The Wedding Diaries (27 page)

Dad, I love you very much.

July 19th

Dad was allowed home this morning, so Thom and I were round with grapes and piles of convalescence reading earlier tonight. Mum’s so shaken by the whole thing. Of course I knew this was hard for her, but I don’t think I’ve taken a moment to consider what she was truly facing. Her husband of thirty-five years, gone in an instant.

Once we’d seen Dad tucked up safe on the sofa, I went upstairs to find his slippers; Mum was sitting on their bed with the slippers in her hand, staring at them. She heard me come in and looked up, pale.

‘You know, Kiki, that my father wasn’t at our wedding. When your dad and I were courting, my father was dying in his bedroom. He missed our wedding by a week. Your dad made me feel like he was building me a future because he couldn’t keep me from the grief of the past.’ She paused. ‘He’s always been my best friend, Kiki. He still is. I don’t know what I’d do without him.’

She let out a sob but turned it into a cough, rubbed her face and said brightly, ‘Right! Found the slippers!’ Oh, Mum.

And Thom’s busy-day mystery has been revealed. He admitted that Dad had got him a volunteer placement at the college, and that he’s just been helping out wherever he’s been needed. I think, having done so much corporate work, Thom’s felt eager to do something for someone who doesn’t have a second/third/fourth home, but I suspect once the wedding is done he’ll be champing at the bit to get back into an office somewhere, after dealing with those bloody kids.

I’m so glad Dad is home.

July 20th

Once we’d visited Dad after work, we went to go and see Susie and that new little piglet again. Thom had bought a miniature keyboard and an Etch-a-Sketch for the Twins, and I parcelled up all the pâté and brie I could find for Susie and her giganta-breastfeeding-appetite. There was no answer to the front door, but I saw the side gate was open so waved Thom round as he locked up the car and we followed the path down the side of the house to the garden. I couldn’t see Edward and Lily anywhere, but I could see Pete and Susie, hunched over baby Frida and squealing their lungs out with laughter. Susie was actually crossing her legs and holding her stomach in with one arm while she pushed Pete away with the other, and he was laughing so hard that he was doubled over, almost on top of her. Baby Frida watched with her giant marble eyes, and then Pete stopped laughing and kissed Suse so nicely that I thought maybe I ought to head back out of the gate.

They were so happy and so peaceful. If Pete spent the rest of his life looking after my sister the way he had so far, and was capable of making her laugh like that before kissing her like that, then he was OK by me, absent dad or no. But it wasn’t just that. Suse and Pete’s wedding had been at a register office in the middle of nowhere; at the age of twenty-two they’d disappeared on holiday and come back with mischief in their eyes declaring they’d brought us all back a holiday souvenir. ‘For you each …’ Susie said, fumbling in her bag, ‘a photocopied … wedding certificate!’ They’d wanted no fuss; there was little fanfare, no colour-schemed chair covers and certainly no panic about which wedding cake was particularly
en vogue
at the time (their wedding cake at the party we threw for them at the pub a week later was a pile of jam doughnuts with a horseshoe candle stuck on top) and yet, here they were, in a brief moment when Pete wasn’t living his life elsewhere, happy as Larry simply being with one another.
They
were happy enough without a toastmaster playing a fanfare at the start of married life. So where does that leave me?

July 23rd

Saturday, and Eve called to ask if I fancied brunch. Never one to turn down the opportunity for some eggs Benedict and a pint of coffee, and not having seen her since my disastrous stay at her house, we met at a Soho café. It was so odd – for maybe the first time ever, I didn’t feel defensive meeting her. The lack of it made me suddenly realise: every time I’d seen her in the past, I’d needed her to like me, and I needed to let her be the boss – I was nervous before she’d even spoken, waiting for her to remind me why our dynamic had become the way it was. Every time, something of that skewed relationship from our teenage years echoed between us.

But this time, it felt so different. I was furious, for a start. Furious for how she’d treated me, furious for how I’d let her, furious for her behaviour at her birthday party; furious for her treatment of Thom, that my dad had nearly died, that my amazing work project was over and I’d be back making lunch appointments for Tony, handling the books he didn’t care about and pretending I didn’t have a mind of my own, that my fiancé had lost his job completely and that he’d forced himself to do something he’d hated so much for so long, furious that Eve was still getting under my skin. I was angry before I’d even sat down. But then she began. Eve started by saying that she was sorry, again, really sorry. She’d been a dick, she said, and didn’t want to be a dick anymore. She’d been talking to someone – about me and Thom and herself – I laughed and said, ‘Is this person you mentioned a
therapist
?’ The thought of Eve wanting – and asking for – help seemed impossible: a fox asking for its teeth to be removed. She smiled at me.

Eve: I nearly did. I was going to, but I found something even better.

Me: Slow
down
. Have you found … God?

Eve: I have, Kiki. I’ve found God and have been welcomed into his heart, and there’s a peace there that I want to share with you.

Me: Oh … [faintly] good?

Eve: I’m
kidding
, you idiot.

Me: I was about to be sick.

Eve: You fool. It’s a guy. And not any guy, but … he’s nice. Don’t you dare tell anyone. He’s nice enough that I want to be a bit nicer, so he might hang around that little bit longer. And – you mustn’t bloody tell this to anyone either – I actually quite like being nice, and I’m quite sorry that I’ve been a dick to you occasionally. Let’s start again.

Me: [goggling in silence]

Eve: This isn’t easy. Never explain, never complain, you know. After you’d come to mine for those few days, I started thinking about what I’m doing with my life. Who I am. Jesus, I sound like a wanker. But I thought you might like to know that I might be in love.

