Young Wives' Tales (37 page)

It must be a great relief to believe in something with such certainty. There are no beheadings in Holland Park nowadays, but on the other hand, belief is rare too. What do I believe in? Myself? Up until yesterday I would have resolutely said yes, yes, but now I see I’m fallible. Peter? Again, until yesterday I would have argued that he was my reason for being, but how can that be if we are snapping and snarling at one another all the time? I don’t believe in God but I have to believe in more than Visa cards and designer shoes.
Vogue
can’t be my bible forever.

Auriol?

I steal a glance at the gaggles of noisy, drenched kids and for once they do not annoy me. I watch them, with open curiosity, as they play, poke and push one another. But, I do not see disorder and irritants. Instead I’m struck by their energy, their voluble laughter, their candid assassinations and affirmations, and I think that they are marvellous. Each and every one of them. Marvellous.

The kid with the Power Ranger backpack and the runny nose has nice eyes. The girl who keeps scratching her head seems thoughtful. The boys fighting about whether there were more King Henrys or King Georges seem bright. But suddenly it strikes me, however thoughtful or bright or nice-eyed these
kids are, these are not the ones that have my answers. These are not the kids that I answer to. I blow a quick kiss of thanks at Henry’s portrait and I dash for the door.

I want my daughter. I want to be with Auriol.

I love weddings. I love everything about them, from the pretty little ballet slippers the bridesmaids wear to the terrible Abba tribute bands that play at the reception until the early hours. I love the moment the bride steps through the church door, swathed in petticoats and her veil. I love the fact that the congregation always gasps. I love to see women in hats and men in tails. I love the sound of heels clattering on worn enamel tiles in the aisle, as ladies rush to their seats. I love confetti, champagne and even Coronation chicken because it all adds up to something so marvellous. It adds up to a moment of intense possibility and optimism.

Possibility dominating probability for one day at least.

Not that I get the chance to go to many weddings nowadays. So while this wedding is a little peculiar for me, as I don’t know either the bride or the groom, I’m delighted to be part of it. I dusted off my hat and splashed out on a new dress for the event. This time I didn’t take Daisy or Connie with me when I went
shopping. I thought there was every chance that I could be just as productive if I shopped alone, perhaps even more so.

I bought a knee-length ruby red dress and scarf. I tied the scarf around my black hat and teamed the outfit with the jacket from an old work suit. The one I was wearing when Peter first asked me to share a sandwich with him, as it happens. At least the suit has lasted, it’s aged very well. Yesterday, I decided that my old black court shoes wouldn’t do after all and I bought a pair of knee-high leather boots with killer heels. I’ve never spent so much on footwear in my life, but Connie assured me they were worth every penny. Last night I dreamt I was having my wicked way with Craig and I was wearing nothing other than the boots, so I’m inclined to agree with her.

At first I feared that because Craig is the Best Man I’d be sitting in the pew on my own, fending off questions about how I know the happy couple. But Craig explained that he was more of a chief usher and that his short pal, who I’ve met at the school gates, was the real Best Man. So we sat side by side throughout the ceremony and no one suggested I was an imposter and that I had to leave. The ceremony was beautiful. The couple had hit the correct note of simple reverence and evident euphoria.

Unfortunately it’s not a bright autumnal day, as they deserve. When we emerge from the church, rain is slapping down on to the pavements and the photos are taken with indecent haste as all the guests are encouraged
to get to the reception as quickly as possible. The plan is to drink copious amounts of champagne in an effort to forget the inclement weather.

As we walk through the double glass doors of the reception we are greeted by the sight of hundreds of candles. Candles on tables, candles on chandeliers, candles nestling in flower displays, candles on the bar and huge fat candles, about a metre high, standing on the floor. The entire room is doused with a dreamy, wistful, faraway feeling. It’s wonderful.

‘Isn’t this beautiful?’I comment.

‘Yes, it’s beautiful, although highly impractical,’says Craig. He looks concerned. ‘They should have had tealights.’

‘Are you happy for your friends?’I ask.

‘I’m violently happy for both of them. What could be finer than finding someone you love so much you want to spend the rest of your life in their company?’

