‘I’ve had it for years and never really found the right time to give it to you,’ he says. ‘It was for Christmas, really.’
I shake my head, half laughing. It’s always been like this for me and Jack. ‘Thank you. I’ll think of you when I wear it,’ I say, aiming for decisive and hitting desolate. ‘You’re doing the right thing,’ I tell him. ‘Be happy, Jack. You deserve to be. And don’t forget us – we’re only a phone call away.’
He rubs his hand across his eyes. ‘I could never forget about you,’ he says. ‘But don’t worry if it’s not for a while, okay? It might be a good idea to find my feet for a bit.’
I try to smile but it’s a struggle. I understand what he’s saying; he needs time to start over, to build his new life without us in it.
He picks up the hat and puts it on my head. ‘Just as perfect as I remember,’ he smiles. I realize too late that he’s leaving; he’s on his feet before I’ve gathered my things together.
‘No, don’t come out with me,’ he says, laying his hand on my shoulder. ‘Finish your coffee, then go back and tell Oscar you’ve found your wedding dress.’ He leans down and kisses my cheek, and I catch hold of him, an awkward half-hug because I don’t even know if I’ll ever see him again. He doesn’t push me away. He sighs, his hand gentle on the back of my head, and then he says, ‘Love you, Lu,’ as if he’s exhausted.
I watch him shoulder his way out through the cafe, and when he’s gone I take the hat off and clutch it. ‘Love you too,’ I whisper. I sit there for a while, the hat in my hands, my wedding dress at my feet.
12 December
Laurie
In two days’ time I’ll become Mrs Laurel Ogilvy-Black, which is going to take a lot of getting used to after twenty-six years as Laurie James. I can’t even say it without sliding into the Queen’s English, all plummy and clipped.
Oscar left for his mum’s this afternoon and my parents are arriving here tomorrow. They’re staying with me in the flat, and then we’ll be going together to the church from here on Saturday morning. Once they arrive it’s going to be all systems go, so tonight is officially the calm before the storm. Sarah’s coming over any time now, and we’re having a mani-pedi and movie night with champagne cocktails to celebrate. I don’t have the kind of nails that grow; only women with the same kind of nails will understand. They get to the end of my finger and consider their work done, flaking and breaking. I’ve tried all of the oils, serums and creams known to man in the run-up to the wedding, because all the bridal forums tell me it’s essential that my hands are in tip-top condition. Well, I’m forty-eight hours away from the altar and they’re as good as they’re going to get; Sarah’s going to French polish them for me.
Everything about this wedding is planned, controlled and listed on Lucille’s spreadsheet. For someone who thinks her son is marrying beneath him, she sure has invested a lot of her time in dictating how it’s going to happen. To be honest I realized quite early on that she was going to steamroller her way through proceedings whether I liked it or not, so I’ve gone for the path of least resistance. By that, I mean I’ve agreed graciously to eighty per cent of her decisions, and held the other twenty per cent close to my chest and refused to be moved on them. My dress. My bouquet. My matron of honour. Our rings. They’re the only things that really matter to me anyway. I don’t mind which champagne is served for the toast, and though I’m not a huge fan of salmon mousse as a first course we’re having it anyway. Oscar has been grateful for my unterritorial approach; as he and his mum are so close, it would have made waves if I’d been difficult about things.
Thankfully, Sarah’s been there the whole way, allowing me to vent.
‘Let me in, Lu! I’ve got no hands to knock!’
Sarah’s voice rings down the hall, and I jump up to let her in. When I open the door, I see what she means. She’s dragging a hard silver suitcase behind her, has two bags hanging off her arms and a large cardboard box in her hands. She peers at me over the top of it and puffs her fringe out of her eyes.
‘Travelling light?’ I laugh, taking the box from her.
‘This is light for me.’ She smacks my hand when I try to peak under the flap of the box. ‘That’s my box of surprises. Wine first?’
‘No arguments here.’ I shut the door with my foot before I follow her down the hall. I didn’t want a traditional hen night, it’s just not my thing, but this is perfect.
‘Are we alone?’ she whispers, looking for Oscar.
‘Yes.’
She busts out a disco chest pump and then falls flat on her back on the sofa with her arms spread out wide and her feet in the air.
‘You’re getting married in the morning, ding-dong the bells are gonna chime!’ she sings out of tune.
‘You’re a day early.’
‘Better than a day late.’ She sits up and gazes around. ‘Are we having a seance?’
I’ve lit scented candles everywhere to create a calm, Zen-like atmosphere. ‘It’s supposed to be spa-ish,’ I say. ‘Go on, sniff.’
She smells the air. ‘I think my nose would work better if I had a glass of wine in my hand.’
I take the hint and head into the kitchen. ‘Wine … or Oscar’s mother’s champagne?’ I call through.
‘Oh, HRH’s champagne, please.’ Sarah comes into the kitchen and perches on one of the breakfast stools. Is it disloyal that I’ve grumbled to Sarah on numerous occasions about my mother-in-law-to-be? Everyone needs to unload to someone, don’t they, and Sarah is as good as a sister. Which reminds me … I spin round and pull a small, wrapped parcel from the cupboard.
‘I’m going to give you this now before we get too drunk and I forget, or before we get too drunk and I can’t do it because I’m crying big snotty tears.’
I uncage the champagne as she looks at the gift bag, her eyes narrowed.
‘What is it?’
‘You’ll have to open it to find out.’
She tugs the grey ribbons as I pop the cork on the bottle of Oscar’s mum’s expensive champagne. I wanted to give Sarah something really special, and after hours of fruitless internet searching I realized that I already owned the perfect thing.
‘I’m nervous in case I don’t like it,’ she says, making light. ‘You know I’m a terrible liar, you’ll know straight away.’
I push a glass towards her and lean against the breakfast bar, facing her. ‘I’m pretty confident.’
She has the threadbare velvet box in her palm as she reaches for the stem of her glass and takes a sip for courage. As she goes to open it, I reach out and lay my hand over hers.
‘Before you do, I want to say something.’ Shit. I didn’t need a drink to get over-emotional about this after all. Tears are already pricking my eyes.
‘Fucking hell,’ she says, drinking a good half of her wine and topping her glass up. ‘Don’t start already, you’re not getting married for two days. Pace yourself, woman.’
I laugh, pulling myself together. ‘Okay, I’ve got this.’ I drink a little more and then set my glass down.