Don't Marry Thomas Clark (33 page)

They told me that today that you've opened the bistro. I just wanted to wish you luck.

The playback stops. I'm reaching for the rewind button, when a metallic voice tells me that there's a new message. I haven't been at home much recently, it's probably my mother. I haven't spoken to my parents for days.

I decide to listen to it. At the end of the day, not wiping the tape for a few more seconds won't make any difference one way or another.

I'd promised myself that I wasn't going to call you anymore.

I recognise Thomas's voice and my mouth goes dry. When is this from? Not now. The phone would have rung…

I let the tape run and listen to the rest, heart pounding.

By now it's obvious you don't want to see me again, I don't know whether it's because of something I've done, or just because you were fed up of me or the situation in general. But I couldn't do it without telling you one thing that I've kept to myself for so long. I wanted to do it in person, but that's not possible, so I'll tell you here. I don't expect you to do anything about it, it's just that I didn't want you to disappear from my life again without me having time to… Sandy, I love you. I've never told anyone that. In fact I still haven't told anyone, because I don't know if you're even listening to this. These last few weeks have been terrible. I've done nothing but think of you. Of the two of us. It's all been so absurd. The will, the marriage. But what I felt was real. You told me that it was all a sham, but I stopped pretending at the exact moment I put my arms around you. I hoped right to the end that it might be the same for you and, to be honest, I still can't accept that it's all over.

I switch it off, then pick up the handset and quickly call a number. After a couple of rings, Rufus answers in a breathless voice which makes me realize that I've interrupted a particularly delicate moment.

‘Rufus, he's gone.'

‘Wh… What? Who… Who is this? What…'

‘Rufus, it's Sandy,' I say, desperately.

‘Sandy, this really isn't the right time…'

‘Rufus, he's gone!' I carry on, ignoring his tactful attempts to get rid of me. ‘Thomas loved me and I sent him away and now he doesn't want to see me,' I tell him between sobs.

‘And why are you telling me?' he asks, catching his breath.

‘Who should I tell?'

‘Oh, I don't know – him, maybe?' he says impatiently. ‘Sandy, for God's sake, call him and talk to him.'

‘But he doesn't want to speak to me.'

‘So go and find him, tie him to a chair and force him to listen.'

If you disturb Rufus in the middle of certain situations, it always brings out his pragmatic side.

‘Rufus, how can I? I can't force him,' I say, trying to make him understand how serious the situation is. ‘He doesn't want to know…'

‘Maybe because he doesn't know that you're in love with him.' Something seems to distract him, but all I can hear are vague rustling noises. He picks the phone back up, and says hastily, ‘Err, Sandy, this is a
really
bad time. Do what I tell you. Go to his house. If he sees you he might come to his senses and fall at your feet. Wear that black dress you wore for New Year's Eve last year. If that doesn't do the trick, then it's over. Call it quits, and sign up for a flamenco course! I'll… I'll call you tomorrow,' he says, and hangs up without even saying goodbye.

Great friend you are! I think, already anticipating the fateful moment when the roles are reversed and I can make him feel as miserable and alone as I do now, but in the meantime a tiny, minuscule hope of still being able to repair my mistakes is growing inside me.

‘Hello, Mr. Hill,' I say, putting my ear back to the handset after I've dialled. ‘I'm extremely sorry about the time but I have one last favour to ask. Would you be kind enough to give me the address of Thomas's flat in London?'

An hour later I'm outside his house. I've got lost at least twice, but this is an area that I never come to, and I can't get the navigator on my phone to work.

After grabbing my bag from the back seat, I set off nervously towards the door in front of me, feeling more than a tad out of place in this posh part of town, especially since I've come here wearing old yoga pants and with my hair looking a total mess. When I arrive at the door, I look for his surname on the intercom, running my finger down the names, but just as I'm about to ring the bell, the door opens and I see him walk out with a bag over his shoulder.

‘Sandy, what are you doing here?'

He has his car keys in his hand and an irritated expression on his face.

