Chapter Seven Lee
Chapter Seven
Lee
After several minutes of serious freaking out, which – because I am me – occurs in the sort of absolute, unmoving silence that you might expect to find on a frozen tundra, I attempt to pull myself together.
It is ridiculous. It’s also not possible. You can’t get married without the proper paperwork.
I snatch up my phone and dial the number for the Las Vegas Marriage Licence Bureau, navigating the automated menu to try and reach an actual human.
When the plinky-plinky hold music (an instrumentalised Elvis medley, naturally) is finally interrupted and someone does pick up, it’s a perky-sounding woman who introduces herself as Megan.
‘I’m looking for information about a wedding licence,’ I say, then I hesitate. ‘Or I suppose I’m looking for information about the non-existence of a wedding licence.’
‘You want me to do a search to make sure a wedding licence isn’t on our system?’
‘That’s right,’ I agree. ‘I’ve been getting some spam mail from a local wedding chapel and I want to make sure—’
‘Say no more,’ Megan breaks in, her tone still upbeat. ‘We get a lot of this sort of stuff here.’
‘Oh,’ I say weakly, not sure if that makes me feel better or worse. One night of hedonism and I have become the ultimate Las Vegas cliché.
‘So what are the names?’
I give her our details and the seconds that pass as I hear her clacking away at her keyboard feel like they’re stretching out into years.
‘Okay,’ Megan says finally, ‘got you. The marriage licence was registered on October 12 last year. Oh! Happy anniversary!’
I drop the phone.
‘Ms Turner-Jones?’ Megan’s voice calls out tinnily as I crawl about on the floor to retrieve it.
‘I – yes – hello,’ I croak, clamping the phone to my ear as I remain sprawled on the carpet. ‘Sorry, so there… is a wedding licence?’
‘That’s right, ma’am!’
Now the chirpiness is starting to grate.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I say again, becoming increasingly polite as I get more agitated and I’m aware that this is probably the most British I’ve ever been.
At this point my accent is so intense I sound like a member of the royal family.
‘I don’t mean to be a nuisance, but I think there must be some mistake.
I don’t see how there can be a marriage licence when we didn’t fill one in. ’
‘I have forms here filled out by both you and Mr Nicolas Hart,’ Megan says as she continues to tap. ‘The birth dates you gave me match up, too.’
‘No. It can’t… it was late!’ I exclaim desperately. ‘It must have been past midnight when we went to the chapel. So, you see, it’s not possible that we got a wedding licence without knowing about it. I was working that day. This must be some kind of bizarre fraud thing—’
‘We’re open from 8 a.m. until midnight, seven days a week,’ Megan says cheerfully, bursting my bubble completely. ‘Actually, those late night hours can be some of our busiest.’
‘I can’t believe this…’ I manage, dazed.
‘Oh, hey!’ Megan exclaims, and she sounds even happier than she did a minute ago, the absolute psychopath. ‘I’ve pulled up the scans of your IDs and I remember you!’
‘You… do?’
She makes a noise of agreement. ‘I wouldn’t usually… you know, we have a lot of people come through here. But I remember you because you complimented me on my pen and we had a great chat about stationery.’
Shit. That does sound worryingly plausible.
‘You had all the forms organised perfectly. I made a joke about you being my dream customer. I think you’d even put little sticky labels where everyone needed to sign. You had a bunch of them in your handbag.’
Yep, this has a definite ring of authenticity about it.
‘And,’ Megan continues, her voice dropping conspiratorially, ‘I hope you won’t mind me saying, but that husband of yours was really something. He definitely sticks in the mind, you know?’
‘Yes,’ I say mechanically. ‘My husband. My husband. Nico Hart. My husband. I’m his wife. Nico is my husband.’
‘Are you okay?’ Megan asks, which is understandable because I definitely sound like I’m malfunctioning.
‘I’m not sure,’ I reply honestly. I wonder if I should put the phone down and call an ambulance. Perhaps I’m having a stroke.
‘So do you want me to email a copy of the paperwork over to you?’ she asks. ‘There’s a fee but I can take payment over the phone.’
‘I – yes, that would be fine. Thank you.’
Ten minutes later my inbox pings with digital copies of my marriage licence, marriage certificate and the proof of marriage for foreign citizens.
(This, I understand, is only necessary on my part, because Nico has dual citizenship.
What good news that I was organised enough to ensure that the marriage was official on an INTERNATIONAL SCALE.)
