CHAPTER 8
Selena
‘Ithink this is all a jolly elegant solution,’ Dad says, looking out the window of the vintage Jag as it crawls through the beautiful streets of Oxford. ‘Don’t you, darling?’
The question is as rhetorical as it is closed-ended.
There’s only one acceptable response, and that’s yes.
I wish I were travelling with my bridesmaids right now and not my father. This was always going to be a strange journey—tense at my end and smug at Dad’s—but this moment feels beyond the pale.
Boxing Day was unbearable. After Xavier braved my parents and pulled myself together—outwardly, at least—I had to endure a day of Mum’s weeping and Dad’s whining.
I could only imagine their crushing disappointment: a lifetime of expectations demolished; their bright future pulled without any of the conflict that actually having to marry the guy provided.
We were united, at least, in our horror at the effect Xavier’s decision would have on the Wentworth brand—both personal and corporate—and the social annihilation it would undoubtedly effect.
So when Ben rocked up the next day with his shockingly effective solution, my parents’ delight was pure.
Once again, not for them the complication of being shunted into a marital bed with a totally different guy.
Instead, they saw it as an outright win, an epic eleventh-hour rescue from the jaws of defeat and humiliation.
Saying anything but yes to Ben was unthinkable in their eyes, just as unthinkable as saying anything but yes to Dad’s question now.
‘Very elegant.’ I pat his hand and refrain from adding, ‘Thanks for asking.’ Not once in the past week have they asked me outright if I’m okay with all this.
I’m unclear if it’s due to a spectacular selfishness on their part or an assumption that I’m as invested as they are in making a match with the de Veres happen—at any cost.
I suspect it’s a little of both.
In any case, Benedict having stepped up is as ‘elegant’ a solution as finding a stand-in when a model is double-booked for a Wentworth photoshoot:
Pragmatic.
Efficient.
And, critically, a way to save face all round.
Having withdrawn my hand, I smooth down the skirt of my dress.
At the very least, I can take pleasure in its beauty.
Its craftsmanship. The French lace overlay is simply stunning, the beaded details exquisite.
It honestly feels affronting that so many hours of painstaking labour went into this creation while the key details of the ceremony at which it’ll make its appearance have been so rudely, so rashly, overhauled.
I force my palms down to the leather seat on either side of me.
I can’t risk any grime on the pristine ivory.
Benedict messages me, and I reply straight away. We’re right on track, which means that, a few hundred metres away, our congregated guests are about to get the shock of their lives.
Our car drives slowly down St Aldate’s, followed immediately by two clones holding my mother and the bridesmaids.
It’s already dark, and the illuminated Tom Tower looms up ahead.
It’s usually a welcome sight—a beautiful Wren-designed clock tower under which you must pass to enter Christchurch College, and a true Oxford landmark—but today it feels positively ominous.
The large numbers of people on the street outside the college entrance only increase my anxiety.
While I wouldn’t call them crowds exactly, people are definitely gathering.
It’s a chaotic mixture, from what I can see, of unaccredited press with their long-lens cameras, members of the public, and curious tourists who’ve probably stopped to see what on earth is going on.
There are a few local coppers doing their best to keep everyone on the pavements and out of the way of oncoming traffic.
We turn into Tom Gate. I suspect the de Veres are the only family in Oxford who could wangle permission to drive a car through here.
It’s less a gate and more a tunnel through the dark underbelly of the tower, and as the ancient walls swallow us up, I can’t help but feel as though I’m being driven to my execution.
It’s all an illusion, of course, a trick of my anxious mind.
Within seconds, we’re through it, emerging into the symmetrical splendour of Tom Quad.
The space is empty aside from a sort of pen made up of metal barriers that holds a select group of accredited press, both camera operators and broadcast journalists.
While all coverage of the event is unofficial and strictly limited to outside the cathedral, we have worked with the college to yield this level of access to the more reputable channels: think the BBC, Sky News, ITV News, and some overseas broadcasters.
At the sight of the cars, they turn as one and point their cameras.
It’s astounding to think that, for all these professionals, this is business as usual.
