striving for.’ I let go of him and point both fingers to my tear-stained, mascara-smeared face. ‘Yes, I have a therapist,’ I announce. ‘Welcome to April.’
His hand on my knee squeezes tighter. ‘I want to trust you April.’
‘Right back at you.’
We sit in the rain. We don’t kiss. All that’s gone on can’t magically melt away just because we’ve had one honest conversation. I’m still at war with myself, unsure if I’m on the cusp of yet another bout of hurt, rejection, and reducing of myself. Yet I’m struggling to let go of his knee.
‘We should probably go in,’ I say, sensing that this is as far as we can get right now. That we’ve reached our limit on the emotional window being open and need to digest and think and come to imperfect decisions based on our imperfect actions. ‘The speeches are before pudding, and I want to hear Mark’s speech. Chrissy’s really looking forward to it.’
‘Yeah … um … sure.’
I take Joshua’s hand and lead him over the gravel and back into the dryness of the very lovely conservatory. I can’t believe he’s letting me take his hand and it’s awkward between us the moment we’re inside – shivering and dripping onto the parquet. I wince a smile at him, and he winces one back. Both of us chilled in the cringe aftermath that follows deep heart-to-hearts. I can hear the echoing applause of a speech ending. I wonder if we’ve missed it.
‘We’ll distract everyone if we come in now all wet,’ I whisper to Josh. ‘Should we just peer around the door?’
He nods and we make sodden footsteps towards the threshold of the dining hall. Waiters are lined up in the corridor, brandishing martini glasses filled with Eton mess, waiting for the speeches to finish. They eye us curiously, but don’t say anything. I peer in, watching everyone twisted in the direction of the top table. Chrissy’s dad is sitting down, looking flushed and relieved. Mark is fiddling with the mic, checking it’s still turned on. It feels a bit voyeuristic, watching through a gap in the door, but I don’t think anyone would appreciate us rocking in right now, with half my make-up cried off. Mark stands, puts his hands in his suit pocket. I watch Chrissy’s face. She’s beaming up at him, so much love gooing out of her. He’s so lucky that she loves him, I hope he knows it. I hope he tells her and makes this speech worth it.
‘Hi, everyone, and thanks for coming,’ Mark says, not removing any cards from his pocket. Not a good sign. ‘As you know, I’m not a man of many words but I just want to say …’ I look at Chrissy’s poised face, smiling, joyful, patient, waiting. Mark coughs. ‘… It’s great that you all came here today. It means the world to Chrissy and me to have you here.’
Then Mark is sitting down.
Sitting down.
Back on his chair. Like the speech is over. Which it must be. Chrissy’s face is on pause, as she computes whether that’s it or not. I see the exact moment she realises that’s all she’s getting. There’s a millisecond where her features collapse, where the hope he may be different, just for once, on their wedding day, because it’s important to her, falls out of her stomach. She blinks. Smiles. Recovers. And stands herself as everyone claps half-heartedly, trying not to shrug at one another. Chrissy stands to repeat her thanks to everyone. My heart is breaking for her. It’s her wedding day. The one thing she wanted on the one day she needed it the most and he didn’t do it.
My anger and bitterness rush in, despite the damp, forgiving, hand holding mine. I want to drop it. I want to go and scream in Mark’s face. I want Chrissy to get what she deserves. Why do any of us bother? I find myself thinking. Really? What is the payoff for the disappointment?
Yet Joshua’s hand is still in mine in this doorway. I’ve cried on him, and told him my name isn’t Gretel, and revealed all my chaotic mess, and he is still here. He’s not run out of the door, or called me crazy, or assumed the worst. He’s just asked for an explanation and listened to what I had to say. We still need to talk, oh boy, do we need to talk, but the fact he’s still here is new. This is not what I’m used