The Almost Wife: An absolutely gripping and emotional summer read Page 8
* * *
After reading the last Editor’s Letter, I’ve decided I’m not having any flowers at the wedding at all, just foliage which I agree is so much cooler – probably a mix of giant palms, ferns and smaller succulents and the cake won’t be a wedding cake but a towering croquembouche inspired by the one Dolce & Gabbana served at this season’s London Fashion Week party.
* * *
After dinner, we will walk with our guests through the grounds of Willow Manor and into the nineteenth-century church where we will marry in a romantic candlelit ceremony at midnight. Then, as everyone leaves they get an individual brunch hamper which they are invited to bring back with them the next morning to join us in the tent.
I’m choosing my dress tomorrow morning at The White Gallery. I’m thinking about the ‘Niara’ by Pronovias. I’m sure you know it, it’s the one with the sheer tulle back covered in tattoo lace. It’s more skin than fabric to be honest! Shoes have to be Charlotte Olympia mink silk satin with accessories from Jenny Packham’s midsummer collection. If you have any questions, please ask as having my wedding featured in Brides would be the ultimate compliment and I would be truly honoured to see it there. Do you think you could present my ideas to the Editor soon?
* * *
As I think I’ve already mentioned, the wedding date is August 25th and I hope you won’t think this is odd but perhaps the best way for you to experience it is to come? I will put an official invitation in the post to you tomorrow. Look out for it, I had it designed to look like the one you did for the last Brides The Show, with hand drawn watercolour calligraphy. And please feel free to bring a plus one too, obviously!
* * *
Yours hopefully,
* * *
Dolly Jackson
XXX
* * *
Inviting anyone else to this wedding is insane, Dolly knows it, the budget is spiralling out of control as it is, but for Annabel she is prepared to make an expensive exception. Dolly hits send on the email just as Josh spills through the door trailing armfuls of camera equipment behind him. He looks bloody hot in a pair of jeans that are skimming his tanned hips and a charcoal t-shirt that is just tight enough across his chest. It’s been three years since they first rubbed up against each other on a sweaty night in the Shangri La tent at Glastonbury music festival and one look at him is still all Dolly needs to feel everything tighten inside of her. He’s gorgeous, no denying it. Too gorgeous, perhaps. Looking at him now she still can’t believe he’s hers. They were both drunk the night he proposed, celebrating him landing a lucrative advertising job and she half expected a hasty retraction the next morning when they woke with screaming hangovers. When that didn’t come, she ploughed on with the planning – admittedly without much input from Josh. The ring had come much later, after several weeks of nagging; Dolly remembers that too. Anyway, if their sex life is anything to go by, he is fully committed.
‘Grab me a beer will you babes, that was some shoot. Ten hours non-stop. I’m whacked.’
‘Who was it for this time?’ asks Dolly.
‘GQ’s Sexiest Women of the year. My God, the bodies, I’ve never seen anything like it. These women are total perfection, legs that go on and on, not an ounce of fat on them, perfect tits, the absolute best shape of their lives.’ Josh pauses briefly, perhaps debating whether to deliver the killer blow before going for it anyway. ‘I tell you, Dolly, it’s like being addicted to chocolate and surrounded by it all day but told by your dentist you mustn’t touch it.’
‘Er… right, I suppose I’m the dentist then, am I?’
‘Dolly, seriously, no one can compete with these women, they’re like a whole different breed. Don’t even bother trying, you’ll just depress yourself.’
As a wounded silence hangs between them, Dolly considering telling him to bugger off back through the door, he quickly adds; ‘But, obviously they’re not the sort of women you marry. Now, come here.’
Dolly reluctantly moves in closer. Perhaps if she wasn’t stuck in the world’s shittiest job she might have more time to hone the thigh gap she has been working on for months, un-noticed by Josh, of course. He tightens two arms around her and takes hold of her bum firmly with both hands, pulling her into him. She can feel immediately that he is hard from a day surrounded by all that perfect female flesh. He pushes his tongue into Dolly’s mouth making it clear this is no hello kiss and there is plenty more to come.
