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the wedding day
chapter 07
alex
As predicted, Lottie literally eats herself sick at the wedding rehearsal dinner. I’m up three times in the night with her and, as a consequence, we both sleep in until after nine.
She seems fine when she wakes up, but I’m not taking any chances. We spend a quiet morning in our room, skipping the bridal party lunch, though I let Lottie order chicken soup from room service when she complains she’s hungry. She’s uncharacteristically cooperative and watches cartoons on my iPad while I get some work done. By the time the hairdresser needs her mid-afternoon, her colour has returned and she’s back to her old self.
As soon as the stylist has finished plaiting her hair in a striking fishtail braid, I take her down to Zealy’s room, where the little bridesmaids are getting ready.
Even though her last dress fitting was just three weeks ago, it takes some serious tugs on the zip to get her pouffy pink dress done up. But there’s a lump in my throat when she finally does a twirl. She may not be the world’s idea of a beauty, but she’s never looked lovelier to me.
I warn Zealy to keep a plastic bag handy, just in case Lottie’s sick again, and go down to the beach to take my seat with the rest of the wedding guests.
Ten minutes later, Zealy texts me a photo of my daughter, arms folded, scowling at the camera. I laugh out loud. It’s so very much the essence of Lottie I immediately make it my screensaver.
Sian follows the American custom of having the bridesmaids precede her down the sandy aisle. I’m so proud of Lottie as she leads the way, scattering fistfuls of pink rose petals with a wild, joyous abandon that draws smiles from more than a few wedding guests and elicits a snort from Marc.
I watch my daughter take her place at the end of the front row of gilt chairs beside the other bridesmaids, facing down the ocean with determination. I wish I was close enough to tell her how beautiful she is.
The ceremony is brief and picturesque. Marc is visibly moved as Sian comes down the petal-strewn aisle in her ivory Vera Wang dress, her cold beauty warmed by the genuine glow in her eyes. The sun sinks photogenically into the sea as they complete their vows and a scattering of tourists, hovering at a polite distance along the water’s edge to watch, claps sentimentally.
The release of two white doves as Sian and Marc walk back up the aisle together isn’t to my taste, but it brings us closer to my first glass of champagne, which most assuredly is.
I join the stream of wedding guests following the bridal party back to the hotel for the reception. We’re all given pink wristbands before being permitted through a small gate into the private courtyard adjacent to the pool, where waiters are circulating.
Taking a glass from one, I locate Zealy and Paul.
‘Didn’t Lottie do well?’ Zealy says. ‘Although I thought she was going to take someone’s eye out with her flower basket.’
‘Talking of,’ I say, glancing around.
‘She’s over by the ice-cream station with the other bridesmaids,’ Paul says, pointing to a knot of pink taffeta skirts justvisible through the throng. ‘I saw her a few minutes ago tucking into the chocolate fudge brownie.’
‘In that case, let’s hope Sian’s not planning to recycle the dresses.’
‘Jesus, aren’t they hideous?’ Zealy exclaims, plucking at her own. ‘Pink, for God’s sake. I look like an uncooked sausage.’
The good-looking tennis player comes over to join us, his rippling muscles somehow enhanced by his formal attire. I didn’t get a chance to talk to Ian Dutton last night, since he was seated at the far end of the table, but that’s something I intend to rectify now.
I collect a second glass of champagne from a passing waiter. I don’t have time for relationships, but sex is a different matter.
In most failing marriages, sex is the first thing to go. With Luca and me, it was the last.
No matter how bad things got between us, how vicious the knock-down, drag-out arguments, somehow we always ended up in bed together, our fury and hate acting as an aphrodisiac in a way that mirrored our very first encounter. At the time, I consoled myself with the thought that our marriage couldn’t really be on the rocks, because no couple could be this good in bed if it were.
What I didn’t realise, until the day I threw him out for yet again breaking his fingers-crossed promise of fidelity, was that we communicated through sex because we had nothing else.
In the eight months between our separation and Luca’s sudden death, I was celibate, unable to envision ever being with another man. But death has a strange way of recalibrating your perspective. It makes you grasp life, and sex is the ultimate expression of that instinct. I couldn’t live with Luca, but I never expected to have to inhabit a world without him, either.
I don’t broadcast my after-hours activities, but I refuse toapologise for being a single twenty-nine-year-old with a healthy sexual appetite, either.
Ian is witty and charming, and I find him attractive. Judging by the level of flirtation between us as the evening deepens, my feelings are reciprocated. His lines aren’t particularly original, and the flattery a little too thick, but I’m not in this for the long term.
We’ve drifted to the edge of the throng of wedding guests by the time Sian’s father clinks his fork against a champagne glass to signify the start of the speeches. Over Ian’s shoulder, I can see the occasional flash of Lottie’s pink dress as she goes back to the buffet table for second helpings, and then thirds.
Zealy and Paul are sitting at a table near the gate to the beach, her feet in his lap, an empty bottle of champagne amid the dirty plates in front of them.
