As I say the words, my thoughts seem to come together and consolidate into something firm. All my deluded dreams fall away. This is reality, right here in front of me. I know what I want now. I take the ring out of the box and examine it for a moment, the blood beating hard in my head. “You chose it for me yourself. And I love it. And, Magnus … yes.”
I meet Magnus’s gaze head-on, suddenly not caring about Sam, wanting to take my life forward, away from here, to somewhere new.
“Yes?” He peers at me as though not sure what he’s hearing.
“Yes.” I nod.
In silence, Magnus takes the ring from me. He lifts up my left hand and slides it onto my ring finger.
I can’t quite believe it. I’m getting married.
95 Artistic license.
96 Even the fact that its name reminds of the very person I want to forget doesn’t put me off.
97 I might as well stick to the regimen.
98 Which rules out most of my DVDs, it turns out.
99 Weepfest.
100 Total weepfest.
101 What kind of movie starts with a mother fish and all her little glowy eggs being eaten by a shark, FFS? It’s supposed to be for children.
102 NB: Shouldn’t it be irrelevant anyway what I look like?
103 Because I’ve eaten them all.
16
Magnus doesn’t believe in superstitions. He’s just like his father. So even though it’s our wedding day today—even though everyone knows it’s bad luck—he stayed at my place last night. When I told him he should go to his parents’ house, he got all sulky and said I couldn’t be so ridiculous and why would he pack up all his stuff for one night? Then he added, “Surely the only people who believe in that kind of stuff are people with—”
At which point he stopped himself. But I know he was going to say “weak minds.” It’s a good thing he didn’t continue, or there would have been a major bust-up. As it is, I’m still feeling quite stroppy with him. Which isn’t exactly ideal on your wedding day. I should be feeling all starry-eyed. I shouldn’t be leaning out of the kitchen every five minutes, saying, “And another thing you always do … ”
I now know exactly why they started the tradition of being apart the night before your wedding. It’s nothing about romance, or sex, or being chaste, or whatever. It’s so you don’t have a row and stomp up the aisle seething at your bridegroom, planning all the home truths you’re going to tell him as soon as you get this wedding bit out of the way.
I was going to make him sleep in the sitting room, but Toby and Tom were in there in sleeping bags.104 At least I’ve made him promise to leave the house before I get into my wedding dress. I mean, that would be the limit.
As I pour myself a cup of coffee, I can hear him declaiming in the bathroom, and I feel another flinch of irritation. He’s practicing his speech. Here. In the flat. Isn’t his speech supposed to be a surprise ? Does he know anything about weddings? I approach the bathroom door, ready to give him an earful—then pause. I might as well listen to a snippet.
The door is slightly ajar, and I peer through the gap to see him in his dressing gown, addressing himself in the mirror. To my surprise, he looks quite worked up. His cheeks are red and he’s breathing heavily. Maybe he’s getting into the part. Maybe he’s going to make a really passionate speech about how I’ve completed his life, and everyone will cry.
“Everyone said I’d never get married. Everyone said I’d never do it.” Magnus pauses for so long, I wonder if he’s lost his way. “Well, look. Here I am. OK? Here I am.”
He takes a swig of something, which looks like a gin and tonic, and gazes belligerently at himself.
“Here I am. Married, OK? Married. ”
I peer at him uncertainly. I don’t know quite what’s wrong about this speech, but something is. There’s some small detail that feels wrong … something amiss … something that jars …
I’ve got it. He doesn’t look happy.
Why doesn’t he look happy? It’s his wedding day.
“I’ve done it.” He lifts his glass at the mirror, glowering. “So all you people who said I couldn’t can fuck off.”
“Magnus!” I can’t help exclaiming in shock. “You can’t say ‘fuck off’ in your wedding speech!” Magnus’s face jolts, and his belligerent air instantly vanishes as he whips round. “Poppy! Sweets! I didn’t know you could hear me.”
“Is that your speech?” I demand.
“No! Not exactly.” He takes a deep swig of his drink. “It’s a work in progress.”
“Well, haven’t you written it yet?” I eye his glass. “Is that a gin and tonic?”
“I think I’m allowed a gin and tonic on my wedding day, don’t you?”
The belligerent air is creeping back. What is wrong with him?
If I was in one of those glossy luxury-kitchen American TV dramas, I’d go up to him now and take his arm and say gently, “It’s going to be a great day, honey.” And his face would soften and he’d say, “I know,” and we’d kiss, and I would have diffused the tension with my loving tact and charm.
But I’m not in the mood. If he can be belligerent, so can I.
“Fine.” I scowl. “Get pissed. Great idea.”
“I’m not going to get pissed. Jesus. But I’ve got have something to take the edge off the—” He stops abruptly, and I stare at him in shock. Where exactly was he heading with that sentence?