Chapter 12
At ten o’clock on the morning of the wedding, Clementine was ensconced in Diana and Rory’s room at the Savoy. Clementine had worried it was a bit of a cheek, taking it over, but Elizabeth reassured her.
‘You don’t want to mess up the honeymoon suite,’ she said. ‘Save it for tonight. Diana and Rory won’t mind.’
So here she was, in front of the dressing table in rollers and her wedding underwear, a glass of champagne at her elbow, patting powder onto her face and hoping she wouldn’t look too shiny by the time she got to the altar, for it was seventy-four degrees already and set to be in the eighties by lunchtime.
Her wedding dress was hanging on the front of the wardrobe.
She thought it was perfect and she was proud that she’d been able to buy it off-the-peg from a shop in Knightsbridge, for although she wanted to look the part, she didn’t see the point in spending vast amounts on something you might only wear once.
It fitted very well, the hem only needing taking up an inch and the bodice letting out a touch.
Elizabeth was coming back at half past ten to fasten her into it.
Then she would go down to the foyer where her father would be waiting, for a glass of champagne – another one; she must be careful, for people kept pouring it for her – before getting into the taxi for the short drive to Piccadilly.
She was blotting her lipstick with a tissue when the door flew open and Diana barged in.
‘Oh. Sorry. I’d have thought you’d be gone by now,’ she said.
‘I’m only going to be another ten minutes. Your mother’s coming to do my dress up in a moment. Do you want to get changed?’
‘No,’ said Diana. ‘I’m ready.’
Clementine reddened. Diana was never one for dressing up, but even so, her beige trousers and plain white blouse were a little drab even for her. She probably wanted to freshen up.
‘Do use the bathroom if you want. I’m so sorry – I’ve taken over rather.’
‘It’s all right. I’m used to it.’
Diana was standing in the middle of the room, swaying slightly. Was she drunk? That would explain the redness of her face and the slur in her words.
‘I shan’t be long. And I’ll clear everything up before I go.’
Diana didn’t seem to be listening. She was looking around the room, at the champagne on ice, the pots of make-up, the circlet of fresh flowers ready to be put on last.
‘Do you know, Mummy never bothered to come and help me on my wedding day?’
Clementine remembered seeing one or two photos of Diana’s wedding at Foxwood.
She hadn’t taken to the role of bride naturally.
Her smile was fixed as she held on to Rory’s arm, and she looked as if she’d rather be anywhere else.
Her dress was quite ordinary, and there was no head-dress or veil.
What she had just said was probably true.
It didn’t look as if Elizabeth had had any hand in the preparations.
Clementine was at a loss as to what to say. Now really wasn’t the best time for Diana to be airing her grievances, but she didn’t want to say as much.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘She’s just not interested in me.’
Clementine swallowed, flicking a glance at the clock. Time was ticking by. She should be downstairs in fifteen minutes. Where was Elizabeth?
‘Maybe we could have tea or something, when this is all over? Have a good chat?’ Perhaps if they got to know each other better, this antagonism would dissipate and she could reassure her sister-in-law.
Diana didn’t answer. She was staring at Clementine’s wedding dress. It was pale cream dupion, with a hint of Dior’s New Look: a fitted jacket sporting tiny covered buttons, an extravagant bow at the waist, then a full skirt that reached the floor.
‘Your dress is lovely,’ said Diana, her face crumpling. She suddenly seemed vulnerable and small.
‘Thank you,’ was all Clementine could think of to say.
Then Elizabeth swept in, striking in pink-and-white striped silk with a huge hat. She glanced at her daughter and frowned.
‘Diana, darling, you need to get ready. You’re leaving for the church in ten minutes.’
Diana put her hands on her hips in a defiant stance. ‘I am ready.’
Elizabeth’s gaze swept her up and down, judging, assessing, deciding. There was no time to argue. There would be no time to find an alternative outfit. A fuss would ruin everything. She gave a tight smile.
‘In that case, go and make sure the boys are ready, would you?’
‘Boys?’
‘Daddy and Rory.’
‘They’re down in the bar. With Jasper. The best man.’ Diana’s tone was mocking. Was her remark deliberately loaded? For the second time, Clementine wondered if Diana had also uncovered Elizabeth’s secret affair.
