The Nearly-Weds (35 page)

‘I know,’ I frown, ‘but is your mind supposed to be
tidy
when you’re in the throes of passion?’

‘I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate if I hadn’t done it. Anyway, you never used to complain.’

He’s right. I didn’t. So why the hell am I now?

I know the answer to that one: I’m comparing him with Ryan again.

Which is ridiculous because on this issue Jason wins hands down. Ryan is a man who drops towels on the floor, leaves the dishwasher unemptied and discarded pizza boxes on the sofa. It drove me insane, especially when I first lived with him.

I feel like shaking myself. For God’s sake, Zoe. Women can’t stand living with men like Ryan – men who don’t notice mess and don’t care if they do. In this respect Jason is the perfect man. In fact, he’s beyond perfect. He doesn’t just clear up his own mess, he clears up mine too. I should be overjoyed.

When I get into the shower, I turn it to a colder setting than usual, hoping it will knock some sense into me.

I don’t know how long I spend in there, but there’s something pleasingly distracting about the cold jets pummelling my goose-pimpled skin as I attempt to get things straight in my mind.

Come on, Zoe. Are you or are you not in love with Jason? This is make-your-bloody-mind-up time.

I pick up the shampoo and pour a dollop on to my hand, then massage it vigorously into my scalp. After a few seconds, I can hardly believe I asked myself the question.

Of
course
I’m in love with Jason.

I’ve spent more than seven years being in love with him. The upheaval of the last eight months is bound to have affected me – but that doesn’t mean, deep down, that I love him any less.

What’s really annoying is that I only ever got involved with Ryan as a defence mechanism, as a bit of fun to distract me from the trauma I’d been through. How the hell did it become so much of a distraction that I can’t stop thinking about our affair even now it’s served its purpose?

As I rinse off the shampoo and start on the conditioner, I make a promise to myself: no more thinking about Ryan. Full stop.

If I really concentrate on this, he’ll soon be nothing more than a distant memory, and Jason and I will be happily married with our whole lives in front of us. Which is exactly what I’ve always wanted. Isn’t it?

Chapter 84

My preparations for this wedding couldn’t be more different: last time, there wasn’t a bridal magazine known to woman that I hadn’t subscribed to for at least a year and a half in advance. I visited every wedding emporium in the north-west of England – and one or two beyond – just to find the perfect pair of shoes. I attended bridal fayres in their dozens, searched endlessly on the Internet for innovative table decorations and tried on more tiaras than the Queen.

The timescale now means things have to be low-key. But it’s not just that. Something has changed in me. I can’t bring myself even to look in a wedding shop. Maybe I’ve become cynical. Maybe part of me is determined not to go over the top in case Jason decides not to show up again.

By the way, I don’t think he’ll do that.

In fact, I’m certain he won’t. But that it’s even a possibility is undoubtedly affecting me. Which is probably why my promise – that I won’t let thoughts of Ryan enter my head – has been broken. Arrgh! There I go again!

I head over to Coast, one of my favourite shops in the Metquarter, and browse through its rails. There is a day and a half to go before I get married and I still don’t know what I’m going to wear. I’m not worried, though. In the scheme of things, it isn’t important. And as someone who spent a month and a half’s wages on a full-length silk number I got to wear for approximately an hour and twenty minutes last time, I think I’m qualified to judge.

What I’m certain of is that, this time, I’m not going for a traditional wedding dress. I want something that reflects the tone of the nuptials. Understated. Unfussy. Something you’d struggle to recognize as anything to do with a wedding.

When I was chatting this through with Trudie last night, we agreed that an elegant, sophisticated suit, perhaps in cream, would do nicely. However, I’d forgotten that once you’ve pictured an item of clothing in your mind it’s
impossible
to find it.

I’ve been in the city centre for what feels like hours and am no closer to finding something suitable. I pick up a strapless red dress and examine it. Gorgeous, but not what I’m after.

With twenty-five minutes to go before the shops shut, I decide to cut my losses and head back to a place I was in earlier. Instead of buying ‘the one’, I will buy the one that was closest to ‘the one’, as it were. It’s not perfect, but it’s
okay.
And it’s in the sale, which makes me feel a bit better.

Chapter 85

The night before the wedding, Trudie and I go out for a drink in one of the bars on Allerton Road – but for some reason I’m not in the mood for it.