It’s all there. Ophelia Turner-Jones and Nicolas Hart are married.
The wedding took place at the Little Chapel of Love, 1700 Las Vegas Blvd on 12 October, and it was witnessed by a woman called Tifanii who dots the three improbable I’s in her name with little hearts.
Presumably the original paperwork was in the handbag that I lost that night.
It would appear that even when absolutely hammered, my meticulous organisational skills are still up to arranging a legal ceremony complete with paperwork. I have been brought down by my own efficiency, laid low by a love of sticky tabs. And I’ve taken Nico with me.
Nico.
For a whole year I’ve tried not to even think about Nico Hart.
I’ve been very, very careful not to ask Jack about him at all, and any time anyone mentioned him in passing I quickly changed the subject.
It’s totally hypocritical but it hurts that he never reached out to me either.
From bits and pieces I’ve caught along the way, I’ve gleaned that he’s in a relationship, a pretty serious one.
I think he might even be living with someone, which is a first, and I’ve told myself, firmly, that I don’t care.
My head fills with white noise as I realise I now have to tell Nico that we’re married.
That we’ve been married for a year. My mind flashes to Adrian.
Oh my god! I’ve been sleeping with another man while being a married woman!
I’m an adulteress! I can’t imagine Nico’s live-in girlfriend is going to be too thrilled either.
Okay. I make an effort to steady myself.
Deep breath. I’m a pragmatic, sensible person and I can take care of this.
So we accidentally got married, it’s not the end of the world.
We can get a divorce. Or… an annulment, maybe?
The only context I have for this is a dim memory of my school history lessons when we learned about Henry VIII trying to marry every woman who crossed his path.
Isn’t an annulment something you can get when the marriage has never been consummated?
An image of Nico shirtless in bed beside me flashes across my brain and I remind myself very firmly that nothing happened.
Unfortunately, it seems unlikely that we’ll be able to get either a divorce or an annulment without me actually telling Nico about it and the thought of that makes me want to die.
I have his number in my phone – unless he’s changed it – and my finger hovers for a moment over the dial button, but I can’t bring myself to press it.
It’s too much after all this time… the thought of hearing his voice is too hard.
Instead, I’ll draw on the introvert’s friend – the email.
All I need to do is to draft a message with the perfect amount of exclamation marks.
I am breezy! I am poised! I am not unhinged at all! !!
I drag myself back up to my desk and try to find the right words to describe the situation we’re in.
Hi Nico!
Sorry to contact you out of the blue like this, but I’ve received some troubling interesting news!
!!. It seems that the wedding ceremony we took part in in Las Vegas was more legitimate than either of us realised!
Of course I was disturbed shocked aggggggggg!
!! concerned by this development, but I hope we can resolve the matter quickly.
I can consult a lawyer here if you agree that’s easiest. Although probably not my boyfriend ha ha ha!
!! I’ve attached the relevant paperwork for you to look over so please let me know how you’d like to proceed.
I hope you are well, otherwise.
Love
Yours
Best wishes,
Lee x xxx x
Exhausted, I hit send and then collapse back in my chair, my eyes closed, trying to picture Nico’s face when he reads it. I always dreamed of marrying Nico Hart one day and now it’s really happened. Then again I imagined it pretty differently. I thought he’d know about it, for a start.
‘Lee?’ Gran’s voice drifts up, breaking through my misery. ‘Are you home?’
My head snaps up. What is she doing back? She’s never left a party early in her life. The bit in her note about disappearing for a week was no exaggeration, it’s been known to happen.
Should I tell her about what’s going on? She’ll never let me live it down, but she might be able to offer some advice. Then again Nico should probably be the first to hear about it. What if he doesn’t want people to know? I’ll play it cool. Relaxed.
‘Hello,’ I greet my grandmother from the stairs, and my voice sounds like it belongs to a cartoon chipmunk. I’m not sure what to do with my arms. ‘What are you doing back? I thought the great debauching was under way.’
I lean against the wall and fold my arms across my chest. I’m trying to look casual but I think it’s coming off more awkward-’90s-boyband photo shoot.
Gran looks up at me, her mouth a pout of perfectly applied red lipstick.
Bridget Turner is a small, elegant woman with a crop of dark hair for which she pays her hairdresser a great deal of money.
She has the same wide, indigo blue eyes that I see in the mirror every morning, and looks a good twenty years younger than her eighty-three years.
(Admittedly, helped along by the Botox she claims she’s never touched.)