I grin. I’m charmed. Craig might object to the number of candles on health and safety regulations but he is romantic, in a true sense of the word. He’s just practical, as am I. I had been concerned that Craig and I might be nervous around one another. I feared we’d flounder once outside familiar boundaries but we haven’t. There isn’t a single awkward moment where we struggle with small talk. He doesn’t reveal a terrible or annoying habit (involving scratching, sniffing or picking) that would make me want to run from him. He doesn’t turn out to be a fascist, an addict or an embezzler. He isn’t aggressive, shy or dull. He doesn’t
offend me in any way. The opposite is true: the more I see of him the more I admire him.

He is a conscientious usher. He ensures that all the guests are comfortable and mixing with one another. He helps people read the seating plan and find the cloakroom. He notices when the waiters are being a little tardy in refilling glasses and he heads off a crisis when a cousin of Jen’s discovers she is wearing the same dress as an aunt of Tom’s. He tells the ladies they are fulfilling the male guests’fantasies involving beautiful twins. His manner is flirtatious, confident and yet respectful. Both women melt.

‘I’m seeing a whole new side to you, Casanova,’I say with a giggle as we slip into our seats.

‘I’m not normally this confident, Rose,’says Craig. He stares directly at me and adds simply, ‘It’s being around you. I feel a million dollars. You make me a better man than I normally am. Still or sparkling?’

He drops the enormous compliment and the trifling question of my preferred choice of water into our conversation as though both sentences are of equal import. The result is, I am bouncing with joy and can barely mumble that I prefer still.

The reception is wonderful. The wine is plentiful, the band is pitched perfectly, both in terms of volume and tone, and the food isn’t cold, which is often the best you can hope for when there are one hundred and fifty people to feed. We are amused by a mime act and a magician. Craig is attentive but not overbearing. He compliments me on my dress but isn’t slimy. He makes
sure my glass is full but I don’t get the feeling he’s trying to get me drunk. He asks who is looking after the boys but he doesn’t let the conversation deteriorate into school talk.

Unusually, the couple have opted to break up the proceedings by hosting an afternoon tea dance before the speeches and dessert. This gives the old rellies the chance to twirl around the dance floor before the disco music starts up in earnest this evening. I think the idea of a tea dance is truly wonderful and my approval rises further when Craig asks me to join him on the floor.

‘I can’t waltz,’I confess.

‘Nor can I. But how hard can it be? Tom’s Auntie Madge is managing to do it with a Zimmer frame.’

I decide that it will be nice to be held by Craig and so I agree.

We shuffle across the dance floor and repeatedly murmur, ‘One, two, three. One, two, three’– I doubt we are fooling anyone. After a few moments we settle into swaying in one another’s arms and the effect isn’t completely ludicrous. It is lovely to be held again. I’m not sure when a man last deliberately put his hands on my body. Can it be as long ago as six years? The thought is nauseating, unless of course you are a nun. Craig has large hands and he grasps me firmly around the place where my waist ought to be. He doesn’t seem to be in the slightest bit embarrassed by my lumps and swellings, nor does he crucify me by saying something obvious, like, ‘I luuurvve your curves.’He appears to accept my shape, seemingly without thought, and his acceptance
makes me feel calm, relaxed and comfy. I allow my body to smudge a little closer to his.

‘Are you enjoying yourself, Rose?’

‘Do you need to ask? I’ve been smiling since the moment you picked me up this morning. I’m having a wonderful day.’

‘I’m so glad. I’d really like to be part of what makes you happy.’

I stare at Craig, stunned and unsure how to best respond. Can he be for real? Is he saying he wants to do this again, maybe more than once? I think he must be. I allow the thought to drift into my consciousness and I examine the idea carefully. I do not find the concept horrifying. Far from it. I like Craig – very much.

For the first time we are a little embarrassed with one another but the embarrassment is exciting. It’s not the mortification of two awkward strangers – it is the discomfiture of two lovers who are verbally and physically skirting one another, unsure of their next move, desperate that there is a next move. Craig coughs and changes the subject.

‘Tell me about yourself, Rose.’

