was an older, female replica of James, right down to his green eyes and assessing gaze. Her soft Italian accent was charming although she herself was not. She looked me over, her face tightening in disapproval as she perused my outfit. In her eyes I read the snobby certainty of my lower-class vulgarity. I squared my chin, resisted the urge to cover up with my mother’s trench coat and got into the black BMW.
The chauffeur was young and built like a bouncer. Now was as good a time as any to start forgetting about James, right? I asked his name so I could see his face.
“Bonaparte Muir of Barbados, miss,” he said politely, showing gorgeous brown skin and big almond eyes.
I gave him a flirty smile. “Paisley Benton of Brighton, sir.”
Francesca frowned and though the day was warm we journeyed in freezing silence. As soon as we arrived at the wedding I put on the trench coat and buttoned up.
The grounds outside Saint Albert’s were full. People walked between the faded, crumbling tombstones as they chatted and enjoyed the sunshine, waiting to be ushered inside. I lost myself among them and headed towards the secluded garden at the back.
It was lined by birch trees that separated the eighteenth-century church from the farmlands beyond. I stopped at the third-to-last trunk, looking for the initials I’d carved when I was ten, hiding from the Sunday school teacher. I traced my fingers over the old etchings and inhaled the woodsy scent of my memories.
When I could no longer avoid it I slipped into St Albert’s and squeezed into the last pew on the left, then wrinkled my nose. White roses decorated the aisles and windows, swamping the large church with their cloying scent and adding to my underlying nausea. God, I hate white. Black too. The world is stark enough as it is.
A few minutes later James came out of the vestry with the best man. My heart jumped, slowed and then picked up an erratic beat. He was even more arresting, more attractive than I remembered. Every caress we’d shared came surging back to me, filling me with undeniable longing. I stared at him, dismayed at my reaction.
Had I really thought I could drown his memory?
The violinists started their rendition of boringly unimaginative Pachelbel’s Canon and everyone stood up. James searched the church entrance for Caroline and zoned straight to me instead. Our eyes met and held. The instinctive thrum of recognition that sparked between us was like an intangible cord, linking us across the crowded church. His smile faltered and then faded entirely. A few people turned to stare at me curiously but I ignored them. Then the best man nudged James and he blinked, severing our connection.
A flash of white to my right signalled that Caroline and my father were walking past, but I didn’t look at them. All my attention was on James. Tenderness had suffused his features, softening his expression. At that moment I wished him happiness. I hoped that Caroline reserved her hatred for me alone. I could live with that as long as it meant that she wasn’t a bitch to James, that he never lost the beautiful smile on his face and—
Hold on a fucking minute! Where was the good will towards the pregnant druggie? Nobody was lining up to wish me a happy future. The bride and groom would have their idyllic lives while mine would be anything but, especially if Caroline had her way. She hated me too much to miss a chance to make me suffer.
Her words had kept me up most of the night.
I did it because it felt good.
The phrase whirled around my mind as I watched her reach the altar. She looked golden and ethereal in her flapper dress. Radiant, just like a bride should be, holding her bouquet of blood-red roses with her sheer veil floating behind her. My father was beaming as widely as Caroline, full of pride and dignity as he joined my mother in the front pew.
I looked at the bridesmaids. Caroline hadn’t even had the decency to clothe them in taffeta puffs or satin
The chauffeur was young and built like a bouncer. Now was as good a time as any to start forgetting about James, right? I asked his name so I could see his face.
“Bonaparte Muir of Barbados, miss,” he said politely, showing gorgeous brown skin and big almond eyes.
I gave him a flirty smile. “Paisley Benton of Brighton, sir.”
Francesca frowned and though the day was warm we journeyed in freezing silence. As soon as we arrived at the wedding I put on the trench coat and buttoned up.
The grounds outside Saint Albert’s were full. People walked between the faded, crumbling tombstones as they chatted and enjoyed the sunshine, waiting to be ushered inside. I lost myself among them and headed towards the secluded garden at the back.
It was lined by birch trees that separated the eighteenth-century church from the farmlands beyond. I stopped at the third-to-last trunk, looking for the initials I’d carved when I was ten, hiding from the Sunday school teacher. I traced my fingers over the old etchings and inhaled the woodsy scent of my memories.
When I could no longer avoid it I slipped into St Albert’s and squeezed into the last pew on the left, then wrinkled my nose. White roses decorated the aisles and windows, swamping the large church with their cloying scent and adding to my underlying nausea. God, I hate white. Black too. The world is stark enough as it is.
A few minutes later James came out of the vestry with the best man. My heart jumped, slowed and then picked up an erratic beat. He was even more arresting, more attractive than I remembered. Every caress we’d shared came surging back to me, filling me with undeniable longing. I stared at him, dismayed at my reaction.
Had I really thought I could drown his memory?
The violinists started their rendition of boringly unimaginative Pachelbel’s Canon and everyone stood up. James searched the church entrance for Caroline and zoned straight to me instead. Our eyes met and held. The instinctive thrum of recognition that sparked between us was like an intangible cord, linking us across the crowded church. His smile faltered and then faded entirely. A few people turned to stare at me curiously but I ignored them. Then the best man nudged James and he blinked, severing our connection.
A flash of white to my right signalled that Caroline and my father were walking past, but I didn’t look at them. All my attention was on James. Tenderness had suffused his features, softening his expression. At that moment I wished him happiness. I hoped that Caroline reserved her hatred for me alone. I could live with that as long as it meant that she wasn’t a bitch to James, that he never lost the beautiful smile on his face and—
Hold on a fucking minute! Where was the good will towards the pregnant druggie? Nobody was lining up to wish me a happy future. The bride and groom would have their idyllic lives while mine would be anything but, especially if Caroline had her way. She hated me too much to miss a chance to make me suffer.
Her words had kept me up most of the night.
I did it because it felt good.
The phrase whirled around my mind as I watched her reach the altar. She looked golden and ethereal in her flapper dress. Radiant, just like a bride should be, holding her bouquet of blood-red roses with her sheer veil floating behind her. My father was beaming as widely as Caroline, full of pride and dignity as he joined my mother in the front pew.
I looked at the bridesmaids. Caroline hadn’t even had the decency to clothe them in taffeta puffs or satin
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