Chapter 13
Polly drew level with Chris and her feet halted. She was never meant to drift off to the side and let Camay have center stage,
because that place was hers today and always had been from the start, and that’s why Camay had shackled her to this date.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Camay take her seat next to Ward, then heard the creak of many chairs as everyone else
sat too. The registrar in front of her was blasting out a wide and welcoming smile, ready to unite two happy souls in holy
matrimony, and someone somewhere tipped a cold bucket of water over Polly’s head—at least that’s what it felt like. She stood
there dumbstruck, frozen, icy fingers of dread squeezing her temples like a vise. She had too many thoughts for her brain;
they were zapping wildly around the inner wall of her skull as if riding bikes on a wall of death. She could hear her heartbeat
pounding in her ears, feel the prickle of pins and needles in the extremities of her limbs as her blood deserted them and
rushed to her middle on an emergency defense mission. The wonder of it all was that she was still upright.
Chris was grinning and, as handsome a man as he was, for the tiniest of split seconds, his face looked like the scarecrow’s
in the field at the side of the crash site with its inane, disingenuous smile.
“Surprise,” he said and she heard it in slow motion like a vinyl record played at the wrong speed. Someone behind her tittered
and repeated the word.
It wasn’t a surprise. A surprise was something that made you shriek in delight. This was a shock, one which pinned her to the spot, as stunned as a baby deer in the headlights of an oncoming juggernaut, who knew that if it didn’t move soon, it was going to end up as a venison pancake.
“Dearly beloved,” began the registrar. She sounded as if her voice was coming from underwater. The room seemed to shift as
if it was getting ready to spin. Polly inhaled a deep breath to stop herself from passing out as she listened to her words.
Words she’d heard so many times over the years at other people’s weddings, on TV dramas, but never applied to herself. “Christopher,
do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To live together always?”
Chris was holding her hand. It felt as if he was imprisoning it.
“I do.”
A stray clap.
“Polly, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?” She could feel every eye in the room on her, but it felt
like every eye in the world, burning her with their intensity. She heard a rustle, Camay’s dress probably, but it sounded
like straw scratching against itself, full of field bugs. The registrar continued speaking, her words blurring into each other,
though some stood out from the rest: faithful , worse , death .
The registrar was waiting for her answer. Chris was waiting for her answer. Everyone was.
She had to say “I do” for now and sort out this mess afterward. The fallout would be astronomical if she said anything else.
But her bags were packed, her new life was waiting for her. She couldn’t say it and she couldn’t not say it.
“Polly.” Chris prompted her by squeezing her fingers. Her mouth opened but nothing came out.
She felt sick. Saying yes would be so much easier. Tread the easy path.
She hadn’t seen this coming.
Polly, don’t say it. Another voice in her head, stronger. Sabrina’s voice.
The registrar tried again. “Polly, do you?”
“No.”
It was odd because she felt the word leave her mouth, but it seemed to come from someone else and the effect it had was far
greater than the sum of its two letters. The room was sucked into a vacuum. There was no sound at all for what must have been
moments but felt like minutes.
Ward’s boom of a whisper. “Did she say no?”
The registrar was looking at her, waiting for clarification. “I’m sorry, I can’t,” said Polly.
She tugged her hand away from Chris’s, turned, and walked at speed between the seats to the door. She must have dropped the
bouquet because she wasn’t holding it by the time she got there, only her loaded handbag which she was gripping for dear life.
She launched herself from the room, needing outside air and needing it fast, and there was no chance of that with those heels
on. She kicked them off, pulled up her frock, and charged forward, ignoring the people who turned to stare, ignoring everything
but the large front doors at the end of the corridor.
She blasted through them, out into the midday brightness, her legs propelled by desperate energy. She headed down the stairs
like Cinderella trying to beat the clock and to where Stanley said he would be waiting. She could see him standing talking
to a taxi driver, taking in the sunshine. He noticed her and waved, his smile closing by degrees as she approached him like
Zola Budd with her shorts on fire.
She clambered into the back of the limo and Stanley followed her lead and got into the front with similar urgency.
“You all right, love?” he said.
“Please, just drive,” she said. “Take me to where you picked me up from.” Stanley twisted the key in the ignition and set off. Through the window, Polly could see Chris at the top of the town hall steps looking around for her. There was a flash of plum behind him. She ducked down.
“Not to Maltstone Old Hall then?” said Stanley.
Oh God, the pink lamb reception at Maltstone Old Hall she’d thought was for Camay and Ward. All that waste. Chris would go
bananas. Then she herded her thoughts together; she had bigger fish to fry than bemoaning a load of bruschettas and cake going
in the bin.
Polly felt her eyes begin to leak. She wasn’t crying, just leaking, as if she had so much pressure inside her that her eyes
had decided to take on the job of being the safety valve.
“There’s some tissues in the door recess,” said the chauffeur, glancing at her through the rearview mirror. “Would it help
if you told me what happened?”
Polly found the tissues and blew her nose, which had also decided to be a safety valve.
“I turned up thinking I was the bridesmaid and I wasn’t; I was the bride,” she said, her throat clogged with mucus.
“Really? Oh bloody hell,” Stanley said. “That’s... that’s quite the surprise. You didn’t have a clue?”
“Not one.” Hercule Poirot’s job was safe.
“And... I’m gathering you... didn’t... erm...”
“I’m all packed up to leave him tomorrow,” Polly replied, wondering why she was telling a complete stranger all this. Her
mouth, it seemed, was also acting as a safety valve.
Stanley was quiet for a short spell, then he said, “It’s a funny sort of thing to spring on someone.” He gave a pained laugh.
