We say goodbye to one another in the hotel lobby, but then can’t quite separate, so Darren walks me to the tube even though he is catching a bus. We say goodbye again at the ticket barrier but then decide to buy a ticket for him, just so that we can say a final goodbye on the platform. We wouldn’t have parted at all but I have arrangements to meet my mum and Issie at my flat to do a final fitting of the wedding dress. The wedding to Josh, that is.
‘I expect his reluctance to let you out of his sight was because he isn’t sure when, or indeed if, he’s ever going to see you again,’ snaps Issie.
‘Of course he knows he’ll see me again. He trusts me. I trust me. We’re going to see each other every day for the rest of our lives.’ I giggle and do a small on-the-spot jig. I’m just so full of energy! My mother and Issie stare at me from their seats on the settee. Their faces sort of spoil the moment.
‘Aren’t you pleased for me?’
They exchange looks.
‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me on my engagement?’
Issie tuts, ‘Which one, Little Miss Changie-Mindy?’ I notice my mother put her hand on top of Issie’s in a futile attempt to calm her.
‘It does seems a little sudden,’ comments my mum. Trying to walk the tightrope between tact and instruction.
‘It’s not sudden, I’ve felt like this for a long time, I’ve just found the courage to admit it. I haven’t changed my mind, just my heart. I am still sure that infidelity, shallowness and cruelty are out there. I just no longer believe they are my only option.’
‘You know, you’re right. Infidelity, shallowness and cruelty are out there,’ shouts Issie. ‘And do you know something else? They are right here too. You epitomize them. What about Josh?’
Of course I haven’t forgotten him. I admit that I’ve worked hard in the last twenty-four hours not to think of him, but he’s been with me all the time. He’s the shadow on my intense euphoria. Which is heartbreaking, because I do believe that all he ever wanted to do was make me happy.
‘I can’t marry Josh,’ I state sadly.
‘Well, I realized that you weren’t planning on becoming a bigamist,’ screams Issie. Her mouth is wide open and her face is the same colour as her tonsils.
I kneel in front of them, hoping, rather than expecting, they’ll understand. Issie flings herself back against the settee; my mother moves a fraction closer to me. Although it’s hardly a herald of angels, I take this as a sign of encouragement.
I try to explain. ‘I didn’t believe in love – I couldn’t understand why anyone would. When people talked about love it was like reading reports about war in a faraway country – it just didn’t seem real. And then I… well… I guess… I…’ Issie and my mother are staring at me, which is a bit offputting. ‘Well… fell in love.’
‘Visited the war zone, so to speak?’ says my mother. She sounds unsure.
I plough on regardless. ‘But it was really scary, so I… well… I…’ Bugger – when did I start stuttering? ‘Ran away.’ Issie tuts like a budgie. ‘But once I knew the war zone was real, really real, I found it impossible to ignore. Marrying Josh would be a halfway measure, like sending food parcels.’
‘You want to be a foot soldier rather than part of the Red Cross,’ says my mum. She still doesn’t sound confident. Hearing her repeat it back to me like that, I realize how bizarre my analogy is. So I try something more conventional.
‘I am so sorry that I’m going to hurt Josh. But don’t you see? It would be much worse marrying him when I don’t feel about him the way he does about me.’
‘Yes, I see that,’ says Issie. ‘That was my point all the way along.’
‘Darren makes jokes funnier if he laughs at them and he makes the room more homely when he enters it. He makes water cleaner, nights blacker and stars brighter if he notices them. I hadn’t wanted to admit that love existed, that I’d made such a monumental, disastrous misjudgement. But I have to, because I love him. Even when I’m asleep.’ At this point it seems a genuine possibility that foreign tongues have possessed me.
‘I, I, fucking I. That’s all we ever hear from you, Cas. What about thinking about someone else for a change?’
I stumble backwards, nearly overwhelmed by the power of Issie’s words. She rarely swears and never says fuck.
‘First you hurt Darren by just walking away from him, then you pick him back up when you feel like it—’
‘It isn’t like that, it’s—’
She waves her hands in front of her, cutting through my objections. Imagine Issie’s little, skinny hands being so powerful and effective.
‘You are so selfish.’ She’s on her feet now and pacing around the room. ‘OK, so you believe in love now – let’s have a party!’ She stamps her foot and with anyone else I’d have been tempted to laugh, but since this fury is coming from Issie and directed towards me, all I can do is listen.
‘No, on second thoughts, let’s not. Let’s examine your ridiculous behaviour instead.’ I think I prefer the first option, but then I don’t think this is a genuine choice situation. I listen to Issie as she begins to list my crimes against humanity. The way she explains it, it appears that I have more in common with Imelda Marcos than a love of shoes. ‘… The horrible way you’ve treated your countless lovers. The stupid destructiveness of Sex with an Ex and finally your selfish, fucking, engagement to Josh.’ With each accusation Issie raises her voice a decibel. I fully expect the people in the flat above to bang on the floor and ask us to keep the noise down.
My insides are raw. I want to tell her that I wasn’t awful to all my lovers and anyway most of them didn’t really expect anything too laudable. I want to tell her that the show saved jobs. I want to tell her that I love her and Josh and never meant to hurt either of them. But all these arguments seem hollow and pointless. She’s heard them before. She was never that impressed. Anyway she’s gone.
The door bangs behind her.
I turn to my mother. ‘Do you think she was disappointed because she’s not going to be bridesmaid next week?’
‘Don’t joke about it, Jocasta,’ replies my mother sternly. ‘You always rush to hide pain in jokes and it comes across badly.’ Subdued, I follow her through to the kitchen. She opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.
‘We can always depend on you to have champagne in the fridge,’ she comments. ‘I’ve always thought that is so stylish of you.’
‘Have you?’ I’m so stunned I’m momentarily diverted from pondering Issie’s outburst. I’d always assumed that Mum thought champagne was decadent. The only bottles my mum keeps in the fridge are brown sauce and tomato ketchup. My initial surprise is superseded by the fact that my mother expertly opens the champers and pours it into the glasses without spilling a drop. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mum open champagne in my life.
‘Do you think Issie’s right?’ I want to know where I stand, but I’m not sure how much more straight talking I can take.