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My shoes hurt and my eyes felt heavy from the fake eyelashes I’d let myself be talked into, despite my choice of natural hair, plain white jumpsuit and simple faux fur. I was happy enough at this precise moment – all these people! Jack’s face! – but I’d wanted us to just keep on walking when we got outside, just hit the road, no looking back until we’d had some time to talk about all of this. I squeezed Jack’s hand and he squeezed back.
‘Happy?’ he said.
‘I was about to ask you the same thing.’
We smiled at each other, but neither of us answered.
The photographer moved us around from car park to entrance steps to under the one tree in the vicinity not surrounded by cigarette butts and cider cans, in an attempt to get a satisfactory shot. I tried to avoid Dad’s eye, until our driver finally turned up again. I dragged Jack into the car, and we sat back with a sigh, his arm around my shoulders, and we stayed in comfortable, quiet stillness until we reached our reception venue twenty minutes later. Al didn’t attempt small talk either, just turned up the heaters in the back a little more.
As we pulled up the drive to our hired manor house, the first arrivals of our wedding party, Jack stroked my handbag with one finger. ‘This looks fancy, Zo.’
‘Gift from Mum and Dad last night. More Mum than Dad, I expect. In fact, probably more my sisters than either, but still …’
‘You’ve always wanted one of those.’ I shrugged, smiling, and Jack went on, ‘And if everything else goes wrong in life, at least we know we can flog this and live like kings.’
I clutched it to my chest. ‘You wouldn’t …’
‘Of course I wouldn’t! I wouldn’t dare, my dearest.’ He picked it up, and looked at it more closely. ‘It doesn’t matter how expensive it was – you deserve something this gorgeous.’
Jack pulled me in for another kiss and I wondered if we could tell Al to go back down the drive. No one’s seen us. We could still escape, just me and Jack. Then I remembered Dad’s words this morning – sometimes you just have to do what you think is right – and swallowed the feeling down.
‘Looks great, doesn’t it?’ I said, in an attempt to distract myself from the thoughts running through my head, as the car stopped at the manor house. The marquee beside it, spread out over the small lawns and laid with hard flooring for the dancing later, was swagged with winter wreaths; huge thermal jugs of hot mulled wine waited for our guests under a smaller, flower-laden gazebo near the main entrance to the manor house. I could see through the doors that the photobooth was set up in the entrance hall; the unseasonal ice cream van played its chimes softly by the outdoor heaters, accompanied by the gentle pop pop of the vintage popcorn stand in the marquee. I could hear our pianist already playing soft jazz inside the manor house, so the guests could hear her while they milled about with canapés and cocktails. It was a perfect wedding, copied dutifully from the wedding magazines and Pinterest boards everyone had sent me. Hadn’t I done it right?
Jack got out of the car and held the door open for me, then suddenly swooped me up in his arms and half ran with me towards the hot wine.
‘Quick! First toast. While everyone else is tagging along behind in the bus.’ He held out a glass to me before taking one for himself. A passing waitress smiled at us both – the happy couple. ‘It’s going to get busy any minute, and we’re probably not going to be able to talk until tomorrow. But I just wanted to say how amazing you look, how amazing this is, and how amazed I am that you’re now my wife.’
‘Don’t blow your whole speech.’
‘I mean it, Zoe. Sometimes I didn’t … I didn’t always know how we were going to end up, even though I always knew I wanted to be with you. And to look at us today, to look at all this …’ He was welling up.
I chinked my glass against his. ‘Happy wedding day.’
He smiled, and replied, ‘Happy wedding day, wife.’
I drank my wine in one gulp, burning my throat.
The rest of the reception was a blur. I noticed that Liz, my maid of honour, was there without her boyfriend. She hadn’t said that Adam couldn’t come, but she didn’t mention his notable absence, so neither did I, sensing it wasn’t something she wanted to discuss. Instead she cooed over my bag, gasping as I explained that Mum and Dad had insisted the bride should have a special gift on her wedding day. Esther, my responsible, married eldest sister, who had our dad’s smaller stature and our mum’s gentle stubbornness, had been clapping her hands with glee when Dad handed me the box last night, having received a Céline bag (also second hand) when she’d got married four years ago – it had swiftly become her nappy bag when William was born a year later. Ava, taller and quieter, the next eldest, looked on with peaceful, happy excitement, while Kat, the youngest of us four by four years, bold and foot-stamping ever since Mum and Dad brought her home from the hospital, had stood with folded arms and bright purple pursed lips while I’d lifted the layers of tissue paper to find an old, impossibly soft, black Chanel 2.55 handbag.
