Chapter Fourteen
Jake
She told me not to go up to her room, so I decided to go up to her room.
I was thinking I could have a snoop around, see if there’s anything she’s been hiding.
Maybe she’s got some dirty little secrets I can find, something to prove she’s still the same Belle under all the pristine packaging.
I left her standing in the corner of that room just as her Prince Charming swooped in.
I could tell she wasn’t expecting to see him; she looked as if she’d seen a ghost. I make myself laugh at my wit.
Back in her room, everything’s as she left it. Makeup sprawled over the dressing table. Wedding dress hanging proud. No bodies or secrets under the bed – just a pair of her knickers kicked off to the side. I smirk. There she is.
Next to the sofa sits a leather holdall.
I open it and realise it contains some of Timothy’s stuff.
There’s aftershave, which I resist the urge to sniff, as well as boxers (Calvin Klein, fancy twat) – I definitely don’t sniff those.
There are matching sets of socks, as well as a packet of paracetamol, in the side pocket.
I zip the bag back up carefully and place it to the side.
Belle loves a tradition, I know that. I know she’ll want to spend the night apart from Timothy before the big day.
I feel a tingle, an impulse to go snoop in his room – maybe there’ll be some secrets there.
But when picturing his wedding suit hanging, perfectly pressed – neat, ready – I feel a wave of nausea.
Something unsettles my stomach, which I’m going to blame on the first sip of booze in ten years, because the alternative is worse.
I’ve been here longer than I need to be. Gabe is probably cursing at me from his little attic, ringing the bell on his desk, telling me to get a move on. I’m stalling and I know it.
The thing about Gabe’s mission is that he was characteristically vague about what I’m actually supposed to get out of it. Something about putting something right, he’d said, like it was a complete manual for the evening. As if I’d know what I was looking for when I found it.
So far, what I’ve got is this: Belle is not who I thought she was. She’s not the girl I knew, but she’s also not the version of herself she’s been portraying all evening – the one with the straight back and a preference for wine that isn’t just whatever’s cheapest.
So what am I actually lerning here? Peter Cox: boring.
Me: don’t really wanna think about it. Vik: still ew – definitely not thinking too hard about that.
Nat: the only interesting one so far. Not because of what happened – I’m a ghost, not a monk, I know holiday romances happen – but because of how she called it off.
I spent four years with her and never saw her do that: truthfully speak what she thinks, without softening it or apologising for it.
However, what I’m supposed to learn from any of this, I couldn’t tell you.
I belly-flop onto the sofa, cushions sprawling on the floor, and flick on the telly with the remote.
I spend a good hour looking for a film I haven’t seen yet, but I’ve seen them all.
My hand finds the seating plan in my pocket.
I pull it out, unfold it, turn it over. I can’t find a pen in the room, just an eyeliner, which I use to scribble something on the back.
Then I fold it up and shove it back in my pocket.
I check the minibar hidden within the wardrobe, but it’s all soft drinks and I need something stronger.
I’m tempted to have a rummage through the other guests’ rooms. I wonder where Vik’s room is.
Does he still have that blingy earring he used to wear, hidden away like a guilty secret?
But eventually I get bored, with a nice sprinkle of FOMO, as the ground beneath me vibrates with the sound of laughter.
So … I stroll my way through the castle, down the wooden staircase, through the bar, and to the dining hall, because why not.
And while I’m at it, why not treat myself to some more booze, enjoy it while I can.
A wedding rehearsal is a cause for celebration, after all.
I steal a flute from a silver platter at the entrance and stand, observing the room for a while.
Chatter fills the air, spoons clanking on little bowls. What I’d do for a taste of dessert.
This room is impressive, almost like a movie set.
Huge chandeliers, big fuck-off flower arrangements.
And Belle sits, glowing, on the top table, Timothy by her side.
They look deep in conversation. Probably whispering sweet nothings to each other.
I spy Belle’s girlfriends in the far corner, the ones from Ibiza, looking much more sophisticated now.
Fully clothed, for one. I watch as they take photographs of the happy couple, zooming in on the lovebirds.
Then the room falls silent as Timothy clears his throat into a microphone.
I watch Belle laugh, her eyes doing a quick lap of the room before settling back on Timothy.
‘I wanted to surprise Belle with a list of reasons I fell in love with her. Reasons why I cannot wait to make her my wife tomorrow.’ He turns to Belle.
‘I know you hate surprises, so I’m sorry to have sprung this on you, but I wanted the room to hear why you are so special to me, before our big day. ’
Timothy then pulls a piece of paper from inside his suit jacket; except it’s not just a piece of paper.
It’s a receipt roll which unravels to the floor.
The crowd howl and clap. Belle’s mouth is open so wide, I can see her fillings.
