White Bodies(50)
As the service begins, I think, This is the moment, and she says, in a clear, confidant voice, “With this ring I thee wed.” I try to go along with the spirit of the day, ignoring the side of me that is scared, that is in free fall. I’ll put my sister’s wishes first. I think, I’ll be friendly to Felix, give him the benefit of the doubt. At least until I’ve stolen back the memory stick after the wedding. Tilda and Felix are off to Santorini for a week. It’s a Greek island apparently.
The vicar says, “I now declare you husband and wife,” so that’s it—there’s no going back—and I conquer my nausea and smile as Tilda and Felix walk away from the altar, amongst us, their eyes sparkling, Tilda laughing out loud with happiness, doing a tiny skip with her feet, Felix’s arm squeezing her tight. It’s just like any normal wedding. That is, until we leave the church and find three press photographers hanging about outside—two scruffy middle-aged men and a young woman looking cool in black jeans and black T-shirt. Felix says, “For fuck’s sake,” and Lucas dashes over and tells them to take a couple of pictures and “Please leave, guys. Allow Felix and Tilda to enjoy their day.” Nobody expects them to actually go, but they do, the young woman waving good-bye as she slings her camera over her shoulder and climbs into an old, open-top sports car. “Assholes,” says Lucas. “How did they know?”
“They always know.” I’m thinking about Wilf.
The reception is in a nearby country-house hotel, a gray stone Edwardian pile with vast bay windows and castellated walls, and freshly mown grass that stretches down to the Thames. The weather’s overcast and breezy, but fine, and champagne is served on the lawn. I take a glass and find myself in a small group with Mum, the Nordberg parents and two friends of Felix’s, expensive-looking men. They’re talking not about the wedding, or how gorgeous Tilda looks, but about the international debt crisis, and the European outlook. Felix’s friends are quizzing Erik, the eminent economist, while Alana smiles on softly, in a way that has obviously been honed and perfected over the years. Erik’s glass of champagne is in one hand, and he’s gesturing with it, with large swinging motions, as he pronounces on the failings of the Greek finance minister and the euro. His other hand is on the small of his wife’s back, one finger moving back and forth. I wonder whether this is the model for Felix and Tilda’s marriage, the one desired by Felix at least, because, despite her recent attempts at wifeyness, I can’t see Tilda being submissive in the long term. It’s not in her nature.
I slip away, unnoticed, and am ambushed by Paige Mooney, a gigantic vision in lime, tottering on silver sandals with a six-inch heel. Her toenails are painted green, neatly and professionally, but they belong to lumpy uneven toes that have grown at strange angles to each other.
She gives me a big damp kiss on one cheek. “Callie! You’re looking so lovely . . . so different!”
“Paige! You look just the same!” I don’t add, but even fatter. “How are the children?”
She tells me, at length, about Harrison, who’s ten now and has taken up drumming, and Edie, eight, who wants to be an actress like Auntie Tilda, and Frankie, five, who has learning difficulties but is doing brilliantly in his new school. She prattles on and on, explaining that Robbie was sad he couldn’t come to the wedding, but that it’s his sister’s thirtieth birthday today, and that she—Paige—was totally amazed that Tilda invited her to the wedding, but she was sad there were no bridesmaids, she would have loved to have been asked, and she was disappointed that she doesn’t see much of Tilda these days, and she is so very, very pleased that Tilda is settling down, she had wondered whether she was the type, “If you understand me . . .”
“Not sure. . . .”
She makes her voice go breathy and excited. “Well! I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d ended up with another girl. . . .”
I glare at her, and splutter, realizing that it’s this sort of nonsense that made Tilda drop Paige.
“What in hell’s name makes you think that?”
“Oh I don’t know.” She looks up at the sky, for inspiration. “Maybe just the way we used to be when we were in the Whisper Sisters, she was so touchy and strokey and kissy.”
“But she was in love with Liam back then.”
“I know! And he led her down the aisle too. What do you make of that? I thought—that just shows she wasn’t really in love with him, that it was all a show, or maybe she was in love with the idea of him—the heroic doctor and all that.”
“It was real, Paige. You should have seen her after she was dumped. She went into psychological meltdown.”
“Oh, I’m probably wrong—I usually am. Probably it was just us adoring her that I’m remembering.”
I can’t stand any more of her idiocy, and I make an excuse, saying I’m going to find Tilda now—but really I’m looking for Liam. There’s so much I want to ask him—how are his dreams working out? Does he like being a doctor? I look around, but I can’t see him amongst our group. I realize that I want him to be the person to tell me that Tilda is fine, that she’s made a good choice in Felix. The Liam I used to know had such good sense, good instincts. I think too that Tilda has probably confided in Liam, was straight in a way that she never is with me.