‘Now, it’s not brand new,’ Dad had said, apologetically.
We’d all laughed. ‘Dad! It’s beautiful. Thanks, Mum. Thanks, Dad.’
I hadn’t expected it. My wedding to Jack seemed so different, somehow, to Esther and Ethan’s, that I’d had no idea I’d get any kind of present. Their wedding had been all any of us had talked about for months – a happy event which had been a given since they’d got together – but ours just seemed to have arrived, surprising even me. I didn’t think anyone would take it as seriously, somehow. And yet this bag! I’d slept with it on my bedside table, intending it to be the first thing I saw when I woke up that day, but in the end that honour had fallen to the breakfast tray Mum had brought up to me, with her coral necklace from her own wedding day on the side plate next to the boiled egg.
The wedding party bubbled on: speeches and toasts to us and to absent loved ones, tears, food and dancing, hugs and good wishes from some of Jack’s employees at Henderson’s, his shoe shop. All the while I was aware of Dad watching us, and Liz too, each wearing concerned faces when they thought no one was looking. My sisters were too busy to notice; flirting with the bar staff, even Esther, the Sensible One, hugging her toddler to one hip and ogling one of the hot barmen.
Mum hugged me whenever she walked past, kissing me and saying how wonderful this whole day was, how perfect, how sorry she was that Grandma wasn’t alive to see it, but how much she would have loved it all – loved both me and Jack. Then she’d start to cry again, leaving Dad to come and steer her away and I would look at whoever I was with and laugh, loving my mum’s easy emotions.
At one point I looked over to see Benni, my boss, on the dancefloor with Iffy, making wild jigging circles and calling out, ‘Chidinma! Philip! Get on here!’ as she tried to lure my parents into dancing too; Benni’s wife Gina sat with Liz, watching them all and laughing fondly, enjoying a night off from her and Benni’s twin boys. Later on, Benni and Iffy took the mic from the DJ to croon ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ at Jack and me. We joined in, far from embarrassed at their drunken serenade – it didn’t seem too different to an average night out for us. Liz was unusually quiet without her plus one; she’d not mentioned anything to me recently about problems between them, but maybe she’d thought the run up to today wasn’t the time. I wanted to return the countless favours of support and tact she’d given me over the recent months, but it felt like it would have to wait.
Jack and I met occasionally throughout the rest of the reception party. We hadn’t wanted a first dance, so we mostly all danced together in a big group with our friends. I saw him at the bar; he kissed me while I was talking to his aunt. Then suddenly it was midnight, and our carriage awaited. I didn’t want to go, didn’t want to leave the moment of this party, didn’t want to leave my sisters and our friends. I didn’t want this party to be over, to face what days and months and years came next. I loved Jack, but I didn’t want to start married life.
A cheering crowd lifted us both up and carried us to our wedding car, driver Al looking more hangdog than ever, his vintage Triumph covered in foam and balloons. Whistles, hollers and cheers followed us back up the drive.
‘I’m sorry about your car,’ I shouted forwards to him. ‘About the foam and stuff.’
He waved his hand over his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, love, it’s all covered by the costs. Cleaning’s part of the package – it happens every time.’
Jack gave me a look.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Nothing. Doesn’t matter.’ He sighed. And I’d done everything I could to act the happy bride today. ‘Did you have a good time, Zo?’
I smiled at him. ‘When do I not have a good time at a party?’
‘Good. Me too.’
At the hotel we were too tired to do much more than sign in, which Jack did with a flourish and a grin. When I looked at the sheet, he’d filled in Mr and Mrs Bestwick and I felt a different kind of exhaustion when he gave me a jokey wink. Up in our room, we lay on our bed, vases of flowers from friends and family all over the sideboard and dressing table, and I reached out and put my hand on the small of Jack’s back. Then, with the lights still on, fully dressed, we both fell fast asleep.
The next morning we woke up to blinding light and sixty missed calls on my phone. We’d slept right through the bacon sandwich brunch for all our guests, and were being called by reception on the blaring landline to gently enquire whether we’d be checking out shortly or staying for another night. I was all for staying for another – hide away a bit longer, make the most of this massive bed and giant bathtub – but Jack reminded me that we’d blown our budget with even one night here. We’d debated for ages about whether to go home after the reception, back to the flat my parents had helped us buy, full of wedding presents that had already been delivered. But we’d thought we’d splash out because that’s what you do, right? You lose your mind and do everything that’s out of character and out of budget. And if for a moment you wonder if really that’s the right decision – to get outfits that cost more than a white tiger, and the hotel room that you won’t even notice because you were so tired and drunk and emotional you could have spent the night on a park bench and not noticed the difference – well, you just take a deep breath and repeat But It’s My Wedding, and stamp your feet to really get into the role.
