I wait patiently as he spends about ten minutes swapping messages with her. I want to say something like ‘Send her my love’, because that seems like a normal thing for a daughter-in-law-to-be to say, but as we haven’t had so much as a Zoom introduction yet, sending love seems a bit forward.
When Matthew finally slips his phone back into his jeans pocket, he grins at me and asks, ‘Do you want to wear my much-loved grandmother’s engagement ring? It’s rather lovely. An emerald, encircled by a number of little diamonds.’ I hesitate, and he adds, ‘It’s worth a decent amount.’
‘Did Becky wear it?’ Damn, the question comes from my gut, straight to my tongue. It should have checked in with my brain first.
‘Yes.’ He beams a little wider, as though this is a great thing.
‘Then no. I think it’s maybe a bit …’
‘Odd.’ He finishes the sentence for me, and I’m relieved.
‘Yeah.’
‘Mum said you might think that, but I wanted to offer. You know, I didn’t want you to think I wouldn’t want you to wear my grandmother’s ring.’ There are too many negatives in that sentence for me to be certain that we have landed with a positive. He then adds, ‘I want to treat you the way I treated her.’ I see that his insistence on parity comes from a good place, but inwardly I sigh a little. I want him to see us as different and separate. I want to be his wife, not just his second wife, but that is tricky because I am the second wife. Fact. ‘And I wanted you to wear something you could be proud of.’ I shrivel inside. He’s clearly worried about how to pay for an engagement ring of note. ‘Do you have your mother’s ring, maybe? Would that be suitable?’ he asks.
I shake my head and resist articulating the fact that I don’t want to wear a dead woman’s ring. Any dead woman’s. I want a ring that represents a fresh start.
‘Let’s go shopping,’ I suggest. ‘Right now. Let’s go to London.’
19
I can’t take my eyes off it. I repeatedly hold out my arm, stretch my fingers wide and admire my engagement ring. When I’m not staring at it, I discreetly touch the band with my thumb. Just checking it’s there. We picked a round solitaire set on an eighteen-carat band. Modest by Tiffany standards, but even so, not something Matthew could afford. I slipped my Coutts card across the glass counter without either of us commenting.
Now we’re sitting in a smart bistro having a light lunch. Or at least giving that impression. I’m too excited to eat. Matthew is flicking through his phone, reading the weekend papers online. It strikes me that just a few months ago if I’d walked past this café and spotted a couple looking so harmonious, I’d have had to fight a twinge of jealousy, disquiet. It’s wonderful to be this side of the glass. It’s so peaceful that it seems exactly the right moment to bring Matthew up to date on my thoughts about the wedding. When I do so, he looks shocked.
‘So you’re saying you want a church wedding?’
‘I do.’ I giggle at the two little words, which carry so much significance and will change the course of my life, alter the very fabric of my existence as I transition from a single woman to a wife. ‘Or at least I might want a church wedding. I want us to consider the possibility before we dismiss it.’
‘Wow, right, well, OK. Let’s think it through. I have to say, I’d assumed you’d want to get married in a smart hotel. So do you believe in God and all that? You’re a scientist. I think of you as so logical.’
I shrug. This shouldn’t be a difficult conversation to have with the man I’m going to marry, and it’s probably one that most people have before they get engaged, yet here I am. ‘For me the desire to marry in a church isn’t really a religious thing, it’s a personal continuity thing. Just a nod to tradition. My parents are buried at St Adelaide’s in Hodstone. Do you know Hodstone? It’s where I was brought up. It’s in Hampshire, about twenty-five miles from where we live now.’
‘I think I’ve seen signposts to it. Twenty-five miles. We can hardly call it our local church.’
‘No, but it’s so pretty, and because of my parents, I thought it might be the right place.’
‘I see.’
I think for a moment he’s going to refuse. I bite my tongue and don’t tell him that St Adelaide is the patron saint of second marriages. A fact I learnt as a child. It meant nothing to me then, other than getting a house point at school when we had a quiz about local history. Now it seems pertinent. Important. ‘When we got engaged, I emailed the vicar and asked if he’d consider marrying us there.’
‘Will he do it? Even though we’re not churchgoers?’
I don’t mention that I made a sizeable donation to the church restoration fund. I don’t want him thinking I bought my way into a pretty backdrop, not considering the awkwardness of the conversation about the prenup this morning. ‘Yes, I think he will. He asked to meet us.’
Matthew’s Adam’s apple jumps as he swallows. ‘Well, if it means so much to you, then of course. You should set up a meeting at some point.’ He plays with the handle of his empty coffee cup.
‘I’ve already done so, as it happens. This afternoon, five p.m.’ I glance at my watch. ‘We’d better get moving if we’re going to be on time.’ My fiancé blinks slowly. ‘You know me, I’m nothing if not efficient.’ I grin broadly, trying to convince both of us that my actions are reasonable, simply those of an excited bride impatient to plan her wedding. Of course they are that, but they are also actions that have left us oddly exposed. He didn’t expect this from me, a desire to marry in a church, and I didn’t anticipate him objecting. Heidi’s words ring somewhere deep in the back of my head. You hardly know him. ‘Do you believe in God?’ I ask.
He shakes his head emphatically, just once. So sure his opinion is the right one that he doesn’t feel the need to elaborate or protest too loudly. The epitome of being quietly confident in his own reasoning. ‘I wish I did. I think it must be great to believe that something can be changed or solved just because you wish it to be.’ His tone is subdued.
