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“Trite and clichéd,” Florence responded. “And my name is Florence.”
“And what would you suggest, then?” he asked her, not even bothering to give her shit about answering to ‘sweetheart’.
She looked him over like she found him utterly lacking. Probably because she did. “Something intimate,” she told him, her voice softening. “The little church in Bieityn your parents use to make you go to every Sunday of the holidays until they gave up telling you what to do. Reception at the Callahan Estate, of course. But not in that hideously ostentatious ballroom. Out in the gardens. In Spring, just as the weather’s turning. Flowers everywhere. The bride barefoot, running through the topiary with her skirts in her hand.”
“Not that you’ve thought about it at all,” I commented.
We’d talked about my wedding. Not often and not in huge detail, but it had come up. Bits and pieces.
“I’m an artist, what do you expect?” Florence answered. “I’ve pretty much planned the decor of little Apollo Junior’s delivery room. It’s what I do. I visualise.”
I spluttered at the mention of my previously unnamed child. “On that note, we’re leaving.”
“Good riddance,” Florence said, looking at Apollo. “Although, he’s quiet for once.”
And he was indeed quiet for once. There was a thoughtfulness about him, but I couldn’t tell exactly what he was thinking about.
“I’ll see you later,” I told her.
Florence nodded, watching Apollo with a strange expression on her face. Almost as strange as the one on his.
Deciding it didn’t need dwelling on, I took Apollo’s hand and steered him out of our room.
“What are you thinking?” I asked him as we headed for his room.
He shook his head like he was clearing it of something. “What do you think?”
I smiled. “About what?”
“Florence’s suggestion.”
“I don’t know that it was really a suggestion. More like a…vision board.” I’d heard her use the word; I was hoping I’d used it correctly.
“Still. What do you think?”
“About being married at the church, then running barefoot through your mum’s immaculately manicured shrubbery?”
He nodded, his hand squeezing mine for a moment. “Yeah.”
I didn’t suddenly start to worry that he was thinking of doing it next week. Rather, I chose to think of it as a maturation of our relationship. It was inevitable, this marriage, so why not talk about it in a healthy and productive way?
“I don’t hate it,” I told him honestly.
He smiled softly. “Is that Harlow-speak for you actually do hate it?”
I laughed and leant against him. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder as we walked.
“No,” I said. “I guess I haven’t really given it much thought. It’s not something I wouldn’t want to do, though.”
“Would you prefer Bora Bora?”
“Uh, no. Definitely not.”
“Good.”
“Do you want the little church and a barefoot bride?” I asked him.
“The bride gets to pick her own footwear – or lack of – but I like the sound of the church. I– We’ve spent a lot of time there. Fetes and services.”
