I stare at him in amazement. ‘Me? What did I do?’
He sets Lafayette on the pavement, with the usual result. ‘You’re not my knight in shining armour. What did you think you were doing, starting a fight on my behalf? It wasn’t a fight I wanted.’ He’s gone red again, which clashes with his beautiful suit.
‘Well, she started it. I wasn’t going to sit there listening to that bigoted crap.’
He snorts. ‘She was a sad old woman. She just wanted someone to notice her.’
‘But if we let things like that slide . . .’
‘There you go again! It’s not your fight! Do you think I haven’t encountered that sort of stuff before? And much worse besides? I deal with it in my own way, which is not throwing food. You know what people saw then? They didn’t see you standing up for gay rights. They saw you harassing an old lady, making her ill. It doesn’t further the cause, darling.’
I don’t understand. For the first time in my life – all right, the fourth or fifth time today – I’m able to defend myself and my friends, and this is the thanks I get. If I wasn’t feeling so sunny, I’d be quite disgruntled.
‘Right, well, I’ll keep my mouth shut next time.’
‘Do.’ He picks up his useless dog, who has been cawing like a seagull the whole time. ‘Enjoy your day, Shirley Temple.’ He stalks off, Lafayette looking daggers at me over his shoulder.
I bloody will. Half a burrito was not enough of a lunch, but I think it’s time to dial things down a little. I’m going shopping.
12
Although I didn’t get to wear it, I did actually find the wedding dress of my dreams – the green one with the bustle – in a vintage shop on the Essex Road. That was when we were still living in London. It cost £185 and although I tried it on, and stared at myself longingly in the mirror, I didn’t buy it. The one my mother chose cost £1500 and, despite the fact that she insisted on purchasing it, she did not insist on paying for it. It was a corseted fishtail, strapless and entirely unsuited to my body shape. She also demanded a veil, which made me feel like Miss Havisham. I guess in the end, given how the ceremony panned out, the netting was helpful.
My mother wanted a September wedding so she could wear her autumn colours and everyone could say ‘Rose, you look divine.’ She wanted tradition, and grandeur, the kind of God-fearing pomp and ceremony that made Britain Great. Robbie would have stood up to her if I’d let him, but I was so terrified of rocking the boat that I begged him to just go along with it, let her have her way. An easy-going guy, he shrugged and said as long as the whole thing resulted in us being married, then that was fine by him. I thought the same; surely the end justified whatever means she chose?
During the rehearsal with Father Stephen, I’d ascertained the problem in the church, one which made me faint with worry, but one which I knew we could do nothing about. I did try to mention it, but my mother just rolled her eyes to the roof and said ‘Don’t be so silly!’ My sister Maz was catatonic once she’d got over the vulgar flowers, possibly thanks to a few too many glasses of Bucks fizz in the hotel that morning. Maz is somewhat alcohol-dependent during family events with our mother, and I didn’t begrudge her numbing the pain in that way. Meanwhile, keen golfer Father Stephen was already on the first hole in spirit. So as usual it was only me having an internal meltdown, wondering how I’d get through it all. I didn’t want to resort to booze like my sister, so ended up begging a Valium off my maid of honour Susie, who’d recently been prescribed it by a dubious GP for her restless leg syndrome. She would only give me half, because she said she needed the other bit to stop her fidgeting in the pew. I took it at 1.30 p.m. and by the time the ceremony was due to start, I was desperate for a nap, but no less frightened.
The organ fired up at 2.10 p.m., ten minutes late, not because we were, but because my mother said that was proper. Standing in the entrance to the church, I could see Robbie near the altar conversing with one of his brothers and his best man Jonathan, and there was something about the set of his shoulders that told me he’d noticed the buzzing too. As the music began, he looked up at me, and he smiled but I could see it in his eyes. He’d seen our uninvited guests hovering, and he knew how upset they made me.
Dad wasn’t walking me down the aisle because Rose wouldn’t have her ex-husband in a leading role, so instead it was my uncle Harold, her brother, who tends to get overemotional at these events and already had tears streaming down his cheeks. Venetia the flower girl was in front of me, sulking in her cape, holding a basket of petals she refused to scatter. Maz was behind, wearing violet and a dazed expression. We began the procession, with diverse paces. Robbie nodded at me, as if to say ‘It’ll be OK’ and all the way down I determinedly didn’t look up, just straight ahead, trying not to fall asleep or fall apart. At least the music drowned out the angry drone, initially. I think one of the strangest things about it was that no one in the congregation seemed to have noticed – I suppose if you’re not attuned to that sort of thing then it isn’t a problem. But it was a problem for me, and I couldn’t see how I was going to get through the next forty-five minutes.
