The Name I Call Myself (28 page)

Ah, yes. And what were your normal feelings towards Perry, exactly? Strong enough to prevent any future crushes when a handsome, kind, funny, wise, lovely man comes along?

I took a deep breath. They were going to have to be.

We lit the fire as dusk began to fall and gathered round it on a motley bunch of makeshift seats – the folded-up tents, upturned buckets, and cool box. The twins oohed and aahed at the crackling flames from the safety of their pushchair. As the stars emerged in the purple sky, the scent of pine trees mingled with the warmth of
the wood smoke, and the wood pigeons cooed their bedtime story. All of us agreed this was better than being crammed round a table in some city-centre restaurant.

To make things just about perfect, Polly and baby Esme arrived with four carrier bags of fish and chips. We toasted love, friendship, a memorable weekend, no broken bones and not too many bruised bottoms, and – to a lesser degree – marriage.

“To Perry, wherever he may be,” Mags declared. “A man with excellent taste in women. May he fulfil all Faith's bodily, mind, and heart's desires, 'til death do them part.”

“Bodily desires? 'Til death do them part? She should be so lucky!” Janice said, causing a ripple of laughter.

I bent my head, pretending to hide my blushes rather than the stab of anxiety. It had been easier, in the planning and the preparation of my wedding, to dismiss the reality of the marriage that came after.

Once the sun set behind the oak trees we brought out the blankets and sleeping bags that had managed to escape the sheep. Wrapped ourselves up in pink bobble hats and fleecy jackets, easy conversation and good company. Hester challenged everyone to give me a piece of marriage advice.

Looking around at the group, I braced myself.

Natasha kicked us off. “Go on a date every fortnight. That's what my parents do.”

“Tell him you love him every day,” Ebony said, her cheekbones pink. I nodded my thanks.
How about I start by telling him I love him once?

“If you want to get the most out of a marriage, you can't go into it with a fifty-fifty attitude,” Mags said. “If you both decide to give one hundred per cent and try to outgive the other, that's when you get a marriage that sings.”

“Sex begins at the breakfast table,” Janice declared. “Or sometimes on the breakfast table. But that's not what I mean. Don't leave all thoughts of romance until the end of the day when you're
knackered and your brain is full of work, leaving you feeling about as sexy as a bowl of dirty dishes. Then, when his hand begins to creep across the bed what you want to do is sit up, clock him over the head with your hot water bottle, and ask ‘
Are you kidding me?
'”

Are you kidding me? That pretty much summed up how I felt about sex with Perry. Maybe we needed to start having breakfast together.

Millie nodded. “Then, before you know it he's going on business trips to conduct sneaky business with his thirty-two-year-old personal assistant and her fake boobs. That's my advice. Make sure his personal assistant has her own boobs.”

We carried on. Rowan, whose only boyfriend had been Callie's father, told me, “Dance together. In the kitchen. Under the moon. Pull each other close and learn to move in time.” She shrugged. “When I find a decent man I'm going to dance with him every night.”

April solemnly advised me to stick with it; the bad times are worth fighting through to get to the good times on the other side.

“Grace,” Leona added. “Grace is the oil that keeps the wheels running smoothly. When he leaves his underwear on the bathroom floor, forgets your birthday, snores, and snaps at the kids. Those days when you can't stop fantasizing about packing up a suitcase and running off to live a life of bliss on a deserted island, where nobody leaves an empty packet of tea in the cupboard, or burps when you are trying to enjoy your meal, or expects you to know where his rugby top is. On those days, you need to remind yourself – this is a good man, on the whole. He is faithful, and kind. He works hard, and means well even when he hasn't got a clue. He is decent, and he loves me as best he can. Take a deep breath and pray for grace.”

After the others had taken their turns, Polly went second to last. She crossed her arms and pulled a face. “What can I say, Faith? I'm the last person who should be doling out advice. Just don't put up with any crap.” A tear rolled down her cheek, as Melody reached over to give her hand a squeeze. “Marilyn?”

My best friend looked at me, her expression neutral. “Honesty. And trust. A good partner brings out the best in you, but that's impossible when you don't even let him know you.”

I cleared my throat, more than a little overwhelmed by the prospect of what I was letting myself in for. Marriage sounded like hard work. So much more than two people sharing a house, and a bed, and some memories, maybe some kids.

That was okay, I decided. I could do hard work. I could learn to trust Perry. That took time, right? I could rustle up enough grace. We could dance in the kitchen. And his personal assistant was a man, so I felt pretty sure he didn't have breast implants.

I could make it work.

My phone rang, as a tiny flicker of signal managed to penetrate the forest depths. Sam. As I answered my phone, the twelve missed messages and countless texts beeped through. I excused myself, finding a private spot a short distance away to answer.

“Hi Sam.”

“Faith! Why didn't you answer my calls? I need to talk to you.”

I took a deep breath. I would make it work.

Having reassured Sam that I was fine, and reassured myself that he was as fine as could be expected underneath all the rambling waffle, I hung up and went back to the others. They had a gift for me. A set of china cups and saucers and matching teapot. I loved them, but I couldn't help thinking how out of place they would look in Perry's space-age kitchen. They'd look bloomin' lovely sitting on the bashed-up oak dresser in my kitchen, bought for thirty pounds from a charity shop, sanded down, and painted duck-egg blue to match my cabinets.

