Page 57 of Close to You
The Rolls-Royce is parked outside the window and the driver is polishing an already spotless part of the wing. It was David’s idea for me to arrive in the fancy car. He insisted and so I went with it. If nothing else, I thought Mum might enjoy it. In the old days, she’d take me to the seaside for the annual parade of fancy cars. I can’t remember why it happened, or what it was actually called, but there were sparkling sports cars alongside classic vehicles. Mum would always point out the Rolls-Royces, possibly because it was the only make of car she knew. When I told her we’d be travelling to the register office in one of the cars she’d long admired, she shrugged and said there had never been such a parade.
As I watch the driver move around to the front of car, I think about knocking on the window and telling him to start the engine. I could duck through the side door, rush along the corridor and be out front before anyone knew. I’m sure he’d drop me off at my flat – or anywhere else I wanted.
What then?
I’ve heard stories of women who walk out on their husbands-to-be – but there never seems to be a follow-up to say what happens after that. David and I have only known each other for fifteen months and, suddenly, it feels like it. This is the problem with living somewhere small. Cities give anonymity, home towns give notoriety.
The door clicks and then Jane appears. I turn away from the window and she must see what I do. She stands with her body angled towards the second door. The way out. I wonder if she knows.
‘You ready?’ she asks. I take a breath and then she adds: ‘Everyone’s here.’
There’s a moment, just a second, perhaps two, in which is feels like she might ask me again whether I’m sure. Last time, it caused an argument; this time I might tell the truth.
And then the moment passes. Jane offers her arm and says: ‘Shall we go?’
I link my arm into hers and she leads me through the door, along a short corridor, to the entrance of the wedding chamber. It doesn’t feel as if there’s any turning back now. A no is a no is a no.
When we came to plan the day, I realised there are so few men in my life. It isn’t by design, it just sort of… happened. There’s no one to walk me down the aisle and, though Ben volunteered, it didn’t feel right. I said I’d do it by myself and so Jane gives my shoulder one final squeeze and then waits off to the side.
The Wedding March begins with a boom and the doors open, leaving me nowhere to go. Light beams from the windows at the furthest end of the chamber but the room still feels dark… or perhaps it isn’t the room at all. Perhaps it is me?
My legs feel unsteady, a dog in booties for the first time, though I somehow remain upright. Each step is a tiny bit easier than the previous, though that isn’t saying much. Jane slots in behind me and I can feel her presence close, almost as if she’s blocking me in. Mum is on the front row, though she continues staring towards the windows at the front, not turning to watch. Other than that, it is mainly acquaintances. Some of the gym managers I know, a few old school friends, a couple of neighbours. It’s not much to show for thirty-one years on the planet.
David is there, of course. He looks good in his hired suit. I know he hasn’t – but it makes it look like he’s shed half a stone. Yasmine is at his side and this will be only the third time I’ve met her. We’ve only spoken once – that first time in the gym. The second, David was giving her a lift somewhere and they stopped outside my flat. He said he saw her on the side of the road, though he never talks about her. She’ll be my sister-in-law and yet I know nothing about her. She’s not quite wearing white, but she might as well be. It’s a shoulderless silky cream dress that I should probably be more annoyed about than I am.
Like my mother, Yasmine is refusing to turn and watch – but the one person whose eyes are fixed on me is David. It’s true that he adores me. It’s complete. I wonder if that’s what’s in my eyes when I look at him.
How many other people will ever show that devotion to me?
I reach the front and my legs are jelly; my mouth a desert. The registrar goes through the things that everyone’s seen a hundred times before. When she gets to the part about anyone objecting, I half turn to take in the room. This is the final moment; the last chance. Jane doesn’t move and neither does Ben. Mum continues staring at the floor; Yasmine is picking her fingernails. Nobody speaks.
There are vows and rings: I do, he does, we all do. And then it’s over. There’s a kiss, claps and cheers. Job done. We’re married. Happy ever after and all that. The thing all young girls dream of.
So why does it feel as if I’ve made a terrible mistake…?
Twenty-Seven
THE NOW
I wish it had been porn on Andy’s laptop. I could shrug it off if he was interested in various questionable acts he’s never mentioned wanting to try. People’s internet browsing histories are a murky business at best. I would imagine most would rather do a naked lap of Trafalgar Square than have to unveil their list of visited websites. No one wants the truth to come out that they clicked onto theDaily Mail’s site.
After seeing the name ‘David Persephone’ in Andy’s history, I continue scrolling through the rest of the things he looked for.
I Googled Andy before our first meal out together. I stalked his social media and looked through his juice bar’s webpage. I found out everything I could about him because, like it or not, that’s how things work nowadays. It’s easier than asking questions. To find the answer, put the question into Google, and there it is.
Andy’s history from the past few days includes visits to the websites of various wholesalers and suppliers. He did an Ocado shop and browsed TheGuardian. He likes the BBC website and spent time on Twitter. Much of it is normal… except there is a huge gap in the history from Sunday evening. I have no idea where Andy was but, at the time I was getting my award, he wasn’t using his laptop. There is no activity from 4 p.m. through to Monday morning.
It proves nothing, of course – except that the final thing he looked for on Sunday was ‘David Persephone’. Hours after that, I was seeing the ghost of my dead husband.
I glance away from the laptop towards the door and the stairs beyond. There’s no sign of Andy getting up. I could go and ask him why he was searching for David, but it’s another of those lines in the sand. I’d have to tell him about going through his browser history and where would that leave us?
While I was travelling to the venue on Sunday, Andy read almost two-dozen articles about David’s disappearance. He spent almost two hours in total looking through details. I’m there too, of course. The devastated wife with all the questions about where my precious husband had gone. I always found it a surprise how quickly things went away. One minute, the police and the media had a sustained interest in David vanishing; forty-eight hours later and it felt like nobody cared. A week on and the only people who remembered were those who knew him.
Andy and I have talked about David in the past and it’s natural that he’d be curious. My concern isn’t so much that he is looking at these articles, it’s that he’s lookingnow. What’s changed?
There is a creak from the stairs, so I snap closed the lid of Andy’s laptop and push it back underneath the coffee table. I’m leaning back on the sofa, casual and carefree, when Andy appears in the doorway. He stretches high and fights a yawn.
‘How did you sleep?’ he asks.
