Authors: Joanne Phillips
I wander into the church and find my mum dressed up like an aging TV presenter at Ascot. I’ve promised myself that I’ll be nice to her all day today. Which will clearly include lying. But I’m sure she’ll appreciate the gesture.
‘Mum,’ I gush, ‘love the hat.’
I think the hat is meant to resemble a monotone basket of fruit, although I can’t be completely sure. Through the white netting I can just about see her eyes. She looks nervous.
‘This blasted thing keeps making me sneeze,’ she says by way of a greeting. She holds her nostrils between manicured fingers and I suppress a smile.
‘Where did you get it from?’
‘Oxfam,’ she hisses. ‘But don’t tell your father.’
‘OK. But ... why?’
My mother pulls me to one side, while smiling and waving at incoming guests as though she’s the queen. ‘I couldn’t decide if I should wear a hat or not, that’s why. It’s not as if I’ve done this before, or had any idea how to dress for it. You’ve been no help, whingeing on all the time about how pointless it all is, and your father hasn’t a clue. I didn’t want to spend a lot of money on a hat I’d wear only once.’
Or maybe never would be a better choice. I bite my tongue and say, as kindly as I can, ‘Take it off then, why don’t you?’
‘Should I? Oh, I just can’t decide. Your aunt Marjorie is over there, look, and she’s wearing a hat. Surely the bride should wear one too?’
‘Mum,’ I say, sighing heavily, ‘for the hundredth time, you are not getting married. You are already married. This is just a blessing.’
‘Yes, well, we all know what you think of it, Stella. But I didn’t think you’d resent your old mum her moment of glory, despite the mess you made of your own big day.’
It’s at times like this I wonder why daughters aren’t given a manual when they are twelve or thirteen:
How To Manage Your Mother
would be the title, or something similar. Maybe their fathers could help put it together, and it would explain all those little oddities that make no sense: the mysterious offence-taking at the slightest thing; the strange moods and disconcerting glances; the snipes and cutting remarks handed out along with defiant declarations of love.
On second thoughts, fathers would probably be no use either. My dad, besotted with my mum as he is, has less of a clue than I do about what goes on in her mind.
But I’ve decided to go out on a limb here, so I’m not going to react the way I usually would. I let her remark pass and I tip my head down slightly and give her a gentle kiss on the cheek. The look on her face is priceless. She meets my eye and smiles. I grin and hold out my hands.
‘OK. Give me the evil hat.’
‘Thanks, Stella. You’re a life saver.’
My mother takes the offending article off her head and I drop it on the floor and stamp on it. ‘Oh, Mum, I’m so sorry,’ I wail. ‘How on earth did that happen?’
‘Must have been a sudden draught,’ she says, smirking. ‘Never mind, love.’ And then she gives me a quick hug and traipses off to say hello to the vicar – a long-haired, far-too-young-looking guy called Nigel, who almost certainly wears a thrash metal T-shirt under his robe. Mum turns my way, primed to introduce me, and I nearly give myself whiplash in my hurry to look elsewhere.
Lipsy, Robert and Phoenix arrive, and I slip into the pew beside them. A distant relative of my dad pushes us all along from the other end until I’m crammed up against the aisle. I turn to check if everyone’s here, and that’s when I see him.
Paul.
Lit from behind like an angel, he’s standing in the arched doorway looking drop-dead gorgeous and completely bewildered.
Paul? Here? I rub my eyes and look again. He’s still there. He steps inside the church and looks around. Runs his hand through his hair. Then he turns and slides into a pew near the back.
Oh. My. God.
My head snaps back as though it’s on elastic. Did he see me? I don’t think so. He looked uncertain, but not angry. Anxious. Intense.
He looked amazing.
The music starts up – the wedding march, for goodness sake, which seems particularly inappropriate right now – and I try to calm my breathing.
‘Lipsy,’ I hiss.
‘What?’
My mother steps up to the front of the church where my dad is waiting. He’s wearing a dark grey suit with the faintest pinstripe and looks dignified and handsome. He turns to face her and beams. The sound of chatter that has filled the church dies down and there is an expectant pause.
‘Paul’s here,’ I whisper. Lipsy pulls a face, mouths, ‘What?’
I lean over and whisper into her ear. ‘Oh,’ she says, smiling widely and nodding. ‘That’s great, Mum.’