Sobbing, Harold delivered me to Robbie, who took my hand, squeezing it firmly. I met his eyes, saw the understanding there, and it made me very glad I was about to marry him; I just wished it wasn’t here, with a late-summer wasps’ nest in the rafters that Father Stephen was too tight to get rid of. I suppose he trusted in God, but God was about to let him down.
I’m scared of many things – suspect packages on trains, heights (in planes, on stepladders), snakes (specifically, those lurking in toilets), to name a few. Wasps have been a major fear since I walked into a nest on a river bank during a day trip to Ross-on-Wye in 1984. We were staying with Uncle Harold and his wife Trish (who has now sadly passed) in their bungalow in Goodrich. Our parents – still together then – were drinking in the White Lion, and it took the locals a while to locate them, by which time I’d had calamine lotion applied by a nice lady who ran the pharmacy, and been given some lemonade by bar staff at the snooker club. My abiding memory of that moment is the embarrassment of running down the street screaming with wasps in my hair, and the overwhelmingly kind and solicitous reaction. Because of course, when Rose arrived, she was appalled I’d made such a fuss, and told me off in front of the crowd who’d gathered, saying I was an attention-seeker. My mother is the kind of woman who believes it’s unladylike to raise her voice, so she didn’t actually shout, just looked down at me sitting on a folding chair someone had brought out, sorrowfully shook her head and murmured ‘What a scene. Dearie me, little Miss Panicky, aren’t you? Such a palaver.’ Then she apologized to the baffled chemist, describing me as a tiresome exhibitionist: ‘I’m a martyr to her meltdowns, I really am!’ Luckily, we were all distracted by Maz, who’d fallen into the river, and arrived dripping wet, holding a fish in a jam jar.
The trauma of that day lingered and laser-focused on the wasps, even though of course they were blameless, just doing what they do. Even now, I’m more scared of my reaction to the insects than the insects themselves. The idea that I might make a fuss, cause a palaver . . .
I really wanted to be a beautiful, radiant bride, but the bodice of the dress was slipping down my bosom, and I kept having to hoist it up, make sure as much of my skin was covered as possible in case of attack, not look up towards the roof, not fall asleep, and definitely not scream if I saw a black-and-yellow monster loitering. Just smile and look at Robbie, my rock, and occasionally Father Stephen if I absolutely had to, then smile again and repeat some words, and wait for it to end.
Susie did the reading, which was from Ephesians, chosen by my mother, and not even glanced at by my best friend before the service. She read it with a growing incredulity: ‘Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do to the Lord . . .’ Robbie’s lips twitched throughout, even though he was trying to be anxious for my sake. Then, halfway through, she suddenly slammed the book shut with an almighty thunderclap, causing the entire congregation to jump.
‘Sorry,’ said Susie. ‘Wasp in the Bible.’ I risked a glance at my mother, who was clearly hoping God’s wrath would smite my friend. Robbie’s shoulders were shaking, but he squeezed my hand again, as Venetia let out a small wail.
‘Ohhhh . . . oooohhhhhh OUCH.’
‘I am talking about Christ and the church,’ continued Susie sternly.
Venetia’s mother Ginny was obviously cast in the same mould as mine, because at a glare from her, the little girl subsided into hiccups, as tears poured down her face. My heart was beating erratically, but I also longed to lie down on the cold stone and sleep for a thousand years. Please let this be over without anyone else getting killed or stung.
‘However, each one of you also must love his wife as he loves himself, and the wife must . . . the wife must . . .’ Susie looked up, distraught. Everyone waited.
‘The wife must *BANG* her husband,’ Susie declared, slamming the book shut on the word she objected to.
My mother’s face was impassive, but the fingers gripping her bag were white with rage. Luckily Uncle Harry’s loud sobs distracted her, and she had to attend to him, passing him a handkerchief and hissing at him to shut up. Father Stephen continued with the service, but didn’t notice a wasp crawling over his shoe, and into his trousers. He asked if there were any impediments, and then cried out, clapping a hand to his knee.
I was sweating by that point, my skin clammily damp, which made the bodice even more slippery. My hands were shaking as we exchanged rings – during which time two more of our guests were targeted and scurried out of the church, clutching their arms. My mother sat bolt upright, staring straight ahead, even as a wasp clambered delicately over her fascinator. It was fascinating; I watched it creep under and actually saw the moment it stung her. She flinched slightly, and flicked it away, then ground her foot firmly but quietly on the tiled floor. I suppose at least she practised what she preached.
