The Importance of Being Married (36 page)

PROJECT: MARRIAGE DAY 29, 30

To do

1. Choose a wedding dress.

2. Choose a napkin arrangement.

3. Don’t think too much…

The next morning, I woke up in Anthony’s bed with an unsettled feeling in my stomach. It was a huge thing (the bed, I mean, not the feeling)—at least six feet square—and when I stretched out my arms and legs they still didn’t even touch him, which seemed kind of apt.

I looked at my watch—9
AM
. The engagement party had gone on until about 2
AM
—afterward, Anthony had been determined to go to Henry’s party (Henry was, apparently, a “brilliant guy” and one that I would love unreservedly on meeting), and I’d gotten a sinking feeling that the whole wedding was all a huge mistake. But then, as he called a cab he’d stumbled and fallen onto the pavement and conceded that perhaps it would be more sensible to go home, so I’d buried my doubts and gone with him.

Tentatively I crept out of bed and out of the bedroom. Anthony’s flat was a bit like a magazine spread—all beautifully presented in browns, creams, and a little bit of beige. I tried to imagine myself living here, tried to imagine my things on his shelves. But somehow I couldn’t see it. My books, my photographs, my pictures, the pale pink telephone Helen had given me for my last birthday—none of them would work at all. I walked into the open-plan living room/kitchen area. In the “living” space, sumptuous suede sofas surrounded a tasteful cream rug; the kitchen was at the other end, a symphony of stainless steel and glass.

Frowning, I looked around for a kettle and turned it on, then started to rummage in the cupboards for some tea bags. I didn’t know where my future husband kept them, I realized. Actually, I didn’t know a lot of things about Anthony.

Eventually, I found two cups, tea bags, some toast, and even some jam; putting it all on a tray, I made my way back to the bedroom to wake Anthony up. I wanted to talk to him, have a serious discussion, reassure myself we were doing the right thing.

“Good morning!” I put the tray on the bed and pulled back the curtains to let in some light.

“What the fuck’s the time?”

I started slightly; Anthony’s voice had become a grunt.

“Um, nine-ish, I think. I’ve made some tea. And toast.”

“Nine
AM
? What the hell are you doing waking me up at nine
AM
? Jesus.” Anthony grabbed a pillow and shoved it over his head; as he did so, he knocked the tray, spilling tea onto his crisp white duvet cover.

“Shit!” I yelped, trying to salvage it. Anthony rolled over to see what the problem was, forcing the tray onto its side and ensuring that now the toast was also facedown on the duvet cover and the tea was dripping down onto his cream carpet.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Oh bloody hell,” he muttered darkly.

“I’ll go and get a towel,” I said quickly. “And we can put the duvet cover in the wash…”

“It’s dry clean only,” Anthony said, forcing himself to sit up.

“Right,” I said. Anthony’s face was dark and angry. I’d never seen it like that. “Look, I’m sorry. I just wanted to…I just thought breakfast might be a nice idea.”

“It would have been. In a few hours.” He lay back against the headboard and sighed.

“I’m sorry,” I said tightly. “I won’t do it again.”

“No,” Anthony said, lying back down and this time successfully pulling a pillow over his head. “No, you won’t.”

“Fine,” I said again, this time to myself. “Well, I’ll just go then, shall I?” I grabbed my clothes and started to pull them on. My conical breasts looked even more ridiculous at nine in the morning, but I figured in the great scheme of things it didn’t really matter.

“Look, you don’t have to go.” Anthony reemerged from under his pillow.

“Yes, I do,” I said, yanking my dress over my head and getting it stuck halfway.

“No, you don’t. Don’t be angry, I’ve got a headache, I’m tired. That’s all. I’m sorry if I snapped.”

He reached out and grabbed my hand, pulling me back onto the bed. “You can’t go, anyway,” he pointed out. “Not wearing your dress like that. You’ll get arrested.”

I suppressed a smile. “Actually it’s the latest thing, wearing dresses on your head,” I deadpanned.

“Interesting. Nice to know you’re at the forefront of fashion.” Anthony grinned sheepishly.

I smiled back, then bit my lip. “You know,” I said tentatively, “marriage is a big step. Are you sure that…well, I mean, are you sure you want to? That it’s the right thing for us to do?” I knew I was taking a risk, but I couldn’t help it.

“The right thing? Of course it is,” Anthony said easily. “Look, how about I take you out for breakfast instead?”

I nodded uncertainly. That was it? That was our serious discussion? “Okay. I guess.”

“You guess? Doesn’t sound like you’re that interested. Maybe I’ll just go back to sleep,” Anthony said, his eyes twinkling.

“No, no, I’m interested,” I said, allowing a half smile to creep onto my face. I guessed discussion could, sometimes, be overrated. And didn’t they say that actions speak louder than words?

“In breakfast or coming back to bed?” Anthony asked, a little glint in his eye.

“I guess I could be persuaded either way.” I smiled.

“Maybe one then the other?”

“Breakfast first?” I suggested innocently.

“Better to work up an appetite for breakfast,” Anthony said, pulling me back under the covers. “Don’t you think?”