‘No,’ I tell her, ‘it is not great. It’s a bloody nightmare. What is he doing here, anyway?’
‘Shh,’ says someone behind me. I don’t bother to turn around, for obvious reasons.
Someone must have invited him. How would he even know about it otherwise? Someone who has a vested interest in getting us back together, perhaps. Someone who likes to meddle.
‘Is this your doing?’ I say to Lipsy.
She gives me a wide-eyed look, innocence personified, then gestures to the lectern. The vicar is stepping up, smoothing down his black robes and smiling benevolently at the congregation. He starts to talk. His voice is high-pitched and artificially loud. I lean over again, and tell my daughter, ‘If it was, I’ll never forgive you.’
Lipsy shakes her head and looks away, but I’m sure I can detect the trace of a nervous frown across her forehead. I turn back to face the lectern. The vicar’s words are a blur to me, just a buzz of noise. Dad starts to speak, reading from a crumpled piece of paper.
Surely Lipsy wouldn’t do that to me? Surely my little girl wouldn’t go behind my back and invite Paul without telling me anything about it? Maybe it was my mother. Maybe she invited him just to spite me.
But why on earth would he accept?
I don’t dare risk turning around to see if he’s still there. Maybe it wasn’t him after all. Maybe I was hallucinating. I mean, he can’t be here, can he? That would be crazy. Unless …
Unless he’s come to confront me about the baby. Of course. That’s it! Sharon’s only just told him and he’s furious. Or she told him a while ago and he’s been brewing, waiting for the right opportunity to humiliate me. What could be a better venue for my humiliation than my mum and dad’s blessing? It’s kind of poetic.
I thought he hated confrontation. I underestimated him.
My stomach gurgles with anxiety. I’m trapped here now, until the service is over, but as soon as possible I’ll find a way to get out of here before Paul sees me. I try to focus on the ceremony; my mother is talking now, her voice low and indistinct. But my reaction to seeing Paul is messing with my head. The first thing I felt? Total and utter joy.
Followed by complete panic, of course. But there’s no denying that lifting of my heart when I saw him. His face, so dear to me for so many years; that walk of his with his shoulders held wide and strong; his curly blonde hair glinting in the sunlight. My Paul. My nearly-husband. Why, oh why, just as I’m starting to get over it and find the silver lining, why does he have to turn up now?
I risk a quick glance around the church, searching for an alternative exit. There is a door to the left of the lectern. As soon as the service is over, I’ll jump up and make a run for it. Let Lipsy deal with Paul. I’m not a coward, far from it. I’m perfectly ready to face him and face the consequences. But not like this. Not with my beautiful bump poking out like an accusation and sixty pairs of eyes upon us. We’d be a spectacle. And if Paul has come to confront me, it will happen in a place of my choosing, not his.
And it will happen with me wearing something more demure than a Tiffany Rose tube dress and high heels.
The ceremony wears on; my mind is blurry with half-formed thoughts and imagined conversations. But most of all I’m thinking: How has it come to this? How did Paul and I end up this way, estranged, poles apart, with our values and our goals so misaligned? I should have seen it coming. I should have been more careful.
Bump gives me a sharp kick, and I blink away sudden tears. Not that kind of careful, I say to my baby. Not so you wouldn’t be here. But maybe if I’d done things in a different order, maybe it would have worked out better.
Or maybe it would have just been much, much worse.
Before I’ve had time to properly prepare myself, the service is over and my mum and dad are turning to face the expectant eyes of the congregation. I look around wildly. Any minute now they will walk past me and I’ll have to stand and follow them out of the church. Right past Paul’s seat. My heart hammers and my palms begin to sweat.
It’s Phoenix who saves me.
The baby is sitting on Robert’s lap, and Robert has been struggling to keep him quiet throughout the entire ceremony, jiggling his knees and bouncing Phoenix up and down and saying, ‘Shush now, shush now,’ under his breath like a meditation. But all this has done is work Phoenix up into a frenzy of frustration, and now he’s kicking up a storm. Robert passes him to Lipsy, who passes him back to Robert so she can take a photo of her granddad and grandma as they prepare to leave the church. We all stand as they walk past, and I suddenly see my opportunity.
‘Here, give him to me,’ I cry, holding out my arms.
‘No, it’s OK.’ Lipsy looks confused, scanning the pews behind us. Everyone is standing now, and the organ has started up again. The noise level is rising, and so are Phoenix’s cries.
