Chapter Thirteen
Belle
I’m back in the corner of the saloon, facing the wall, exactly where we left.
Jake’s hands are no longer in mine. I turn – he’s not here at all.
Guests drift past me towards the dining hall, champagne in hand, hopefully oblivious to the fact that I’ve been facing the wall, muttering to a ghost. I reach into my dress and a woman I don’t recognise catches my eye mid-rummage, so I smile brightly until she walks away.
I smooth the paper against the wall and quickly jot down:
Knowing what you don’t want is still progress, I think.
One-night stands are fun? No need to be more significant than that.
I was fun once.
NOTE: still not sure how this saves my soul but … noted!
I fold it back up, tuck it away, and straighten my dress. Okay, back to the rehearsal now. Back to normal.
As I turn, I almost collide with Timothy. He’s right there – close enough for me to catch the scent of his cologne. Something woody but floral, reassuring, one I helped him pick out especially for the wedding.
‘What are you up to, crazy lady?’ His eyebrow lifts – that quizzical look I usually find endearing. I feel myself stiffen. Is it obvious? Am I flickering when I leave and arrive, like a dodgy lightbulb? I should have been more careful.
Game face on.
‘Oh, I was just thinking about you!’ I place my hands on his chest and flutter my lashes. Nat and Jake: deleted. ‘I was just having a little breather – those speeches got to me!’
‘I was thinking we could get Juliet a new phone after the wedding,’ Timothy says. ‘A thank you for her … speech.’
I laugh. Of course, that’s where his mind went. Not ‘are you okay’, not ‘you seem distracted’, just straight to the practical solution. And, honestly, I love that about him. I do.
‘This is exactly why I love you.’ I press two fingers to his chest.
‘Shall we?’ He holds out his elbow like a Disney prince. ‘We can’t miss the caviar bumps.’
We walk arm in arm to the dining hall. I try not to think about the fact that I just lied to him three times in thirty seconds.
As we enter the hall, I stop in the doorway for a moment, taking it in.
Long tables stretch the length of the hall, lit by candlelight flickering against the mahogany panelling.
I breathe in, and … there it is – the smell I’d imagined for months.
Woodsmoke from the massive fireplace at the far end, still crackling, and underneath it the warm, herby char of the three-wick Diptyque candles I’d insisted on (Feu de Bois, ￡200 and worth every penny).
Except I’m also getting whiffs of something heavy, a musky scent from somewhere nearby.
Who is wearing that? It’s like someone was attacked by duty-free.
The tables look just like my Pinterest boards …
Better, in fact. Arrangements of winter florals – poinsettias, trailing ivy, purple hellebores and, my favourite, red amaranthus – tumble from gold vases of varying heights like a waterfall of velvet tassels.
‘Love lies bleeding,’ the florist called it.
I remember laughing the first time she’d said it, thinking it was perfect – romantic and dramatic, all at once.
It doesn’t feel as funny now.
Gold candelabras. Red taper candles. Everything I asked for, exactly as I asked for it.
So why do I feel like I’m watching it from outside myself?
Timothy moves his hand to my back as we work our way to the top table, past plinths either end holding vases of deep burgundy amaranthus.
The hum of polite conversation rises around me, chairs scraping along the floor, glasses clinking.
Someone laughs too loudly and it lands wrong, feels jarring for some reason.
I smile and wave to Timothy’s colleague and his wife – a woman I’ve never actually met – and find myself hoping that the photographers don’t get her in too many pictures.
God, that’s unkind. I’m just tired. That’s all it is. Tired and nervous.
My eyes scan the rehearsal seating plan. It’s printed in calligraphy on a glass mirror with a frame that almost matches that of the mirror in my bridal suite – except there’s no ghost in this reflection. Good. And Jake’s name isn’t there either. At least I don’t have to talk my way out of that one.
I smile and wave to Vik and his wife as they sit with some of my friends from home.
I hope Kelly didn’t switch places with Miranda.
I’ve told her three times not to come on to any of Timothy’s cousins.
I know she’s been keen for a shag this weekend; I can tell she still is by the way she is already surveying the room.
I catch a snippet of conversation between the Davises – old neighbours from back home.