“I mean, I would have thought that a bride would want to plan her own day. And you’d have to be pretty positive that your
partner would be up for it before you went to all that trouble.”
Precisely. What the hell had possessed Chris to think this was a good idea?
On the town hall steps, Ward had just asked his wife this same question, after she’d spoken to the photographer who’d been waiting in position to capture the newly wed Mr. and Mrs. Barrett and crew with his fancy camera.
“I did express my doubts at the time when you suggested it to him,” he said. He sighed, thinking about that pink lamb which
had been his contribution and how now he wouldn’t get to have any of it.
“Did you now?” said Camay, arms akimbo, determined not to be blamed for this fiasco. “You must have whispered it then, because
I never heard you.”
“You did put the idea in his head,” said Ward. “You said it would make things right after what happened last year.”
“I didn’t force him, Ward. I merely mentioned it in passing.”
“Plus there’s the matter of the forged signature on the marriage notice application form. Highly illegal. A prosecutable offense.
As I pointed out—”
“Oh do shut up, will you, Mr. Ruddy Unimpeachable.”
Chris appeared at their side, red-faced from running around the building and also from a mix of emotions that ranged from
confusion to fury.
“Looks like she’s hopped in the limo. This is a frigging disaster.”
“Maybe we should just go to the reception place and eat. She’ll probably turn up there,” tried Ward.
“Jesus wept, all that expense,” said Chris, thinking about the meal now, as if his brain didn’t have enough to chew on.
“You gave me carte blanche to arrange it for you. You said you wouldn’t know where to start,” Camay fired back.
“I said make it nice, but don’t spend too much,” Chris said. “I used the word modest , as I remember.”
“I didn’t spend too much. I was modest.” Camay’s tone was an affronted one. “At my wedding, the starters alone were twenty pounds each and that was in the nineties. Your whole menu only cost eighty-three per head.”
Chris’s eyebrows nearly zoomed into orbit. “How much?”
“That’s positively bargain-basement price by today’s standards.”
“Fiddles and frigging cheeseboards are not modest, Camay,” Chris cried.
“Goodness, that’s an awful lot of money to waste. Plus the flowers and that awful dress,” said Shauna, putting her arm around
her father. She never had been one to miss fueling a fire.
“I beg your pardon, young lady,” snapped Camay, “that dress was a Galina de Jong. You don’t even get an underskirt by her
for less than two thousand pounds.”
“I hope you’re joking,” said Chris, before covering his face with his hands. “God almighty, I have never been so humiliated
in my life.”
“In front of so many people too. It’ll probably end up in the paper...”
“Okay, that’s enough, Shauna,” said Will. He was thinking of Polly and the look on her face when she flew back down the aisle.
He’d never thought this was the best idea. They all knew his dad had had a fling and he also knew that his dad wasn’t very
good at owning blame. He wondered how much work he’d put into actually mending his relationship or if he’d just thrown some
paint at the fence, hoping it would disguise the damage. And Will was also cursing himself because the last time he’d seen
Polly, he’d almost given her the heads-up on the quiet until, at the last minute, he’d thought better of it, but he really
wished he had now.
“She’ll have gone home and be waiting there,” said Chris. “I know her inside out.”
“We’ll drive you,” said Camay. “In the BMW. Come on, Ward, bring the car round. Chop chop.”
Chop chop.
Ward sighed, thinking of that lamb. Shauna was thinking of how much her outfit had cost that now wouldn’t be in any photos; Chris was thinking of what people would be saying behind his back and how bankrupt he’d be when Camay handed over all the bills; and Camay was thinking that Polly was a stupid, ungrateful bitch and how dare she do this to her brother after all the trouble she’d gone to organizing this for them?
Only Will was thinking what state Polly must be in.
“Why were you leaving him?” asked Stanley, pulling up at the traffic lights. “You don’t have to tell me, but you can if it
helps to talk.”
Polly blew her nose again. Thoughts were crowding behind a door in her head like zombies, and once that door caved in, she
dreaded to think what would happen.
“I don’t love him anymore,” she said. “He had an affair.”
“I see,” said Stanley, nodding, then he let out a small, dry laugh. “Blimey, if this was an apology, I think he’d have been
better off just saying sorry.”
Is that what it was? thought Polly. Was this all instead of not saying the word? Was he throwing a ring at her because it was easier than making
the effort to actually love her? It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility, it really wasn’t.
Polly groaned and rubbed her forehead as if it could soothe the swirl of thoughts beneath it.
Her phone rang in her bag and she took it out.
Camay: WHAT HAVE YOU DONE YOU STUPID SELFISH WOMAN!!!
Chris: WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU? HEADING HOME. MEET ME THERE.
She had to get away—now. Away from the shouty capital-letter messages and the anger. Chris wouldn’t go back there alone. Camay would insist on being with him and Shauna wouldn’t miss the chance to stick the boot in. She couldn’t talk to him now. It would have to be later when the heat had cooled.
Stanley pulled up outside the house.
“Will you be all right? Do you want me to wait around?” he asked her.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “Thank you. I will, really.”
The Barrett family could rock up at any minute; she couldn’t risk going in and grabbing more of her belongings.
She had enough with her for now in the trunk; she’d get the rest later if Chris wasn’t influenced by his daughter and sister
to take it to the tip. They were just things, after all; it was more important she preserved herself.
Her fingers were shaking as they reached into her handbag for her keys. Thank goodness she’d followed the curious hunch to
bring it. She opened the car door, slid into the driver’s seat, switched on the ignition, and pressed the accelerator. The
postcode for Shoresend had already been put in the satnav in readiness.
She was off.