The Other Woman(28)

My voice caught in my throat. ‘So, what happened, then? What have the doctors said?’

‘They’ve carried out all sorts of tests – blood pressure, heart, urine – and she’s as good as new.’

I stayed silent.

‘Em?’

‘So, what could have caused it?’ I asked, trying to keep the edge in my voice from creeping in.

If he noticed the intonation, he didn’t say. ‘They think it must have been a case of dehydration. She’s admitted to not looking after herself these past few days, being all stressed about the party and forgetting to eat and drink. She’s then gone and chucked back a couple of glasses of wine and it was goodnight-vienna.’

‘Wow, so that’s all it was?’ I managed.

‘Well, not exactly, dehydration is pretty serious in itself, but they’ve got her wired up to a saline drip and say she can leave as soon as the bag’s finished. I’m going to bring her back to ours for a few days, just so she can rest and I can keep an eye on her.’

I could feel the sting of tears at the back of my throat. ‘Why can’t James look after her?’ I blurted out, before I could stop myself.

‘James?’ he questioned, his tone a little tighter. ‘Because he’s busy and he’s got enough to deal with. That girlfriend of his is still giving him the run-around and I don’t think work is going too well. Anyway, we’ve got a spare bedroom now, thank God, so let’s put it to use.’

‘I assume she’s going to let us sleep together at ours?’ I asked curtly, trying to keep my selfish misery from creeping in.

He laughed, but it sounded empty. ‘I think she’s going to have to, don’t you? Now that you’re about to become Mrs Banks.’

I smiled through my tears, desperately trying to remember the moment he’d proposed; the moment that I’d spent years dreaming about. As a child, I’d imagined my prince going down on one knee and asking me to be his wife in front of thousands of people gathered in a town square. I’d had romantic notions of a cathedral wedding, with me dressed in vintage lace with a train the length of Princess Diana’s – Mum had been a huge fan of hers, and I remember the Sunday morning that she had woken me up, with tears streaming down her face, to tell me that the Princess had died. We sat in front of the TV all day, along with millions of others, praying that someone had got it wrong. I was too young to understand who she was and how big a deal it was, but I remember being mesmerized by the clips of her wedding to Prince Charles – by how beautiful she was, and how magical her day had been. I’d spent weeks walking up and down the landing in a white Disney gown retrieved from the bottom of my dressing-up box, with a sheet pegged to the back of it. Whilst I was in cloud cuckoo land, my dad was complaining to anyone who would listen that I was a fire risk, and Stuart was trying to relieve himself of his obligatory role as chief bridesmaid just as soon as he could.

I’d always assumed that when my moment came, it would be ingrained in my memory forever, be something I could tell my children and grandchildren about. I’d recount how I’d proudly shown off the promise of betrothal as it sparkled on my finger. How I’d looked deep into my fiancé’s eyes before whispering yes. The excitement of family and friends as they rushed to congratulate us and ask when the impending nuptials were likely to be.

Yet here I am, just a few hours later, barely able to recall if it had ever happened. I must have said yes; I had the ring to prove it. But as Pammie’s collapse had happened at precisely the same time, I couldn’t picture anything but the shock and horror etched on people’s faces, and the ensuing panic thereafter. It was as if our moment had never happened at all.

‘Might you stay up? Wait for us to get home?’ Adam asked.

I absently looked at my watch and acknowledged that it was three minutes later than the last time I checked. It didn’t matter. Even though it was now Saturday, and usually a work day for me, I’d already booked it off as holiday. Though I’d presumed I’d be sleeping off a monster hangover, rather than staying up on my own, into the early hours, wondering whether my future mother in-law was going to last the night.

‘I’ll try,’ I managed, ‘but I can’t promise anything.’

‘It’s been a hell of a night.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I was hoping we might be able to consummate our engagement.’

It was a statement rather than a question. I wondered how he could even think about sex at a time like this. But I guess in any other circumstances, it would have been a given. No doubt we would have spent the night and the entire following day in bed, alternating between making love and looking at wedding venues on our iPads. I couldn’t imagine doing either of those now. I guess that must be one of the fundamental differences between how the male and female minds work.

‘We’ll see,’ I said.

I put the phone down, poured myself another glass of wine, and sobbed hot selfish tears. Pity wasn’t an emotion I often applied to myself, but it was the only one that I could relate to. I didn’t feel happy or sad, I just felt incredibly sorry for myself, numb from the resounding questions spinning in my head. What had I done to deserve this? Was I really the best thing that had ever happened to Adam? Why did Pammie hate me so much?

But the question that banged on the door the loudest, the one I refused to let in, was: did she do it on purpose?