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wedding dress. I mean, that would be the limit.
As I pour myself a cup of coffee, I can hear him declaiming in the bathroom, and I feel
another flinch of irritation. He’s practicing his speech. Here. In the flat. Isn’t his speech supposed
to be a surprise? Does he know anything about weddings? I approach the bathroom door, ready
to give him an earful—then pause. I might as well listen to a snippet.
The door is slightly ajar, and I peer through the gap to see him in his dressing gown,
addressing himself in the mirror. To my surprise, he looks quite worked up. His cheeks are red
and he’s breathing heavily. Maybe he’s getting into the part. Maybe he’s going to make a really
passionate speech about how I’ve completed his life, and everyone will cry.
“Everyone said I’d never get married. Everyone said I’d never do it.” Magnus pauses for
so long, I wonder if he’s lost his way. “Well, look. Here I am. OK? Here I am.”
He takes a swig of something, which looks like a gin and tonic, and gazes belligerently at
himself.
“Here I am. Married, OK? Married.”
I peer at him uncertainly. I don’t know quite what’s wrong about this speech, but
something is. There’s some small detail that feels wrong … something amiss … something that
jars …
I’ve got it. He doesn’t look happy.
Why doesn’t he look happy? It’s his wedding day.
“I’ve done it.” He lifts his glass at the mirror, glowering. “So all you people who said I
couldn’t can fuck off.”
“Magnus!” I can’t help exclaiming in shock. “You can’t say ‘fuck off’ in your wedding
speech!” Magnus’s face jolts, and his belligerent air instantly vanishes as he whips round.
“Poppy! Sweets! I didn’t know you could hear me.”
“Is that your speech?” I demand.
“No! Not exactly.” He takes a deep swig of his drink. “It’s a work in progress.”
“Well, haven’t you written it yet?” I eye his glass. “Is that a gin and tonic?”
“I think I’m allowed a gin and tonic on my wedding day, don’t you?”
The belligerent air is creeping back. What is wrong with him?
If I was in one of those glossy luxury-kitchen American TV dramas, I’d go up to him
now and take his arm and say gently, “It’s going to be a great day, honey.” And his face would
soften and he’d say, “I know,” and we’d kiss, and I would have diffused the tension with my
loving tact and charm.
But I’m not in the mood. If he can be belligerent, so can I.
“Fine.” I scowl. “Get pissed. Great idea.”
“I’m not going to get pissed. Jesus. But I’ve got have something to take the edge off
the—” He stops abruptly, and I stare at him in shock. Where exactly was he heading with that
sentence?
Off the ordeal? Off the pain?
I think his mind is working the same way, because he quickly finishes the sentence.
“—the thrill. I need to take the edge off the thrill, or I’ll be far too hyper to concentrate. Sweets,
you look beautiful. Gorgeous hair. You’ll look spectacular.”
His old engaging ma
cloud.
“My hair hasn’t even been done yet,” I say, with a grudging smile. “The hairdresser’s on
his way.”
“Well, don’t let him ruin it.” He gathers the ends together and kisses them. “I’ll get out of
your way. See you at the church!”
“OK.” I stare after him, feeling a bit unsettled.
And I’m unsettled for the rest of the morning. It’s not exactly that I’m worried. It’s more
that I don’t know if I should be worried. I mean, let’s look at the facts. One moment Magnus is
all over me, begging me to marry him—then he gets stroppy, as though I’m forcing him into it
with a shotgun. Is it just jitters? Is this what men are always like on their wedding day? Should I
tolerate it as normal male behavior, like when he gets a cold and starts Googling nose cancer
symptoms discharge nostrils?105
If Dad were alive, I could ask him.
But that’s a thought path I really can’t let myself go down, not today, or I’ll be a mess. I
blink hard and scrub at my nose with a tissue. Come on, Poppy. Brighten up. Stop inventing
problems that don’t exist. I’m getting married!
Toby and Tom emerge from their cocoons just as the hairdresser arrives. They make
monster cups of tea in mugs which they brought themselves,106 then instantly start bantering
with the hairdresser and putting rollers in their hair and making me fall about with laughter. I
wish for the zillionth time that I saw more of them. Then they disappear off to have breakfast at a
café, and Ruby and A
hairdresser a
nearly here and her tights have laddered, is there anywhere she can buy a new pair?107
And then we’re into a blur of hair dryers blasting, nails being painted, makeup being
done, hair being put up, flowers arriving, dresses being put on, dresses being taken off to go to
the loo, sandwiches being delivered, and a near spray-tan disaster (it was actually just a blotch of
coffee on A
and I’m standing in front of the mirror in my dress and veil. Tom and Toby are standing on either
side of me, so handsome in their morning coats that I have to blink away the tears again.
A
girl.
“Mum and Dad would have been so proud of you,” says Toby gruffly. “Amazing dress.”
“Thanks.” I try to shrug nonchalantly.
I suppose I look OK, as brides go. My dress is really long and slim, with a low back and
tiny bits of lace on the sleeves. My hair’s in a chignon.108 My veil is gossamer light, and I’ve
got a beaded headdress and a gorgeous posy of lilies. But somehow, just like Magnus this
morning, something seems amiss …
It’s my expression, I suddenly realize with dismay. It isn’t right. My eyes are tense and
my mouth keeps twitching downward and I’m not radiant. I try baring my teeth at myself in a
broad smile—but now I look freaky, like some kind of scary clown-bride.
“You OK?” Tom is watching me curiously.
“Fine!” I pull at my veil, trying to bunch it round my face more. The point is, it doesn’t
matter what my expression is like. Everyone will be looking at my train.
“Hey, sis.” Toby glances at Tom as though for approval. “So you know, if you did
change your mind, we’d be totally cool. We’d help you do a getaway. We’ve discussed it,
haven’t we, Tom?”
“Four-thirty from St. Pancras.” Tom nods. “Gets you to Paris in time for di
“Do a getaway?” I stare at him in dismay. “What do you mean? Why would you plan a
getaway? Don’t you like Magnus?”
“No! Waoh! Never said that.” Toby lifts his hands defensively. “Just … putting it out
there. Giving you the option. We see it as our job.”
“Well, don’t see it as your job.” I speak more sharply than I meant to. “We’ve got to get
to the church.”
“I got the papers when I was out, by the way,” adds Tom, proffering a stack of
newspapers. “You want to have a read in the car?”
“No!” I recoil in horror. “Of course not! I’ll get newsprint on my dress!”