One Day in December(69)

And as she walks past me, her eyes on Oscar, I feel something in me break.





Laurie


I woke up at five yesterday morning with a jolt. I could barely believe what had happened. That my best friend hates me; that I have to get married without her by my side. I’ve told Oscar and anyone else who has asked that Sarah had a family emergency and was needed urgently back at home in Bath, that she feels wretched about it but there was nothing she could do. I’m not convinced Mum fully bought the lie, but I’m grateful that she chose not to push me on it because I’d have broken down in tears and blurted out the whole sorry truth.

On the surface I put on a good show, but inside I’m dying. I’m haemorrhaging the people I love and I don’t know how to stop it. Is this just a fact of life? You have to grow up and shed your old friends like papery snakeskin to make room for the new? I sat propped up against the bed pillows in the shadowed hours before dawn yesterday and looked at Oscar’s painting, wishing I could snap my fingers and be there again. He’s moved it from my original hanging place so he can look at it when he lies in bed. It soothed me to see it yesterday; it reminded me that there are other places, and there will be other times. I knew as I lay there that Sarah wouldn’t change her mind about coming to the wedding. I can’t expect her to. I’ve lived with my secret for four years, she’s had less than twenty-four hours to get used to it. It’s too soon. I don’t know if there will ever be a time when it isn’t. I’m on my own now, and because there was no choice but to focus on the wedding, I decided to shut down all other thoughts.

So here I am, standing in the entrance of the church, the same church Oscar’s mother’s parents married in. I couldn’t argue; I was hardly going to drag everyone back to the suburbs of Birmingham, was I? Besides, this place is ridiculously pretty, especially given the sprinkle of frost on the ground. It looked like something out of a fairy tale when the Rolls-Royce – one of Oscar’s choices – pulled up in the picture-perfect village a few minutes ago, and I had a bit of a moment when I wasn’t sure I could breathe. Dad was a trooper; he just patted my hand and let me take my time, steady as a rock.

‘You’re sure this is what you want?’ he asked, and I nodded. I’m as sure as anyone can be.

‘Thank God for that,’ he said. ‘Because, to be perfectly honest, I’m terrified of Oscar’s mother. I had a whisky earlier to be on the safe side.’

We both laughed, and then I choked up a bit so he told me to pack it in and helped me out of the car, wrapping my gran’s fur wedding stole round my shoulders for the walk to the church.

And now we’re in position at the head of the aisle, arm in arm, me in my beloved vintage dress, him splendid in his morning suit. He’s not much of a fan of the top hat, but he’s promised he’ll don it dutifully for the photographs later. Mum phoned me last week to talk about the wedding, and she let it slip that he’s been practising his speech every evening before dinner because he’s terrified he’s going to let me down. I give his arm an extra little squeeze and we share a last ‘let’s do this’ look; I’ve always been a daddy’s girl, and losing Ginny brought us closer still. We’re quite similar, both a bit reserved until we trust someone, both slow to anger and quick to forgive.

Inside the church is a riot of fragrant, tumbling white flowers, all stunning and slightly less tamed than Lucille would have liked. That’s my doing, inadvertently. I’ve been in to see the florist on several occasions about my own flowers and we’ve become quite pally. She could obviously see the gulf between my own informal choice of bouquet and the far more regimented pieces ordered for the church and reception venue. I didn’t expressly ask her to change anything, but I was truthful when she quizzed me on how I’d really like it to look and she’s worked a little magic to give us both something we approve of. I take a deep breath, and we’re off.

Either side of the aisle I see faces, some I know and some I don’t. My family have made the journey; aunts, uncles and cousins keen to get a look at Oscar and the fancy London high-life my mum has no doubt been regaling them with tales of. My colleagues, Oscar’s friends, his ex, Cressida, in a black dress and pearls (Black! What is she, in mourning?), his brother, Gerry, with strait-laced Fliss, tasteful in teal organza. And then I catch sight of Jack. I’m halfway down the aisle, and there he is, shockingly real and smarter than I think I’ve ever seen him. He’s even brushed his hair. I’m not sure what I think of Jack in a suit. But then I can’t think about that any more because his familiar eyes find mine, and I wish I could grip his hand for even a fleeting second before I become Oscar’s wife. With no Sarah here he feels like the only person who knows the real me. Perhaps it’s as well that he’s too far away from me. For a second I wonder whether Sarah told him anything about our fall-out. But they’ve barely spoken since their break-up, and he doesn’t look like he knows a thing. I shoot him the smallest of smiles, and he nods, and thank God my dad keeps walking because it leaves me no choice but to do the same thing.

We haven’t written our own vows. Lucille looked as if I’d asked for naked karaoke when I suggested it, and to be honest Oscar wasn’t very far behind her. I didn’t push it. I’d been half joking anyway, but the look on their faces told me the joke was in poor taste. What did I think this wedding was? Some kind of modern affair?