Twinned (2 page)

Being native to Paris, Selina did not need to stay in the hotel, so would join us for drinks each evening and then leave. On the second night we enjoyed a meal on the famous Bateau Mouche river boat. We were served a wonderful meal during a scenic river cruise up the Seine. On the last night, Richard and I seized our chance to break away from the group after dinner. At his insistence we dashed to the Metro station, heading for the Eiffel Tower. When we reached the foot of the tower the lights began to flash and shimmer, it was beautiful. I remember how nervous I was as the lift ascended and how he had held my hand for the first time. The whole experience was fantastic.

When we got back to the hotel we sheepishly joined the rest of the group in the hotel bar. Selina and Richard went to order more drinks. While they were there, I overheard them both arguing. Richard sounded quite forceful in the way he spoke to her, which surprised me. Selina left without saying goodbye to the rest of us.

I asked Richard if Selina was OK and he was quite terse in his reply. He said she had asked him to go home with her the night before and he had refused. Now she was angry that we had left the group to sightsee together. He seemed in a bad mood afterwards, it had kind of spoiled the evening. He seemed very preoccupied.

This was my first glimpse of mercurial Richard. For all his social graces, wit and sparkle, he could be very serious. Rather than put me off, it intrigued me. I had never been attracted to men who openly flirted, finding it embarrassing and insincere. Richard’s confidence was almost verging on arrogance, yet to a degree to which he seemed somehow entitled.

After breakfast the next morning, my last in Paris, I packed my bags. I was ready to go back home but reluctant to leave Richard. I was worried I might not see him again. I left the room for the last time and was just about to press the button for the lift, when I thought to knock on Richard’s door. We could travel down and check out together.

He smiled as he saw me and invited me into his room. I put my bags down and he motioned for me to take a seat in the armchair while he finished packing. The room smelled of expensive aftershave. I felt quite privileged to be in his private space, seeing his clothes and possessions scattered around the room, it was quite intimate.

When he’d finished packing, he came over to me and surprised me by taking my hand. I stood up. He moved very close to me. For a few seconds we were merely centimetres apart.

“I have enjoyed meeting you, Miss Britten,” he said, slowly, running his thumb across my lower lip. He pulled me towards him so our bodies were pressed together, his arms around my waist, my hands on his chest. I could feel the muscles across his ribcage moving against mine as he breathed in and out. I felt excited and intrigued and nervous at the same time. I was waiting for him to kiss me. His lips touched mine, very softly. Then he pulled away and smiled at me.

“What are you doing next weekend?” He asked.

Joel

My name is
Joel Vine. I am twenty nine years old and I sure am confused. I woke up this morning knowing what I had to do; I would come clean and tell my wife, Georgia, about the visions.

I think I might be going crazy. It started to properly freak me out when I began to meditate a while back. I would imagine that I was travelling through space and time. It was innocent relaxation. Or that’s what I thought. But I always seemed to see the same girl and I was drawn to watch her. I dreamed about her going about her normal life. I swear I thought it was all in my mind. But now I don’t know what’s real anymore.

I’ve been awake for nearly an hour. It’s now seven am. I'm thinking about what to say, lying in bed while Georgia sleeps next to me, our son dozing peacefully in the next room.

Georgia’s soft blonde hair is fanned out across the pillow, her breathing regular, eyes closed. We’ll have been together six years in May. We met before the band got famous and I remember she told me, with great confidence, that she was ‘the one’ for me, right from our first date. Talking over dinner in a little Italian cafe across town, we had so much in common. I love the way her mind works, her goodness, her laugh.

I hear Harry yell out from the next room and before I physically react, Georgia is up. Her tanned legs are set off beautifully by my white t-shirt. She always sleeps in my shirts, which I think is incredibly hot. She smiles at me as she straightens the duvet, hops into her slippers and bounds across the room.

"Coming Harry! Mommy's coming!"

How can she jump straight up, happy as can be, I wonder? Because she is perfect. Innocent. Beautiful. How can I break her heart? She married a rock star, not a mental person.

I lay there, hearing her softly comforting our son in the room next door and my heart starts pounding real hard. I feel sick. I don't want to lose what I have. Whatever I think I see is not real. There is no substance. No reason. No way.

I open the drawer next to the bed, reach inside and grab a strip of pills. The doctor prescribed mild sedatives for when I have to fly. They have a handy side effect of numbing my senses, which seems to block the visions. I pop one from the packet. It's the best way I know to keep my head free of
her
. I tell myself there is no harm just taking one.

Beth

We dated.
Richard didn’t expect constant conversation or overt displays of affection. He was quite independent, both with his work and in his social life. He travelled a lot during the week.

About six months after we started dating, he moved to a company called S-Zone, a property and business acquisition conglomerate based in the US. He was appointed as a regional UK executive. He was quite well paid and, from the sounds of it, very successful.

