The Almost Wife: An absolutely gripping and emotional summer read Page 13

  ‘They could rupture at any time, Emily. I’m afraid there is little I can do to put your mind at rest there. The more pressing point is deciding on your treatment, and on that subject, I’d like a second opinion. If you are happy for me to, I would like to share your results with the Barrow Neurological Institute in Phoenix, Arizona. It’s a centre of excellence for the study of aneurisms and they will be able to advise on the specific degree of risk that surgery may bring. We’ll be at the mercy of how busy they are but once I hear back from them, we should be able to build a plan for your treatment.’

  ‘And what should I do in the meantime?’

  ‘Go home. Talk to your family. I’m guessing the fact you have come alone today means they don’t know yet?’

  ‘No. I didn’t want to say anything until I had seen you.’

  ‘You’re going to need their support. There will be some tough decisions to make soon.’

  ‘It’s just that we are all planning my wedding and—’

  ‘What date is your wedding?’

  ‘August 25th, twelve weeks’ time.’ Despite the circumstances, Emily still beams when she says these words. Her wedding day. Not that far off now.

  ‘You might want to consider pulling it forward.’ Dr Stevens slams her file shut and notions towards the door. ‘My office will be in touch again soon.’

  Her time is up.

  * * *

  The red dress. Tonight, it had to be the red dress, Mark loves that one. The way it clings to her hips in a way he appreciates more than she does, and drops a fraction too low at the neckline, revealing a hint of lingerie beneath. She is sitting in their favourite Italian trattoria in Oxford, waiting for him to join her for dinner. She’s the first to arrive and has secured their usual table by the window so she can watch the throng of office workers on their way home. She’s already getting stuck into the warm focaccia bread, dunking it into sweet olive oil and balsamic vinegar, absentmindedly working her way through slice after slice. It’s unseasonably warm for an early evening in May and people are lingering, stopping for a beer, spilling out on to the pavement with colleagues, enjoying the moment, starting to warm to the idea that summer is coming.

  Table five has been the scene of many great dates with Mark. Some of their very first, when they nervously spoke over each other and worried about food stuck in their teeth. Now they’re more likely to finish each other’s sentences and swipe food without asking. This is where Mark caught her totally off guard one rain-drenched Saturday lunchtime last winter. He’d asked her to meet for a quick bite to eat but when she arrived the place was empty, bar one single table in the centre of the room. Mark was standing there, holding a single red rose and the Goldsmith’s ring box. She’d immediately burst into tears, feeling with every bone in her body that this was meant to be, the absolute natural order of the universe. To marry Mark was her personal destiny, one that had been written in the stars long before she even imagined what her husband might be like – before she even knew she wanted one. Mark was always going to be hers. She was always going to be his.

  On a normal evening out she would be twitchy with excitement, thinking ahead to the great bottle of chianti they’ll guzzle over the red-and-white checked tablecloth, faces glowing from the flicker of candlelight, the rich homemade puttanesca sauce that could transport anyone to the pastel-coloured coastline of Naples in one mouthful. Mark always managed to spill some on his tie. The heady sweetness of the ice-cold limoncello that would, as always, finish their meal. But tonight the excitement of seeing Mark has an edge. She knows she’ll have to tell him. The neurosurgeon has practically ordered it and however upsetting it is, Mark needs to know. He will want to know. She will just do her best to soften it. There are still a lot of ifs. If it doesn’t rupture. If the Americans think it is operable. If she just lives with it for the rest of her life.

  Emily glances out of the window and can see him coming. Her sweet Mark. He looks so happy. He’s smiling. Who does that? Who walks along a busy city street beaming at total strangers as they go? A small boy is bawling in his pushchair, having dropped a cuddly toy. His mum is oblivious, phone glued to her ear, and as Mark approaches he scoops the toy up and hands it back to the boy. He doesn’t even break stride, doesn’t wait for the thank you that isn’t coming anyway, just ruffles the boy’s hair and carries on. There is a lightness in his face. Here is a man who thinks all is right with the world. Emily’s job tonight is to shatter that thought. Her jaw tightens with the unfairness of it all, all she can think is why me? Why us?

