“The worst thing is, I thought I understood Lucy. We understood each other. But all the time…” He breaks off, reaches in his pocket for a handkerchief, and blows his nose. “I mean, now I look back, of course I can see there were signs.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes,” says Tom. “I just didn’t pick up on them.”
“Such as…” I prompt gently, trying not to give away how curious I am.
“Well.” He thinks for a moment. “Like the way she kept saying if she had to live in Reigate for one more minute she’d shoot herself.”
“Right,” I say, slightly taken aback.
“Then there was the screaming fit she had in Furniture Village…”
“Screaming fit?”
“She began yelling, ‘I’m twenty-seven! I’m twenty-seven! What am I doing here?’ Security had to come in the end, and calm her down.”
“But I don’t understand. I thought she loved Reigate! You two seemed so…”
Smug is the word I’m searching for.
“So… happy!”
“She was happy until all the wedding presents were unwrapped,” says Tom thoughtfully. “Then… it was like she suddenly looked around and realized… this was her life now. And she didn’t like what she saw. Including me, I expect.”
“Oh, Tom.”
“She started saying she was sick of the suburbs, and she wanted to have a bit of life while she was young. But I thought, we’ve just repainted the house, we’re halfway through the new conservatory, this isn’t a good time to move—” He looks up, his eyes full of misery. “I should have listened, shouldn’t I? Maybe I should even have got the tattoo.”
“She wanted you to get a tattoo?”
“To match hers.”
Lucy Webster with a tattoo! I almost want to laugh. But then, as I look at Tom’s miserable face, I feel a surge of anger. OK, Tom and I haven’t always seen eye to eye over the years. But he doesn’t deserve this. He is what he is. And if Lucy wasn’t happy with that, then why did she get married to him in the first place?
“Tom, you can’t blame yourself,” I say firmly. “It sounds like Lucy was having her own problems.”
“Do you think?”
“Of course. She was very lucky to have you. More fool her, not appreciating it.” Impulsively I lean across the fence and give him a hug. As I draw away again, he stares at me with huge eyes, like a dog.
“You’ve always understood me, Becky.”
“Well, we’ve known each other a long time.”
“No one else knows me like you do.”
His hands are still round my shoulders, and he doesn’t seem about to let go, so I step backward under the pretext of gesturing at the house, where a man in overalls is painting a window frame.
“Have you seen all the work Mum and Dad are having done? It’s incredible.”
“Oh, yes. They’re really pushing the boat out. I heard about the fireworks display. You must be very excited.”
“I’m really looking forward to it,” I say automatically. It’s what I’ve said at once, every time anyone’s mentioned the wedding to me. But now, as I watch our old, familiar house being smartened up, like a lady putting on makeup, I start to feel a strange sensation. A strange tugging at my heart.
With a sudden pang, I realize I am looking forward to it.
I’m looking forward to seeing our garden all bedecked with balloons. To seeing Mum all dressed up and happy. Getting ready in my own bedroom, at my own dressing table. Saying good-bye to my old life properly. Not in some impersonal suite in a hotel… but here. At home, where I grew up.
While I was in New York, I couldn’t begin to envisage this wedding. It seemed so tiny and humdrum in comparison to the glamour of the Plaza. But now that I’m here, it’s the Plaza that’s starting to seem unreal. It’s the Plaza that’s slipping away, like an exotic, far-off holiday, which I’m already starting to forget. It’s been a lot of fun playing the part of a New York princess bride, tasting sumptuous dishes and discussing vintage champagne and million-dollar flower arrangements. But that’s the point. I’ve been playing a part.
The truth is, this is where I belong. Right here in this English garden I’ve known all my life.
So what am I going to do?
Am I really going to…
I can barely even think it.
Am I really even contemplating canceling that whole, huge, expensive wedding?
Just the thought of it makes my insides shrivel up.
“Becky?” Mum’s voice penetrates my thoughts and I look up dazedly, to see her standing at the patio doors, holding a tablecloth. “Becky! There’s a phone call for you inside.”
