Page 83 of The Paris Connection

Chapter 19

We were driving so quickly through Amsterdam, that it was impossible to take everything in. It felt like a riot of colour and sound after the relative silence of the train, with trams squealing past on their tracks everywhere you looked, and huge squares teeming with tourists. If I looked down the side streets, I caught the odd glimpse of the bridges I’d seen so many pictures of, and the heaving bike racks housing hundreds of bikes that looked as though they could tumble over like dominoes with one wrong move. It wasn’t as pretty as Paris, I thought. I already missed its grandness, the sweeping boulevards. Léo.

According to the clock on the driver’s dashboard, it was 5.17 p.m. when we pulled into the driveway of the hotel, coming to a stop in a cobbled courtyard. Even from the outside it looked just as chic and upmarket as Catherine had described. It’s where all the Dutch celebrities stay, she’d told us. All the models. I’d pretended to be impressed, but since I didn’t actually know any famous Dutch people, I would be none the wiser, anyway.

A porter in a sleek, black suit rushed over, flinging open the taxi door.

‘Madam?’ he said, looking for my bags.

‘No luggage,’ I explained, handing the driver the note Léo had given me. It seemed wrong that I had no way of paying him back.

I followed the porter into the lobby, which was completely encased in glass and exposed brickwork, with huge, wooden candelabras hanging from the ceiling. And there were actual trees. Inside. It was like entering a different world, which explained why it had cost a small fortune to stay here. I was suddenly hyper-aware of feeling like an imposter, which happened whenever I mixed with people with money. I didn’t imagine their usual clientele arrived with a tatty straw bag and mud-stained ballet pumps.

Si must have spoken to them because the front desk seemed to be expecting me. Room 305, the receptionist told me. He already had my passport, he said, and all my details. I asked him to point me in the direction of the stairs, keeping my head down in the hope that I wouldn’t bump into anyone I knew. There were wedding guests milling about everywhere, I could spot them out of the corner of my eye, lounging on the leather sofas, all dressed up in heels and fascinators, champagne clasped in their hands. I loosened my hair from its bun, pulling it across my face in a pathetic attempt at disguise.

‘Hannah!’

I pretended to be oblivious to the fact that somebody had called my name, but then there was a tap on my shoulder that I couldn’t ignore. I turned round, plastering the requisite smile on my face.

‘You made it, then.’

It was Si’s dad. I didn’t know him as well as the other members of the family. He was rarely at home when I was over there for dinner, or was late to the table, citing an extended round at the golf club or work drinks with some visiting vice president from the Boston office. Mind you, if I’d lived with Catherine and Pauline at the height of wedding fever, I’d have made excuses to be out most of the time, too.

‘Hi, Roger,’ I said, dredging up as much enthusiasm as I could manage. ‘Good to see you.’

He’d been drinking. I could tell by the way he was rocking back and forth on his heels. His lips were stained red with wine and he kept licking them with a fat, pink tongue.

‘Hear you’ve had a bit of bother with the trains,’ said Roger, leaning against the metal staircase for support. It zig-zagged upwards, with glass sides as you went further up. Apparently there was a floating meeting room somewhere, Catherine had told us.

‘You could say that,’ I said. ‘How’s the bride doing?’

‘Oh she’s all right. Ordering everyone about as usual.’

He pulled a hanky from the pocket of his (admittedly beautiful) charcoal grey suit, which Catherine had harangued him into buying from Paul Smith so that it would match the suit she’d also harangued Jasper into buying from Paul Smith. The poor guy hadn’t even been allowed to choose an outfit for his own wedding, which if I were him, would have set alarm bells ringing.

‘Roger, I really have to go and get changed. See you back down here in a minute, ok?’

‘Yes, fine, fine,’ he said, dabbing sweat off his face. ‘You go, make yourself beautiful, I know what you ladies are like.’

When I reached the third floor, huffing and puffing and wishing I’d got the lift, I strode down the corridor to our room and let myself in. Inside, it smelled like Si, which made me feel lots of different things: sad, scared, angry, nostalgic for how uncomplicated things had been before. For now, he was still my boyfriend. As far as he knew, nothing had changed, that was the strange thing. He was still the man I lived with, whose face I woke up to every morning, who stroked my head while I fell asleep next to him at night. He was the boyfriend who had treated me to a trip to Venice, because he knew I’d always wanted to go and because he could be romantic when he wanted to be. I wondered now about his job, whether that was why he’d put his foot down about the water taxi to the station, because he’d run out of money. Was that why he’d seemed so stressed lately, why he’d been so tired all the time? And I wouldn’t have had a clue about our finances, because he managed our joint account. He’d set up the direct debits, he paid the bills. Because he was on the ball with all that stuff and I wasn’t particularly, which was crap of me, because now look. It was pathetic that it had taken me until now to realise that I had to start taking control of my own life, my own money, my career and lots of other things. I’d simply paid half my salary into the joint account each month and had trusted him to take care of it.

