White Bodies(49)

But I can see that, as he suggested, there’s nothing discreet about her—that to fit into Felix’s concept of the perfect woman she would have had to change herself. It seems strange to me that such a strong character would have attempted to do that. If she did, it’s further evidence of Felix’s power. I can’t help it—I open my laptop and go to the dossier, and I write about Francesca Moroni. I wish she were here, that I could talk to her right now, reassure myself that it’s okay for Tilda to marry Felix. If only I could just go to Curzon Street and argue it out with Tilda—but she won’t allow that. She’d defend Felix, and cut me out of her life. I write also: I’d like to check the memory stick to see if Tilda has added anything to her letter. But I can’t. She’ll be at the flat until the wedding, and will know if I take it. I’ll have to wait until she’s away on honeymoon.





24


St. Gregory’s church in Berkshire is pretty. It’s Norman, set centrally in a graveyard with old, leaning headstones, the names on them smoothed away by the wind or partially hidden by moss. Before the wedding, I walk around, trying to make them out, forming images of Emily Jane Goode, who died in 1830 at the age of twenty-one, and Henry Watson, who perished in a foreign field in 1809, at the age of twenty-nine. And those who lived to be old, Ernest Norwood Richardson, ninety-three, who is buried with a dozen or more of his descendants, perpetually guarded by a mournful stone angel. I sit on a rickety bench by a wall, and find that I’m missing Wilf. I wish he were here today, that the incident with the Mail had never happened. I would find his big, earthy presence comforting, and I need comfort. I’m in a troubled daze, knocked almost senseless by the occasion, unable to work out whether I’m happy for my sister or whether she’s on a path that has nowhere to lead other than her own death.

Mum weaves her way through the graves towards me, unsteady in high heels, and I grin at her, feeling suddenly affectionate. I’d helped choose the floral chiffon dress she’s wearing, with dangly bits at the bottom, and the shocking-pink fascinator. I’m a little unnerved by the ankle tattoo, but it’s not as bad as I’d feared.

“You look lovely.” I notice that her complexion looks fresh and youthful. Sometimes it is infused with the high blush of too much alcohol, but not today.

“You too, darling.” I’m wearing the blue dress that Daphne bought me, and the suede ankle boots. I didn’t want to buy anything new.

“The Nordberg parents have arrived, all the way from Boston, come and meet them. Erik and Alana. They seem jolly nice. . . .”

She takes my hand, pulls me up from the bench, and we join Mr. and Mrs. Nordberg in the vestibule of the church. They each kiss me lightly on my cheek, and welcome me into their family. Erik comments on the beauty of the church, and Alana says, “We’re both so happy for Felix and Tilda,” in a light, vague voice that somehow sounds regal, like she is the queen of Sweden. She’s wearing a simple beige silk dress, no hat, and her husband looks chic in a well-cut dark suit. They are both skinny and tall, and they make our curves and Mum’s chiffon seem provincial, almost tacky. Lucas appears and ushers us into the church, and we are sent to the bride’s side, while the Nordbergs sit behind Felix, who turns to chat to his parents, his arm draped languorously along the back of the pew, not reflecting the tension that he holds in his gray eyes, which dart around the church, checking everything is in place—the walls, the roof, the congregation.

It’s the smallest of weddings, a cluster of a dozen people each side of the aisle. I recognize Paige Mooney (definitely obese now, dressed in ruched layers of green polyester) and Jacob Thynne (from his appearance on-screen), but no one else. Kimberley hasn’t made it, apparently, or Sasha. Felix’s guests look like they belong to a single tribe, financial people, slick and neat. I lean my head on Mum’s shoulder, like I used to when I was a child, and she says, “Chip, chip.”

“Will Tilda be all right?” I say.

“Let’s hope so.”

“I love the church.” It is simple and ancient, and the air inside is heavy, infused with the cold scent of rain and stone.

“You were christened here. My parents were married here. . . .”

“Tilda told me. . . . It’s weird that I didn’t know.”

The wedding march starts, and we stand and turn to look at the bride, and I’m confused by what I see. She’s beautiful, of course, wearing a simple white satin dress with long sleeves, and she has small white flowers in her hair; there’s a hint of A Midsummer Night’s Dream about her. My heart skips a beat at the sight of those long sleeves, covering up who-knows-what injuries to her arms; I am stung too by the sight of the man standing beside her, linking her arm, and I turn to Mum and say, “Did she tell you?” and she shakes her head. Liam Brookes is leading my sister up the aisle, with the hint of a smile, and there is something so comfortable and easy about the two of them, it seems like they are from the same family. He looks just the same as when I last saw him ten years ago, his long, honest face and relaxed way of walking. After he leaves Tilda facing Felix, ready to take her vows, he slips into our pew, beside me, and whispers, “Hello, Callie.”

“I didn’t know you and Tilda were still so close,” I whisper back.

So quietly I can barely hear him, he says, “I’ve always been her safety net. . . .”