The Other Woman(53)

25

Even Mum had struggled to keep the surprised tone out of her voice when I told her that Pammie was accompanying us on our special day out. ‘Oh, okay then, dear, whatever you want to do. It’s your day,’ she’d said democratically.

‘You are fucking joking?’ screeched Pippa, who had no such trouble with her freedom of speech.

I’d ashamedly called Seb the day before to tell him that I’d had second thoughts about him seeing my dress.

‘But I want to see you before anybody else does,’ he’d said. I could tell he was disappointed.

‘You still will,’ I’d said. ‘When you do my hair on the day.’

‘Okay then,’ he’d said abruptly, before putting the phone down.

I don’t know why I kowtowed to pressure, but it just felt the easier thing to do. It took away another problem, which gave me one less to have to deal with or worry about. I had enough going on, and I just wanted a peaceful life.

We’d been waiting at Blackheath station for twenty-five minutes when Pammie decided to show up, making us late for our appointment at the bridal boutique. I hate being late, ask anyone I know what I’m least likely to do and they’ll say, ‘be late’. It’s a real bugbear of mine, how people have so little respect for your time that they can happily waste it. I don’t accept it at work and I don’t expect it in my private life, unless of course there’s a very valid reason. Fire, earthquake, and death are permissible, however Pammie could only offer, ‘Sorry, I missed my train, haven’t made us late, have I?’

I turned my head away from her insincere air kiss and strode on ahead, up the hill towards the heath, leaving both Mum and Pammie flailing behind, and Pippa puffing to keep up.

The door to the shop chimed as we walked in, and I was immediately hit by the heat from the sun blazing through the windows. An oversized arrangement of white lilies sat on a small round table in the middle of the boutique.

‘Good morning, Emily,’ cooed Francesca, my dress designer, as she sashayed towards us. ‘Only two weeks to go till your big day! Are you ready?’

My face was red and blotchy, and I could feel the sweat as it began to collect at the base of my spine. ‘Almost.’ I smiled.

‘I’m really sorry, but as you’re half an hour late, we’re under a slight time restraint as I have my next bride in thirty minutes.’

On what was supposed to be a special day, relaxed and easy, my chest was already tight, a coiled spring of anxiety.

‘But don’t worry,’ she went on, in an attempt to counteract her previous sentence. ‘I’m sure we’ll get everything done.’

I wanted to sit down, have a glass of water, and be calm, before going into the heat of the changing room, but it seemed that time didn’t allow. It hadn’t been a good idea to wear thick tights, as black woolly particles littered the plush cream carpet and stuck firmly between my sweaty toes. This was not going how I wanted it to go, and it took all my strength not to cry. I remonstrated with myself as to how that would make me look, like a pampered princess throwing a hissy fit over trivial details.

Francesca slowly pulled the dress down over my head, as I held my arms aloft, and then she shimmied it past my shoulders and onto my torso. ‘Now for the moment of truth,’ I said, holding my breath, as if that would make it fit better. ‘Let’s see if we need to let it out.’ I offered a half-smile, confident that I’d maintained my goal weight, but doubting my willpower at the same time.

I caught sight of myself in the mirror and almost didn’t recognize the woman staring back. Adorned with chiffon folds softly draping around my chest, my waist cinched in by invisible seams, the ivory silk falling in perfect rivulets to the floor.

How could I be getting married? I still felt like a child inside, playing at a make-believe wedding, yet here I was, supposedly all grown up, ready to take on the responsibilities of being someone’s wife. Adam’s wife. I pictured him standing at the top of the aisle, his face beaming but rigid with nerves as I approach him. My family are smiling, proud of the woman I’ve become, Mum in a navy netted hat and Dad in his smart new suit (‘it’s got a waistcoat, you know’). My brother and his own little family, baby Sophie attempting to escape the confines of her mother’s clutches to the playground of the pews below. Then I turn my head to the right, past Adam, to his brother and best man, James, standing beside him, and guilt wrenches at my heart, squeezing the very life out of it. His mother, her face twisted with hate that only I can see, is clinging onto his arm.

‘Are you ready?’ Francesca asked, popping her head round the curtain.

I nodded nervously. I could hear the chatter on the other side, Pammie’s shrill voice cutting through me like barbed wire.

‘Well, come on then,’ coaxed Francesca, ‘let your public see you.’

I pushed the heavy velvet to one side and stepped out.

‘Oh, Em,’ cried Mum.

‘You look so beautiful,’ said Pippa, her eyes wide, and a hand to her mouth.

‘You think?’ I asked. ‘Is it what you expected?’ I directed the question at Pippa, but it was Pammie who answered it.

‘No,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I thought it was going to be . . . I don’t know . . . bigger, I suppose.’