‘I know she is. And – oh, Daddy, we’ll think of something. Anyway, Mummy’s wondering where you are, wants you to come down. Shall I tell her you’re still asleep?’
‘No. Just give me a few minutes. Bless you, darling. Don’t say anything to anyone about all this, will you?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it. Promise.’
It was almost seven when Charles arrived: he looked exhausted but cheerful.
‘Sorry, everyone. I got held up in the office. Lot to do before I left.’
‘Oh well, I suppose we can’t be cross with you tonight. Juliet’s rung twice.’
‘I’ll ring her in a minute. It’s been a bit of a week, you know.’
‘Yes, of course. Your stag night on Wednesday – how did that go?’
‘Oh, it was great. Yes. Jeremy was fantastic. Really good value. He organised most of it. You’ve got a good one there, Eliza.’
‘He’s not mine,’ she said irritably. People kept assuming that it was only a matter of time before she and Jeremy got engaged, and – he just didn’t seem anywhere near asking her. He hadn’t actually told her he loved her, not really. He said he loved being with her, and of course she loved being with him, and he’d told her he’d never felt about any girl the way he felt about her: but that wasn’t quite the same thing. In fact it wasn’t the same thing at all.
It was as if he was feeling his way and – well, that was all right. It wasn’t a decision you could – or should – make in a hurry.
And, actually, she felt a little bit the same. If he did ask her, then obviously she wouldn’t turn him down. Nobody would.
But – and what was the but? It hovered very vaguely in the background, but whenever she tried to analyse it, she couldn’t even work out what it was.
‘So, what did you do on your stag night, Charles?’ she asked now. ‘Hope you didn’t get tied up to a lamp post without your trousers, like my friend Nick did last month.’
‘Oh – no. Nothing like that. It was quite tame really. Well, I got jolly pissed of course, but—’
‘No strip joints? Charles, I’m disappointed in you.’
‘Well, I’m sorry. Not really my sort of thing, as you know.’ He grinned. He did look very happy, she thought. Which was all that mattered. And he had a new assurance these days that was very good to see.
‘I’d better go and ring Juliet. Then I’ll have a good strong drink.’
She heard his voice, kind and concerned. ‘Hello, darling. Yes, I know. I’m so sorry. I was working late. No, of course I didn’t realise you’d be worried. How are you anyway? Yes, of course I understand.’
Eliza couldn’t bear to hear any more. She went out onto the terrace, and breathed in the lovely rose-laden air. It reminded her of her dance, that air, when life had been so simple and her father had been well and Charles had just left Oxford with girls throwing themselves at him, and there had been no bloody Juliet anywhere; it seemed a long time ago …
Charles seemed very calm at supper, no pre-wedding nerves visible, and conducted a brisk discussion with his father about the advisability of buying shares in BP; there was much talk of oilfields in the North Sea.
‘I’d certainly buy into one of the companies,’ he said, ‘maybe not BP. Their share price is too high already, but maybe one of the companies who are building the drilling platforms. What do you think, Pa?’
‘I’d get into it like a shot,’ said Adrian. ‘I was reading all about it the other day, sure they’re going to find something – don’t look at me like that, Sarah, I know my speculating days are over. Interesting prospect though, isn’t it? Think what it would do for the economy.’
The phone rang twice during supper: both times Eliza answered it, thinking it might be Jeremy. The first time it was Juliet; she sounded very intense. ‘Oh, Eliza, could I just speak to Charles, quickly. I’m sorry if you’re having supper. I just feel so – so emotional. I know he can calm me down.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise. I’m sure all brides must feel pretty emotional the night before their wedding.’
‘Well yes, of course. But I have always been rather inclined to go over the top. I can’t help it, it’s the way I’m made. Mummy’s the same, terribly over-sensitive.’
‘I’ll go and get him,’ said Eliza quickly. She couldn’t be rude to Juliet tonight of all nights.
The second call was her again. ‘Sorry, Eliza, but could I speak to him again? Just to say goodnight, you know? You must think I’m awfully silly.’
‘No, no, of course not,’ said Eliza. She half-expected Charles to be as irritated as she was, but he jumped up looking rather pleased. It must be love. No other explanation …
At quarter to ten, Charles stood up.