We would have been better off but he was supporting his parents who were quite elderly compared to mine. Richard explained to me in confidence that his parents had recently bailed out Richard’s brother, Thomas, who had run up large debts and had almost lost his house and business. In doing so, they had re-mortgaged their own house, which had been almost mortgage-free in readiness for their retirement. They were now struggling to make the monthly mortgage payments. Richard explained that he regularly gave them around £500 a month, which was a fair proportion of his income. I was proud to be with someone who would support his family in this way.

With my previous boyfriends (well, dates if I am to be honest) there had been these awkward silences and I never knew if they liked me. When Richard and I were together he gave me his undivided attention and I knew that he liked me because he would always ask to see me again.

The only downside was his temper. Occasionally, I would be reminded of the way he had spoken to Selina that last evening in Paris. He didn’t speak to me that way; if I ever made him angry he would just go quiet or maybe disappear for a few hours. With other people he was less restrained. They could rub him up the wrong way quite unintentionally, particularly if Richard perceived that they were being pushy, or were trying to get one over on him. And it could have annoyed me that Richard didn’t like me talking to other men, had I had any close male friends. But I didn’t, so it wasn’t a problem.

Having met his dad, I could see that Richard was a chip off the old block. And his mum and dad had been together forever, which made me feel quite reassured. After all, everyone has their faults. I certainly felt I had my fair share. I knew I was incredibly lucky to have found Richard.

I blossomed during our romance; Richard’s confidence in me had increased my confidence in myself. He pushed me to aspire to more, both in terms of my career and our social standing as a couple. We had some very wealthy friends among Richard’s work contacts and as things got more serious I began to see a clear picture of where we would aspire to end up as a couple, should we marry; a house in London, regular holidays, ski trips and mini-breaks. Hopefully one day, children. 

On my 24
th
birthday, Richard and I had been together for just over two years. We were invited to a private fireworks display in the grounds of an art deco mansion, belonging to Richard’s immediate boss. Just before the fireworks were due to start, the guests were asked to congregate on the large patio that overlooked the garden. There were four large chimineas on the patio kicking out heat, yet still it was pretty freezing.

Richard handed me a pair of soft leather gloves and said “Happy Birthday darling”. They were beautiful. I put the first glove on, it fit perfectly. But there was something inside the second glove. I retrieved it and to my astonishment my hand drew from the glove a square cut diamond on a platinum band.

“Will you marry me?” he whispered, as the first fireworks shot up into the sky.

“Yes,” I said, smiling and I kissed him, as the fireworks exploded in bursts of colour. 

*****

One year on from our engagement is where my story begins. Richard came home from work and I could tell there was something he was excited about.

I asked him how his day had been and almost immediately he asked me to come and sit down in the living room so he could tell me something. We sat on the sofa together, the sofa that had only just arrived the week before, as he explained that he’d been offered a two-month secondment with S-Zone USA. The problem wasn’t just that it was for two months but that it would take him away over Christmas.

We had only just bought and moved into our house, the three-bedroom terrace in Borough Green, near Sevenoaks. The mortgage was a whopping £295,000. This trip would allow him to earn some much needed extra money towards our wedding.

I was pleased and disappointed in equal measure. After all, he would miss Christmas and New Year, such a special time for us. He would be alone in a strange country for the festivities that we would have shared for the first time in our new home.

“This opportunity… It’s fallen in our laps, Beth! This trip is the best way of us getting your dream wedding and honeymoon without paying for it until we’re well into our thirties.”

“
My
dream wedding, surely it’s ours?” I wondered out loud.

“You know what I mean, Beth. All the trimmings, just as you want.”

He was excited, I could tell. “What will you be doing in America?”

“The London office is running well but they want me to experience the Denver office, get some new ideas about how we can extend our portfolio in the UK. It could really help my career as well as earning some quite sizeable cash.”

Oh. “Well how much will they pay you?”

“I’ve negotiated a – get this - £10,000 compensation package for the temporary relocation. When you add on any commission I get from the US deals I make, we’re talking more than enough to convince me that I
have
to do this. And quite apart from the money – it will be good for my career.”

I sighed. It did seem too good to refuse. Finances had been weighing on Richard’s mind – and mine. The circles we moved in through Richard’s work and also his friendships were well-off to say the least. We were often obliged to accept an invitation to dinner knowing that the cost of the wine alone would surpass the budget for our weekly food shop. The pre-wedding norm had been set by our affluent London friends whose generosity we had accepted for a ski stag party in Aspen, a hen week in a Turkish spa resort... All precluding opulent ceremonies, five star hotels, formal wedding breakfasts with silver service in vast function rooms, marquee receptions for 300 or more guests to enjoy a four course sit-down meal and dance the night away to a top quality band or well-known DJ.

