Desperately Seeking - By Evelyn Cosgrave Page 0,69

was there, I thought I might as well try on one of the dresses. The gold was pushed forward. It took me for ever to get into it – it was constructed of three bits that had to be wound intricately round each other and some very complicated lacing at the back – but when it was on and I could view myself in the flatteringly lit and ever so slightly elongating mirror, I was glad I’d made the effort. I looked as hideous as I hoped it was possible for me to look. The gold drained my face of colour and even imparted to it a sickly shine. The shape did something frightening to my figure – it made me look like a cross between a prepubescent girl and a woman in the late stages of pregnancy. Surely no bride, no matter how deranged, wanted to look like this?

‘It’s beautiful on you,’ said the young girl, gravely. ‘It’s really different.’

‘Yes,’ I said, equally gravely. ‘It’s very different from the sort of thing I usually wear.’

‘You’re a picture,’ Colette chimed in. ‘Keith would die if he saw you.’

‘Oh, is Keith your fiancé?’ the girl asked.

It was too tempting to say that, no, he wasn’t my fiancé, he was my fiancé’s brother, with whom I was having an affair. But I didn’t. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘and he’d love to see me in this.’

Colette insisted I try another, even though I was rapidly losing my taste for this particular game, and pulled out a fake Vera Wang that was all satin and shiny bits and yards of material flowing in every direction. There was a veil to go with it, which rested neatly on my head and brushed lightly against my bare shoulders.

‘You look gorgeous,’ gasped Colette, when she saw me in the ensemble. ‘You’re absolutely stunning.’

There wasn’t a note of insincerity in her voice.

I did look gorgeous. That was the amazing thing. I looked like those brides you see in magazines with their airbrushed smiles and their perfect hair and the to-die-for dress. Those brides who fill page after page of expensive glossy magazines so that young women in love can imagine how they’ll look on their big day. Those brides who, not for one minute, not for one second, do you believe in. Those brides you know are faking it for the camera.

‘Come on,’ I said to Colette. ‘Let’s get out of here. I don’t feel well.’

13

It was the end of July and it had been raining all day. I hadn’t anything to do, so I’d stayed at home watching, listening, feeling the rain. It was soothing. I had a lot to think about and the rain was a gentle accompaniment to my disjointed thoughts. I had the notion that if it didn’t stop raining, I might never go out again. It seemed as good a way as any to spend the rest of my life.

I was still wearing my pyjamas but I’d taken the time to shower and even put on a little makeup. My hair was in a style that looked much the same whether I was just out of bed or had spent an hour rubbing half of Boots through it. If someone called to the door unexpectedly I wouldn’t have to pretend I wasn’t there or make a mad dash to the bathroom. I didn’t see why I couldn’t continue like this for several days, whether it stopped raining or not. The phone was off the hook, but that had been an accident. My mobile was out of battery and my charger was somewhere under the couch or behind a chair. But nobody was likely to call.

Jean had moved out, although she was offering to come back for a little while. I was doing my utmost to assure her that there was no need. She was sharing a flat with a girl she used to work with and so far she was delighted. It was in a new development of luxury apartments with high ceilings and balconies facing the river. She was considering buying one if the opportunity arose. Her friend had been single for years, had no desire to be otherwise, and Jean found her easy company.

At the moment I couldn’t conceive of sharing my space with anyone. It was necessary that the air around me remained empty of other people’s thoughts and opinions. Even the physical presence of another person would have been too much. I couldn’t remember when I had last spent so