I stripped off my wedding jumpsuit and climbed into the shower, while Jack rang our families and packed up our stuff. By the time I’d got out, rubbed in some coconut oil and got into my favourite jeans, headscarf, soft sweater and Nikes, reception was calling again with a slightly less gentle enquiry. Jack said the Bacon Brunch had gone ahead without us at my parents’ place, and everyone had had a great time. Both his dad and my parents were fine, understood completely, and everyone sent their love.
After finally managing to check out, wrapped in scarves and coats against the cold, we hit the Tube to discover that the only free seats were at either end of the row. Jack sat me down with the bags then turned to the man next to me.
‘Sorry, mate, would you mind taking the seat at the end? We only got married yesterday, and I’d like to sit next to my wife.’ He giggled a bit as he said the final word.
The man beamed at me, saying, ‘Sure! Congratulations, guys!’ in a sunny Australian accent, but I’d already covered my eyes with my hands and was trying not to set the carriage alight with my blushes. It’s fine, I thought, it’s fine, he’s just being romantic, he’s just excited, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. One day I’m sure I’ll get used to that word. Wife.
Everyone was watching us now, so I was too self-conscious to start up a conversation with Jack. We sat in a sleepy silence, holding hands, bags at our feet, watching everyone watching us. At Seven Sisters, we stepped out and heard someone call, ‘Good luck, newlyweds!’ and a few people in the carriage laughed. I squeezed Jack’s hand, trying to swallow my nausea.
‘Do you remember when we used to use actual words to talk to each other instead of hand actions?’ he said. That got a laugh out of me, and he said, ‘Thank god! I thought one of us might have had a stroke and forgotten English. Right. Lunch. Pub? Or home?’
We chatted about the various options, and it felt like normality again, the two of us planning meals and making plans. In the end, we picked up bits for lunch from the shop on the corner, and by the time we’d got to our front door I’d forgotten completely about what was waiting for us inside.
Boxes and boxes and boxes of stuff. Bedding, picture frames, coffee cups, lamps, a blender, an espresso machine, vases, cushions; piled up on our sofa, the floor, the kitchen counters, even balanced on the big hatch between kitchen and living room. Like the whole of the Generation Game conveyor belt had been carrying its load into our flat. Upstairs Jan, the neighbour above us in the top half of the house, had also left a bunch of flowers and a card for us at the door, and we added them to the pile like a tiny cherry on a huge, sprawling cake.
‘I’d forgotten this lot was here. Do you remember asking for all this stuff?’ I said.
‘Not really. That day was a bit of a blur. Remind me why we unpacked it all already?’ Jack was scratching his beard, wide eyed at everything filling our living room.
‘This cushion, though. I don’t even remember seeing it, let alone wanting it.’ I picked up a needlepoint cushion with a white terrier picked out in murky shades of beige and brown.
‘Or this vase.’ Jack held up another vase. ‘Or that one.’ We worked for a few minutes, going through the gifts and lining everything up on the kitchen hatch and along the coffee table. We stared around us. Eventually, I said, ‘Hang on, why would we want … seven vases?’
We looked through everything around us, at the plaid garden kneeler and the brass rabbit ornament.
‘This isn’t ours,’ we said at the same time. The giddiness and bustle of the upcoming wedding had meant we’d opened and unpacked every box without really noticing what was in there; it was only the coffee maker which looked familiar from our own list.
‘Mmm. Can we keep the espresso machine, though? Didn’t we want one of those?’ Jack looked at me pleadingly.
‘Hell yes. We’ll claim it as compensation for our missing gifts.’
While Jack made us a barrel of coffee each, I started on the sandwiches: bacon, avocado and feta, slathered with hot pepper chutney. My sore head and tiredness got the better of my manners, and I’d almost finished mine by the time Jack brought the coffees to the sofa.
‘That coffee machine was literally harder to set up than an actual spaceship.’
‘Literally.’
‘Having flown many, I’m confident in that comparison.’ We peered into our mugs, staring at the black speckles scattered through the frothed milk. ‘I might not have entirely mastered it quite yet.’
‘Tea?’
‘Tea.’
I swallowed my last bite of sandwich, headed into the kitchen and boiled the kettle. Hungover-peckish, I opened the fridge.
‘Oh my god!’
