Don't Marry Thomas Clark (31 page)

‘That was the idea,' I say unable to look him in the eyes.

‘And then what happened?' he asks, hooking a curl of hair behind his ear.

‘And then we spoke and…'

‘And…?' he repeats, moving closer to my face to kiss the tip of my nose.

‘And I thought that…' But I cannot finish the sentence.

‘Do you know I was thinking the same thing, too?' he whispers, kissing me on the lips this time.

We take off each other's clothes as we move over to the bed where we end up embracing among the pillows and cushions, and we make love in a way we never have before: gently, slowly. Looking at each other, caressing each other. It's almost dawn by the time I curl up on his chest, letting him embrace me as the sun rises behind the ochre curtains.

‘I missed you so much,' he murmurs into my hair.

‘I thought you didn't want to see me anymore.'

‘I didn't,' he admits, laughing. ‘For about eight minutes. Just long enough to get home and realize that you'd left.'

‘Thomas,' I say, raising my head and looking him in the eyes. ‘What happens now?'

‘What would you like to happen?'

‘I think I'd like to hear you answer my question.'

He smiles. ‘What can I say? I can't tell the future.'

‘I know, but all I need is some kind of… definition.'

‘Like “baby”?'

‘No!' I snap. ‘
Not
like “baby”.'

‘Darling? Treasure? Sweetheart?'

‘This was supposed be a constructive conversation.'

‘God, you're so melodramatic! What kind of “definition” would you prefer?'

‘Let's stay with the normal ones,' I suggest. ‘Like “friend”, or “lover” or “girlfriend” or “wife”, that kind of thing.'

‘But you're already my fiancée – what else do you want to add?'

‘I'm only your fiancée because of an unending series of unfortunate events.'

‘Which doesn't change the result,' he adds, totally serious.

My mouth is so dry that I don't manage to say anything for the next few minutes. He speaks first, laying back on the pillow. ‘Do you still want to call Frank?'

‘No,' I admit, holding him tightly.

‘Then stop asking me what's going to happen, because you already know,' he says, and closes his eyes, falling asleep at my side.

*

‘Good morning Clementine,' I say with a smile as I enter the kitchen the next morning to find her busily preparing a delicious chocolate cake. I have the feeling that this is going to be a wonderful day…

I'm engaged.

Me!

Engaged!

And this time, it's real!

‘Please tell me that amazing thing is for me.'

She giggles as she puts it in the oven, then smooths out her apron. ‘Only half of it. Mr. Clark has booked the rest.'

‘Beaten to it,' I complain, sitting down. ‘There isn't a cup of coffee going, is there?'

‘I think there's still a bit left in the pot, but I'll make a fresh one if you like,' she offers, as kind as ever.

‘Oh, don't worry. It'll be fine,' I reply, getting up to serve myself. ‘Is Thomas still in the house?'

‘No. He said he had to go into the village to do something urgent.'

‘He didn't say what?' I press her, trying not to sound too curious.

‘Actually, yes,' she admits. ‘But I promised I wouldn't say a single word.'

‘How much do you want to spill the beans?' I hiss, looking at her from under my eyebrows.

‘No, no…' she says, and waves a hand in amusement. ‘Don't! He threatened to cut my salary.'

‘I could double it,' I suggest, with an alluring look, following her as she walks over to the fridge.

‘No! I won't give in. I'm not going to spoil the surprise,' she says firmly.

‘All right,' I say, pretending momentarily to give in. ‘That means I'll just have to wait. I'm going to drink this out on the terrace,' I tell her, gesturing to my full cup of coffee. ‘Will you call me when that cake comes out of the oven?'

‘Don't worry. Ah…' she raises a hand, stopping me before I leave the kitchen. ‘The postman's been. He left these,' and she shows me a pile of letters. ‘Where shall I put them?'

‘Oh, I can put them on Thomas's desk,' I reply, taking them.

I walk down the hallway, looking at the names on the headed envelopes as I go. Bills, invitations, a couple of letters from a bank. How is it that nobody ever writes to me?