‘Give him to me,’ I tell Robert, who gladly obliges. ‘You go on ahead,’ I say encouragingly. ‘You and Lipsy.’
With Robert’s arm at her back, Lipsy has no choice but to move forward with the crowd, leaving me behind. I bury my face in Phoenix’s neck and breathe a silent thank you. He smells of talcum powder and vomit. The two best smells in the world right now.
I sit down to wait it out. My eyes are closed and I listen to the chattering and the congratulations die away as everyone leaves the church. Phoenix is calm now. I have that effect on babies. I’m good with babies. This thought cheers me, and pushes some of the anxiety away.
Then I hear his voice behind me.
‘Stella?’
I take a deep, shaky breath, and stand up. Shift Phoenix to my right hip and turn, slowly, to face him.
Chapter 22
At first, his face is open and happy. Not angry. That’s a good start. But before I’ve had time to process this fully, his eyes slide down to my stomach.
‘Stella? What the ...? Jesus Christ.’
He sits down heavily on the pew behind him, now at eye level with my huge, magnificent bump, and proceeds to stare at it wordlessly.
For once, words fail me too. I jiggle Phoenix on my hip, the silence in the church impossibly loud and invasive.
Paul says, ‘Is this some kind of a joke?’
I laugh; I can’t help it. It’s a sharp, unexpected sound, and Phoenix gurgles in response. Does Paul think I’ve shoved a pillow up my dress? Am I the kind of person who would do that at her parents’ blessing? I know he thinks I’m flaky, but honestly. That’s just ridiculous.
I see by Paul’s expression that laughter was not the correct response. I take another deep breath. The intensity of his stare makes talking difficult, but I have to find out what he knows.
‘Obviously it’s not a joke. I thought you knew. Didn’t you know?’
‘How the hell would I know?’ He looks up at me incredulously. ‘You’re pregnant?’
‘Sharon,’ I say, struggling to make sense of the shock on his face. ‘Sharon told you. Didn’t she?’
‘Sharon?’ Paul says, standing. Clearly being at eye level with my stomach is not where he’s most comfortable right now. ‘Why the hell would Sharon tell me? Are you saying she knows about this?’
‘Of course she does. She came to see me – didn’t she tell you?’
He shakes his head slowly, his expression clouded and confused.
I can’t process this. She didn’t tell him. But why? It doesn’t make sense.
Unless …
Oh, I’ve been very stupid. Even more stupid than usual. It was such an easy conclusion to jump to: Sharon and Paul; her scheming to get him back; me the injured party. I thought the worst of her. But it seems I got her very wrong indeed.
She didn’t tell him because it wasn’t her secret to tell. And right now I’d put money on the fact that Paul hasn’t seen hide nor hair of her since she found out I was expecting. I guess it brought it all back, reminded Sharon of her own pregnancy, of her own rejection. That’s what she was trying to tell me as she left; I was too stupid to pick up on it.
But here I’ve been, thinking he knew and was choosing to do nothing about it, when all along he still had no idea.
‘You’re pregnant?’ he says again. I nod, then look down at my bump and stick it out a bit further. A tiny shrug, more of a twitch really, lifts my shoulders. It’s the body language equivalent of, ‘Well, duh!’ and it’s a huge mistake. Paul’s expression hardens.
‘I see,’ he says. Something like a shudder goes through his body and the colour drains from his face.
‘Paul,’ I say, reaching out my hand automatically, ‘I didn’t mean for you to find out like this. It’s just, well, you see, I was waiting for–’
If my hand was a poisonous snake he couldn’t have thrown it off any faster. I take a step back, concerned about the anger in his eyes.
A movement at the rear of the church catches my attention, and I turn to spot Robert hovering there, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Beyond him I can see out into the sunshine, pockets of people milling around, unaware of the drama they’re missing out on. Once the photos are over they’ll pile into cars and head for the pub where my mum and dad are treating us to lunch. Really, it is just like a proper wedding. It’s a much better attempt at a wedding than mine was, at any rate.
‘Shall I take Phee?’ Robert calls when he realises I’ve seen him. I nod and he walks forward tentatively. Lifts the baby from my arms, says hello to Paul, then hotfoots it from the scene. I don’t blame him. Right now I wish I could go with him. And I miss the feel of Phoenix on my hip. I had a feeling Paul might hold back in front of Phee. Now there’s nothing to hold him back.