Chapter 12
The big day
Polly woke up at six o’clock, and she was glad to be out of her dream. In it she’d been running through air as thick as syrup,
taking giant strides but getting nowhere, while behind her a scarecrow lolloped at breakneck speed, dressed in rags and dropping
hay in his wake. She’d always had a thing about scarecrows as some people had about clowns. She’d never liked them; even the
thought of their grotesque straw-stuffed bodies crawling with insects made her shudder. She always imagined that when she
passed one, it would twist its head and stare at her. She couldn’t even watch the affable Worzel Gummidge without feeling
anxious.
One day she and her mother had taken a bus into the countryside to the spot where Uncle Ed’s car had been forced off the road and into a tree, and there in the field at the side was a scarecrow.
She could see it now with its hessian flat face and floppy hat, arms resting on a T-frame, tatty legs.
Its head was at an angle as if perusing them.
Its features were drawn on in thick marker pen, a crooked sly smile and stubby black crosses for eyes, and Polly wondered what was stored in that straw brain.
It looked too knowing to be a mere “thing.” She’d told Chris about her aversion to them, and though he said he hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, Shauna turned up one Sunday with a decora tion for their garden that she’d bought at a garage sale—a three-foot-tall jangly scarecrow.
She was sure it was no coincidence. Two weeks later, she’d found out Chris had been cheating on her.
Just a dream , Polly told herself. But she couldn’t chase away the thought that scarecrows were synonymous with ill portents. She hated
them, even the most benign-looking ones with their dopey, friendly expressions.
She had a shower and washed her hair, packing up her toiletries into a bag and taking it out to the car. Then she had a very
strong coffee and waited for the makeup woman. Ridiculous expense, but that was Camay all over, never happier than when she
was spending money.
The makeup woman, Iz, arrived at nine on the dot. She had a teak fake tan, licorice-black eyebrows, eyelashes she could have
tripped over, and only her bottom lip seemed capable of movement. Whatever Iz’s middle name might have been, it definitely
wasn’t “subtle.”
Iz dried Polly’s hair and put it in rollers and then got cracking on her face: She had a heavy hand where makeup was concerned
and totally ignored the rule of not drawing attention to both eyes and lips. There was too much black around Polly’s eyes
and her lipstick was dark ruby.
“Wish I had natural lips like yours,” said Iz with a sigh. Polly’s mother had bequeathed her the full-lip gene. She’d had
a mouth like a young Debbie Harry.
Polly put her dress on then.
“Oh, that’s beautiful,” said Iz, sounding utterly convincing.
Polly thought she was either daft, blind, or had been poisoned by Botox.
Iz then took out Polly’s rollers and did a lot of painful tugging and backcombing, piling her hair high on her head in a sort
of bride-of-Frankenstein tower. Then on went the dead swan fascinator, secured by lots of glittery grips.
The bouquet arrived as Iz was packing up.
A large teardrop of purply-red roses, presumably to accessorize with the bride’s dress.
Polly put it on the dining table; it would be big enough to hide her handbag behind, which was one good thing.
The other was that it would also hide a big portion of her frock as well.
Camay really was going to town on expense.
After Iz left, there were twenty minutes until the car arrived.
Polly checked herself out in the foxed full-length mirror hanging on the wall by the front door, and despite everything, she laughed.
How absurd it all was. This ghastly dress, the feathery disaster on her head, the spiders’ legs eyelashes.
The end to a perfect week of waters breaking, coffee sploshing, Auntie Marian’s Bread, Alan’s portrait, Brock the cock, all of it in one huge dungball on her head.
Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough. It really couldn’t.
Five minutes later than expected, there was a cheery car pip from outside, and Polly looked out of the window to see a limo
with beige ribbons tied on the front. She slipped on her too-tall shoes, swept up her handbag and flowers, and locked up the
house. The elderly chauffeur had gotten out of the car to open the back door for her. She wondered if he’d retired from whatever
job he had, got bored doing nothing, and found this job to supplement his pension. She liked to guess at people’s life stories,
as if the curious, writer part of her brain was always on the lookout for ideas.
He smiled at her and said, “Morning, ma’am, Stanley here at your service. You look beautiful.” There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm
in his voice. God bless the old-gent types.
“Nice day for it,” he said through the glass partition when he started up the engine. “Rain later, though, so I hope you get
your photos done in time.”
Polly thought then that she’d never see those photos, thank goodness. She wondered if Camay really would scribble her head
out with a biro.
At the traffic lights, they pulled level with an old Volkswagen Beetle festooned in pink ribbons.
There was a young bride sitting in the back with a man, her father presumably.
She waved madly through the window and mouthed Good luck at Polly and stuck her thumbs up.
She thinks I’m a fellow bride , thought Polly, who mouthed the same sentiment back.
She looked happy, excited, as if she couldn’t wait to get to the church.
Eventually the limo pulled up in front of the town hall and Stanley once again got out to open the door for her.
“Hope it goes well. I’ll see you in a bit. I’ll be waiting around the corner.” And he pointed to where that was.
“Thank you.” Polly adjusted her dress and walked up the steps. A wedding had just finished and the bridal party was posing
outside the doors. A young couple with beaming smiles in gothic attire. The bride was in a red lace dress, black veil, and
was heavily pregnant, and both she and her new groom were resting their hands on top of her bump as if they wanted their little
one to be a central part of their celebration. I never want to get married unless I’m wearing a smile like that , thought Polly to herself as she entered the town hall. Camay was waiting for her in the foyer. She had on a long satin plum
dress with a bolero, a matching pillbox hat with a veil over her eyes, and she was carrying a posy of purply roses, much smaller
than Polly’s bouquet. She looked surprisingly understated to be the bride. Polly had expected nothing less than a six-foot
train and a crown. Possibly even a scepter. The florist had gotten the two mixed up, it was obvious.
“Slightly late but that’s all right. Everyone’s in there,” Camay said, looking at her Rolex. “Are you ready?” Her shoulders
shimmied with excitement.
“Yes, I’m ready,” replied Polly. “But I think I have your flowers.”
“No, I can’t carry those; they’d get in the way,” said Camay, grabbing her arm and pulling her. “Come on, the room’s just
down here.”
“Camay,” said Polly, stopping dead at the door, because she felt the need to say this, for afterward. “I hope you have a lovely day. I really do. I genuinely wish that for you, so I want you to remember—”
“What are you talking about?” said Camay, too giddy for anything verging on the intense and serious. She opened the huge wooden
door. “Get a move on, in you go.”
“Shouldn’t I follow you?”
“No, you’re leading the way,” said Camay, giving Polly a none-too-gentle push on her back.
The opening salvo of “Here Comes the Bride” started up from a string quartet in the left corner of the room. Very Camay. Michael
Ball would probably start piping up at any moment. Polly walked down the center of the two rows of chairs, Camay behind her.
Heads swiveled toward her, lots of heads, lots of eyes.
Surely I should be behind the bride.
She saw Shauna give her the slow once-over as she held up her phone to snap photos or film the event. She recognized some
of the lads who worked in Chris’s garage and thought, What are they doing here for Camay’s wedding?
Something wasn’t right. The key pieces were in the wrong place. Ward was sitting on a chair to her left; Chris was standing
up at the front and looking smart in a black three-piece suit, plum-colored rose in his lapel, his son standing next to him.
And then with sudden and terrible clarity, the answer dawned on her, and with it, why she was in the off-white frock carrying
the bigger bouquet.