‘Go and put on those black knickers I love, will you.’
Dolly does as she’s told, wishing she’d made time for a shower before Josh got home. No chance now, judging by the look on his face, he isn’t in the mood to wait for it tonight. In the bedroom, still flushed from her workout, she slips the sheer black knickers on, sucks in her non-existent tummy and examines her rear view in the full-length mirror. Cellulite is a stubborn bitch. Out of the bra, her boobs look pathetic, nothing like the vision of the aforementioned perfect tits she’s competing with tonight. She decides on some Prada heels for much needed added sex appeal and totters back into the kitchen, topless. Josh is draining the last of his beer, and pulling his t-shirt over his head, revealing a body that is chiselled, toned and strong. He strides towards her, slipping two fingers straight down under the top of her knickers and pulling her towards him with them there. Before Dolly has chance to catch her breath his whole hand is there, working its way in between her legs, gently teasing them open. ‘You’re so ready for me, babes, you must have been looking forward to this.’
‘Always, Josh,’ Dolly pants into his ear, knowing that hearing his own name does it for him every time.
He takes hold of her hips, spinning her around and forwards over the breakfast bar, then grabs her right leg, lifting her thigh up on to the bar too, spreading her open for him. Dolly can feel the cold granite surface beneath her as her boobs are flattened against it. Josh is using his body weight to hold her in position while he unzips his flies and pulls himself out of his jeans, not bothering to remove them. Then he pulls her knickers to one side, pushing himself inside her in one movement, moving her backwards and forwards on the hard surface, appealing for her to keep it going just as she imagines he said to the models on set from behind the camera. She’s trying to channel Victoria’s Secret model fuckability, but she can feel her bum wobbling with every thrust he makes and cringes at the thought of what it must look like.
Josh pulls her down on to the wooden floor and continues until they are both moaning so loudly they can’t take any more. They lie there for a minute, neither saying anything, both slightly shocked at the force of what just happened. Josh gets up and helps himself to another beer, leaving Dolly feeling crumpled and slightly vulnerable on the floor. ‘Fuck, I needed that,’ he pants.
As Dolly gets up and heads for the bathroom she is pretty sure it isn’t her still sweaty body that inspired that performance. Josh’s day has obviously been an arousing one. As she turns the shower on and steps under the piping hot jets she hears him behind her. My God, he’s not after more is he?
‘You might want to shave your armpits while you’re in there babes, they’re a bit, you know, on the hairy side. It’s not a good look.’
* * *
Dolly wakes the next morning to find Josh has already left for work without saying goodbye. She climbs out of bed, her back sore from the pummelling it took on the kitchen floor last night. No matter, she thinks, it’s choose your wedding dress day! And she has every intention of picking something that is going to blow Josh away.
8
Emily
Last night’s sleep, if you can even call it that, was horrible. Fitful, sweaty and punctuated by several startled wake ups, due to the vice-like headache that has now worked its way into one small spot behind Emily’s left eye. She has woken again as the first rays of sunlight are peeping through a crack in the bedroom curtains her mum must have drawn after she crashed out. She is still wearing the wrap dress – no way Mum could get that off her without waking her up – but i
t feels clammy against her hot skin now and as she turns her head to check the time (urgh: 5.53 a.m.) she feels an unpleasant cold wet patch on the pillow and realises the hair on the back of her head is sodden too.
God, she feels tired. She lies there for a moment, wondering what to do at this hour. The room is taking a while to shift into focus, everything is doubled and fuzzy. No point taking any more paracetamol, she has far exceeded the six in twelve hours that the box warns you about. She hasn’t got the energy to get up and make a cup of tea, but neither can she lie here any longer in this germy sick bed. She feels gross and wishes someone could open the window and let a cool breeze wash over her, cleansing her of the horrible night sweats, taking the stale smell back out of the window with it.