‘I tried to call, but you had your phone off, so I got your address from Cameron and drove over here, hoping to find you.'

‘What is it?' he asks coldly.

‘You went away without even giving me time…'

‘Sandy, come on… You've had months,' he says, and raises a hand to adjust the strap of the bag on his shoulder. ‘You don't have to justify yourself. It just wasn't to be. I'm not blaming you, honestly. I just wish you'd been clearer from the start,' he says, looking around for his car. ‘Tomorrow morning I have some important appointments in Canterbury. I was about to leave. Do you want a lift?'

‘No, there's no need. I have my car,' I say disappointed.

‘Then we've nothing else to say to one another,' he murmurs, and walks past me.

I'll never see him again. That's all I can think, as I watch him leave. This is the last time I can talk to him, my last chance and I'm letting it slip between my fingers.

‘I… I wasn't avoiding you,' I mutter, letting my instinct guide me and praying it'll be enough to stop him. He continues to walk down the steps, shattering all my hopes, but then he stops, thinks for a second, and turns back towards me, looking at me intently. ‘I wasn't avoiding you,' I repeat, steeling myself. Knowing he's still there, ready to listen to me, gives me the strength to go on. ‘When you kissed me in the pool I… I didn't want to hurt you, I was just ashamed because I'd been waiting for that moment for so long and I'd ruined everything because I was so stupid and clumsy. I wanted it to be perfect, but I didn't even know what I was supposed to do. I didn't know where to put my hands and I thought I might have even accidentally bitten you. I thought you wouldn't want to see me anymore. I'd never been so ashamed. I was so upset that I stopped leaving my room. If I'd only known that you… That it wasn't… Then you said all those horrible things in front of your friends and I…'

He looks at me in befuddlement. ‘What things?'

‘You looked at me as if I was… And then you said, “Who? Her?” Something like that… As if you couldn't care less about me. As if what had happened the day before was just a mistake.'

‘And it never crossed your mind that maybe – just maybe – I simply didn't want the world to know how awful I felt?' he replies sadly.

Each of us takes refuge in our own thoughts until, after a while, Thomas looks at me as though expecting something. A comment or a gesture. But I have a strange feeling of incompleteness and suddenly I no longer want to do anything. I can't change the way things are. Nothing can take me back to where I want to be, to where I should be, so that I don't make any more mistakes. So I don't speak. I just stand there, immobile, and decide to let him leave without getting in his way.

‘You'll be late…' I mutter, as he stands there, torn and unable to make a decision.

He seems to weigh things up. He reflects, then looks around doubtfully, take a deep breath and climbs back up the steps that separate us.

‘I'm already late,' I hear him whisper as he slowly approaches me.

He's standing in front of me outside the door, where I'm tugging my coat around me against the cold. At that moment a couple of motorbikes whizz past in the street. Instinctively we turn around and watch them disappear into the distance with rapt expressions. When silence returns, Thomas asks me, ‘Sandy, can we really have such different memories of that kiss?'

His irritation of a moment before seems to have vanished, giving way to something that I cannot decipher.

‘Come on, Thomas. Look, I know exactly what happened.'

‘I do too, believe me, and try as I might, I really don't know what you're talking about,' he says, dropping the bag on the ground with a careless gesture. ‘Unless I'm mistaken, first I held you close to me,' he says, pulling me to him. He embraces me gently, resting his hands on my waist, and I stupidly hold my breath. ‘My heart was pounding and I could feel your body under your swimming costume,' he whispers in my ear. ‘Then I kissed you,' he whispers, cocking his head to press his lips to mine. ‘For the first time I tasted your lips and I could hardly breathe for the excitement. At that point, you opened up your lips and I caressed you with the tip of my tongue,' he continues, passing the tip of his fingers over my mouth. ‘I was dying to sink my hands into your hair, but I was afraid that my watch strap might catch in it, so I decided not to, thinking that it wouldn't be the last time, that I'd have all the time in the world to hold you tight to me,' he confesses, smiling. ‘It was so nice to think that it was the beginning. It hadn't even occurred to me that it might also be the end.' And he kisses me again, this time taking my face in his hands.