We never made it out for breakfast. Although we did get out of the house in time for a late lunch—a long, boozy affair after which I reeled home, managed to watch
Antiques Roadshow
with Helen, then crashed into bed, exhausted. I couldn’t believe how quickly the weekend had gone. Couldn’t believe how decadent I’d been—I hadn’t done any work, any housework, any anything. And it felt fantastic.

I still felt fantastic the following morning when I arrived at work twenty minutes late.

“Jess!” Anthony grinned at me. “How’s my favorite fiancée?”

I grinned back and took a slurp of my coffee. “Oh, you know,” I said, nonchalantly. “Not too bad.”

“Jess!” Max appeared out of his office. “Listen, do you have a minute? I wanted to have a quick word about the Project Handbag account. Thought you might have some ideas on…”

He trailed off as the reception doors flung open and a familiar voice stopped us in our tracks.

“Anthony? Jessica? So sorry I’m late. Do I need to sign in or anything?”

It was Fenella, her glossy brown hair pulled into a neat ponytail, clutching a large file in her hands.

“Late?” I asked uncertainly. “I didn’t know you were even coming.”

“You didn’t know?” She stared at me, then raised an eyebrow at Anthony. “But Anthony and I arranged this at the party. On Saturday night. Anthony, you remember, don’t you?”

“We did?” Anthony asked, then nodded, shooting me a look of helplessness. “Of course we did. At the party. Definitely.” He pulled a face at me, like a naughty schoolboy. “In which case, let’s go to my office, shall we?”

“Well, good,” Fenella said suspiciously.

“I’ll…catch you later, shall I?” Max asked.

“Yes. Probably best,” I said vaguely. Fenella was now marching Anthony into his office. By the time I’d followed her in, she was sitting down at his meeting table with an expectant look on her face.

“So,” she said immediately. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

I smiled weakly. “Me? Oh, there’s nothing. I mean, you know, whatever
you
want to talk about.”

“Oh, but it’s not about me,” Fenella said seriously. “Whatever you have to say, you must say now—we can’t have any surprises later. We’ve got a tight schedule, so anything that needs to be said must be said now.”

Her eyes were boring into mine and I shot a helpless look at Anthony, who shrugged back and looked like he was stifling laughter. “Right,” I said, clearing my throat and trying to think of something—anything—to talk about. “Right. Well…”

“Yes?” Fenella looked at me expectantly, then got up and walked toward Anthony’s desk. “You don’t mind if I take a look around, do you?” she asked him, not waiting for an answer. “Helps if I really know the client, you see. I need to get a feel for what you’re looking for. Sorry, Jess. You were saying?”

I watched silently as Fenella scanned the desk’s surface briefly, her eyes widening slightly at the various piles of paper stacked on top of it. No doubt her desk had no such piles, I found myself thinking. She was probably one of those people who cleared it every night.

“Well,” I said tentatively, “well, I mean, there’s so much really. You know, all the…wedding plans, really…”

“House hunting, are we?” Fenella said suddenly, picking up a photograph of a house from Anthony’s desk. “Looks lovely. Perfect country retreat.” She held up the photograph for us both to look at—it was a honey-colored crumbling house with a bright blue sky behind it.

Anthony got up and quickly moved toward her. “That? Oh, yes. Yes, just something I’ve been looking at,” he said dismissively.

I started. “You are? I mean, we are? I thought you hated the country.”

He shrugged and reddened. “And you love it. So I thought, you know, why not have a look.”

“Really?” I stared at him incredulously, guiltily. I could hardly tell him we were going to have a mansion of our own in a few weeks. “Let me see!” I held out my hand for Fenella to pass me the photograph; Anthony got there first, though.

“See? No. No, not until I’ve…” he said, taking the photo quickly from Fenella. “It was meant to be a surprise,” he added firmly, putting it in his pocket.

“A surprise?” I bit my lip. “That’s so sweet. It’s…really unexpected.”

“Anything for you.” Anthony shot me a benevolent smile.

“So, anyway,” Fenella said, walking back to the table and picking up her pad. “Wedding plans. You’re right, there is a lot to discuss. Shall we start? I’ve got a list of things to go through that’s as long as my arm, and no doubt you’ve got one, too. Would you like to go first?”

“Oh, no, I think you should go first,” I insisted. “And I’ll fill in any gaps later. If there are any, that is…”

Fenella nodded, seriously. “Good idea. Right, so first, I wanted to run an idea by you. Lilies. Thousands of lilies everywhere. What do you think? I mean, the smell alone would be incredible, don’t you think?”

“Lilies,” I said vaguely. Anthony was making faces at me and I was having trouble keeping a straight face. “Right.”

“Aren’t lilies usually used at funerals?” Anthony asked, po-faced.

Fenella shook her head. “No. I mean, yes, sometimes. But I really think that in this day and age one can—”

She was interrupted by the door opening; Marcia’s head appeared through it. “Anthony,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I need your help on something. Can you spare a minute?”

“Now?” Anthony looked at her hopefully.

“Yes. I’m sorry,” Marcia said. “But it’s Project Handbag. I could really do with your input.”

“Right,” Anthony said seriously. “Well, okay. If you ladies will excuse me?”