Jack leant in through the hatch. ‘What? What’s wrong?’
‘Look!’
Inside the fridge was the whole top half of our wedding cake, in all its creamy, buttery, sugary glory – one of my sisters must have dropped it off this morning, before we’d got home. Jack gulped down the sandwich he was holding, pulled out the cake, and said, ‘Right, you keep doing the teas, and I’ll get the forks. Do we need plates?’
I shook my head at him with mock horror. ‘Plates? Please, who are we, the Queen?’ Within five minutes we were back on the sofa, giant mugs of tea in our hands, forking wodges of cake from the platter. As we lazily watched The Antiques Roadshow, I cuddled up under Jack’s arm.
This was better. This was the married life Jack had promised me.
He started laughing.
‘What?’
His eyes creased up with how funny this genius thought was, and soon he was barely able to get the words out.
‘I bet you’re thinking … how if this is married life … it really suits you!’
‘That’s it? That’s your searing insight of the day? How much I like lying on the sofa, eating cake and watching TV with you? Well done for having registered the basic facts of my life preferences.’
‘Is this how you always saw yourself when you were grown up?’
‘Unlike every other normal child, I didn’t spend my youth fantasising about the chosen decor and potential TV habits of my adult self. I was too busy getting skinned knees and crushing on the local lifeguard.’
‘I hope you’ll give me his name so I can send him a note letting him know he lost his chance.’
‘Romance, thy name is Jack. I think he was gay, anyway.’
‘Wow, he really did miss his chance.’
‘Listen, much as all this talk of the homosexual lifeguards of my childhood is turning me on, shouldn’t we be consummating our marriage or something?’
‘Is that an invitation?’
I responded by stripping off as quickly as possible, despite my sore, sugar-rushing head.
‘Do you remember when we used to worry about sophisticated chat-up lines?’
‘Jack, I said “I do”. What more do you need?’ I started trying to pull his trainers off.
‘You’re such a femme fatale.’
‘I’ll give you femme fatale.’
‘Ooh, will you?’ Jack’s face lit up.
‘If you mean will I put on red lipstick, then yes, I’m willing to do that. If you mean literally anything else, then no, unless you do it too.’
‘I knew married life was going to change you.’
I stopped trying to pull his other trainer off.
‘Yeah, you’ve got me. Now, are you going to get this kit off or am I going to have to go and visit my local pool for any heterosexual leftovers from my teenage years?’
Jack pulled his top off. ‘You had me at heterosexual leftovers.’
We couldn’t afford a honeymoon. Dad had said, Dad-like, that he’d never even been out of the country until he was in his thirties, which made Mum narrow her eyes at him until he’d offered us another cup of tea and a biscuit. Friends and family sent hampers and vouchers, and the three days after the wedding were spent mostly wrapped around each other in our flat, occasionally moving upright to get more smoked salmon or chocolate eclairs or boar pâté down us, or to tighten the curtains against the cold January winds. But just as I started worrying I might be coming down with either gout or scurvy, the honeymoon was over, and we were due back at work the next day.
It was a cold Monday morning as Jack handed over my packed lunch, kissing me goodbye outside our front door. ‘Back to school. Have a good day, wife.’ I was still uncomfortable with that. I’d swallow it down, though, just like that second tier of wedding cake.
‘Have a good day, dearest husband of mine.’
We both made mock-vomiting faces, kissed again, then went in our separate directions: me a bus ride away to Walker High School, the secondary where I’d been teaching Science for the last four years, and Jack to the shoe shop he owns and designs for, all slick white spaces and open brickwork and handmade shoes strewn artfully around.
When I got into the Science office, I immediately set eyes on a tray of bubbling prosecco laid out on a table piled high with cards and gifts, with balloons sellotaped to each corner. No one was about. I walked around to the small kitchenette, where everyone was clustered around something on the other side of the room.
‘Happy New Year. Is it someone’s birthday?’ I asked, making everyone scream in surprise. Our lab assistant, Miks, yelped and knocked the cake they’d all been huddled around off the counter. We all stared at the mush of icing and crumbs on the floor, the candles still somehow burning as they lay at odd angles from the side of the pile.
‘You’re early! You’re never early, darling!’ wailed Benni. ‘These guys just wanted to do something to mark your wedding—’
‘Since not all of us made the exclusive guest list,’ Miks interjected, eyes rolling cartoonishly.
‘And I said, Oh, don’t worry, Zoe’s never early, we’ve got plenty of time, and now …’
We all stared at the pile on the floor again.
‘I solemnly swear never to be early to work again.’