  As Mark enters the restaurant he is greeted like a long-lost friend by the maître d’ – all exuberant handshakes and big man hugs. They chat for a few minutes, Mark winking her way, letting her know he won’t be long, and Emily thinks again how his easy ability to get on with everyone is one of the things she loves most about him.

  ‘You look gorgeous as ever.’ Mark kisses Emily’s hand in mock formality before sliding into the rustic wooden chair opposite her, their knees bumping as they juggle to accommodate each other. ‘God, I love this place.’

  Emily is suddenly overwhelmed by sadness. It’s seeing him up close. Smelling him, feeling his breath on her hand, locking eyes with him, knowing what she knows. She’s never kept anything from him before. He’s ordering wine, squeezing her hand across the table, telling her again how stunning she looks, and talking at a million miles an hour about honeymoon research. She can feel herself starting to wobble, so tempted to just blurt it out, get it over and done with but…

  ‘And at the risk of sounding completely soft, can I just say that these past few weeks really have been the happiest of my life. I mean it. How did I get so lucky? I look at you now and I can still see that shy university fresher I met when we were eighteen. And here you are, about to become my wife. I mean, you’re buying your wedding dress this week, aren’t you?’ His face is all wide-eyed expectation, barely believing that everything they have planned together is finally going to happen. Every feature on his gorgeous face is alive with the thrilling prospect of it.

  ‘Mark—’ She’s trying to stop him talking but he is in full swing, not suspecting for a second that this is about to be anything but another great meal at Rossellini’s. He takes both her hands in his.

  ‘I love you, Emily. I always have. I just hope I can be the husband you want me to be.’

  Everything he’s saying is instantly sobering, making it impossible for her to open her mouth and say what she needs to say. How can she? He’s wrong. This isn’t about Mark protecting her, it’s about her protecting him, from an awful truth he can do nothing about. She has no choice, she has to know. But there is a choice for him. She can choose not to tell him. Not to shatter his world and fill it with worry.

  ‘Listen, you know we’ve been invited to the Coleridge wedding – Adam and Jessie’s – in a few months from now? It’s just before we go on honeymoon.’

  A nod is all Emily can manage.

  ‘Well, I just want to check you’re not going to be disappointed once you see everything they’ll be doing? It’s a bit of a shame it’s so close to ours in a way because I would hate you to feel our day wasn’t as exciting or, well, as flash.’ He’s searching her face now, ready to spot even the smallest sign of disappointment forming there.

  ‘I could never be disappointed. I’m just so happy to be marrying you.’ She’s having to force the words free from the back of her throat, pausing to take a large glug from her wine glass, needing him to pick up the conversation.

  ‘I’m surprised we got an invite, actually. I know I’ve organised a lot of trips for Henry and the family but still, it’s very generous of them. We should just go and enjoy it for what it is I reckon, a wonderfully over-the-top day of excess!’

  It’s so sad to hear him getting excited about things that, from where Emily is sitting, really don’t matter any more. Who cares how flash the Coleridge wedding is? All she can think about right now is getting married and getting better – preferably with
out having to unburden herself to Mark or her family.

  Because telling him is selfish, she knows that. It can only benefit her; give her someone to share her fears, someone to tell her everything is going to be OK. But he can’t tell her that, so why put him – or anyone else – through it?

  ‘I’m going to put on some lipstick then come back and give you a big smacker if you don’t mind.’ Emily needs to get away from the table before he can see in her face that something is wrong.

  ‘Er… not at all.’ Mark smiles, perfectly boyish and charming at the same time.

  Emily excuses herself to the ladies’, but ducks out the back of the restaurant into a side alley and leans against the wall where the waiters usually take their fag breaks. She takes a deep breath, sucking air down into the very centre of her, releasing it again through her open mouth, letting every ounce of fear and anger free. She doesn’t recognise the sound she’s making. Pure, undiluted rage is forcing itself up from the very depths of her in a low, strangulated moan. Her fists are against the wall and she’s planting painful kicks at it, sending a sharp spike of pain through her right foot and up into her shin. She places her hot face to the brickwork and asks over and over why, why why, knowing this secret is hers to keep now.

  The headache is back, stronger than ever.