As far as they’re concerned, they’re here to report on my wedding to Xavier, which, although unusually high-profile, is more of a society event than anything newsworthy.
They’ve been kept well back from the main doors, across the quad from where we’ll alight.
If the bishop has dropped his bombshell, these crews won’t have a clue yet.
The car pulls up a small distance from the cathedral entrance.
I’m gratified to see that the arch of flowers over the double doors is every bit as spectacular as Mum and I intended, its green-and-white colour scheme only serving to underscore the lushness, the quality, of the florals.
It’s a riot of dark ivy and silvery eucalyptus, overflowing with an abundance of anemones, ranunculus, white hellebores, and snowberries.
I can just about survive this entire shitshow if my beloved arch stays intact. A girlfriend of mine had a nightmare with hers, which collapsed under the weight of a freak summer storm while they were all in the church.
Now that would finish me off.
Our driver gets out of the car and opens Dad’s door before coming around to my side. Dad gets out first so he can help me and my enormous dress unfold ourselves. As I exit the car, the noise from the media pit increases.
‘Over ’ere, Selena!’
‘Give us a look, love!’
‘Oi, Selena!’
‘You nervous?’
‘You look lovely.’
‘Who’s the dress by?’
Once again, the weirdest, creepiest feeling of dissonance comes over me. Everything is as it should be; everything is as I’ve imagined it for years and years… except for the biggest thing of all. I consider giving the cameras a smile, but my face is frozen in this mask of nerves.
‘Breathe, love,’ Ewan murmurs in my ear as the bridesmaids surround me. Minty and Octavia crouch behind me to straighten out my train while Flora flaps around, tweaking my veil.
‘You okay?’ she whispers with a glance to ensure Dad can’t hear. He’s standing back to accommodate the dress shenanigans. ‘You sure you want to do this? You really don’t have to marry either of my brothers, you know.’
I manage a smile for her. She’s sweet, and she looks beautiful today in her powder-blue dress, her caramel-coloured highlights blow-dried to perfection. These de Vere siblings are insanely blessed in the looks department, that’s for sure. ‘I’m okay,’ I tell her. ‘I want to do this.’
What I don’t want to do is spend a single second thinking about what this comprises: the weight of years and years of two families’ expectations, of my own expectations, my own dreams. I want this, I reiterate firmly to myself.
And, as is always the case with me, I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to secure what I want.
Even if that involves swallowing my pride and accepting a pity proposal from Benedict five days before my wedding date.
The dress is all set. A light touch to my head tells me that the priceless Oxford tiara, on loan from Charlotte, is exactly where it should be.
I beckon Dad over and ask him the time. It’s four-oh-three.
Never has a bride been so punctual, but you’d better believe I’m motivated.
I want to get safely inside that church and up the aisle before the press release comes out and all hell breaks loose over there in the media pen.
I link my arm through Dad’s, and we process slowly up the steps of the cathedral. The noise level inside the church is far higher than at any wedding I’ve ever been to, what sounds like utter hijinks spilling out to where we’re standing.
So they’ve heard the announcement, then.
Oh, God.
A glance behind tells me the bridesmaids are standing in position. My train and veil fan out beautifully on the steps.
‘Just a sec,’ our photographer calls out. ‘I want to grab some shots before you go in.’
It’s a last-minute reprieve before sentencing. A moment of certainty before I walk up that aisle towards the farce of wedding vows to a new, plug-and-play groom, towards the unknown shitshow that is my future.
As I hug Dad’s sleeved arm with my bare one, I take the moment to ground myself in the beauty of all the details I’ve worked so hard on: the fragrant gorgeousness of the floral arch above me, its tendrils of ivy trailing perfectly down; the matching prettiness of my bouquet; the ornate lace panels and impeccable craftsmanship of my gown, hand-sewn by hundreds of petits mains at Dior Couture’s atelier.
Call me shallow, but forcing my brain to focus on the minutiae of all the things I have got right for this wedding gives me the illusion of having some semblance of control.
‘All good, thanks,’ the photographer calls, having got his shots.
Dad turns to me. ‘Ready, darling?’
I nod. Ready as I’ll ever be.
With that, I take my first steps towards my fate.