She pictures the small boy, Daniel, she sent home early from nursery on Friday. How his skin had been roasting hot, cheeks flushed an angry pink, small dry lips fallen open, drained of energy. He’d held his head all morning complaining of a headache, hadn’t eaten a thing all day, but still managed to be sick all down her twice before lunchtime. His mother had arrived in a flurry of panic after Emily had called, and whisked him home to the sofa for four-hourly spoonfuls of Calpol, ice cold Ribena and dry toast no doubt – the Holy Trinity for any working mum with a sick child. Obviously Emily is now paying the price for nursing him, inhaling his hot breath straight into her own mouth after she had stripped him down to his tiny Superman underpants and held him in her arms to soothe him. She knew when she finally left the nursery later that evening with her own head banging that this would happen.
The thought of the chilled Ribena makes Emily realise how parched she is. She’s desperate for water and starts to imagine it gushing down the back of her throat, washing away the choking dryness that has spread there overnight.
She is going to have to get up or dehydrate away to nothing. As she swings her legs over the side of the bed and pushes herself up on her right elbow, the headache intensifies. It’s like someone is forcing a screwdriver through her left eyeball, pushing it deeper and deeper into her head, through cornea, muscle and brain until it will go no further, lodged there as the pain pulsates around it. Poor Daniel, this is truly awful. Emily makes it to the bedroom door and tiptoes across the carpeted landing, arms outstretched either side, steadying herself, towards the family bathroom at the end. Maybe it’s the tiredness but the floor is blending into the wall, which is blending into the ceiling and everything is off kilter. Then she is bent over the sink, legs wobbly beneath her, filling her hands with cold water and splashing it over her face, mouth open, gulping it in at the same time. The relief. When she stands up and looks in the large mirror she can see that despite the heat she feels boiling through her veins, she is deathly white. Her skin looks pallid, not like her own at all. Like she has been dug up from the grave. Her eyes are tired, the left one noticeably drooping, pupil engorged. Very far from the radiant blushing bride she is soon to be.
Now that she is upright, the feeling of nausea is taking hold, her mouth is suddenly swimming in saliva and she knows she is going to be sick. Wrapped in her favourite fluffy lilac dressing gown, Glo arrives just in time to pull Emily’s hair back from her face as she empties the entire contents of her stomach into the pristine white sink, bending and retching until there is nothing left inside her. Glo is squeezing toothpaste on to Emily’s brush, handing it to her and lining up a lid full of mouthwash. ‘Just a quick rinse, you’ll feel much better for it.’
‘I haven’t got time to be ill this week, Mum, I’ve got to choose my wedding dress,’ is all she can manage before Glo steers her back to her bedroom. She sits Emily in the upholstered armchair next to her dressing table while she strips the bed, remaking it with fresh linen. Emily is even more grateful for the expertly ironed and Comfort-scented pillowcase that is now going on. Glo pulls a pair of shorts and a loose vest top from one of Emily’s drawers and helps her out of the smelly wrap dress and into the clean clothes. Thank God for mum.
‘You stay in bed, Emily. I’ll call Dr Blake and get you an appointment this morning. It’s Monday so they’ll be busy but I’m sure she’ll do it for us. No point having a GP as a close family friend if you can’t jump the queue every once in a while, eh? Those germy kids! Have you been using the hand sanitiser I bought you? You must or you’ll be ill all year.’
Emily is too exhausted to respond and is starting to close her eyes as her Dad’s concerned face appears in the doorway.
‘Everything OK, sweetheart?’
Emily smiles weakly, her eyes closing, just catching the sight of her Dad blowing her a kiss before she is asleep again.
* * *
Emily sits in the doctor’s surgery waiting room, hiding behind a pair of giant sunglasses, trying not to touch anything or anyone. People are coughing, spluttering and sneezing all over the place. A small child is going nuts in the corner because she’s been ordered not to rip pages out of the old magazines piled high on the coffee table. Her screams are more than Emily can bear. What she would give for a pair of ear plugs. The child’s mother looks worse than Emily and she wonders how she has the energy to restrain her.
