‘Sorry, Merry, are we being a little rude?’ The girl, Phoebe, had placed her hand on her arm. ‘Don’t worry, it was before your time.’
‘I’m not worried.’ She had sipped her gin. ‘And Phoebe, you’re not being a little rude.’ Her words, offered sharply yet calmly, had given her confidence that she could, when and if required, stand up to these girls of Digby’s inner circle.
The room had fallen silent and Mrs Mortimer had stared at her with an expression that Merrin found hard to fathom; she couldn’t decide if it was admiration that the quiet girl had found her voice, or fury. Not that Merrin had ever mentioned this to Digby, knowing they had a lifetime to catch up on activities and make their own set of memories, and also not wanting him to think she was one of those girls: clingy and insecure, even though she did on occasion let self-doubt infiltrate her thoughts and feel the sharp beginnings of becoming both.
In these moments, it was as if he had a sixth sense. He would come close to her and reassuringly hold her hand, run his fingers over her back or just look her in the eye. The hours they had spent up at Reunion Point, revealing their inner selves, confessing to their fears and sharing their dreams, meant they were in tune and could gauge when what might be an innocuous remark to anyone else was actually cutting the other quite deep. He seemed to know just what she needed and when. She had said as much to Ruby, who had lifted her top lip. ‘Wow, what a catch! He sounds wonderful!’ Her tone had been mocking and Merrin had resolved not to share such insights with her again. It saddened her that she needed to censor what she revealed to her sister, but there was precious little she could do about that. Bella reasoned it was because Ruby craved the stable relationship Merrin boasted of, but this understanding didn’t do much to make her barbs more palatable.
Over the last few weeks, before sleep, she had imagined walking up the aisle on her dad’s arm, picturing the moment her fiancé turned his face towards her and his expression as he first glimpsed her in this wedding dress. The thought of it had been almost as exciting as the reality of this moment. Taking a step closer, she scrutinised the frock. It was beautiful, breathtakingly gorgeous, and it was hers. The slim-waisted, full-skirted affair did indeed fit her like a glove, just as Mrs Mort— Lor— Digby’s mother had said.
They had gone dress shopping in Truro. She and her mum had been towed along as Digby’s mother had either shaken her head or beamed her approval at each fabric suggestion, accessory tried on and every one of the thousands of dresses that had been lowered over her head by willing staff keen for the big sale. It had felt weirdly exciting yet at the same time mildly unpleasant to be trying on a frock that cost more than Vera Wilma Brown.
Her future mother-in-law had told her to enjoy it, but her own mum had remained a little subdued, adopting the same quiet manner as she did when cleaning up at the Mortimers’ house. This, she was in no doubt, was due to the fact that Loretta was paying and made the fact known at every opportunity. It had taken the gloss off what should have been an extraordinary day.
Merrin had put it down to the woman’s enthusiasm and confidence when it came to matters of taste. But right now, no matter how she had come by the dress, Merrin felt like a princess, as she had always secretly hoped she might, and she was aware that she should catalogue each second and every emotion so that, one day, she could tell their children about how she had looked and, more importantly, how she had felt in these, her final moments as a single girl on her wedding day.
The photographer was downstairs, ready to capture her as she came down the narrow wooden stairs and waltzed out of the house to start the next chapter of her life, so she pulled her full ivory taffeta skirt out before running her fingers over the flat diamanté band across her stomach. Her shoulders were bare, dusted with bronzer. The wide collar of the dress sat snugly over her décolletage. Her mum, she had to admit, hadn’t done a bad job with her hair and loose curls grazed her neck while the sides were artfully pinned in a messy half-bun on top. And Heather was right: you couldn’t see the crispy burnt bit now it was tucked in.
‘So what do you think, Rubes?’ she said to her sister, who was sitting on her bed in a floaty, lilac-coloured bridesmaid’s frock, her make-up, thankfully, toned down a bit at Bella’s suggestion, and with her knees bunched up under her chin. ‘Rubes?’ She turned, alarmed by the silence, wondering if it was because maybe she didn’t look quite as fabulous as she had thought; was something amiss with her hair? Merrin braced herself for a cutting insight from her sister’s sassy mouth. To her astonishment, her big sister, who had once pulled out her own rear tooth rather than make a trip to the dentist, who always captained the winning team in the annual Port Charles rowing regatta, and who had a certain reputation for being as tough as old boots, looked very close to tears.
‘Oh, Rubes! What’s the matter?’ As Merrin bent down and rested her knees on the side of her sister’s bed, her dress rose up around her like a giant, shiny puffball.
‘You look . . . you look incredible! And I’m . . . I’m really going to miss you! Even if I say I won’t.’ She stuttered her admission, this girl who loved fiercely.
Merrin pushed her finger up under her nose, a little overwhelmed by the rare sentiment so openly expressed, but at the same time not wanting the tears that threatened to smudge the neat slick of mascara she had applied to her top lashes.
‘I’m going to miss you too,’ she managed, unable to disguise the croak to her voice.
‘He’d better be good to you . . .’ Ruby spoke through gritted teeth.
‘He will be.’ She smiled with confidence at the thought of her beloved. ‘I know he will. I feel like the luckiest girl in the world. I just love him!’ She shrugged, as if there were nothing more to say.
Ruby climbed from the bed. ‘Come on, then, let’s get you buttoned up at the back; you can’t be walking into church with your arse hanging out, and you don’t want to keep your boy waiting.’
‘I’ve only ever slept in a room with you, Ruby.’ Standing, she turned and lifted her hair as Ruby slipped the covered buttons into the fiddly loops.
‘Well, if you want me to come and crash on the floor of your fancy hotel . . .’
‘Thanks, but that won’t be necessary.’ Merrin again felt the rumble of excitement in her gut at the prospect of walking into the honeymoon suite at Pencleven Court with a wedding ring on her finger. She imagined floating into the reception. ‘Hello, can I get the key for the honeymoon suite – it’s Mr and Mrs Mortimer . . .’
The hotel rooms had heavily influenced their choice of wedding venue. She had been reticent at first, suggesting they keep things small and within a tight budget, knowing her parents wanted to contribute, but Digby had told her that the sky was the limit, that they would gratefully accept her mum and dad’s offer, but his parents were happy to pick up the tab. He was, after all, their only child.
‘We are only going to do this once, Merry. Once! And so it’s roast beef, vintage cars and five star all the way. This isn’t some budget get-together, it’s our wedding!’ He had jumped up and down on the bed in the chauffeur’s flat above the garages, which was in the process of undergoing minor renovations, and she had laughed, kissing him hard on the mouth, as he promised her champagne on ice and a real fire on their wedding night, no matter the weather. To be able to spend freely had been a thrilling novelty. In truth, she was looking forward to that time alone with him more than the service and three-course meal and disco that preceded it.