Me: Fine. As long as you’re doing it just to impress a boy, and not because you’ve actually got a new outlook on life or anything.

Eve: A man. Not a boy.

Me: Haha! [singing] You’ve bee-en saved by a ma-an!

Eve: I haven’t been saved by anybody. I don’t need saving from anything. I just realised … I could just do what I wanted and not have someone I loved with me, or I could maybe take some advice sometimes and keep that person in my life.

Me: You must like him quite a bit.

Eve: I was sort of talking about you too.

Me: Oh, that’s
terrible
.

Eve: What is?

Me: You’ve become a self-help book.

Eve: Oh, I never realised – this is
all
fine: you’re a horrible person too. I didn’t need to worry about you at all.

Me: You’re a manual on how to love yourself.

Eve: Nothing wrong with a bit of loving yourself. It helps me get to sleep.

Me: There’s a mental image I didn’t need. I think we’re finished here.

Eve: Listen. I hope you don’t mind, but he’s going to swing by in a minute. I wanted you to meet him so … maybe … he could come to the wedding?

I would have welcomed anyone Eve wanted to bring, anyway – she was my bridesmaid and friend, and I
did
love her – and then he arrived. Eve suddenly hissed, ‘Oh shit – he’s called Mike, by the way.’ He was nothing like I expected. Bloody hell. He was … normal. A tiny little bit of a gut, faintly nerdy hair, but the nicest smile in the world. I’m not kidding. Sorry Thom, but this guy’s smile … I got it. I really did. He gave Eve a kiss (long enough for me to get the picture – they were into one another, alright) then turned and gave me a handshake. I
love
handshakes! Love. Them.

Mike: Kiki! I’ve heard so much about you. I’m sorry to crash your brunch but I was nearby and Eve really wanted to introduce me, while I’m still fresh out of the box with this killer athletic body.

Me: It’s so nice to meet you. I’ve heard almost nothing about you due to Eve’s unusual new secrecy, but she seems so happy on whatever you’re giving her.

Mike: Give her a few weeks and I’m sure I’ll be the sad toy she doesn’t want to play with anymore. You can have her back then.

I’ve never in my life heard any man speak about Eve like this, and certainly no one has ever got a handle on her so fast. But instead of rolling her eyes at him, Eve laughed, blissful, and held his hand. She never looked at Louis like that – they were always in fierce competition, so smiles were doled out on a point-scoring basis, or after a triumphant put-down. I’ll be delighted to invite him to wherever our wedding ends up being.
If
it ends up being.

July 24th

Mum called to say it would be nice if we came over to see them, but not until the afternoon when Dad had had a chance for a nap, and not all at once. Susie and Frida went over there for a light lunch, and Thom and I were permitted to go over for a roast in the evening. Dad kept insisting on how well he felt, but we were all handling him with kid gloves. After dinner, Mum and Dad suddenly seemed slightly nervous.

Mum: So, you two, we wanted to talk to you.

Me: Dad, are you OK?

Dad: I’m fine, love. It’s something else we wanted to talk to you about.

Me [aghast] Are you two getting a divorce?
Please
don’t be getting a divorce …

Mum: Kiki! Of course we’re not getting a divorce.

Dad: It’s nothing bad, love. Some friends of ours mentioned that the school field is available for hire this summer. You can have access to the facilities there, too, if you want, for a small bit more.

Me: The school? Over the road? That school?

Mum: Why would you think we’re getting a divorce?

Thom: That sounds great, John. What kind of price are they after?

Me: Hang on – my old school? Opposite here? Or do you mean a lovely old grand public school? The latter, yes?

Dad: For the field alone, it’s £100 – for the field and whatnot, you’d be looking at £250. What do you think? £250 will get you from 5pm on the Friday, right through to the Sunday afternoon.

Mum: A divorce, Kiki. What a terrible thing to say to your parents.

Me: Mum, I wasn’t
hopeful
. I was …

Thom: Hopeless? [to Dad] That sounds brilliant.

Dad: Of course, at that price, we can help you out with the cost.

Me: Can we slow down for
one
second? I remember that school. The dark corridors and the scary assembly rooms, and the teeny tiny toilets. We can’t get married there!

Dad: It’s been totally refurbished, Kiki. It’s a lovely place now, with proper facilities and everything.

Me: But the toilets are tiny!

Dad: I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t think it would work, love. Listen, my friend Mike is over there now, we can go and have a look, and you can make your mind up once you’ve seen it.

Thom: Brilliant. Kiki?

Me: [feeling the crushing ball of inevitability mowing me down once more] Fine. Thanks, Dad.

Mum: [quietly] Divorce! Honestly. Where does she get this?

Dad took Thom and me over the road to the school, shuffling over while Mum called terrible curses after us if we let anything happen to him. His pal was there directing workmen round the back, and left us to it once he was happy that Dad was getting on OK and we knew our way around. We went into the school through a little fire exit, propped open for the men, and saw in the half-light the rows of classrooms. How could the smell not have changed in twenty-odd years? It was so unmistakably a school. Dad said, ‘Come round to the playground, you two – that’s the bit you’d be at.’ He explained that we’d have the sports field off the playground, plus the toilets, school kitchens and power supply in the buildings at the edge of the field. I could see the playground through the big doors as we approached. Heavy grey tarmac and a big brick wall, both of which used to cause scuffed knees and elbows as the kids had shoved and tripped one another during break. We followed him outside in the dusk, to where a big grubby grey tent was erected at the near end of the school field, with big grubby men coming in and out, carting pipes and wires and wheelbarrows of other grubby junk back and forth. I could make out a bit of scrubland behind the tent, and the half of the playground that had been dug up to access the pipes beneath it with grubby metal fences around the holes.