13. Sarah
13. Sarah
‘Cherub’s going to ask Carl to be his best man,’ Jenni tells me from behind the changing-room curtain. ‘He was going to ask his brother, but they’ve never really got on. He told me last night that he wants it to be one of his real brothers – the ones who risked their lives for him – so he’s going to ask Carl. Isn’t that lovely?’
‘It is,’ I say, picturing Carl’s blue eyes. ‘Very lovely.’
‘I wonder if he’s seeing anyone,’ Jenni says. ‘According to Cherub, he used to be a real ladies’ man. Apparently, Fridge told him once that Carl had a ton of girlfriends back home, but no one he was ever seriously interested in.’
I feel a sharp twinge of jealousy – a ridiculous rivalry with these unknown, unattached girls – a feeling I’ve never had before and have no right to claim now.
‘What do you think?’ Jenni emerges triumphantly from the changing room.
For a moment I think she is asking me for my opinion about whether or not Carl is seeing someone.
‘Well?’ Jenni asks again, this time doing an elaborate curtsey.
I realize she is talking about the dress.
Enough , I tell myself sternly. Enough. This weekend is about Jenni.
I clear my throat and look her up and down, assessing her as I would a patient brought in to triage.
The dress is perfectly nice. I just don’t recognize my lovely, quirky Jenni in it. Her impressive cleavage, normally so liberally on display, is respectfully constrained behind a shell-shaped bustier.
Her waist, like her breasts, is forcefully cinched in by a corset that runs from her bust to her mid-thigh, where layers of fabric suddenly flare out, giving the dress the curious shape of an upside-down trumpet.
Beneath the hem I catch a glimpse of Jenni’s unloved, scaly winter feet, which seem to cower in shame beneath all this glamour. The flash of chipped, fluorescent blue nail varnish on her toes is the only detail that feels authentically, gloriously Jenni.
A strict jeans and T-shirt girl myself, or a silk blouse if I’m feeling really bold, I’ve always been in equal measure appalled and impressed by Jenni’s crazed, scattergun approach to dressing.
Maybe because of where we met, ours has never felt like a normal female friendship. Too much was at stake to talk about things like what outfit to wear on a Saturday night – and in any case, we only ever had scrubs or combats to hand. Although I do remember Caroline warning me about Jenni’s ‘bold sense of style’.
I thought of her when I saw Jenni outside the wedding dress shop this morning, dressed in denim hot pants, black opaque tights, lilac leather Doc Martens and a faux leopard-print coat. Her flame-red hair – which is now loose, with its long, messy curls swept back over one shoulder – was hidden under a blue silk scarf.
Caroline was right. Jenni does indeed have a ‘bold sense of style’. How I wish Caroline could be with us today.
‘Go on, then,’ Jenni nudges me. ‘Tell me what you think.’
‘Well,’ I say, not quite sure what else to say.
‘So elegant …’ The sales assistant rescues the moment, appearing silently at our side with two flutes of champagne.
Jenni looks crestfallen.
‘Yes. But is it sexy?’ she asks, leaning forward towards the mirror and jiggling her boobs suggestively.
The sales assistant, paper thin, with an immaculate, shiny black bob and sharp cheekbones, manages to swallow down a look of horror. She smooths the sleeves of the wedding dress, which are long and fitted, and made of fine, transparent gossamer material, staring at Jenni all the while in the mirror.
Then she steps back and confidently declares, ‘It’s perfect. The silhouette hugs your curves in all the right places, creating an almost magical slimming effect.’
Jenni straightens herself up and downs the glass of champagne in one. ‘No, I don’t think this is the dress for me,’ she says.
Then she hands the glass back to the sales assistant, yanks up her train and waddles awkwardly back into the changing room.
‘Slimming effect!’ she huffs from behind the curtain. ‘Bloody cheek.’
I smile sweetly at the sales assistant and sip my champagne.
‘Anyway,’ Jenni says, audibly struggling with the effort of getting the dress off. ‘Since you’re staying for the weekend, we were thinking of having an impromptu engagement dinner for the four of us tomorrow night, if Carl says yes. It’s only an hour and a half on the train from Leeds to Newcastle, so he could get to us in no time at all. What do you think?’
I imagine the four of us together, talking, laughing, Carl’s eyebrows raised in amusement. All of us happy … I can’t remember the last time I felt happy, had fun, got drunk with friends. I hear myself sigh.
Jenni’s voice floats through the curtain again. ‘It’s such a shame Danny has flu.’
Jenni knows that Danny has PTSD but she doesn’t know how bad it is. I’ve never told her that Danny is violent. Or that he hurts me. Or that I’m scared of him.
I hate her not knowing the truth, but there’s never been a good time to tell her. She was pregnant with the twins when things started getting really bad. She was exhausted, and suffering from terrible morning sickness. I didn’t want to burden her with my problems too.
I did think about telling her today, but I can’t bear to ruin this special time for her. Or me – it feels so good to have a day when my life isn’t overshadowed by Danny. When I can still have some fun. Pretend things are okay.
Jenni yanks back the curtain and raises her arms in the air. ‘For the love of God, will you get this thing off me!’
I inch the garment slowly over her head, grateful that her face is hidden from mine by thick layers of satin. If it wasn’t, she would see how flushed I am – and not from the champagne.
Carl .
I’m going to see him again tomorrow night.