Timothy raises his free hand, palm out, encouraging everyone to settle down, but his grin gives him away.
The corner of my mouth pulls up against my better judgement. Very charming, Mr Posh Boxers.
Anyway, I remember Belle loving surprises.
The look on her face that night I picked her up in my car and drove us to the field we first made love in, to watch a forecast meteor shower.
The delight on her face when I pulled out the blanket.
Her squeal as I summoned her favourite pick ’n’ mix from my car boot.
That must be it – she started hating surprises after me, as no one could pull them off as well as I could.
Timothy continues, ‘Belle, I admire your certainty. How you know what you want. I’m in awe of how you make decisions clearly and never second-guess yourself.
It makes me even more proud that you have chosen me,’ he points to his chest with his palm, ‘as the man to spend your life with. Your certainty in us as a couple is all a man could ask for.’
I frown. My Belle once spent thirty minutes trying to decide what she wanted from the local Chinese takeaway. Couldn’t choose between crispy beef or chow mein. In the end I was so hungry, I ordered for her.
‘I love your independence. How you don’t need another to feel complete – and how lucky I am that you chose to let me in.’
She might not need you, Tim, but she needed me.
‘I love your smile. I love the way your eyebrows have a mind of their own. I love the sound of your giggle and how you sometimes snort when you laugh, even if you do get embarrassed after.’
I shuffle, thinking back to that pig snort that Belle made with me, just moments ago. Not so special now, am I. I bite the inside of my cheek. I’m so stupid to think that that was my moment to claim.
Also, the eyebrow has a name, you should know that, Timothy. It’s Browelle. Duh.
‘I know they say that true love finds you when you least expect it, and that certainly was the case for both of us. My world stopped still when I first saw you.’
How did they meet, anyway? I’m glad he doesn’t dive deeper – I’ll get to experience it soon, which I’m dreading, to be fair. I look at Belle, turn to focus on her instead of the growing heaviness in my chest.
I’ve missed so much. I don’t know where she lived when they met, what she does for work now, if she still takes her tea with two sugars.
I haven’t asked and I’m only realising that now.
I knew every bit of her up until twenty-five and then nothing – a decade of her without me.
These people in this room got to be there for all of it in ways I didn’t.
But she was always going to become someone I’d have to learn again. With or without the crash. I just didn’t get a chance to.
‘I feel like the luckiest man in the world being the one to wake up and fall asleep with you every day.’
I don’t get mornings anymore. Or nights.
‘I promise to love you forever …’
I’m stuck in forever.
‘Please, everyone, raise your glass to my sweet Belle.’
Timothy raises a glass and his face reminds me of that iconic scene in Baz Lurhmann’s film adaptation of The Great Gatsby. The way he dips his head, forehead creased, dimples proud. The room follows.
I fix my gaze on Belle, who is glowing – not for me and not because of me.
Just glowing, because that’s what she does – and something in my chest unclenches, just for a moment, because she looks happy.
Genuinely happy. I raise my glass, gripping the stem tight.
My stomach lurches then as, to my surprise, she looks right at me, a smile on her face.
I don’t look away. I raise my glass slightly higher. It feels stupid, no one can see me do it. But she can. So, I hold it steady, plant my feet, keep my gaze holding hers and stay right where I am.
‘One final thing,’ Timothy says again into the mic. The room turns back to him. I watch Belle’s eyes leave mine.
‘Once we’re done with dessert, there will be fireworks on the lawn, overlooking the sea, followed by drinks and a DJ – so do enjoy. We’d just ask that you’re mindful that we have a big day tomorrow, so perhaps pace yourselves accordingly … We’d hate for anyone to be suffering tomorrow!’
Talk erupts throughout the room at the mention of fireworks and a DJ, glasses clinking and someone wolf-whistling from the back. The responsible drinking note gets a laugh too, which means absolutely nothing good for Timothy’s plans.
Belle is standing now, pulling Timothy into a hug.
I swallow. Chairs scrape back as the guests grab their bags and phones from the tables, patting each other’s backs, downing the rest of their drinks.
I’m about to duck out and start to walk back towards the bedrooms, but I turn and Belle is next to me, in front of the fireplace, pretending to warm her hands on the crackling logs.
She seems energetic, jittery. I feel flat next to her.
Don’t act like a lovesick puppy now, Jake.
‘How many more now?’ I ask, knowing full well the answer.
‘Five more’ she says through closed lips, careful not to look like she’s talking into thin air. ‘We’re halfway. We started at 4 p.m. and now it’s almost eight, so we’re on track. Let’s go, the next one’s a good ’un.’ She turns her head, winks at me, and holds out her hands.
Is she enjoying this?