Chapter 14
Max
I should steal from celebrities more often.
It’s a remarkably guilt-free exercise, although in the days since, I’ve been paranoid every time the doorbell rings.
What we got out of that night was so much more than a gnome.
I had the sense when I met Hunter that he didn’t respect me.
Since the bachelor party, that’s changed.
I feel like we’re equals. As the wedding has come together, we’ve actually listened to each other’s opinions.
Sometimes he’s freaked out and I’ve had to calm him, other times, I’ve been unreasonably optimistic, and he’s reeled me in.
It’s all been surprisingly harmonious, apart from one little detail.
I’ve got a crush on him.
Who can blame me? The guy is ridiculously sexy.
When I suggested I’d be fine sharing a bathroom, I was trying to play it cool, but obviously I secretly liked the idea.
He barely made an effort with his Hercules costume, and he still looked incredible.
I’m glad I didn’t have to answer that question about what his best feature is, although based on what I glimpsed in the fitting room, I suspect it may be a part of him I’ve yet to see.
Yet. That’s a crazy thing to contemplate, but I’m riffing off the answer Hunter gave.
I can’t say yet. I haven’t seen all of him.
That was the hottest possible way he could have answered that question. He must have known what he was doing.
The thought of crossing that line with him is terrifying.
Yes, it would be unimaginably hot, but I don’t know if I could cope.
I don’t know if I’d measure up. Hunter is so bold and sure of himself that the idea of going to bed with him, taking off all our clothes together, being that vulnerable .
. . I’m not sure I’d ever recover. But what am I thinking?
Why would we let things get that complicated?
It’s never going to happen. A guy who looks like Hunter can have his pick of men.
Why would he go for someone who has no idea what he’s doing?
It was probably just a throwaway comment. I need to forget about it.
Today at least, I’ll have enough on my plate.
We told our guests to arrive for drinks at noon, but at 9 a.m. sharp, my dad messages to say he’s outside.
I hurry out front as he emerges from his pristine Skoda Octavia.
It looks brand new, and you’d never know it’s a two-year-old model he purchased because he calculated that was the ideal sweet spot between depreciation and performance.
‘Max,’ says my dad. ‘I can’t believe it.’
Telling my dad I was getting married was the worst part of this whole experience.
I ran over all the reasons it was better this way, but nothing could take away from how weird it felt.
He didn’t say much in response, because he never does, but even over the phone, I could tell he was emotional.
I’ve been dreading seeing him, but my first reaction isn’t guilt. It’s sadness.
Maybe it’s because he’s aged. His grey hair is thinning, and his face is drawn into wary lines, like he’s not quite sure where to put himself.
His suit doesn’t fit very well, but he wears it with stubborn dignity.
He looks better rested than the last time I saw him, since he’s now settled into retirement.
But without that purpose that comes from work, there’s something missing behind his eyes – direction, maybe. Or confidence.
Then it hits me – the last time I saw my dad in a suit, we were burying my mum.
It knocks the breath out of me. My dad gives me a puzzled look.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yeah, I just . . . wasn’t expecting you this early.’
Now that I’m close, I can see he’s in a weird mood too, possibly for the same reason.
‘Max,’ he says, then hesitates as if he’s not sure what he wants to say. ‘I know this is going to be an emotional day. But I just . . .’ His voice breaks. ‘Your mum would be happy.’
Oh Jesus. I wasn’t ready for that. I nod and bite down hard.
As I lead my dad inside, he starts mumbling about how he made good time thanks to the completion of the road works near Dorking and the removal of the temporary lights at the M25 junction.
But the damage has been done. I’ve been telling myself my mum would approve of this plan, but would she approve of me lying to my dad?
I try to put it out of my mind as I show him into the flat, offer him a seat on the sofa, and go to boil the kettle. Then I hear footsteps.
I hadn’t prepared myself for seeing Hunter in his wedding suit. The dusky blue is accented with an iridescent silk pocket square, patterned with tiny sea creatures and presumably borrowed from Doily. His hair is gelled, making him look like the lead in a 1950s Neapolitan melodrama.
Hunter walks up to my dad and shakes his hand. I don’t think I can take any more sincerity. My dad starts fiddling with his cuffs, and I feel like he’s about to burst into tears and welcome Hunter to the family.
‘Right,’ says my dad. ‘Shall we get on with the pre-nup?’
I’m momentarily speechless. ‘What?’
‘I emailed you about it,’ says my dad.
‘No you didn’t.’
‘Yes I did. 12.42 p.m. on Wednesday.’