‘I prayed a lot when I was a child,’ I admit. ‘It soothed the sense of helplessness and anger I felt when my dad was drunk, and then, you know, after the accident …’ I wait. Matthew doesn’t talk about the details of his life after Becky’s death. I think we must have passed the one-year anniversary now. I have no idea how he marked the day. I don’t know how to approach the subject. We’re planning a wedding and yet he’s still grieving for his first wife. I tentatively edge towards the subject of grief and remembrance in case he wants to open up to me.
He meets my eyes; he appears to be searching for something too. I’m not sure what exactly. Maybe a sense that life goes on, maybe a feeling that I understand his loss. Whatever it is, I think he finds it, as he nods slowly. ‘OK.’ He reaches for his coat. ‘I’d better meet your vicar then.’
I can’t resist excitedly texting Heidi. We’re going to St Adelaide’s this afternoon. Thinking of marrying there. Will tell you all when we see one another. I add the church emoji. The grey ticks turn blue, but she doesn’t respond. Not even with the bride, groom or wedding bells emoji.
After my parents’ funeral, my grandparents scooped me and my brother into a waiting black Rolls-Royce and we were taken directly to our respective boarding schools. From then on, my time was split between school and my grandparents’ home in Scotland. Even though I bought land and built a house in the county I was born in, I only visit Hodstone once a year, to lay flowers on my parents’ graves on the anniversary of their deaths. I’m really hoping to oust the hard memories and make happier new ones by marrying here.
The village itself hasn’t changed much since I was a kid. As well as the church, there’s a pub and a post office squashed between higgledy-piggledy thatched cottages and workers’ terraced homes, the type that have front doors that open directly onto the street. It’s the sort of village that tourists drive through and gasp at, commenting that time has stood still here. They say it must be charming to live somewhere so unspoilt, but they don’t stop, they keep on driving to the next town, where there are shops and restaurants.
We didn’t live in the pretty part of the village. As my father had been cut off from his parents’ wealth and was too much of a drunk to hold down a job, we managed on my mum’s salary, but we didn’t have the sort of money that could buy charm. We lived in a less aesthetically pleasing 1980s new-build on the outskirts. The sprawling suburbs have trebled in size since I was a girl. Matthew and I drive through a mass of red-brick semi-detached houses. It is neither impressive nor off-putting; it’s unprepossessing. It’s where I came from and I’m fine with that. Everyone comes from somewhere and that’s not what a person should be judged on. What can be a cause of shame is where a person ends up. Matthew constantly looks from left to right, his head swivelling as he takes in saggy, tired old ladies sitting on benches at bus stops, and hunched, hooded youths milling aimlessly along the street.
I wonder when we will get to New Zealand. I am looking forward to mooching around his childhood town, meeting his mum and dad. There’s room in my life for parents, even if they are only parents-in-law. I’m ready to embrace a brand-new family. I hope they feel the same about me. I wonder if my in-laws were close with Becky. Was she the daughter they’d never had, or did they resent the fact that she took their son across the world? What will they think of me?
The church dominates the village green, but the first thing I direct Matthew’s attention towards is the pub. In the late-afternoon light, the white pebble-dash looks closer to grey, the hanging baskets are empty and no one is sitting at the tables outside. I ask him to imagine the garden decked with sparkling fairy lights on a warm summer evening, the sky glowing amber as the sun sets. ‘There’s room for a marquee. We could have a live band, and there’s a catering company just up the road that has an incredible reputation.’
He interrupts. ‘You’re thinking of having our wedding reception here at this pub?’ He looks horrified by the idea.
‘It’s one thought. I did wonder about putting a bus on and taking everyone back to mine – ours.’ I quickly correct myself. ‘But then we’d have to clean up afterwards.’ I’d thought he’d like the simplicity of a pub reception; it’s consciously understated. Seeing that he doesn’t look at all happy with the suggestion, I say, ‘There’s also a stately home a couple of miles away that does weddings. We could possibly hire that.’ Truthfully, Grange Hall has seen better days. The splendid glamour it once possessed was spent a century ago, and now it’s scratching about for a living. Acquired by a chain of hotels that clearly bulk-bought moulded mock Louis XIV chairs and pink tablecloths but didn’t have the funds to invest in updating the heating systems or fixing leaks, it’s far from a dream venue. I decide to tackle the issue of the venue after we’ve met the vicar and there’s a green light on the church wedding.
The church, a Grade I listed building, is undoubtedly, unequivocally beautiful. Dating from the twelfth century and made of coursed limestone rubble, it has everything a person imagines when they think of an English village church: belfry windows, parapets, pinnacles and gargoyles that give the later addition – the fifteenth-century tower – a classic Gothic appearance. Matthew and I stop at the lychgate. ‘Do you like the look of it?’ I ask.
‘It’s very traditional,’ he replies. I raise my eyebrows. I expected more enthusiasm.
He tries again. ‘It’s as expected.’ I realise he has just articulated my thoughts but it doesn’t sound like a compliment when he says it this way. I push open the little wooden gate and step inside. For a moment I don’t think he’s going to follow me. He is pale, wide-eyed. His skin is almost waxy. Beads of sweat sit above his lips; there are two spots of colour high on his cheeks. Rose-red blotches, like a curse in a fairy tale. I lead him towards the church, breathing deeply, letting the warm air fill my lungs. I feel hopeful, positive as we reach the low porch that houses a statue of some sleeping long-dead noble. The large wooden doors, ornate and beautifully carved, are wide open, an invitation. I glance excitedly at Matthew, but he looks far from happy. ‘Are you OK?’
‘OK?’ He repeats the word back to me. Not an answer, more of a question.
