Andrew in New York had apparently not responded well to being implicated in this cock-up and had consequently soured the potential New York job offer. All that maneuvering just to save himself the ignominy of apologizing for the mistake he made in the first place. But then, you see, in the banking world apologizing is a sign of weakness. And weakness doesn’t inspire confidence, and, as we all know, the market is built on confidence. Bull you win; Bear you lose. Hence Mark, now unemployed, standing half dressed in our living room shouting at the house phone.
He tells me that all’s not lost. He’s spoken to Rafie and a couple of other work friends and there are at least three possibilities floating around, if not more. He just needs to hang tight for a few weeks. There’s nothing more he can do himself at this stage. Even if he gets an offer, he can’t start till after garden leave, which means until mid-September. An enforced vacation. At any other time of my life I would absolutely love that idea, but now that the filming’s actually started I’m going to be swamped until the wedding. Bad timing.
As if on cue he appears, washed and changed, in the kitchen. He smiles at me; he looks amazing. White shirted and freshly scented, he takes my hand and twirls me. We go on a brief, silent dance tour of the kitchen before he holds me at arm’s length and says, “I’m taking over. Get up those stairs and make yourself morebeautiful. I challenge you!” He grabs a tea towel and whips me giggling out of the room.
Some might find this switch unnerving, but I love that about Mark. He can turn on a dime, compartmentalize. He’s in control of his emotions. He knows I need him tonight, so he’s there.
Upstairs I agonize over what to wear. I want to seem like I’ve made an effort but effortlessly. It’s a tricky balance.
Tonight I’m going to ask Fred to give me away at the wedding. It’s delicate because Fred’s not a relation. He’s just the closest thing I have to a father. I respect him. I care about him and I flatter myself he cares about me too. At least I hope so. Anyway, I hate talking about my family. I feel like people place too much emphasis on where we come from and not enough on where we’re going, but anyway…I suppose I need to tell you about my family so you understand.
My mother was young and beautiful and clever. She worked hard, she ran a company, and I loved her so much it hurts to think about her. So I don’t. She died. Her car went off a road and rolled down onto a railway track one night twenty years ago. My dad rang me at boarding school the day after and told me. He came to collect me that evening. I got a week off school. There was a funeral. After that my dad took a job in Saudi Arabia. I saw him on school holidays when I went out there. At sixteen I stopped going, choosing to spend the holidays at friends’ houses instead. He remarried. They have two kids now. Chloe’s sixteen and Paul is ten. Dad can’t make the wedding. And to be honest, I’m glad. He doesn’t make it to much these days. I went over for a visit a couple of years ago. Slept in a barespare room. I know he sees my mother when he looks at me, because that’s all I see when I look at him. Anyway, that’s it. That’s all I’ll say on it.
When I finally make it downstairs, the air is filled with the heady scents of dinner. The table is laid. Best plates, best glasses, champagne, and somehow Mark’s fished out some cloth napkins. God. I didn’t even know we had napkins. He grins up at me as I enter, his deep brown eyes tracing the contours of my body through the dress. I’ve gone with a minimalist black velvet dress, my dark hair pulled loosely back to reveal the long gold earrings Mark bought me for my birthday.
“Gorgeous,” he says, looking me up and down as he lights the last candle.
I look at him silently. I’m nervous. He stands there, solid chested and handsome. He sees it, my worry. He sets down what he’s doing and comes over to me.
“It’s going to be fine. It’s a lovely thing you’re asking. It’s going to be fine,” he whispers into my ear, holding me close.
“But what if he asks about them?” I look up at him. I can’t talk about it all again. I don’t want to think of her.
“He knows you. He’ll know there are reasons you need to ask him. And if he asks, we’ll deal with it together. Okay?” He pulls back and meets my gaze.
I nod reluctantly. “Okay,” I whisper.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
I smile. “Implicitly,” I say.
He grins. “Well, okay then! Let’s dinner-party the hell out of this.”
And with that the doorbell rings.
7
Wednesday, August 3
Wedding Dress
At knee level, a friendly Irish woman is hemming the folds at the base of my wedding dress. Her name is Mary. I stand there in the delicate Edwardian crepe de chine, observing the whole scene, detached and unsure of how to feel. Caro is looking on, my wedding attaché. She helped me find the dress. She knows a few costume designers who work in film. Costume designers tend tohave a lot of vintage stock; they buy it up at auction,copy it for productions, and then sell it online. All in mint condition. This gown is one of those. It’s perfect.
We’ve come to a tailor’s basement in Savile Row for a few tiny alterations. The dress doesn’t need much; it fits like a glove.
It’s the tailor Caro’s father used to use when he wasalive. I’m not sure how he died, probably a heart attack, he was old. He’d had Caro late in life; I think she only caught his sixties and seventies. I don’t know that much about him really—only tidbits slipped into conversations, never enough to grab hold of. There’s a check framed and hanging in her house, in the downstairs loo, for a million pounds, payable to him. The house itself, left solely to her, is five floors in Hampstead with a garden the size of Russell Square out the back. He was a proper millionaire, an old-school millionaire; at least that’s what I glean. There’s a Warhol in the living room, propped casually against a wall.
So anyway, when Caro gives me advice I tend to take it, if I can afford it. They’re doing my alterations for free. I’m not sure why, but free I can afford.
“Right, all done, sweetheart.” Mary rubs the lint from her knees as she rises.
—
Back out on the street Caro turns to me.
“Late lunch?”
I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since last night. In an unusually irrational move, I decided to skip breakfast this morning, not wanting to distort the dress-fitting measurements. I know, I know; I’m going to eat on the actual wedding day. In fact, I’m very much looking forward to it—the caterers we’ve chosen look amazing. Booked, deposit paid. The menu tasting is next week. Amazing. God, I’m starving.