‘You all right, love?’ she asks, looking concerned as I take a sip of the same glass of red wine I’ve been struggling with for the last hour and a half.

‘I think I’m coming down with something,’ I tell her, as I pull out a tissue.

‘It’s this bloody weather. Everyone you see seems to have a cold at the moment. It’s like a permanent reminder of why we left the UK.’

After a couple of hours I’m utterly drained and ready to go home. I feel guilty about being such appalling company, especially when she’s flown all the way over just for me. But I can’t help it.

Back at Mum’s house, I climb under the covers feeling so tired I imagine I’ll be flat out for the next eight hours. But it doesn’t happen like that. My sleep is fitful, broken by dreams that leave me even more restless and disturbed. Particularly one.

In this dream, it’s my wedding day – tomorrow. I arrive at the register office and everything seems to go according to plan. My parents are beaming with pride. My outfit is fabulous. And Jason – this time – turns up.

But there is a spanner in the works. His name is Ryan.

The registrar asks me if I, Zoe Maureen Moore, will take Jason Peter Redmond to be my lawful wedded husband and the words ‘I will’ are on the tip of my tongue. But I’m stuttering and stammering so much it’s as though I’m trying to deliver a speech through a mouthful of peanut butter. I can’t get the words out.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because the door bursts open and flies off its hinges.

The whole room gasps. I swoon. And there he is, standing at the door in a James Bond tuxedo with a .45 revolver in his hand. Ryan.

I run towards him and, as the rest of the room melts away, he gathers me in his arms and kisses me so passionately and hard and sexily that, quite frankly, in a movie it would be X-rated.

Finally, he pulls away and says, ‘Come on, the Aston Martin’s outside.’ We speed away through the streets of Liverpool, then drive off the Pier Head and into the Mersey, which –
really
bizarrely – is as blue and clear as the sea off Koh Samui. At this point, the car morphs into an underwater pod, Ryan pops open a bottle of champagne and proceeds to take me to heaven and back so comprehensively I doubt I’d be able to walk for a week afterwards.

Then I wake up, sweating, shivering, cursing myself. And realizing that my nose is running.

Chapter 86

I’d always thought it was one of the unwritten laws of nature and the universe that brides did not catch colds. Certainly, I’ve never seen a wedding photo in all my twenty-eight years on earth in which either of the happy couple has a snotty nose so raw and crusty from blowing that they look like they need skin grafts.

But apparently it can happen. It does happen. In fact, it has.

‘No better, then?’ asks Trudie, handing me the second-to-last Super Duper Ultra Soothing Balm tissue in the box. The gentlest blow fills it, and I need another to clean up the debris from my face.

‘Doh,’ I say, chucking the tissue into my overflowing bin. ‘I mean,
no.
Not so far, at least.’

I open the next box and dab one on my eyes to stop them streaming. ‘I’ll have to redo my makeup,’ I say. I peer at my blotchy skin and can’t help thinking it would be easier to give Shrek a makeover.

‘Maybe you should leave it until the last minute,’ advises Trudie. ‘I mean, this is our fourth go – we’ll run out of foundation at this rate.’

I head for my full-length mirror, hoping to reassure myself. But I look awful. In fact, I couldn’t look more awful if I’d just taken part in a competition to dive through hedges backwards and won.

My suit, the one I’d pictured as elegant and sophisticated, is neither. I have spent the last twenty-four hours trying to convince myself, with a little help from Trudie, that it might not be perfect but it is
okay.

As I stand in front of the mirror now, all I can focus on is how
not
okay it is. There are so many creases at the top of my thighs you’d think I’d just stepped off a twenty-hour flight. Its horrible shiny finish stretches across my bum and displays more cellulite than you’d find in a liposuction clinic’s waste container. ‘Oh, God,’ I complain, and grab another tissue.

Trudie sighs. ‘Have another glass of champagne,’ she tells me. ‘It might help bung you up a bit.’

‘I don’t think I’m meant to be drinking with the tablets I’m taking for my cold.’

‘Oh, rubbish. They always say that to cover their arses. It might give you a bit of an extra buzz, but nothing more.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’ I knock back a mouthful. I couldn’t feel worse than I do already.