‘Sandy, why are you crying?'

‘Because I've lost you again. I've lost you forever and it's all my fault,' I reply, my voice now reduced to a faint whisper.

‘My love, I've always been right here…' he says, and pulls me to him.

And so, ten years later, in a charming chapel in the verdant county of Kent, with a wave of his chubby hand, Father Declan declaims solemnly, ‘Do you, Sandy Price, take as your lawfully wedded husband present here Thomas Clark to love, honour and obey, in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, till death do you part?'

Silence falls.

An inopportune cough echoes from the back rows. All eyes are on me and it feels as though my answer is anything but certain.

Yes, that's right… We were right here.

Same church, same floral decorations. My mother still dabbing non-existent tears with the tip of an embroidered handkerchief and my obligatory bridesmaids, even though this time Rufus has taken Jennifer's place. No, I can't face going over all that again now, it's all we've talked about for weeks, but where would I have found a replacement at the last moment? And anyway, he looks fantastic in his pink morning suit. I mean, absolutely fantastic… God, I can hardly bear to look at him. Every time I do, I start laughing. Serves him right! All those horrible blind dates… It's his karmic just desserts.

I imagine you're wondering how we got from the front door to the stairs of the church. Well, what can I say? We already had the wedding rings. It seemed such a shame to throw them away. And the favours… And the placeholders …

After the reception, we set off immediately for the honeymoon. The Doyles had invited us to Ireland, but after discussing it very calmly, Thomas had decided he wasn't interested in furthering his friendship with that extremely kind family and, more specifically, with their delightful daughter. Rumours went around that it was my irrepressible desire to abandon country life for an immediate return to London that was ‘decisive' in the purchase of two tickets for France, but I don't really want to confirm that. No. Thomas has just always loved France. Just like I've always loved Persian cats. The strength of our union lies in our on-going search for a balance between our irremediable congenital differences and our respective aversions. When we come back from Paris, we're moving to Canterbury, except for brief excursions into the city for work, and (hopefully) not too many quick trips to his office, where my initiative in favour of monk seals continues to be very successful.

And anyway, country life is starting to grow on me. Because, let's face it, the estate is amazing. There's the stables, the pool, the greenhouse, the tennis court and a new addition, a sauna with a Jacuzzi. Sure, it's full of annoying people, including him – yes, him, my personal nightmare who, as time passes, does more and more to try and always be perfect, flawless and annoying. Oh, you don't believe me?

As if I didn't know what you were thinking – you shameless hussies!

I'm right, though. Want an example? For one thing, he organizes his clothes by occasion, colour and fabric, and insists on sharing the wardrobe so that it's obvious to all the staff how incapable I am of subdividing my
joie de vivre
into sad little compartments like him. He condemns himself to a life of disgustingly early mornings basically so that he can call my mother at six and tell her triumphantly that I'm still sleeping. Things like, ‘What, at this time of day?‘ ‘Yes, as usual.‘ See what I mean? And at that point he runs to wake me up, passes me the phone and I'm forced to sit through two hours of ‘What on earth are you doing with your life?‘ and ‘Do you mean to tell me that you haven't even made him breakfast?' And believe me, it's no use reminding her that we have more staff than Queen Elizabeth. No.
He
is the poor martyr, and I am Cruella de Vil. I've given up. I no longer even try to make everyone understand what a Machiavellian schemer lurks behind those adorable smiles. They're all blind. Is that really possible? Yes, I can confirm that it is. But it won't work with me. Oh no. And, since we're at it, let me mention another thing that we never sorted out a few years ago. I don't…

‘Errrr…' says Father Declan, a worried look on his face, ‘Sandy, at the risk of sounding repetitive, do you take as your lawfully wedded husband present here Thomas Clark to… In sickness and in health and all that? You ought to know it by heart.'