The Bastard Takes a Wife (20 page)

Taking her hand, I held my breath and stepped
into the centre of my gown. With the help of the young assistant, I
felt the gown slide up over my hips and stop at the bodice. I put
my hands over it to hold it in place. I gazed in the mirror. Even
undone, the gown was stunning and I could feel my face beginning to
tense with the emotion of it. I breathed slowly. I held in the
tears of absolute joy. This dress was everything I’d ever dreamt
of.

After a minute, Alex and Sasha came in and
stood discreetly to the side. Next to them, Angus was readying a
pocket video camera to film the moment.

“What’s that for?” I asked, suddenly very
conscious that I was standing in front of this person wearing
transparent underwear.

Angus flapped a hand. “I’m going to record
how the dress is laced. That way if we forget on the day, we have a
fall back.”

It was one of his more sensible ridiculous
ideas.

The girls reached out to finger the beading
on the bodice.

“
Oooooh
Millie,” Sasha sighed. “It’s
gorgeous.”

“It’s just…. amazing,” Alex added with a
sniff. I hoped she wasn’t going to cry. She had to know that would
set me off.

The seamstress got their attention. “So
ladies… we button here, here and here. Then we pull the lacing like
so. And button again. The seamstress deftly demonstrated how to
fasten the gown then undid it again and so that they could have a
turn. “Got it?”

Sasha straightened with the importance of her
role. “Piece of cake. I’ve been a bridesmaid eight times. I can do
lacing with my eyes shut.”

“Now, when we get to the waist and above, we
adjust like this.” Grunting, the woman gave the lacing around my
ribs and chest a yank and I almost lost my footing. It felt like
she was using my bottom as a lever for her foot. Next to me, I
could hear a whirring as Angus zoomed in on her fingers or my waist
or something.

“Um, do you have to pull quite so hard? I’m
losing my breath.”

“I’m sorry, Miss McIntyre. The bodice needs
to be tied firmly or it won’t stay up. The dress should be a
perfect fit but the lacing doesn’t seem to want to pull tight
enough so that we can cover it with the button flap.”

“Are you saying my dress is too small?”

The woman went quiet. The remaining lacing
fell from her hands. “No. It just needs a little tweak here and
there. Nothing to worry about.”

A little tweak? That sounded like a big
problem to me.

“But how could that be? You measured me with
it on. I stood here four weeks ago with pins poking into me for
over an hour. How could it be wrong?”

The seamstress swallowed. “Maybe you’ve put
on weight?”

Around the room I heard the collective gasp,
the loudest one coming from me. Behind me, Sasha looked as if she
might burst into tears at the thought. Alex put a hand to my
shoulder to soothe me. Angus dropped the camera. This couldn’t be
happening.

“I haven’t put on weight!” I screeched. “Alex
and I have spent so much time in the gym it’s a wonder I’m not
anorexic. Plus, I’ve been watching what I eat. And I weighed myself
this morning. I’m still the same. There must be some mistake.”
Mustering my best glower, I glared at the seamstress in the
mirror.

Then it dawned on me. The corset had felt
very small around the boobs. God, had I shrunk other parts of my
body and put weight on my chest? I’d heard about people who took up
exercise and the fat on their bodies shifted from one part to
another. Oh my God. Not me. Please not me. I burst into tears.

“No, No!” the Angus yelped, diving at me with
a tissue. “Don’t cry! If you cry the tears will stain the
fabric.”

“I think that’s the least of my worries right
about now,” I sobbed, taking the tissue holding it up to my eyes.
“I’m getting married in seven days. This dress HAS to fit. And you
have to make it fit.” I waggled my angry emotional finger at the
seamstress. I knew I sounded like a diva but I didn’t care.

“Well, of course we’ll make it fit,” the
seamstress replied. “There’s room in the seams. I’ll do a little
pinch here and there and it’ll be as good as new. Just let me get
the tape and re-measure your bust.”

It would want to be as good as new. It would
want to be better than good as new.

*****

With the dress debacle over and a promise
that it would be ready by Thursday, I left the bridal shop feeling
somewhat relieved. Things like this happened all the time, I
supposed though most brides lost weight, not redistributed it.
There was nothing to worry about. That was why you had fittings. It
would be sorted. Still, a niggling fear nibbled at the back of my
head. What if it wasn’t?

