. “Everywhere. There were fights, two fights, just today. But no-one did much, we all stood and watched. The first time it was a woman and a man scratching and smacking and bleeding, the second time it was another two, both men. One broke the other’s nose.”

“Oh.”

“Are you going to the meeting?” he asked. I didn’t know what he meant. “The meeting. Pilsner ain’t happy. He wants to have a meeting, with everybody. Even them. It’s around now, actually.”

“Why aren’t you there?”

“It’s not much to do with me. Besides, what’s passed is past. Anyway I’ve been outside long enough. Goodbye, Blondee.”