‘Gosh, Michael, if this is the rehearsal, what is the actual wedding going to be like?’
‘These flowers alone must be worth a fortune, never mind everything else.’
I look down, avoiding anyone’s gaze. Is this all too much?
No. It’s what Timothy wanted. The logic was sound – get the press shots done tonight so tomorrow could be ours.
And honestly? I want a rehearsal too. A chance to iron out any creases before the real thing.
Check the florals aren’t dangerously close to the candles.
Make sure the DJ knows that ‘no requests’ means no requests, especially from my cousin Harry after four pints.
Make sure Great-uncle Norman’s plus-one situation is firmly resolved.
I like a plan. I like knowing what’s coming.
That’s not a flaw, that’s just … sensible.
We approach the top table, which seats eight and looks out across the whole room.
Faces turn as we arrive – all of them and all at once, and I briefly, for the first time, understand what it must feel like to be famous.
We hug our parents and sit, Timothy pulling out a chair for me like the perfect gentleman, without being asked.
My parents are to my left, Jules next to them.
Timothy’s parents to his right, with Nana Maude at the end – one remaining grandparent each, which had seemed like neat symmetry on the seating plan, but feels more weighted now.
My dad turns to introduce himself to Timothy’s uncle, Mum following his lead.
I reach to nudge Jules as I clock her tutting at Maude’s lilac rinse.
Jules leans in, lowering her voice. ‘I had another look into that name on the seating plan, by the way. Asked the co-ordinator, the staff, nobody can explain—’
‘It’s fine, Grandma, I’ve forgotten about it already.’ I laugh, eyes wide.
She holds my gaze for a beat, then lets it go. She turns back to her phone, scrolling through the speech on her Notes app as if checking for damage.
‘Shame your girls aren’t up here, hen,’ she says, a quick nod towards the corner, placing her phone face down on the table. ‘I still think you should have let them fuss over you.’
‘We talked about this, Grandma. No maid of honour, no bridesmaids.’
‘Yes, I remember.’ Jules sniffs as she takes a knife to a bread roll. ‘Shame about that. I was looking forward to my first hen do.’
I look to the corner of the room where my girls are sitting.
Daniela and Molly are posing, flutes in hand, while Rachael takes their picture.
They fall about laughing when inspecting the result; I can see them zooming in on the frame, teasing each other’s pouts.
They look like they’re having more fun than us on the top table, where my dad is trying to make small talk with the new in-laws.
My girls should be up here with me tomorrow. That was the original plan when I thought of my dream wedding. Molly as maid of honour, Rachael and Daniela as bridesmaids. Matching dresses, embarrassing speeches, crying during the toast … the whole thing.
But Timothy doesn’t have many close friends.
I let that sentence echo around my head for a moment.
My fiancé doesn’t have many close friends.
He has two older brothers who are way closer to each other than they are to him.
And his best friend, genuinely, hand on heart, the person he’d call in a crisis …
is his dad. Which is lovely, in theory. Healthy, even.
His closeness with his parents was one of the first things I fell for, apart from the fact he also cooks the best brunch.
But it also meant that asking his dad to be his best man felt …
a little tragic. So instead, we’d agreed to keep it simple. Balanced.
And I get it. I do. I’m the one who suggested it.
It seemed fairer that way. But also, I wish he’d said no.
I wish he’d told me not to be silly, not to let that stop me from having my girls up here, as my bridesmaids, by my side, because he knows how much they mean to me.
That he’d said, ‘Fuck balanced, this is your day too.’ Instead, he just accepted it.
And I smiled and told myself it didn’t matter.
It does, though, a little, I realise now.
I shake it off. Who cares about traditions these days anyway?
It’s way better to break traditions than stick to old-fashioned ones, right?
But I can’t help the twinge of sadness as I watch the girls from across the room.
Molly is laughing so hard, her shoulders are shaking, and Rachael is covering her mouth with the back of her hand.
I think of Jake’s funeral: his friends, like a pack, arms around each other, loyal to the end.
There he is again, like a parasite in my brain. Can I not have one moment without him invading my thoughts?
Breathe out. Turn back to your fiancé.