After the obligatory sing-song around the campfire, leaving my bridesmaids fairly bedazzled, Natasha turned up her iPod and set the playlist to party. We all kicked off our shoes and danced
on the cold grass – even Hester, even Polly.
Especially
Polly, who danced as if the leg irons holding her back for the past few years had finally been hacked off. We boogied until we were breathless, then we had a drink, and some more food, and got up and boogied again.

During the middle of a particularly energetic reconstruction of the last dance from
Dirty Dancing
, high on endorphins, laughter, and two rare glasses of wine, I launched myself across the clearing into Marilyn's waiting arms, leaving us both in a heap on the grass. At that moment, Dylan strolled up.

“Hello, ladies.” He grinned, hands in his pockets. “So this is what you get up to when no men are around.”

“Dance with us, Dylan!” Rowan grabbed his hands, and started attempting a pachanga, or whatever it is Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey do in the film. To my surprise, Dylan went with it, with relish, adding some spins and even a dip as the song came to an end. Huh. Well. There you go then. How nice for Rowan.

He pulled her back up again, ruffled her hair affectionately, then looked across at me and winked.

Good job it was too dark to see my schoolgirl blush. And if I was the one he winked at, well, we were friends. It wasn't some secret signal, meant only for me, about how actually he was really pleased to see me…

Sheesh, Faith. This is why you don't drink wine.

“How's the hen? Fun weekend?” He wandered over while Hester began barking instructions for the evacuation.

“Today was great. Yesterday…? Probably best summed up as memorable.”

He frowned, scanning the clearing. “Is there a problem with the drains here?”

“Um, no. There are no drains. But we've been using the woods. And Hester brought a trowel.”

His nostrils flared. “I think you needed to dig a bit deeper. That is rank.”

With horror, I realized what the smell was. “Actually, that's not what it is.”

I leaned in a bit closer, screwing up my face in apology. Dylan veered back, covering his face with his hand.

“I don't mean to be rude, but what on earth?”

“I know. I ended up in a sort of swamp last night. A few of us did. Help me carry some of this stuff to the car and I'll tell you about it.”

We loaded everything up, and searched the clearing for any last trace of litter or chunks of chewed-up tent. Most people had left by the time Marilyn started strapping her now sleeping toddlers into the car, and I had a moment to say bye to Dylan.

“Thanks for coming out here. I'm sure you've got places you'd rather be in the middle of a Saturday night.” I checked my watch. “Sunday morning.”

He smiled. “Nope, can't think of anywhere I'd rather be than here.” A look of horror flashed across his face. “I don't know why I said that. I just meant, you know, otherwise I'd be sat on the sofa by myself watching a rubbish film and eating crisps. I didn't mean, um. Anything else.”

“Right. Of course you didn't! I never thought… I mean. Of course.” I kicked at a clump of grass in front of me. “I'll probably skip church tomorrow. But I'll see you in the week for a lesson?”

Dylan looked over at the truck, then straight back at me. “Yeah. About that.”

Oh. I tried to brace myself.

“Have you told Perry yet?”

“Told him what?”
About the gate? Nothing happened! Why would I tell him that?

“About the real reason you're learning to drive.”

Ah. I folded my arms. “I haven't found the right time yet. He's been working away. And I'm not sure I need to tell him. I haven't seen or heard anything about Kane in weeks. Gwynne was probably right. Kane's been to all his meetings. It was paranoia.”

Dylan looked at me. I could just about see his furrowed brow through the darkness.

“Look, I will tell him. But it's my decision when. What? Are you going to stop giving me lessons until I do?”

Dylan ran his hand over his head. “I think it might be a good idea if you found someone else.”

I had known it was coming, but felt the slap of rejection all the same. “What? Why? I thought the lessons were going really well. I thought you were my friend.”

“Faith.” His voice hardened. “I'm a minister. I have a job to do. For people who rely on me. I need to get on with it.”

“Oh.”
I'm relying on you, you idiot!
“Well, I'm sorry for taking up so much of your time. Thanks for all the help. I'm probably better off with a professional anyway.”

“Don't be sorry.” He glanced at me, then looked away again.

“Well, I am sorry. I never meant to drag you away from your job. If I remember, you offered to help me. And it didn't have to be so often. That was your idea, too. But it's fine. I understand. You're a busy, busy man.” Urgh. I sounded like a stroppy teenager. I hated, hated, hated accepting help from people. I didn't know how to handle it being withdrawn.

He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. “Look. I want to help you. But Faith, I see you what, five times a week, with choir rehearsal and Sunday services? How often have you seen Perry in the past month? He should be teaching you how to drive – or at least paying for you to have driving lessons. He should be the one awake half the night worrying about the ex-convict who may or may not be hunting you down, praying and hoping that when this monster does he can be there to stand between you. I like being your friend, Faith.” He stopped, swallowed, ran his hand through his hair again. “I love being your friend. But you're getting married in three months. This is your hen do. I shouldn't be the one here taking the equipment back.”

“It was a choir weekend. I knew nothing about the hen do bit. And anyway, Perry's in Germany.”