I open the door of the study and drop everything next to the computer. And just then, when I'm about to turn around, something captures my attention. It's one of those big yellow A4 envelopes. At one side there is the address of Frank's office in small letters, and underneath it in red the word ‘Confidential'.

I shouldn't.

I really shouldn't.

It wouldn't be right.

No.

I pick it up.

No.

No.

No.

I open it.

OK, then – maybe just a peek.

A sudden noise from outside makes me jump and I drop the envelope, which spills its contents onto the desk. A series of photos of Mike and me lies there on the keyboard. In the last one we are hugging and kissing. There is also a letter. I quickly read what it says:

I've had the pictures printed. I've also included the ones I'd already emailed you. Call me as soon as you get back. Frank

‘Do you, Sandy Price, take as your lawfully wedded husband Thomas Clark to love, honour and obey, in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, till death do you part?' repeats the priest, possibly beginning to suspect that I hadn't heard him.

It is ten o'clock on the morning of the 10
^th
of November and I'm about to get married.

Yes. I'm about to take a husband. The room is full of friends and family and I'm wearing a beautiful rented white dress, equipped with all the accessories, from the ‘chaste damsel' veil to the ‘all right, not that chaste' garter.

I never thought this moment would actually ever arrive, but apparently it has. Ten more minutes and it'll be all over. Thomas is here standing beside me, hands folded and wearing a beautiful dark suit. My silence seems to make him uncomfortable, but he tries not to show it. He's probably waiting for his turn to pull out the photos and wave them about in front of guests or perhaps he'd rather wait for the reception, just to do things in style. A lovely scene. Tears, hair-pulling, me begging him to forgive me… Ten days later and the annulment comes through, along with an ‘I tried my hardest,‘ uttered to the understanding ears of those present.

What a pity, I think to myself. The ceremony was genuinely touching. My father walked me up the aisle, amid cascades of flowers, and when I reached the altar, I waved at my mother in the front row, and she wiped away non-existent tears with the tip of an embroidered handkerchief while the organ played the last chord of a piece by Bach. A risky choice, I know, but I thought it would have been practically blasphemous to have
Ave Maria
playing for what is, after all, just a farce. It'll be hard enough to forgive me for having come into church dressed up like this.

I look for my friends. I've only invited the ones I'm closest to, to try and keep the number of gifts I'll have to return down to a minimum. Rufus was seated next to my cousin. He's the only one who knows everything. Unlike the others, he looks relaxed, but I know that behind that apparent calm lurks great apprehension. Kelly, Debby and Jennifer are there as my bridesmaids. They do look really beautiful in pink.

Pink. I love pink, like I love the sunflowers in the flower arrangements and the wonderful candles. This would be a perfect marriage, if only I wasn't about to jilt my husband at the altar.

He doesn't know. I haven't spoken to him about it. I thought about running away, at first. Packing up and going home, but then I told myself that this would be the last time that I'd be near him, and I wasn't brave enough. I just couldn't do it. I know that this is all a stupid load of nonsense, and I know that the whole thing is happening for the sole purpose of making me look ridiculous in public, exactly like what happened to me years and years ago, but I can't help following my destiny, the only difference this time being that I'm going to leave a bit earlier in an attempt to try and take only positive memories with me. Without knowing it, Thomas has given me the happiest days of my life. The walks in the garden, the cuddles on the sofa, the fights for the bathroom. A thousand small, unforgettable moments and I accepted them all, without distinction, regardless of the consequences, perhaps because I already knew them, or perhaps because he couldn't hurt me more than he already had.

I sigh and give him a sad smile, then finally reply.

‘No.'

‘What? Excuse me?‘ asks the priest, thinking he must have heard wrong.

‘I'm sorry, Thomas. I can't marry you.‘

He opens his eyes wide.

