Page 81 of The Ghost of Exes Past

‘And Dad?’

‘Ha!’ she bellows. ‘Well, I pretended not to see the hip flask of whisky he’d hidden in his suit pocket.’

‘Right.’ I roll my eyes, which then drift to the whisky bottle on the coffee table. I look away.

Did yesterday really happen? Was it all a dream? Am I having a breakdown?

Pull yourself together, Belle. Before yesterday, this was everything I ever wanted. Safety, security. Someone who cherishes me.

I open my travel jewellery box on the dressing table. The earrings from Timothy are on the top – the ones he got me last Christmas – still in their pouch. Elegant pearl drops, exactly right for today. I put one in as Jules mists my hair with hairspray. I look at myself in the mirror and take the earring back out.

At the bottom of the small box, tangled in a chain, are the gold hoops I’ve had since I was twenty-two. I put those on instead and don’t look at them twice. Jules coughs as the mist surrounds us.

Timothy might not know that sometimes I stay up till midnight, researching cult leaders, or that for some reason, being in a library or bookshop brings on sudden bowel movements. But he does know that I need chocolate when I’m on my period and he always goes out of his way to get me some when I need it. He knows that I secretly love a dollop of mayo with every meal – even spaghetti, much to his dismay. He’s the guy who irons his shirt on a Sunday evening and will also do mine at the same time, without even mentioning it.

I nod to myself as I peel the backing off a sticky chicken fillet and press it to my left breast. He’s a good man. Things could be considerably worse.

I’m not thinking about last night … I’m not. I force the thought down. Then another thought appears: a memory of dancing in the snow with Jake. How my puffer jacket squeaked as he twirled me around, how passers-by tutted. My trainers had soaked through within ten minutes. He didn’t say anything, just crouched down in front of me on the pavement and waited for me to climb on. He’d walked me all the way home like that, me singing, ‘Piggybacking home for Christmas …’ and him beatboxing along.

I meet my dad at the doors to the church. He wipes a tear from his eye as he sees me and my heart clenches.

‘Don’t be nervous, it’ll be perfect,’ he says, beaming. I nod.

From behind the doors, I can hear the murmur of guests over the beat of the music. Plucky strings, a live harp. We both notice at the same time that my hands are shaking. He scoops them in his and nods.

‘Are you ready?’

‘Yes.’

Am I?

Dad pulls my veil over my face and straightens it as a wedding coordinator I don’t remember ever meeting hands me my bouquet. It’s still dripping slightly at the stems. I hold it away from my dress.

The wedding march starts. Classic, typical, a formal tradition we’d kept.

Then the coordinator nods to us and puts their hand on the doors.

My dad’s hand in mine, knuckles white around the bouquet, my vision hazy behind the white tulle. I can’t remember the last thing I said to Jake. I fell asleep when—

The doors open.

My bouquet drips on my dress. Beneath my veil, I watch the water darken the white silk and it’s then I realise I can’t do this.

I cannot say yes to Timothy.

But I can’t leave him up there alone. I need to tell him to his face.

My dad ushers me onwards and, in a daze, I take a step, hand in hand. The first thing I make out is the chapel’s domed ceiling. The sun beaming in, casting glints of gold on the red stone of the aisle. I take a deep breath – saltiness from the sea air, old wood from the pews.

One real thing. Even for a short time.

My legs don’t stop moving.

We pass a display of white flowers – they’re all different, wrong … I push it away. My dad grips my hand tighter, and I realise I’m walking quicker than him now. I squeeze his hand in silent reply.

Don’t look at me like that, Dad.

A flash of purple catches my eye. A hat – big, garish – blocks the view of the people behind it. I don’t see their faces. Maybe Aunt Susan?