The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight(33)
“Sure,” she says, allowing herself to be led in the direction of the open doors at the end of the long corridor. She feels a bit like she’s sleepwalking and concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other, figuring the only way out of this—this wedding, this weekend, this whole blessed event—is to just keep moving forward.
“Hey,” Dad says, pausing just before they reach the door. He leans over and kisses Hadley’s forehead. “I’m really glad you’re here.”
“Me, too,” she murmurs, falling back again as Dad loops an arm around Charlotte, pulling her close before they step outside together. A cheer goes up from the crowd at the sight of them, and though she knows all eyes are on the bride, Hadley still feels far too visible, so she hangs back until Dad half turns and motions for her to follow them.
The sky above is still shot through with silver, a glittery mix of sun and clouds, and the umbrellas have all but disappeared. Hadley trails after the happy couple as Dad shakes hands and Charlotte kisses cheeks, occasionally introducing her to people she’ll never remember, repeating names she barely hears—Dad’s colleague Justin and Charlotte’s wayward cousin Carrie; the flower girls, Aishling and Niamh; and Reverend Walker’s portly wife—the whole unfamiliar cast assembled on the lawn like a reminder of all that Hadley doesn’t know about her father.
It seems that most of the guests will attend the reception later this evening, but they’re unable to wait until then to offer their heartfelt congratulations, and the joy in their faces is contagious. Even Hadley can’t help but be stirred by the momentousness of the day, until she notices a woman balancing a baby on her hip, and the leaden feeling returns again.
“Hadley,” Dad is saying as he guides her over to an older couple, “I want you to meet some very good friends of Charlotte’s family, the O’Callaghans.”
Hadley shakes each of their hands, nodding politely. “Nice to meet you.”
“So this is the famous Hadley,” says Mr. O’Callaghan. “We’ve heard so much about you.”
It’s difficult to hide her surprise. “Really?”
“Of course,” Dad says, squeezing her shoulder. “How many daughters do you think I have?”
Hadley is still just staring at him, unsure of what to say, when Charlotte arrives at his side again and greets the older couple warmly.
“We just wanted to say congratulations before we go,” says Mrs. O’Callaghan. “We’ve got a funeral, of all things, but we’ll be back for the reception later.”
“Oh, how sad,” Charlotte says. “I’m so sorry. Whose is it?”
“An old friend of Tom’s, from his Oxford law days.”
“That’s terrible,” Dad says. “Is it far?”
“Paddington,” Mr. O’Callaghan says, and Hadley whips her head to look at him.
“Paddington?”
He nods, looking at her a little uncertainly, then turns back to Dad and Charlotte. “It starts at two, so we’d better be off. But congrats again,” he says. “We’re looking forward to tonight.”
As they leave, Hadley stares after them, her mind racing. The thinnest sliver of a thought is threading its way through her, but before she has a chance to grab hold of it Violet pushes through the crowd to announce that it’s time for photos.
“Hope you’re ready to smile till your face hurts,” she tells Hadley, who is about as far from ready to smile as is possible right now. Once again, she allows herself to be nudged forward, malleable as a piece of putty, as Dad and Charlotte follow along behind her, leaning into each other as if there’s nobody else around.
“Ah, I thought we were missing somebody,” jokes the photographer when she sees the bride and groom. The rest of the wedding party is already gathered in the garden around the side of the church, the same place where Hadley found her way inside earlier. One of the other bridesmaids hands her a small mirror, and she holds it gingerly, blinking back at herself, her mind a million miles away.
Hadley has no idea whether Paddington is a town or a neighborhood or even just a street. All she knows is that it’s where Oliver lives, and she squeezes her eyes shut and tries to think back to what he said on the plane. Someone takes the mirror from her clammy hands, and she blindly follows the photographer’s pointed finger to a spot on the grass, where she stands obediently as the others assemble themselves around her.
When she’s told to smile, Hadley forces her lips into a shape that she hopes might resemble one. But her eyes sting with the effort of organizing her thoughts, and all she can picture is Oliver at the airport with that suit slung over his shoulder.
Had he ever actually said he was going to a wedding?
The camera clicks and whirs as the photographer arranges the wedding party in different combinations: the whole group; then just the women and just the men; then several variations on the family itself, the most awkward of which involves Hadley standing between her father and her brand-new stepmother. It’s impossible to know how she gets from one spot to another, but somehow she’s there all the same, her smile so falsely bright that her cheeks ache, her heart sinking like a weight in water.
It’s him, she thinks as the camera flashes. It’s Oliver’s father.
She knows nothing for sure, of course, but as soon as she attaches the words to it, gives name to the shapeless thoughts in her head, she’s suddenly certain it must be true.