‘You may kiss the bride,’ Father Stephen gabbled, and barely waited for a peck before striding towards the vestibule, his cassock flapping. We didn’t see him again; the curate said he was unfortunately indisposed. Outside the church I thought I might faint with the relief of it being over. My father kissed me and said ‘That was lovely. Anyway, got to get a wriggle on . . .’ because he had a flight booked back to Spain, home to his second wife Valentina who shouted a lot and never bothered keeping herself trim.
Still, at least we avoided a scene, eh?
13
With my original wedding dress in mind, I hop in a taxi to Broadmead to buy a nice outfit. It’s the Red Eye wrap party later, and although I had no intention of going, I am starting to think that maybe I should. Maybe it can’t be avoided. On the way to the Shopping Quarter, I ignore two calls: one from Vince, and another from my mother. She’s been phoning a lot lately, and usually I dutifully listen to her carefully modulated moaning for twenty minutes before pretending one of the kids needs me. ‘You are too indulgent,’ she always says. ‘They’re better off without you.’
One of Rose’s firmly held beliefs is that the sooner you leave children to their own devices, the sooner they acquire the skills to find success in life. Thus, I was able to make an omelette by the time I was five, otherwise we would have regularly gone to bed hungry. Although she thinks that cooking is a woman’s job, she doesn’t think it’s her job. She preferred to spend her evenings going out to dinner with friends, leaving me and Maz under the indifferent eye of a local girl called Annis who just wanted to watch Dynasty and didn’t care if we went to bed or not as long as we didn’t bother her.
Anyway, I didn’t want to think about why my mother had been more communicative of late; I wanted to try on a dress. When I was in my early twenties in London, one of my few pleasures was pottering down Kensington High Street looking at all the shops. I approached them much like I approach art galleries – in a kind of transfixed reverie, wandering around fingering beautiful coats, circling exquisitely dressed mannequins in wonder. I loved trying on stuff I couldn’t afford, telling the assistant on the way out that ‘The fit wasn’t quite right,’ as if that and not the extortionate price prohibited me from buying it. Occasionally though, I would be so quelled by a raised plucked brow that I’d end up splashing out on something eye-wateringly expensive and then have dry bread for dinner for the rest of the month to make my rent. I’ve still got a pair of Jimmy Choos that I can’t wear because whenever I put them on they make me feel hungry, remembering the culinary sacrifice.
Of course, when my children came along, clothes shopping became a thing of the past, unless it was for them, in which case it consisted of pushing a trolley up and down the rammed rails of Tesco, rifling for bargain, easy-care ensembles while both of them hollered at each other and tried to knock over anything remotely breakable. Now I can afford the stuff, I don’t have time to try it on. Instead, once a year I go to the Bicester Village outlet to stock up on my trouser-and-blouse uniform, and buy Gap jeans and jumpers online for the weekends. That’s it. So today, for once, I’m going to cavort round Cabot Circus in search of something that makes me want to do a little dance. I’ve got the hair; now comes the killer dress and the fuck-me shoes. An accommodating killer dress, and comfy fuck-me shoes – since lockdown I can’t wear anything too restrictive.
I buy some black leather ankle-strap sandals in the shopping centre, then joyfully wander round various high street chains, marvelling at the skinniness of skinny jeans, the shortness of denim shorts, the skimpiness of the crop tops. Occasionally I puzzle over the function of the garment I’m holding, a flimsy item with various holes and no discernible top or bottom. Which body part is it supposed to cover? Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s designed to flatter curves smaller, firmer and less stretchmarked than mine. After examining something that might be a skirt, I conclude that this particular establishment probably caters for younger clientele and decide to move on.
Outside on Philadelphia Street, I scan the surrounding shops for a more likely target. In doing so, I accidentally catch the eye of a man who’s standing holding a sign that says ‘MOBILE REPAIR SHOP – FAST FIXES →’
‘Smile,’ he says. ‘It might never happen.’
This kind of comment is as old as the hills, and I don’t need to go into why it’s unwanted and unwarranted. When Roman gladiators were gearing up for combat, I’m sure they would take the time to tell passing concubines to ‘Cheer up, love.’ For some reason, men just enjoy telling women what to do with their faces. This ancient form of chivalry is why I welcomed masks in the era of Covid, relishing the opportunity for facial autonomy that they offered. I’ve lost count of the number of blokes who’ve assumed they’re director of the movie of my mouth, and have often felt acutely uncomfortable being the object of their jovial scrutiny, almost always offering a limp lip-lift in response before scurrying away, cheeks aflame. But this guy has a sign, and I think it’s a sign. A sign that the rot stops here.