  * * *

  Well, this is cosy. Emily is half naked in The White Gallery fitting room while a cast of thousands including her mum, dad, Mark’s mum Barbara, his sister Janet, her granny Joyce and neighbour Phillipa, are sitting in the main boutique waiting for the fashion show to begin. It’s the Sunday Summit on a field trip. Her dad is nestled in the middle, note pad in hand because ‘we’ll need to refer back to my notes later if we can’t remember what we liked the best’.

  From behind the heavy curtain of the fitting room, where the owner, Helen, is lining up a rail of dresses for her to try, Emily can hear the excited chatter outside. It’s all giggles and champagne glasses clinking. Bill has already had to give Glo a stern talking to after she burst into tears the second they all stepped over The White Gallery threshold. Now there’s lots of reminiscing about their own wedding days and how their baby girl is all grown up.

  First up is a remarkably affordable – for this place anyway – Amanda Wakeley Maya gown. One of the simpler gowns in her ethereal collection, it gathers slightly at the waist before dropping into a fluid chiffon skirt. The only embellishments are two beaded cap sleeves either side of the V neckline and a jewel-encrusted belt that can be removed for brides watching their budget. But as the opener to Emily’s personal catwalk show, it’s not giving the crowd what they want.

  ‘It looks lovely on you, obviously,’ ventures Glo, ‘but does it have the “wow” we are looking for?’

  ‘Well, I personally love it Mum, and just so you know, it’s a little more affordable than most things back there in the fitting room.’ This lot need to be reined in from the beginning or Emily knows the appointment will veer beyond her control.

  ‘Don’t be so crass, Emily, this is not about cost. Sorry, Helen. Can we see something a little more… over the top, please?’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Oh, come on, Emily, we’re only going to do this once.’ Glo is not about to be denied her moment of a lifetime.

  ‘Quite right.’ Now Barbara is wading in.

  ‘Emily, you don’t want to be upstaged by your old dad on the big day, do you? I read in one of your bridal magazines that lots of girls regret not going big enough with the dress. Let’s definitely not make that mistake!’

  So in the next hour Emily works her way through every conceivable shape of wedding dress to a varying degree of appreciation from the crowd – the strapless ballgown (divine) the sheath (can someone explain to me how that is a wedding dress?), the fishtail (too clingy for church), the column (your boobs have completely disappeared!), tea length (dated), the high-low hem (sorry, we don’t want a dress that can’t make up its mind how long it wants to be), drop waist (I’m going to be honest, not flattering at all), empire line (maternity wear!), A-line (a contender) – until the crowd are satisfied and Emily is exhausted.

  They collectively decide on a Reem Acra strapless ballgown with a hand-beaded bodice and, at her mum’s insistence, a giant cathedral-worthy skirt. The price tag is painful but the gown, Emily has to admit, is incredible – a considerably classier version of the kind of thing Cinderella might tip up in on her wedding day. Impressive in its size but light as candyfloss once on (first dance-worthy, that’s for sure.) She feels good in it – but more because she has given them all their moment. Wedding dress shopping with your only daughter; creating memories more significant than anyone here today could possibly realise.

  In the hour is has taken to reach this decision, Emily’s audience has polished off two bottles of Tattinger, devoured a plate of biscuits and a round of pretty pink cupcakes, scattering crumbs all over Helen’s previously spotless cream carpet. They are now all slightly slumped on Helen’s gold and white chairs, decorum having deserted them.

  ‘Excellent progress today.’ Emily can hear her Dad congratulating them all on a ‘good day’s work’ as she is finally stepping back into her jeans and t-shirt.

  ‘Well done Emily.’ Helen is back in the fitting room, preparing to finalise her measurements for the Reem gown. ‘I think you coped pretty well with all that. You’re obviously a very close family, which is so lovely to see.’

  ‘Actually, Helen? Don’t worry about the measurements.’ Emily lowers her voice to a whisper.

  ‘But I need to take them, or the dress won’t be perfect for you.’

  ‘I don’t want you to order the dress. I’d like the Amanda Wakeley instead and if there is anything you can do on the price that would be even better.’

  ‘But I thought you…’ Confusion is spreading across Helen’s face and Emily can see she’s trying to work out what went wrong. ‘The dress is an old shop sample, Emily, and if you want to buy this one, I could let you have it for much less than a new dress would cost. But lots of women have tried it on, you may not feel it’s special enough?’