Elizabeth didn’t flicker. ‘Why don’t you go and join them?’
‘I know when I’m not wanted.’ Diana put her hands up. ‘See you all in church.’
She melted away, humming ‘The Wedding March’ loudly and tunelessly.
When she was gone, Clementine saw rather than heard Elizabeth’s sigh.
Was it resignation or relief? It was strange, how Diana always seemed to be so out of place, and to go out of her way to be difficult.
Clementine supposed it was because she was unhappy.
She had assumed she was perfectly content, with Rory and the farm and her horses, but perhaps not.
‘Right, let’s get those rollers out. Then we’ll get the dress on.’ Elizabeth clapped her hands and brought her attention back to the matter in hand.
The next moment she was pulling out pins and unwinding Clementine’s curls.
Clementine picked up her glass of champagne and took a gulp.
This family was even more complicated than she’d first thought.
But Alfie wasn’t, he was robustly straightforward, and she was marrying him, not them, so with luck everything would be all right.
St James’s at Piccadilly had recently regained its dignified grandeur, lovingly restored after a hit during the Blitz. The gentle strains of Bach floated from the organ pipes as the guests arrived and the sun slanted in through the stained glass, lighting up the nave and the carved marble font.
As mother of the groom, Elizabeth took her place in the first pew on the right, with Michael next to her by the aisle.
She always felt overwhelmed in church nowadays, no matter what the occasion.
She thought it was perhaps her quiet fury at the God she didn’t believe in.
She wanted to hurl her hassock at the vicar.
Scream at the congregation to wake up to the hypocrisy of organised religion.
It didn’t change anything. It certainly didn’t make anything better.
But she was far too well brought up to do anything more than arrange the most beatific of smiles on her face and wait for the ceremony to unfold.
She tried not to think about the wedding that never was, between Meg and Edwin.
She tried not to look at Jasper, standing next to Alfie at the altar, his best man by default.
She tried not to look at the back of his neck, the neck she had kissed so many times, or his lithe frame draped in an immaculate tailcoat, the grey cloth dropping away to a sharp point.
She hadn’t seen him alone since Alfie’s birthday, for there had been far too much going on, and she missed the tangle of their limbs, the scent of him on her skin, the delicious quiver that went through her when he brushed his lips along her collarbone.
Or did she? The past few weeks had been rather filled with joy, as their lives had recalibrated to welcome Clementine, and the wedding had given her, and Foxwood, a fresh purpose.
And she certainly hadn’t missed the subterfuge, the needling of her conscience, the eternal sick guilt in her stomach.
The preparations had brought her and Michael together as they went up to town to meet Ruth and Jeffrey for the first time, discussed what they would give Alfie and Clementine as a wedding present, and shopped for a new morning suit for him and the perfect outfit for her.
They’d even gone for a celebratory lunch at Quaglino’s.
She couldn’t remember the last time she and Michael had come to London together, and she resolved they must do it more often.
The Pimlico flat was there to be used, after all, with plenty of room even if Alfie and Clementine were in situ.
She sighed and hooked her arm in Michael’s, and her husband turned to her, surprised at her sudden display of tenderness.
He smiled, and she slipped her hand into his and squeezed it.
He squeezed back and tapped her knuckles gently with his thumb, a tiny gesture that said, ‘I know. I miss him too.’ She rested her head against his shoulder for a moment, overwhelmed, then sat up straight as the organist segued into the jaunty twirls of Handel’s ‘Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’.
As she watched Clementine walk down the aisle on her father’s arm, Elizabeth felt something shift inside her.
She couldn’t have asked for a more perfect choice for Alfie.
Clementine was strong-minded but not stubborn.
Fun but not frivolous. Independent but not distant.
Even her dress met with Elizabeth’s approval – it was elegant and simple and timeless.
She couldn’t see trouble on the horizon, or the two of them locking horns the way she did with Diana.
She was still furious with her daughter for turning up in an outfit Elizabeth wouldn’t even be seen gardening in.
She had done it on purpose, but to get at whom Elizabeth wasn’t sure.
She could never fathom Diana’s never-ending need to provoke, but she had learned not to rise to it.