Something in the Water(16)

“Humph.” Caro shakes her head in solidarity.

I charge on. “And I know as well as he does, it’s ruining his chances of getting something else. And not only that, but even if someone is looking, it’s going to be hard to sell the idea to a future employer that he resigned from his job before getting another position. He says they’re going to wonder why on earth he did that. It just looks weird, apparently. Well, that’s what he’s saying. But I say: Just tell people you didn’t like it there. Or say you wanted a break from work before the run-up to the wedding. I mean, it’s not a crime to take some time off. But then, I do see what he means. It looks weak. To them, I mean. Like he can’t handle the pressure and had to ‘take a break.’ Like he had some kind of breakdown or something. Argh! God, it’s so annoying. Seriously, Caro, it’s driving me nuts. I can’t fix it. Everything I suggest gets batted down. I don’t know what to do. So I just sit there, listening and nodding.”

I stop talking. She shifts in her seat. Looks out at the street and nods sagely before answering.

“I don’t know what to say, hon. It’s fucking frustrating. It’d drive me mad. Mark’s a smart guy, though, isn’t he? I mean—come on, he could do anything, right? Why doesn’t he just get another job? He could work in any industry, really, with his experience. Why doesn’t he just look for something else?”

The answer to that is simple. It’s the same answer I’d give if Caro asked me to change my career. I don’t want to do something else. And Mark doesn’t want to do something else either.

“He could, definitely. But, you know, hopefully it won’t have to come to that. We’re still waiting to hear back about a couple of things. It’s just that the wedding’s coming up and it feels like he’s checked out of it a little bit.”

“Of what? The wedding planning? Or the actual relationship?”

“The…the planning? I don’t know. I don’t know, Caro. No, not the relationship. No.” I feel bad now.

“Is he being an arsehole?” Her tone is now uncharacteristic in its extreme earnestness. I can’t help but laugh out loud.

Caro looks instantly concerned; I guess I’m not acting very characteristic myself right now. I must look nuts.

“Sorry! No. No, he’s not. He’s not being an arsehole.” I glance at her worried face, her crinkled forehead.

There’s no point in this conversation, I realize suddenly. Caro doesn’t know what I should do. She has no idea. She doesn’t even know that much about me. Not really. I mean, we’re friends but we don’t really know each other. I’m not going to find any answers here. I need to talk to Mark. I’m just making a mess here, with this conversation. We should be talking about flowers and cake and hen weekends. I snap myself out of it.

“You know what, I think I’m just hungry! No breakfast,” I confess. “Nothing’s wrong, really, I think I’m just getting jittery about the wedding. And low blood sugar. What I need, what I really need, is a Caesar roll and some of those straw chips. And wine.”

Caro’s smile returns instantly. I’m back. Everything is fine, all stress forgotten. Confession erased. Slate wiped clean. I’ve turned a corner and she’s completely on board. We move on. Thank you, Caro. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why she is my maid of honor.



* * *



—

It’s late afternoon when I finally leave Caro, joining the rush-hour commuters, tipsy and slow, as they pour underground.

On the tube home I think about what I’ll say to him. We need to talk properly. About everything, actually.

Or maybe we just need to fuck. That always seems to reset us. It’s been four days now since we slept together, which for us is long. We’re usually a, at least, once-a-day couple. I know, I know. Don’t get me wrong; I know that’s not a usual amount. I know that after the first year has passed, that is ridiculously sick-making. I know because before I met Mark sex was more of a once-a-month ticketed-event type of thing. Overhyped and ultimately disappointing. Trust me, I’ve been in my fair share of shitty relationships. But we—Mark and I—have never been like that. I want him. I want him all the time. His smell, his face, the back of his neck, his hands on me. Between my legs.

God, I miss him. I feel my pulse racing. The woman in the seat opposite me looks up from her crossword. She frowns. Perhaps she can hear my thoughts.

Underneath my dress I can feel the soft brush of peach silk on skin. Matching underwear. I always wear matching, since I started dating Mark. He loves silk. I cross my legs slowly, feeling skin against skin.





The first wedding-related thing we did, after getting engaged, was to look at venues. We dived straight in. We went to a lot of places: quirky, austere, opulent, futuristic, earthy. You name it, we’ve had a walk-around tour of it. But it was clear once we stepped into the bookish wood-paneled reception rooms at the Café Royal that that was what we wanted. Whatever that was.

Today they’re laying on three options of every course for us to taste privately in the reception rooms, along with wine pairings and champagne choices. We’ve been looking forward to this for a long time, but now that it’s here it seems a tiny bit like a formality. It also seems odd celebrating when Mark is going through all this. But we can’t put life on hold.