Forget Her Name(29)

My dad squeezes my hand. ‘They’re ready,’ he says in my ear, ‘if you are.’

‘I’m ready.’

My bridesmaids come running up, giggling. Louise looks skinny and smashing as always, her face rosy with cold. She hugs me briefly, then whirls aside, and there’s my cousin Jasmine, grinning too.

‘You make a fantastic bride,’ Jasmine tells me. She sniffs my bridal bouquet enthusiastically. ‘Oh, those roses and freesias smell amazing. Super combination.’ She does a quick twirl. ‘See, not a spot of dirt.’

I was worrying before she and Louise left the house earlier, after the visiting hairdresser had finished with us, that Jasmine would get her bridesmaid dress dirty. She’s got the most spectacular looks, dark-skinned and stunning, with a fabulous afro crown teased to perfection; her father is originally from Jamaica, her mother one of my mum’s cousins. But, by her own admission, she’s a bit of a tomboy. She nearly tore the hem of her dress running downstairs too quickly this morning, and I was fretting by the time she left in case she shut the dress in the door of the limousine, or caught it on one of the vast holly bushes near the church door.

‘I’m impressed,’ I tell her.

‘So what’s up? You look a bit peaky.’

‘Just nervous.’

Jasmine mock-punches my arm. ‘You’ll do brilliant, babe.’

I smooth out the skirt of my new wedding dress, wishing I still had my other one. It shimmered, and clung in all the right places, and made me look thinner than this one does with its big white lace flounces. But I push that thought aside. I’m not going to let the memory of what happened to that dress darken my wedding day.

‘Is he here?’ I ask in a whisper.

Louise, adjusting her bridesmaid’s tiara, looks round at me, perplexed. ‘Who?’

‘Dominic, of course.’

‘You bet. In fact, he insisted on getting here a full hour early, Richard said.’ Jasmine laughs, throwing her head back. ‘They couldn’t believe it when I said we were out on the razz last night. They had pizza and watched an action film on the telly, then got an early night. Apparently Dominic was terrified of oversleeping.’

I smile.

Dominic’s best man, Richard, is one of his work mates from the hospital. He’s a big guy with a bushy brown beard and hardly any hair, despite only being in his late twenties. I can just imagine him and Dominic sprawled on the sofa at our flat in front of a film, discarded pizza boxes everywhere, reminiscing about good times as single blokes.

‘Time to go,’ Jasmine says.

The wind whips Louise’s hair into my face and I blink, suddenly nervous again. Of course I’m fine. That’s what I told my father in the car. But is it true? Am I ready to marry Dominic? Marriage is such a huge step.

I peer inside while everyone is fussing around me. The parish church interior is vast and surprisingly ornate. It’s a Church of England service, but quite High Church. There are painted ceilings, and fluted pillars on both sides of the carved wooden pews, and the glow of candlelight is everywhere, augmenting the dull December daylight that comes streaming through the stained-glass windows. The pews to the back are empty, but further forward several rows are full. Mostly Dominic’s friends and work colleagues, by the look of it, though I recognise his aunt and uncle from photos. Since both his parents are dead, and he’s an only child, he was only able to invite a few members of his family to the wedding, which breaks my heart. Though my own family is hardly well-represented either, and he more than makes up for it with his friends, who are numerous and noisy.

Georgia and some of the others from my book club have come along too, even though I haven’t been recently. And I spot Petra and Sharon seated together near the front, heads bent, presumably reading the order of service pamphlets that are on all the pews. Unless they’re on their phones. Online shopping while they wait for the bride . . .

The organist has been playing an upbeat tune to keep everyone happy while they wait. We heard it from outside while the bridesmaids were getting into position behind me. But as I step through the porch door on Dad’s arm, there’s a short, pregnant pause, then the organ strikes up with the familiar opening bars of Wagner’s Bridal Chorus . . .

I see my mother, in the front pew, turning to look at us. Her face lights up under the cream brim of her hat.

Tears come to my eyes, and I stumble over the worn stone step.

‘Careful, darling.’ Dad clutches my arm. Then he asks again, hanging back slightly, watching me, ‘Are you sure you’re okay, Catherine? Do you need a minute?’

‘I’m fine,’ I repeat fiercely.

He gives a nod and we start the long walk to the altar. I only hope it’s true and I’m not kidding myself. Because if I trip up out of sheer nerves, and fall on my face going down the aisle . . .

Then I see Dominic, waiting for me in front of the altar. Everything comes rushing back into focus, like a zoom lens suddenly tightening on one vital spot. To my relief, the numbness vanishes and I can feel again. All my love for him, all our adventures together since we met, all the excitement and passion of our lovemaking, even the tender way he kissed me goodbye before I left for my parents’ house a few days ago.

I find myself breathing fast, my heart thumping wildly as if I’ve been running.

‘I love him,’ I gasp.