My suitcase was on the floor next to the huge king-sized bed, which was made up with pristine white cotton sheets with a cosy-looking grey blanket draped across the bottom of it. If I could have, I would have got in it and pulled the covers over my head and stayed there. I knelt down on the floor and unzipped my suitcase, rooting through my stuff, relieved to have it all back, picking out bits I needed: my wedding shoes, my clutch bag. And then, glancing over my shoulder, I opened up Si’s bag, which he’d placed on the floor at the end of the bed. I dug gingerly around inside, not really knowing what I was looking for. A note? A second phone, because wasn’t that what people carried around with them when they were having an affair? All I had to go on was my imagination and what I’d seen on Doctor Foster, which hardly prepared me for the reality of working out whether my boyfriend was cheating on me or not. I put everything back and stood up, looking around for more clues as to what might be going on. His things were strewn across the bed – his iPad, a pair of socks, a can of deodorant. My wedding outfit, a light blue, sleeveless prom dress with delicate sprigs of white flowers embroidered onto it, had been ironed and was hanging on the back of the door. Si was thoughtful like that. Good at the detail, which was probably why I felt like I needed him so much. He remembered to do stuff that hadn’t even occurred to me. But today I’d started to think that that wasn’t what relationships were all about. It shouldn’t be about them filling a hole, replacing something that was missing from your life. It was about connection. Trust. Attraction. God, even having fun, which Si and I hadn’t been having much of lately. I thought briefly of Léo, wondered where he was, whether I was already firmly relegated to the back of his mind. Part of me assumed he’d consider our day together a sweet, funny little interlude that meant nothing in the scheme of things and that had no effect on his already very interesting life. I also held on to the tiniest bit of hope that what we’d had had been genuine. That he’d meant it when he said he’d miss me. Not that I’d ever know, now.

I washed and dressed in a matter of minutes, dabbing on some of my make-up, brushing my hair, dousing myself in perfume. I slipped on my heels and left the room. Out in the corridor I passed a porter and asked him the time: it was 5.28. I’d made it then, against the odds. I half-ran down the staircase, clattering on the metal steps, very aware of everything I did, the sharp pain that occasionally spiked in my ankle, the way my breath was coming in quick, light bursts, how my shoes were already pinching at the toe. A concierge directed me to the terrace. When I ran down the steps into the atrium, Catherine and her bridesmaids were standing at the bottom. Roger was there, too, wild-eyed, busy propping up the wall with his hand. There was a sort of loaded silence, the way there always seemed to be before a wedding ceremony. The bridesmaids were fussing about. One of them was straightening Catherine’s veil and another was on the floor re-arranging the hem of her dress. Alison was holding the bride’s bouquet as well as her own. Catherine looked stunning, just as I’d known she would. Her body was encased in swathes of cream lace, cinched in at the waist to show off her amazing figure, her make-up dewy and discreet. As I moved closer, my eyes flickered across to Alison and the diamond drop earrings she was wearing that sparkled in the light. Was she the kind of woman Si would fall for? Would he like her enough to give up on everything we’d built together?

‘Hello, Catherine,’ I said, in the soft voice I always used when conversing with brides. For some reason, I found it impossible to talk normally to someone on their wedding day, no matter how well I knew them. What were you supposed to chat about, when really nothing else mattered except the huge, life-changing journey they were about to embark on?

‘You look stunning. What a gorgeous dress,’ I said, settling for clichés, although I meant them, too. She had the same features as Si, with nothing too big or too small, and perfectly aligned white teeth and the same light green eyes. Her hair was a darker blonde than his and usually swished between her shoulder blades with just the right amount of volume courtesy of regular and very expensive blow dries. Today, though, it was pulled back off her face in a complicated, twisty bun.

‘I’m glad you’re here, Hannah,’ she said, smiling at me.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ I said, wincing.

‘You made it, that’s the main thing,’ she said, taking my hands and squeezing them. And then she whispered in my ear, ‘I’m so nervous.’

Her fingers felt quivery and cold.

‘We’re all here, rooting for you,’ I told her. ‘And you look amazing. Really beautiful. Just try and enjoy it, ok?’

And then, with a quick glance at Alison, who smiled at me in a friendly way, as though she hadn’t been secretly messaging my boyfriend, I ran out onto the terrace. Eva Cassidy’s version of ‘Over the Rainbow’ started up the second I stepped through the door and I scooted into the first empty chair I saw, on the end of the back row. Seconds later everyone stood up and I followed suit, tucking my hair behind my ears, wishing I’d had time to put it up in the more sophisticated style I’d intended. I strained my neck, looking for Si, who would be up at the front. I wondered if he’d seen me come in. I wanted him to know that I was here, that I’d made it after all, like I’d promised. That, at least, felt important. He eventually turned round and caught my eye. I half-waved and he smiled and then he looked away again, focussing on watching his sister glide down the aisle. I noticed that she had a tight hold of Roger’s arm, possibly so that he didn’t fall over, and perhaps so that she didn’t either. Jasper was waiting for her underneath a wooden pergola covered in yellow roses, resplendent and watery-eyed. What with the music and the dress and the beautiful setting, I almost forgot that anything was wrong. The woman in front of me was dabbing her eyes with a tissue, which made me feel tearful again, myself. I couldn’t pinpoint what it was, whether it was the emotion of the day, the rousing violin on the track, or the fact that it could have been me, next. If he’d proposed to me in Venice, if I hadn’t moved seats, if I’d never met Léo, then it could have been me and Si walking down the aisle in a year’s time and I’d never have known any different.

The music faded out and everyone except Catherine, Jasper and the registrar sat down. My stomach flipped as we waited for the ceremony to begin.

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