I decided to ring Sam for a little bit of TLC
and reassurance.

“Hey Babe. What’s up?” His voice was cheery
on the other end of the line and instantly, I felt better.

“Not much. I had a bit of a horror dress
fitting and I needed to hear your voice. Tell me you love me.” I
could feel the tears threatening to start again. Of all the things
that could go wrong, why did it have to be the dress?

“I love you. What happened?”

“It didn’t fit.”

“But that’s good isn’t it? Aren’t chicks
always trying to lose weight for their weddings? Not that you need
to, of course,” he added quickly. “You’re perfect as you are.”

God, and he had to pick this moment to be
nice. I snivelled a bit more.

“The dress didn’t fit because I put on
weight. On my boobs. I could hardly get them into the corset, let
alone do up the dress.”

On the other end of the phone I heard the
sound of a lewd laugh.

“Sam! This is serious.”

“I know it is but I can’t see any problem
with your tits being bigger. Sounds like a win-win to me.” And he
laughed some more. “Hang on a sec’.”

I heard him speaking to someone else.

“The boys reckon that you’ll look hot with
big tits.”

“Did you just tell them what I told you?”

“Um, yeah and they can’t see why you’re upset
either. Big boobs are good.”

“But what about my dress?”

“If you’re that worried about it, why don’t
you hop on the treadmill every night after dinner. You could drop a
good two kilos in a few days if you put your mind to it. Problem
solved. Look I gotta go, the game’s starting in ten minutes. I’ll
see you tonight, yeah?”

Was he for real? I sniffed into the phone. I
guess it was too much to expect that Sam would have any sympathy
for my expanding chest. He probably thought all his Christmases had
come at once.

“What game?” I asked, my ears pricking up to
what he’d said.

“
Hornets
v.
Panthers
. Grand
Final rematch.”

“You’re not playing, are you? You promised me
you’d sit this one out so you didn’t get hurt.”

From where I stood, the sound of cheering
could be heard. The teams must have run onto the field.

“’Course not. I’m on the sidelines, like I
promised. Moral support only. Look, I gotta go. ”

I hung up the phone. Expecting comfort from
Sam was like expecting a fat kid to share his lollies.

Feet thundering along the corridors, my eyes
scanned the rows and rows of seats in the Accident and Emergency
ward. God, this place was depressing. People groaning and vomiting,
blood and guts, broken bones. A few chairs were empty, but at this
time on a Saturday afternoon there seemed to be more sporting
injuries than anything else.

Seeing the sign for reception, I raced to the
glass-fronted cubicle. Where was Sam? Please let him be alright.
Please let him be alright.

“Um, hi. I’m uh… where do I find the
Emergency admissions?”

Without meeting my eyes the
nurse-slash-receptionist gave me a stony glare. It looked like it
had been a long shift.

“Take a number.” She pointed to the
computerised number thingy next to me. What? Was there more than
one person here to see Sam? Why did I need to take a number?

“But I ….”

“Take a number,” she repeated.

“But I’m not sick. I’m looking for my
boyfriend, I mean, fiancé. Sam Brockton. He was brought here by
ambulance. He was knocked out playing rugby.” Or at least that was
the version I got as I arrived at the ground to see the ambulance
leaving.

I could feel my lip beginning to wobble and I
knew I was going to cry if I didn’t get out of this depressing
waiting room and find Sam. Now. I had to see him, to reassure my
pounding heart that he hadn’t had his head ripped off or
something.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?”

God, it was like having a conversation with
Kirby.

“I did. Well, I tried to. Can you tell me
where to find him?”

At last the nurse looked at me. Beneath her
impartial mask, I could see the hint of disbelief. “You’re his
fiancé?”

I waggled the rock at her to prove it.

She punched a few buttons on the computer.
“Mr. Brockton’s being admitted at the moment. If you sit over
there, I’ll get the doctor to come out when they finish the
examination.”

My shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.”

Two hours later, I’d checked my emails on my
phone, played Scrabble against myself and googled celebrity wedding
dresses, some of which were truly hideous. I’d taken all the beads
off my Pandora and rearranged them in categories. I’d answered
enquiring texts with ‘I don’t know’ and ‘you know as much as me.’
I’d skimmed
OK
magazine ~ that Miranda Kerr was getting more
gorgeous by the day ~ and eaten three Cadbury
Bubbly
bars. I
don’t know why I ate them. I don’t even like peppermint
chocolate.