Suddenly the door bursts open. ‘Only me!’ Mum has never believed in knocking. ‘So, what do you think of the ultraviolet?’ she says, twirling round. It’s immediately obvious to Trudie and me that this is a rhetorical question: her expression indicates that she thinks she looks like Linda Evangelista. Which, I have to say, isn’t unwarranted – she’s stunning.

‘Mum, you’re beautiful,’ I tell her, and lean forward to kiss her.

‘Ooh, not too close, love.’ She pulls back to make sure my nose doesn’t drip on her.

‘Sorry,’ I mutter. ‘You do look amazing, though, Mum. That colour’s definitely you.’

‘It is, isn’t it?’ She smiles. ‘And all the better now I’ve just had it confirmed that Jason’s mum isn’t wearing anything similar. She’s gone for cappuccino, apparently. I’m not sure her complexion can take it at her age, but there you go. It’s up to her.’

I feel another urge to blow my nose and reach over to grab a tissue. Mum frowns. ‘Don’t worry, Zoe,’ she says earnestly.

‘Don’t worry about what?’ I ask.

‘Your nose,’ she says. ‘That photographer fellow said he knew how to do hairbrushing.’

‘You mean airbrushing?’ I ask.

‘That’s what I said, love. Hairbrushing – just like the celebrities. You might look like Rudolph now, but by the time we’ve finished with you, you’ll be giving Scarlett Johannesburg a run for her money, I promise.’

Chapter 87

Mum’s gone on ahead to the register office, which leaves Dad, Trudie and me. As we get into the taxi I notice how different I feel this time. Not nervous. Not even particularly excited. Just numb.

Before you start wondering, this isn’t cold feet. The combination of my medicine and three glasses of champagne is so powerful it would have tranquillized a woolly mammoth.

‘You okay, love?’ Dad squeezes my hand.

‘Course,’ I say, forcing a smile. ‘Just a bit . . . dizzy, actually. I think it might be my tablets.’

Suddenly Dad looks incredibly worried. ‘You’re certain about this, aren’t you?’

‘What do you mean, Dad?’ I ask, shocked.

‘I mean, you’re certain you’re doing the right thing? That you love Jason? That you’re meant to be together?’

I hesitate as I let his words sink in. ‘God, Dad, I . . . of course I am. Of course.’

‘Only—’

‘
Dad
,’ I interrupt. ‘I’m sure.’

He looks into my eyes. ‘Okay, love. Okay.’

There is virtual silence for the rest of the journey. No giggly excitement. No banter with the driver. So little jollity, in fact, that when we stop at some traffic lights next to a funeral car I can’t help noticing that the passengers in it look as if they’re having considerably more fun than we are.

‘Are you going on honeymoon?’ Trudie pipes up. ‘I’ve just remembered I never asked you.’

‘No. Jason doesn’t want to. He’d booked a stag weekend in April for his friend Jimmy’s wedding and we can’t afford both.’

‘Oh.’ Trudie turns to gaze out of the window again.

When we arrive at the register office in Old Hall Street, the car pulls in at the side of the road. I open the door and begin to get out. But with just one foot on the pavement, I’m ambushed.

‘Have I got a surprise for you-hoo!’
whoops Mum, dragging me along as if I’m a large sack of Maris Pipers.

‘Wh-what?’ I stammer, wiping my nose and removing the sixth application of foundation from my top lip.

‘The
Echo
are here, Zoe, the
Echo!
You’re going to be a front-page splash!’

‘What?’ I ask, hoping I’ve misheard her. ‘Who invited them?’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that!’ Mum cries. ‘Come on, Zoe! Every girl your age would love to be popped!’

‘You mean papped, Mum.’

‘That’s what I said. What they do for
OK!
magazine. You’re easily as pretty as some of the Wags. I mean, look at that one in the paper the other morning – I’ve seen better legs on an uncooked chicken.’

A nervous young reporter is hovering outside the glass doors chewing the end of her pencil like a hungry mongrel chomping its way through a piece of beef. I grab Mum’s arm and attempt to stop her. ‘Mum,’ I snap, ‘I don’t
want
to be in the
Echo.
Really, I don’t.’

‘Of
course
you do!’ she cries, rolling her eyes in despair. ‘You love the
Echo
, Zoe.’

It was bad enough when Mum took out a classified advert in the paper to ‘celebrate’ my twenty-first birthday – by sharing with the world a picture of me as a chubby toddler lifting my skirt up and showing off a fetching pair of brown-and-orange-striped knickers.