‘Better turn in,’ he said, ‘believe I’ve got a big day tomorrow.’
‘Really?’ said Sarah, smiling. ‘What’s that about then?’
She couldn’t sleep for a long time. She lay awake, thinking about the next day, about Charles, about how sad she felt to be losing him and to someone so unworthy of him. But – he was so clearly happy: maybe they didn’t understand Juliet. Maybe she had lots of qualities they just didn’t appreciate. Maybe they hadn’t tried hard enough. But they had, they had.
Well, all they could do was hope for the best. Starting with the wedding. It should be fun, anyway. Lots of old friends. And a few new ones. Like Matt Shaw …
She was really pleased he was coming; it meant he’d properly forgiven her.
She’d really enjoyed doing the interview with him, not just because it had been Matt, and finding out about Matt, but actually doing it. She’d liked moving the conversation along, flattering him and flirting with him more than he realised. Well, she hoped more than he realised. Probably actually not. God, he was clever. And tough. She’d left him feeling quite – odd. Thinking of the raw, nervy lad she’d met at Waterloo station only a few years ago, and how he’d turned into this cool, hungry, ready-for-anything creature exuding confidence and courage. And sex. You really couldn’t ignore the sex. And so yes, his girlfriend would certainly be very sexy too. No doubt about that. Well, that was all right. It was nothing to do with her, what sort of girlfriend Matt Shaw had. Nothing whatsoever.
The church looked wonderful, Sarah thought, huge urns of roses and white peonies on either side of the screen, wonderful arrangements of scabious and cow-parsley on the windowsills, an inspiration of the local florist she had used – ‘I thought we should have something natural and countrified’ – and white-ribboned bunches of sweetheart roses hung on the end of every pew. And a wonderful arch of white roses and moss over the church door to welcome people as they arrived.
She walked in with Adrian, smiling and nodding at such of the congregation as she knew – at least half: and there was no doubt about it, their half was so much better-looking and better dressed. She’d never seen so much brightly coloured lace in her life as on the Judd side, including Carol’s suit, which was a pink that could only be described as hectic. And there were a lot of painfully ill-fitting and new-looking morning coats, obviously hired. A lot of the Judd side were nursing top hats as well, dreadful new-looking grey things; oh, dear, she did hope their friends would all understand.
Charles was sitting at the front, looking dreadfully nervous, but so handsome; and beside him Jeremy, his best man, calm, smiling, utterly at ease. What an asset he had been all day: arriving as promised, really early, his E-type pulling up outside the house just after nine. ‘I said I wouldn’t let you down, old chap,’ he said, clapping a white-faced Charles on the back, kissing Sarah and then taking Eliza into his arms in a bear hug. He really did seem to adore Eliza, Sarah thought; maybe this weekend, maybe the magic of another wedding …
As she sat in the bridesmaids’ car, feeling pretty miserable really, waiting for Juliet to arrive, Eliza saw Matt. He looked nervous, on the edge of the crowd, but pretty good, she thought; but then all men did in morning dress. What really engaged her rather miserable attention was the girl with him. Who was, quite simply, stunning. Quite small, long, brown, blond-streaked hair, done in sort of Pre-Raphaelite waves, with a great cartwheel of a hat trimmed with a ribbon the same fabric as her Biba chiffon dress. She was, without doubt, the most stylish as well as one of the prettiest in the crowd outside the church. Even Maddy, who had rushed over to say hello, looking stunning in one of her own crocheted silk dresses, and a matching crocheted bonnet, could not compete with her. She was quite pale, and enragingly cool-looking, with a tiny little tipped-up nose, the sort of nose Eliza had always longed for, and the most enormous grey eyes, double-fake-lashed of course and a very sexy mouth, and every so often she tapped Matt’s arm and reached up to whisper in his ear, in that way very flirty girls did, and he would smile back at her and nod.
And here she was, dressed from neck to ankle in sickly pink frills, her face heating up to match it – with her ringlets, the twee little basket of flowers they all had to carry instead of ordinary posies and, worst of all, silver pumps. Silver! Why silver? They were slightly too tight as well, and she could feel her feet swelling inside them already.