Now, the butterflies were back in my stomach
and I was moving from worry in my head to anger. Why hadn’t the
doctor been to see me yet? I was sure I had some sort of rights as
Sam’s almost next of kin. Was Sam okay? If his leg was broken and
he had to sit at the altar in a wheelchair, I’d bloody well kill
him. Really, I would. It’d be just like him to ruin our day with a
wheelchair.

God, what if he was permanently damaged or
something? My mind was racing through possible scenarios and
solutions so fast, I didn’t hear the doctor speaking to me. It was
only the tap of his finger on my shoulder that brought me back.

“Shit.”

I swallowed, my eyes travelling up the
expanse of blue-trousered leg, past a stethoscope dangling from a
neck and into a friendly looking, youngish face. The doctor looked
about as old as my cousin Peter, who’d recently finished Year 10. I
hoped he knew what he was doing.

“Millie?”

“Yes. Sorry I swore just then, you gave me a
fright.”

“That’s fine. I’m Doctor Braithwaite. Derek.”
He held out his hand.

I shook it. “Is Sam okay?”

“He’s fine. He was unconscious for a minute
or so but by the time the ambulance guys got to him he was lucid.
He wanted to keep playing.”

Typical.

“Anyway, he has a rather badly broken nose. I
was concerned about the eye socket too but from the x-rays
everything seems to be fine. I’ve stitched up his face and he
should be right to go home in an hour or so. We want to monitor him
for a bit longer.”

“You stitched up his face? What happened to
his face?”

“From what I gather there was some sort of
altercation on the field.”

In other words, Sam had been shooting his
mouth off again and someone had finally decided to whack him.

“Can I see him?”

“Of course. He’s in the last cubicle on the
right. You can stay until he gets discharged if you like. I’ll come
back in an hour and we’ll get it organised.”

Not if I killed him first. Now that I knew
Sam wasn’t going to die, he was on borrowed time.

Behind the curtain, stretched out on the bed,
Sam looked rather small and frankly, a little bit pitiful. It was
like someone had taken his big hulking body and replaced it with
Rambo’s weedy one. His face was bloodied and bruised. One of his
eyes was swollen shut and his lip was the size of a cricket ball. I
almost felt sorry for him until I remembered I was seething.

He lifted his hand and reached out to me.

“Babe.” Even his voice sounded small.

“Don’t you ‘Babe’ me, Sam. This is the last
straw.”

He winced as he pushed himself to sitting.
“Don’t be mad at me. It’s not my fault. Their winger got a little
excited and decided to thump me.”

“Not without provocation, I imagine. And
anyway, it’s not the injuries I’m angry about. Your mother will
have plenty enough to say about how you’ve ruined the twenty
thousand dollar photo package for both of us. I was worried that
you were hurt, that’s all. When Johnny rang me from the ground, I
was so panicky I couldn’t reverse out of the drive without stalling
the car. I haven’t done that since I was seventeen.”

“That’s because you drive Adele’s auto SUV
everywhere. You can’t stall an automatic car.”

Even with a broken head he was a
smartarse.

“Shut up. I’m trying to say I wouldn’t have
wanted anything to happen to you.”

Funnily enough, Sam looked relieved at this.
His thumb rubbed softly over my knuckles.

“Don’t you want to know why I didn’t want
anything to happen?”

“I assumed it was because you loved me. Is
there another reason?”

“I wanted you to be alive so I could strangle
you.” I couldn’t hold it in any more. I pulled my hand away. The
emotion of it all was too much. The worry, the stress of this
freakin’ wedding, feeling like crap every minute of the day. It was
too much. I began to yell.

“I can’t believe you would do this!”

“Do what?”

“For fuck’s sake, you promised me you
wouldn’t play today. You knew how much I’ve sacrificed over this
stupid wedding and yet you couldn’t give up one day so your face
could stay in tact for the photos next week especially after the
black eye you got the other week has only just gone. You know full
well your mother will blame me for this and I can’t take it. I
can’t take anymore.”