Emily is clutching an empty Sainsbury’s carrier bag, her mum’s idea in case she vomits again. Imagine the telling off she’ll get from the prison-warden-like receptionist if she does. The thought of it is making her feel more sick. This is such a bad idea, thinks Emily, I’ll be even more ill by the time I leave. Glo has driven her to the surgery, sad that Emily won’t let her stay after having insisted they squeeze her in. Not even this receptionist would dare say no to Glo. Now a hundred wedding thoughts are skipping through Emily’s already over-busy mind.
Should I make a speech? Will Dad in some way be offended if I do? What would I say? Too much pressure?
Canapé menu. Does anyone even like duck liver pâté? Wouldn’t fish and chips in those cute mini paper cones be better? Trad Dad’s not going to like that though is he?
Flowers. Dad wants answers on the planting. For God’s sake make a decision, Emily. But what’s seasonal? What doesn’t cost the earth? How many flowers do I even need? What do I want in my bouquet? I don’t know any actual flower names beyond rose, daffodil, daisy and tulip and I’m pretty sure three of those aren’t appropriate.
The dress. No idea. Get one. You’ve got your first appointment this week and there’s a large audience coming with you that need entertaining.
Mark wants answers on the honeymoon. Can’t he just decide himself? But if I let him are we going to end up on some exhausting mountainous trek through Bhutan?
Gift list. Should we? Shouldn’t we? Too grabby? Or very useful for guests? I wonder if Mum will write me a list of everything a household needs. She is the expert.
Bridesmaids’ dresses. Decide on the actual bridesmaids first.
After an agonising forty-five minute wait during which Emily is now painfully aware of how much more wedding planning there is to do, the reassuringly friendly face of Sarah Blake appears.
‘Emily, come on through.’
The two of them walk down the narrow corridor towards Dr Blake’s room, Emily noting the peeling paint on the mismatched doors – the flickering strip lighting doing nothing for the headache – past the bright pink door of the ladies’ loos and a giant metal cabinet straining to contain the mountain of dressings, paper kidney dishes and sample pots inside. The air is thick with the smell of disinfectant, doing nothing for the nausea. She takes a seat in the fraying leather chair next to Dr Blake’s desk, sorry that she’s not feeling more effervescent. Sarah Blake has been their family doctor and a trusted friend to her parents for as long as she can remember.
‘Not long now, is it?’ begins Dr Blake, trying to make sense of the clutter all over her desk.
‘Sorry?’ Tiredness is grabbing at every part of Emily, robbing her of the power of conversation.
‘The wedding! What is it, five months? I’ve chosen my hat, you know. Anyway, what can I do for you Emily? You don’t look great.’ He
r focus is shifting now from the swamp of paperwork escaping all over her desk, to Emily’s sallow, lifeless face.
‘I just need a prescription for some mega painkillers, please, to rid me of this filthy headache.’ Emily is slumped low in the chair, legs outstretched, as close to lying down as it’s possible to get while sitting.
‘How long have you had it?
‘This is the fourth day.’
‘Non-stop? Has it let up at all?’ Sarah is fighting to find a pen among the dog-eared prescription books, medicine journals and an index box that has tipped on to its side, sending a fan of address cards all over the place.
‘No.’ Keeping her answers so brief isn’t exactly deliberate, but Emily lacks all enthusiasm for this conversation. She just needs the damn painkillers.
‘And where is the pain?’
‘Behind my left eye. It’s piercing, like I’ve been impaled on something.’ Her own description is so accurate it’s making Emily heave a little.
‘OK. You don’t normally suffer with headaches, do you?’
Having given up the hunt for a pen, Dr Blake is refreshing her memory of Emily’s family medical history on her computer screen, tapping away as Emily speaks.
‘Not ones that last four days but I am surrounded by thirty screaming toddlers every day so the occasional banging head is not that unusual. Plus I’m planning a wedding, buying a house and trying to keep two big-day-obsessed parents under control.’