‘There’s not much to tell,’I point out. He knows I am the divorced mother of twins, what can I add?

‘I don’t believe that. You must have exciting parts of your past that you want to tell me to impress me,’he says with a grin. ‘And you must have thrilling plans for your future, however deeply you are keeping them hidden.’

I’m rather flattered that he thinks I might once have done something,
anything
, exciting and of note, although I don’t think he’s right about my future. I really don’t have secret gripping plans. For the first time I wish I had, if only to impress Craig.

I start falteringly, a little like our dance steps.

‘I studied Maths at Bristol University. I managed to scramble up to the dizzy heights of a 2:1 grade, although I was more of a 2:2 sort of girl really. I’d forgone a number of dates and parties and spent long hours in the library. Accountancy was a very natural choice for me after I left uni, and actually I was very good at it. Not that I’m saying I’m dull,’I add hastily.

‘I know you’re not dull, Rose,’he says with assurance.

An old couple glide past us. I think they are foxtrotting. They manage to look wonderfully elegant, even though they are eighty plus and their faces are creased like yesterday’s sheets. The old couple are gazing at one another, their expressions the same – they radiate awe and devotion. Mesmerized, I watch them sashay and my chest tightens. They are only aware of one another, oblivious to anyone or anything else. And as they slip over the aged and grooved wooden floor I wonder how many romances have blossomed on this same floor, how many women have glided with hope and men danced with pride. And I wonder if I’ve drunk too much?

For six years I have kept my heart hidden behind indestructible barricades that repel any sort of intimacy. I’ve accepted my life for what it is and learnt to love it
for being just that, and I have not allowed myself to hanker for more. It wouldn’t have been sensible. More always ends up being less. Loving Peter more than I thought possible left me feeling less of a person in the end. I did not want to risk that searing agony again, as I was afraid that my brittle soul would not be able to endure another, similar disappointment. I’d shatter and then what use would I be to the boys? The boys, always the boys to think of. Thank God.

And, after all, a life full of children, recipes, friends and family
is
a full life and I can’t complain.

But, as I watch the old lovers rapt in one another, suddenly it is impossible for me to ignore the fact that my life is full, but not brimming, and the distinction matters. My life is not a life overflowing, ebullient and fluid and I want it to be. I know what is missing. I’ve always known – I just haven’t wanted to admit it. I don’t believe a woman needs a man to have a complete life but I do admit that having a soulmate can be a cornucopia. I glance at Craig and wonder how deep and strong a possibility he might represent. None of my recent dates have ignited a spark of interest but unexpectedly I can feel real heat right now. The idea of entertaining possibility makes my heart soar. I become brave and almost tap my toes as I hop from one foot to the other in an inexpert but enthusiastic step.

‘It’s just that people think accountants are dull and we’re not, actually. I am chatty and I know how to get drunk, although it’s not a skill I’ve been honing of late. I even did karaoke in a bar once.’

‘What did you sing?’asks Craig with a smile.

‘Err. “
Like a Virgin
”,’I admit.

‘I can well imagine the scene.’Craig’s smile broadens but he has the good grace not to laugh out loud.

‘Have you ever done karaoke?’I challenge.

‘Often. “
My Way
”, “
Go West
”, “
Let Me Entertain You
”. I have quite a repertoire. Karaoke is great fun. It ought to be available on prescription.’

I am excited by how much I have to learn about Craig. I realize that he might be a still water that runs deep and the thought is thrilling.

‘So what do you mean when you say accountancy was a natural choice?’he pursues.

‘Well, I’m good at exams. I think people ought to pay their taxes. I don’t like breaking laws. Or rules, diets or hearts come to that. I am better at being good than bad.’

‘What else are you good at, Rose?’Craig sends me twirling gently under his arm.

I consider the question. ‘I’m good at gardening, cheering people up, making jam.’I know it doesn’t sound glamorous but it is at least honest. I sigh and admit, ‘I am the epitome of a nice girl. Or at least I was before –’

‘Before?’

‘Before the divorce.’

‘Is Peter nice?’

‘He’s dashing, which was the nearest I could find to nice at the time.’