Page 5 of The Lucky Escape

Had he ever wanted to marry me?

Was it because I was too fat?

Because my teeth weren’t straight enough?

Had he had an affair, and got somebody else pregnant, and only just found out and thought choosing her over me would be the more moral choice?

Was he gay?

Had I hallucinated him ever wanting to get married in the first place? Did I imagine the ring, the way he had thoughts and opinions about the invitations and the seating plan, how overjoyed he’d been to discover the band from his cousin’s wedding had had a cancellation and so could play at ours, now?

What if he’d changed his mind again, then got to the church after I’d already left?

What if he was waiting there, sorry and ashamed, praying my driver would turn around the car and as we circled back around to the church he’d be waiting, running up to us, crying, overcome with his own foolishness and practically dragging me inside before either of us could screw it up again?

What would Mum say?

It looked as though Freddie wanted to cry and was trying really hard not to.

I hated this. I hated this. I hated this.

‘Stop,’ I said to the driver. ‘Stop the car.’

‘Are you sure?’ he replied, slowing down and glancing over his shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’

I made for the door, grabbing at the handle before we’d fully stopped, forcing the driver to slam on the brakes. Somewhere near Kings Cross, I elbowed my way out of the car, tourists and buses and black cabs and shoppers lingering to watch me throw up all over my gown.

‘She looks like she’s having a bad day,’ I heard somebody say.

3

The immediate aftermath of being stood up on my wedding day was exactly as crap as anyone would imagine.

I couldn’t bear to go back to the hotel suite to get my things, so Adzo went for me. I’d asked the driver to take us to the house – but when we arrived it turned out I didn’t have a key, what with it BEING MY WEDDING DAY, and so Dad had to go across the road to the neighbours’, Dash and Lenny, who kept our spare set.

The church was small and we only knew them a bit, so we hadn’t invited them to the ceremony, but they’d been expected at the evening reception, along with their twin toddlers. The evening do was going to be a live band and a dance floor and a hog roast out in the gardens behind the venue.

I’d gone to bed dreaming of that evening reception for months. There’s something about all the formalities being over, when folks no longer have to be on their best behaviour. The evening part is always the best bit of a wedding, so I’d really focused a lot of my meetings with Happy on making sure there were going to be flip-flops in a basket by the dancefloor for when everyone’s dress shoes started to rub, and there was going to be two children’s entertainers so parents could relax too. We’d ordered thousands of lights for the trees and hundreds of candles for the outdoor tables so that the last of the summer could be enjoyed when the music got too much. I’d even made sure the smokers’ corner was comfortable since everyone would inevitably end up out there anyway – even if, like Alexander, they’d given up their smoking years ago.

I stood and watched Dad knock on Dash and Lenny’s door, and the ensuing conversation. Dash shook his head as Dad spoke, as if he couldn’t digest what was being said, and then Lenny joined him in the doorframe, looping his arm around his husband’s shoulders casually, the perfect illustration of exactly what I’d lost. All three men turned in my direction, catching me staring, so I lifted a hand to confirm that yes, the balding sixty-something in the wedding suit was my father, and yes, we were indeed locked out of the house.

Lenny slowly, uncertainly, raised a hand back, and wasn’t as subtle as he thought he was as he looked my dress up and down with pity. Dash dipped his head to say something to him, and then Lenny retreated back inside. They both lingered at the front door after he reappeared with the key and watched, slack-jawed, as Dad trekked across to me. It was as if they were eating popcorn and watching a heist movie with a plot twist, not bearing witness to my disintegrating life.

I assumed they didn’t need it explaining that there would be no party for them to go to tonight.

As Dad came back and unlocked the door he said, ‘Honey, let me get a bin liner for the dress.’ I looked at him, confusedand hurt, until he explained, ‘The vomit, you see – you don’t want that in the house, do you? Fred-Fred, can you go and get a T-shirt and some bottoms for your sister from her bedroom?’

Freddie paused on the stairs to look back at me as I waited in the doorway. Once I took the dress off that really would be it.

‘You still have me,’ she said tenderly, her face innocent and hopeful. I blinked. It was all impossible to compute. She ran up the stairs and Dad returned with the bin bag. He looked a hundred years old with concern.

‘Put your dress in here.’ He handed it to me. ‘I’ll sort it out.’

Freddie re-emerged, a pair of pyjama bottoms and an oversized rugby shirt of Alexander’s over her arm. I looked at it and she realized, only now I’d wordlessly pointed it out, that giving me a piece of his clothing to wear wasn’t exactly a mastermind idea.

‘It was in your drawer,’ she apologized, sounding trite. ‘Sorry. I thought it was yours.’

‘I’ll wait in the kitchen,’ Dad said. ‘I’ll make tea.’

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