They hadn’t seen her yet, Matt and the girl; but they would, they would, and how, Eliza thought, was she going to get through the rest of the afternoon looking like she did, while that girl, that lovely girl, Matt’s coolly beautiful girlfriend, looked like she did? Oh, stop it, Eliza; what did it matter what Matt’s girlfriend thought of her? And what was it to her? Nothing, absolutely nothing.
The music was beautiful. Luckily Juliet had claimed that she had no ear for music (‘I just know what I like’) and had agreed that Charles and Sarah should make the initial suggestions, ‘And then Mummy and I’ll make the final choice. She’s got much more of an ear than I have.’
And Sarah and Charles, both very musical, had had several wonderful meetings with the church organist, John Phillips, who was quite exceptionally talented; he sang with a nationally acclaimed choir and had trained his small village throng with great care and skill and the most extraordinarily lovely music issued from the church, especially at evensong. He had made enough traditional suggestions to satisfy the most conventional of brides, while adding such strokes of genius as having the choir sing “Laudate Dominum” for the signing of the register.
So the music at least would not be commonplace, or even common. Sarah, sitting and listening to John Phillips playing Handel’s
Water Music
, and then slipping into
The Cuckoo and the Nightingale
– ‘known in the business as “The Cuckold and the Nightingale”, he had said with a twinkle – slipped her hand into Adrian’s, took a deep breath, and allowed herself to relax. It was all going to be all right. It really, really was.
It was all very – very nice really, Matt thought. He’d never been in such a pretty church in his life – well, he hadn’t been in many churches at all, come to that, his parents were not religious and he couldn’t really remember being in one since school carol services.
Everyone looked extremely smart, and although it was odd to see such a large gathering of people dressed identically, it was actually rather nice. He noticed a lot of blokes looking at Gina, and felt a rush of pride, almost as if she was properly his. Watch it, Matt, you’ll get carried away if you’re not careful. Infectious, this wedding business. Louise had warned him of that, when she’d left the office the night before.
‘You be careful, Matt, lots of men propose at weddings. Bit too much champagne, all that talk of love and commitment and you find yourself saying all sorts of things you don’t really mean.’
A really pretty woman came in, dressed in pale lemon yellow, on the arm of a rather fragile-looking old chap: they sat down just behind Charles. Must be the parents; Matt looked at them interestedly. They looked different from how he’d expected, had an air of gentleness and courtesy about them; they were joined shortly by another couple, who were more what he’d expected, embracing them rather exuberantly, with cries of ‘lovely … wonderful … marvellous … so exciting’. The man was rather stout and red-faced and the woman was tall and looked particularly imposing, dressed in dark red silk with a sort of turban hat and rows and rows of pearls round an indisputably wrinkly neck. Every so often she would jump up from her seat and rush to embrace someone in the aisle, braying (there was no other word for it) ‘Binky!’ or ‘Rozzy!’ and other such names.
‘Must be a relative,’ hissed Gina. ‘God, this is fun.’
And then the music paused; and then it changed; and everyone stood up, and the bride and her father stood in the doorway of the church, the light behind them, and the choir began to sing Vivaldi’s
Gloria
; and the magic that takes over a wedding – any wedding – began to do its work.
Juliet did look really lovely. Eliza had to admit it. Of course, it was difficult not to look lovely in a wedding dress, unless you were a complete fright, and Juliet was an extremely pretty girl. And Charles’s face, fixed on her as she walked down the aisle, showed his very clear pleasure and pride.
The dress was exactly what she had expected it to be, a tiered confection of a thing, all tulle and lace, with a full skirt and tight bodice, long sleeves, and a modestly swathed boat neckline. She looked, Eliza thought, exactly like a Disney princess. Her hair was drawn up in a tower of curls, her veil very long, gallantly tended to by four pageboys in blue silk suits, complete with knee breeches; her bouquet was a slightly over-large arrangement of pink roses. The eight bridesmaids wore dresses that were a simpler version of the bride’s own – four of them in pink and four in mauve, with white roses in their ringlets. Eliza – relieved at least to be in the pink party, not the mauve – smiling until her face ached, felt oddly lonely, looking at a church-full of people, half of whom were strangers and to whom in some strange way Charles was defecting. Then she saw Jeremy, so absurdly handsome in his morning dress, first grin and then wink at her and she felt much better.