  ‘That’s absolutely fine,’ Emily cuts her off before she asks any more questions. ‘I know they all love the ballgown but—’ But what? I’m about to drop dead? There may not be a wedding? I need to future-proof my parents’ finances because they might have a funeral to pay for? Maybe she should have told Mark after all. He would know exactly what to do now, how to handle this. Oh God, why can’t she just be a normal bride, lapping up the attention, not caring if it’s all a bit gratuitous and self-centred. She just wants to spend the afternoon wanging on about crystal tiaras and whether it should be the teardrop pearl earrings or the vintage sapphire ones Joyce wore. The pretence is already painfully draining.

  Emily takes a deep breath. ‘But I think it actually looks better on me. I don’t need the belt either, thank you. And Helen, no one is to know about this, please.’

  ‘Of course but—’ Emily watches Helen struggle to work her out, this is obviously a new one on her. She needs to end this conversation before anyone overhears them or she drops her guard.

  ‘Look, I may not need a dress at all, Helen, so please can you just do as I ask?’ Emily’s voice is full of exasperation, more clipped than she intended and she hates the way she’s making Helen’s head bow like she’s been told off. The only thing worse is the weight of what she knows she now has to do herself, the lie that she will carry with her for however long it takes.

  13

  Jessie

  Claire is filling the armchair she’s wedged into, picking away at her already chipped Barbie pink nail polish while she works her way through a family-sized bag of Doritos. Is this breakfast at 11 a.m.? wonders Jessie. Or a mid-morning snack? She can’t remember a single occasion when she’s seen her younger sister eat a piece of fruit. Or anything that’s a direct descendant of nature, free from the trans fats and refined sugars that are pumped into everything Claire calls food. Her job selling bu
rgers to people who value speed over health has done nothing for her understanding of nutrition. Jessie considers for a moment asking her if she even knows what the word means.

  She’s trying very hard not to let these thoughts show on her face. When was the last time Claire washed her hair? Christ, is that a scrunchie? Where would you even buy one of those today? Is she aware that those leggings are at least three sizes too small?

  Is it disgust or pity that Jessie feels? She finds it so hard to separate the two sometimes, especially where her family are concerned.

  Should she be helping Claire? Setting her up with someone who could sort this mess out for her. Is she even aware what a state she looks? Wouldn’t it be the kindest thing in the world to tell her? No, it would break her, surely. Their lives may have split and taken very different paths but she hasn’t completely forgotten the times they spent together as kids, thick as thieves, before all the differences between them became too hard to ignore. Plotting on the landing upstairs, long after their parents thought they were tucked up in bed and the hours playing make-believe in the back garden, Jessie always the teacher, Claire the keen-to-please pupil. There is a delicate heart masked under that terrible lack of style and Jessie has no desire to shatter it – but neither does she want an enormous Claire-sized shadow cast all over her wedding photos. Christ, what would Hugo think?

  ‘Cup of tea, anyone? Biscuits?’ Jessie’s mum, Margaret, is in the kitchen as usual, tidying up after everyone, sweeping the remains of sugar-coated breakfast cereal into the bin and reloading a large white plate with a mountain of chocolate digestives.

  Everyone shouts yes, without looking up from what they’re doing, certainly not offering to go and help. Jessie’s older brother, Jason, is sitting on the floor, his offensively loud neon board shorts clashing with the bold geometric grey and red patterned carpet. A copy of the Daily Mirror is open across his lap, a full page of a lingerie-clad Kelly Brook staring up at him. He’s muttering to himself about all the things he’d like to do to her given half the chance, as if a woman like Kelly would even register his existence. Pitifully oblivious to his own shortcomings, Jason lost his job at the local car mechanic’s garage after a Kwik Fit opened in the new retail park around the corner. It forced him home for a few weeks to sponge off his retired parents. That was two years ago and as long as Margaret keeps putting food in front of him, washing and ironing his clothes and tidying his room, he’s going nowhere. Thirty-eight and still dependant. How tragic. Last time Jessie was home she saw her mum handing him a roll of ten-pound notes, funding another night out with his mates at the local. She’d whispered something about not telling your father, making Jessie wonder how many other handouts he’d so easily taken. No self-respect.