My dad doesn’t make mistakes about things like this. He frowns. ‘Don’t tell me you were planning to get married without a pre-nup?’
I stare at him. ‘What are you talking about, Dad? Pre-nups are for millionaires.’
‘No they’re not. Anyone can get a pre-nup.’
‘No one I know gets a pre-nup. I don’t have any assets.’
‘Well, I do. Not a lot, but there’s something for a rainy day, plus I own a house. When I die, it’ll be yours. We need to protect that.’ He turns to Hunter. ‘What about you, lad?’
‘What about me?’ Hunter asks. He seems more amused than offended.
‘Do you have any assets?’
‘No. I wish.’
‘What about your parents?’
‘I mean . . . they both have homes, but I’m not worried that Max is going to put a claim on my mom’s heavily mortgaged duplex in Rhode Island.’
My dad looks doubtful. ‘Do they have a will?’
‘Er . . . I don’t know.’
‘Do you want to check with them?’
‘No need,’ says Hunter. ‘I’m happy to sign a pre-nup.’
‘No!’ I exclaim. ‘We don’t have to buy into this madness.’
‘It’s not madness,’ says my dad. ‘You never know what’s around the corner.’
That stops me short. It’s a sentiment that carries a lot of weight in our family.
‘I’ve had it drawn up by a lawyer,’ says my dad. ‘All you two need to do is sign.’
He hands over the document as if we’re going to do it then and there.
‘Dad,’ I protest. ‘Can I read it first?’
‘You’ve had three days to read it.’
‘I thought we established—’
‘Ah yes. Well, go ahead.’
Hunter stands over my shoulder as we flick through the document. I have to admit, everything it says sounds very sensible. Then I spot a potential roadblock. I look up at my dad.
‘We need a witness. And it can’t be you.’
Doily’s garden is looking even more enchanting than usual.
Flower beds of lavender and rosemary spill into gravel paths beneath ancient fig trees and a rusted sundial on the lawn.
Her cherry tree is in full bloom, and she’s draped the pergola with strings of lace and bunting that might have last fluttered at a fete in the eighties.
Rows of mismatched vintage chairs form a wonky semicircle around a makeshift aisle.
Doily is wearing a gardening apron and placing bunches of wildflowers into an assortment of random vases and pots. She turns to us.
‘I’m having to substitute cornflowers for meadowsweet,’ Doily says gravely. ‘Don’t tell Lesley Manville or I’ll never hear the end of it.’
I smile. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’ I step back and gesture at my dad. ‘Doily, this is my dad, Alan.’
Doily surveys him with suspicion.
‘They’re signing a pre-nup,’ my dad announces stiffly. ‘We need a witness.’
‘Absolutely not,’ says Doily. ‘I hate those things.’
My dad frowns. ‘Pre-nups get a bad rap, but—’
‘Not pre-nups,’ says Doily. ‘Contracts.’
I stare at Doily. ‘You hate contracts?’
‘Horrible concept.’
‘But . . . you’re an agent.’
‘That’s why I hate them. Whatever happened to a good old-fashioned gentlemen’s agreement? I can’t tell you the number of problems that contracts have caused me. I realised early on that they were something to avoid wherever possible. I’ve done well enough for myself, haven’t I?’
She gestures around as if she’s claiming that the house and garden are the spoils of her agenting career when in fact they’re the result of her great-great-grandfather inventing a cheap way to manufacture custard.
‘I’m sure you’ve done very well for yourself,’ says my dad, ‘but I spent thirty years as an air traffic controller, and we had to plan for every eventuality.’
Doily and my dad are a match made in hell.
Both of them are convinced their careers have been the making of them, and neither of them have any ability to see beyond their own perspectives.
I turn to my dad. ‘Why don’t you walk Doily through the contract so she knows what she’s actually witnessing?
If she has any issues, I’m sure we can find someone else to do it. ’
Miraculously, Doily agrees to this. Hunter and I head back to our flat to finish getting ready. As soon as we’re alone, I turn to Hunter with an apologetic look.
‘I hope you weren’t expecting me to have a normal dad.’
Hunter laughs. ‘I actually think he’s smart. We should have thought of this.’
I can’t help loving how cool he’s being about this. It would be easy for him to take offence. But that’s not Hunter’s style.
He peers at me. ‘How about you, are you OK?’
I frown. ‘Why wouldn’t I be OK?’
‘You just had to lie to your dad’s face. And we’re about to stand in front of a bunch of other people who know you and lie to them.’