Babyville Page 0,14

place.

He remembers now.

Perhaps that is the problem, Mark thinks, looking at himself in the bathroom mirror and feeling good, really good, for the first time in months. We don't make love anymore. We make babies. And we're failing. We need to make love more, to reestablish the closeness, the warmth, the intimacy that is so lacking.

If we can do that, then maybe we'll be okay. Maybe everything will turn out fine.

4

“Who is that?”

Julia and Mark have been milling around outside the church, Julia finally making her way over to the smokers, a small band of women, as soignee as they come, apart from the fact that they are all puffing away furiously, determined to inhale enough nicotine to see them through the ceremony.

The cigarettes bond these women together, and they close in a tight huddle as they admire one another's outfits and pass the lone lighter around, as passers-by—so dowdy by comparison—smile at the crowd of wedding-goers, all wanting to share in a little bit of the hope, the possibility, and of course, the glamour. Because this wedding is nothing if not glamorous, each woman outdoing the last in hat size and high heels.

Julia drops her cigarette and rubs it out with the sole of her strappy Jimmy Choos.

“Great shoes,” says a tall red-headed woman standing with the smokers, the woman, in fact, in possession of the lone lighter (Mini-Bic, hot pink).

“Thanks,” Julia says, smiling, and offers up a compliment in return. “I love your hat.” A moment of awkwardness, and one of them is about to ask how the other knows Adam and Lorna, when Julia hears a shriek.

“Julia! Darling!” She turns round to find Lorna's mother bearing down on her. “You look wonderful!” Mrs. Young launches herself upon Julia, leaning forward attempting to air kiss, holding on to her vast hat. They both laugh as the brims of their hats clash.

“You look amazing.” It is what Julia is expected to say, and of course it is true, because despite Julia not keeping up to date with Lorna about her marriage plans, one look at Sandra Young is enough for her to know that this is not Lorna's wedding—it is her mother's.

“Really?” Sandra Young does her eightieth twirl of the day and cocks an eyebrow as Julia repeats it. It is apparent to all that she loves being the center of attention, that her outfit—low-cut, intricately beaded, screaming designer—was chosen, consciously or not, to upstage the bride.

Sandra Young twirls round again before spotting more new arrivals. “Uncle Jimmy!” she cries, waving above the crowd, tripping off to perform yet another twirl, as the woman with the hat grins at Julia. “Now that's not a case of the mother trying to upstage the bride,” she says.

“But you have to admit she does look fantastic.”

“She should do, the amount that dress cost.” She looks around to check no one's within earshot, then leans forward conspiratorially. “More than the wedding dress.”

“No!” Julia's shocked, because, knowing Lorna, the wedding dress is going to be one-off, designer, and a fortune.

The woman nods her head. “I'm Maeve,” she says, smiling. “You're Julia, aren't you?”

Julia nods. “How did you know?”

“I heard Mrs. Young, but I recognized you anyway from Lorna's old photographs.”

“How do you know Lorna?” The question was inevitable, and they both smile.

“I live next door to them in Brighton.”

“So does she drive you mad borrowing cups of sugar?”

“Borrowing bloody condoms, more like. She and Adam haven't got their contraception sorted out, and being the single woman on the street, I'm the one who's become their secret condom supplier.”

Julia laughs, completely unfazed by this woman's honesty. Julia has always had this ability, to make people feel comfortable around her, to make them feel, within minutes, that they have known her forever, and know her well enough to disclose intimate information without a second thought.

“You're single? That surprises me.”

“Why? Because someone like me ought to have a boyfriend? Because I'm attractive and successful so if I can't get a man I must be failing at something?” Her tone is trying to be light, but the words are not, and Julia apologizes.

“I just realized what I sounded like,” Julia says ruefully. “Like one of my elderly relatives. I used to go to family dos and they'd ask me if I had a boyfriend, and when I said No they'd pat my knee and say things like: Don't worry, you're still young. Or, Mr. Right is out there, you'll find him, you'll see. God, I can't believe I