33
I Close My Eyes and Count to Ten
The day of the wedding dawned with torrential rain. I rang Pete to make sure he’d slept okay. Actually, that wasn’t true. I rang to make sure he hadn’t overslept or been the victim of a late-night visit from best man Alex that had ended with Pete stranded in a lay-by on the M1 with his eyebrows shaved off.
He sounded very chipper. ‘I just spoke to Mum,’ he told me. ‘She said that back in the village they always said it was good luck to have rain on your wedding day.’
This was bollocks, but it was sweet that Pete had believed it. If that were really the case, English summer weddings would be the most blessed on the planet.
*
I showered, had a slice of toast and cup of tea, then went to get ready. I opened my Selfridges bags to retrieve my new make-up and a wave of Nick’s cologne hit me, along with an overwhelming sadness.
I let myself cry for a good couple of minutes.
God, I really was taking Gavin’s ‘feel your feelings’ thing to heart.
Either way, I figured it was best to get any tears out of the way early. Waterproof mascara never lived up to its name.
I was ready half an hour before my parents’ taxi came to pick me up. I sat rigidly on my kitchen chair, conscious not to get too many creases in my long satin dress. Time on my hands was a bad thing. Alice’s suggestion to ring Nick kept echoing in my mind. My fingers itched for my phone, but every time I picked it up and tried to make the call, I chickened out. What would I say?
Oh, hi, Nick. If ever you get bored with Marcie Tyler keep me in mind – I’d love to be your consolation prize. Sorry I passed you over for another man. My bad.
I replayed this fake conversation in my head ten times, before another conversation – this time a real one – from last night muscled it out. Simon had said I was the bravest person he knew. It was time to live up to that and talk to Nick.
I took several deep breaths, hoping courage would fill me.
Okay, not really much courage in the air of my kitchen. Maybe I needed to open a window.
I stopped myself. I was being daft. What was preventing me?
I wasn’t very good doing things ad hoc – maybe I should write out what I wanted to say.
I rummaged through the kitchen drawers to find what I needed, then I sat at the table, pen poised over an A4 pad, waiting for the right words to come.
Any second now.
Just be patient.
Oh for God’s sake. I was a journalist, I was supposed to be good with words.
Maybe it was the pen that was throwing me. I hadn’t written anything by hand for years. Maybe sitting at a keyboard would help.
I checked the clock. Crap, did I really only have fifteen minutes? I was running out of time to have a last-minute wee, check my make-up, and recheck I had everything packed in my ridiculously small handbag.
There was no time to write anything. I would have to improvise.
I picked up my phone, scrolled to Nick’s number and hit ‘dial’.
My heart knocked against my ribs. The phone was ringing. Except it was that international ringing tone. He was abroad already.
It didn’t matter.
It rang a couple more times, then stopped.
‘Hello?’ I croaked.
No one answered. It had gone to answerphone. But it was one of those pre-recorded messages by the woman who does the speaking clock. Not Nick’s usual one, in his own voice. Was this still his number? Had he changed it?