‘I would have really liked to and you've been wonderful, but I don't love you.' I lie. ‘All that money must have gone to my head,' I apologize, sounding distraught. ‘Now, though, I realize that it's not worth ten years of my life, because no one will ever give me that time back.'

‘Sandy, wait,' he interrupts, but I cut him off.

‘No, Thomas. Don't say another word. There's no need.'

I walk back down the aisle trying to ignore the astonished stares, the bewilderment of my mother and the dismay of Thomas's uncles and aunts, and it costs me further superhuman effort to ignore the dumbstruck face of my father.

It's not at all pleasant to have to slope off amidst the general disapproval, under the angry glares of relatives and acquaintances, but as soon as I'm back in the open air a little of my colour returns.

At the bottom of the stairs there is a taxi waiting for me with the engine running. Already knowing what was going to happen, I booked it beforehand – I wanted to make sure I didn't have to ask anyone for a lift, not in this state. I feel as if I've just been run over by a lorry, and I'm pretty certain things are not going to be improving in the immediate future.

I open the door, and the driver looks at me open-mouthed – he didn't imagine he'd be picking up the bride. I just hope he doesn't pull out a camera to capture the moment. I pluck up my courage and put one foot in the taxi, but a hand stops me before I can climb inside.

‘Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on?'

It's him. And he's furious.

‘I'm going home.'

‘That much I'd guessed. What I don't understand is why you decided to abandon me at the altar.'

‘That was the plan, if I'm not mistaken. I'm just following the script,' I say, looking down.

‘And you didn't see fit to discuss it. Or to tell me,' he says, resentfully.

‘What for?'

‘On the one hand I might have avoided looking like an idiot in front of everybody, and on the other we could have talked about it.'

‘There was nothing to say. I have my bistro to run, my flat…'

‘So you really are going to back out,' he says, beside himself. I don't think I've ever seen him in this state. Usually he is so… composed!

‘Yes. You were right, I'm a coward. I give up on things… But you knew that much already.'

‘Sandy, this way you'll lose everything, you know that, right?'

‘I know,' I nod. ‘But I've thought about it a lot, and it struck me that I was about to take possession of something that isn't mine to take.'

‘And what about us? Is this only about the wedding or is it about me too?'

This is perhaps the most difficult answer to give. ‘I don't think I can separate the two. We've probably let it all get out of control. Living together, the wedding, all that tension… We should take advantage of this moment to work out what we really need.'

What I'd give to know what he's thinking. He stares at the hand that holds the door open, biting his lip. I'd like to tell him that there is no need for him to put on this act, that I know all about the photos and the attempt to boycott the wedding, but it would have ruined our final days together, and those days are the only recompense I'm not willing to give up.

‘Put it this way: if we discover that we want to be together again, our relationship will come out of this stronger than ever. And if it was just a mistake, we can at least save our friendship.'

‘Miss, are you getting in?' asks the driver, starting to sound just a little impatient.

‘Yes, just a second,' I answer, then I look at Thomas and wish him a farewell that I think only I can hear.

‘Promise me you'll call me.'

‘Thomas…'

‘Promise me.'

I give in, but already know that neither of us will ever again manage to call the other.

The door closes. ‘Where to?' the driver asks me.

‘A long way away from here,' I answer, and he's smart enough to understand that this is no time to ask for more specific directions.

The car speeds away from the church. I don't have the courage to look over my shoulder, so I hide my face in my hands and let my tears dissolve my make-up. I'd planned for this, too, rejecting mascara and eyeliner for a little powder and some pale pink eyeshadow, certain that they wouldn't have made too much mess.

‘…But I have to admit, I'm not really into what's going on at the moment. I'm seeing more and more people sharing things on action games that're running at thirty fps with frame rate drops and automatic platforming and with, like, two thirds of its moveset just completely wasted. And then they go around saying “oh, it's a great game”…' he says heatedly. ‘I mean, making an action game at thirty fps just doesn't make sense… And with loads of frame rate drops it makes even
less
sense. Thing is, if you're a crap programmer, you're a crap programmer, right?'