We were not aiming quite that high, well at least I wasn’t. Still, we wanted our day to be special.

I felt dizzy just thinking about the expectations we wanted to live up to.

My parents had offered what truly were very generous donations towards the cost, bearing in mind their own finances. However, each plan we made and each relative or distant friend we were asked to add on to the guest list, spiraled the cost projection even further into quadruple figures.

Yes. This trip could solve everything.

*****

LOCAL pianist says piano strikes right note for wedded bliss

Why choose a pianist for your wedding?
We asked famed concert pianist, Jemima Sinclair. “There is nothing as evocative as a piano. Many wedding venues have a piano permanently set up for events. The contrast between loud and soft, light and shade, does not translate to the listener merely by the black and white keys being struck in a prescribed order. No, to hear a piano played well is to experience a soul laid bare; the joining of pianist and piano in the experience of heightened emotion through music.”

To book Jemima Sinclair for your event, email
[email protected]
.”

*****

Wedding magazines had become my bedtime reading. I had fallen asleep the night before, still mulling over whether to book a string quartet or a pianist.

And perhaps this was why I dreamed of the most beautiful piano playing. Perhaps the answer had come to me by way of my subconscious mind. As the room lightened and the hands of the clock moved on regardless of my sleeping, my mind began to acknowledge the sounds of Saturday beginning; cars starting, children playing.

I slowly and contentedly lift through the mists of sleep, waking slowly to the sound of the piano rising to a beautiful crescendo, almost overwhelming in its perfection. I open my eyes, thinking yes, I will book a pianist.

And then I see the clock.

Shit!

Shit, shit, shit!

In
a heartbeat I realise where I am, who I am, what day it is – and wonder what on earth Radio Power is doing, playing classical piano music on the Breakfast show? I leap out of bed, stretching out my hand to hit the ‘Off’ button. But the radio
isn’t on
. And there is no piano being played, anywhere.

Just my silent bedroom with its soft grey walls and white furniture and the clock, which says I’m almost an hour late for our first wedding venue tour. It was just a dream.

I dress and wash hurriedly, frantically texting Richard so he knows I am on my way.

*****

“Finally, Beth!”

I can see from the way his tie is twisted from being pulled in frustration, Richard is annoyed.

“Come on. The Bursar can still see us if we hurry!”

“I’m so sorry,” I mutter, taking his cold hand and looking up at the modern frontage of the private boarding school as we approach. I’m pulled behind a striding Richard, up a concrete drive, past endless panes of glass, more concrete and steel, to a big glass revolving door. Already I know I will
not
be getting married here. There is no atmosphere, which is really quite remarkable for what I thought would be such an historic building.

“You must be
the
Elizabeth!” I’m introduced to a short and rather rotund man who introduces himself with a smile and a nervously sweaty handshake as Peter, the bursar of Edmeade Hall, Tonbridge. I don’t correct him on my name. For a short man he walks at an amazing pace, Richard and I struggle to keep up as he leads us through rooms and past three or four staircases, all of which look sterile and characterless. Nothing like I’d imagined it would look.

“I’ll have to give you the quick tour,” he explains. “I have another appointment waiting.”

Richard raises his eyebrows in mock admonishment at me, as Peter continues.

“The school was rebuilt in 1963 following a devastating fire, thought to have been arson,” explains Peter, as if sensing my question. “What could be salvaged was salvaged. We have part of an original wall at the rear of the kitchen if you want to see it?” Neither of us nods. We carry on.

We round a corner and he stops, turning on his heel. “This is where our brides dress before the ceremony…” Peter flourishes an arm towards another, wholly unremarkable room, painted entirely in magnolia.

“And through there is the hall that’s licensed for civil ceremonies, though if the weather is good we also hold a license for the gazebo outside.”

The gazebo sounds more promising that a 1960s hall ever could. But even that disappoints, as the flowers planted to grow and trail beautifully over it have not yet passed knee-height. It looks more like a steel cage.

“How much for the package we discussed, with sole use for the day?” asks Richard. Peter ums and aahs, muttering about the imminent VAT change. He rushes off to get a price list for next year. I pull Richard to one side. “What do you think?” He asks.

“Well it’s alright for a
school
but…”

“Too expensive, I agree. I’m not paying three grand for this place. What with the VAT increase, I’ll make him a cash offer. I reckon I could get him to accept a far lower price on the basis of that shoddy hall alone! And if we offer to take a late availability cancellation, less guests will be able to make it, which will be an added saving.”

His eyes have narrowed; oh I’ve seen this look on his face before, most recently when we bought my car. I wanted a peppy, little red hatchback. Richard did a deal on a dark grey executive estate that’s a pain to park and has electric everything, which is great until it rains. Every time there is a downpour the electrics give up so I can’t even open the window.