another.’
Just then Catherine came into the shop, looking fresh and pretty. Eck stood up and kissed her and then asked, ‘So when’s the great day?’
‘Next month. There’s no reason to wait any longer,’ Catherine told him.
‘I quite agree,’ said Eck. ‘The sooner you get married the sooner everyone will get used to the idea and stop making such a fuss.’
‘Are they making a fuss?’ asked Catherine. ‘I know my parents are. I haven’t talked to anyone else for a while.’
‘I was telling Wilberforce: no one talks of anything else, wherever I go.’
Catherine shuddered and said, ‘How awful: I hate the idea of being talked about. Eck, there’s something we want to ask you.’
Eck smiled. I suspect he knew what was coming.
After a glance at me, Catherine said, ‘Will you come to our wedding? Before you say yes, I should warn you: you’ll be the only guest.’
‘Of course I will,’ said Eck. ‘I’d give you away, except you’re not mine to give, so I’d better be Wilberforce’s best man.’
‘You are sweet to agree,’ said Catherine, and hugged Eck. Eck looked pleased, and as we all raised our glasses in a toast, I knew that he was also thinking what a good story it would make, and how many lunches and dinners he would be asked to, so that people could hear him make a joke of Catherine and me getting married, with Eck casting himself in the roles of father of the bride, best man, and witness.
After our wedding, we decided to go and live in London. There was too much history for us in the North: Catherine hardly dared go out for fear of meeting someone she knew, and being snubbed. Now I had sold the business and separated myself from Andy and all the others I had once worked with, there was nothing to keep me there either. A fresh beginning seemed like a good idea, to both of us.
We found a flat in Half Moon Street, in Mayfair. It cost an enormous amount of money, but I didn’t mind. It was ideal: two bedrooms, a kitchen, a small sitting room and, best of all, a basement that could be adapted to store some wine. Catherine was appalled when I told her how much it would cost to buy it and do it up, but I told her that the money from the sale of my business had to be put into something: why not property? I sold my flat in Newcastle and we moved south a month or two after we were married. It was a happy time. We settled into the new flat and started to do it up. It was just off Piccadilly and near almost everywhere we wanted to be near to.
We went to the theatre and the cinema, or a concert, or the opera, as Catherine loved music. We ate in a restaurant almost every other night. Catherine took up singing again, going one night a week to choir practice. I went to an evening class in wine-tasting once a week.
In the daytime I sat in my office making plans for the new software consultancy I was going to set up, and Catherine busied herself buying things for the flat, having chairs and sofas covered and arranging for curtains to be made. She had already decided the spare bedroom was going to be a nursery when the time came.
We had lunches - sometimes quite long lunches. I would open a bottle of wine or two, and we would sit and talk, and sip the wine, although Catherine never really drank her share, and then either I would go back to my desk, or we would go into Green Park if it was a sunny day, or walk down to Knightsbridge to look at the shops; or sometimes we would just go upstairs and go to bed together.
One morning I went out to the bank to arrange some money transfer or other, and came back to find Catherine sitting in the kitchen, crying. I went up to her and put my arms around her and asked, ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I rang my mother up, to see how she was.’
‘And how was she?’
Catherine wiped the tears from her cheeks with an angry gesture. ‘When she knew it was me, she put the phone down.’
It was only the occasional shadow such as that that interrupted our
Just then Catherine came into the shop, looking fresh and pretty. Eck stood up and kissed her and then asked, ‘So when’s the great day?’
‘Next month. There’s no reason to wait any longer,’ Catherine told him.
‘I quite agree,’ said Eck. ‘The sooner you get married the sooner everyone will get used to the idea and stop making such a fuss.’
‘Are they making a fuss?’ asked Catherine. ‘I know my parents are. I haven’t talked to anyone else for a while.’
‘I was telling Wilberforce: no one talks of anything else, wherever I go.’
Catherine shuddered and said, ‘How awful: I hate the idea of being talked about. Eck, there’s something we want to ask you.’
Eck smiled. I suspect he knew what was coming.
After a glance at me, Catherine said, ‘Will you come to our wedding? Before you say yes, I should warn you: you’ll be the only guest.’
‘Of course I will,’ said Eck. ‘I’d give you away, except you’re not mine to give, so I’d better be Wilberforce’s best man.’
‘You are sweet to agree,’ said Catherine, and hugged Eck. Eck looked pleased, and as we all raised our glasses in a toast, I knew that he was also thinking what a good story it would make, and how many lunches and dinners he would be asked to, so that people could hear him make a joke of Catherine and me getting married, with Eck casting himself in the roles of father of the bride, best man, and witness.
After our wedding, we decided to go and live in London. There was too much history for us in the North: Catherine hardly dared go out for fear of meeting someone she knew, and being snubbed. Now I had sold the business and separated myself from Andy and all the others I had once worked with, there was nothing to keep me there either. A fresh beginning seemed like a good idea, to both of us.
We found a flat in Half Moon Street, in Mayfair. It cost an enormous amount of money, but I didn’t mind. It was ideal: two bedrooms, a kitchen, a small sitting room and, best of all, a basement that could be adapted to store some wine. Catherine was appalled when I told her how much it would cost to buy it and do it up, but I told her that the money from the sale of my business had to be put into something: why not property? I sold my flat in Newcastle and we moved south a month or two after we were married. It was a happy time. We settled into the new flat and started to do it up. It was just off Piccadilly and near almost everywhere we wanted to be near to.
We went to the theatre and the cinema, or a concert, or the opera, as Catherine loved music. We ate in a restaurant almost every other night. Catherine took up singing again, going one night a week to choir practice. I went to an evening class in wine-tasting once a week.
In the daytime I sat in my office making plans for the new software consultancy I was going to set up, and Catherine busied herself buying things for the flat, having chairs and sofas covered and arranging for curtains to be made. She had already decided the spare bedroom was going to be a nursery when the time came.
We had lunches - sometimes quite long lunches. I would open a bottle of wine or two, and we would sit and talk, and sip the wine, although Catherine never really drank her share, and then either I would go back to my desk, or we would go into Green Park if it was a sunny day, or walk down to Knightsbridge to look at the shops; or sometimes we would just go upstairs and go to bed together.
One morning I went out to the bank to arrange some money transfer or other, and came back to find Catherine sitting in the kitchen, crying. I went up to her and put my arms around her and asked, ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I rang my mother up, to see how she was.’
‘And how was she?’
Catherine wiped the tears from her cheeks with an angry gesture. ‘When she knew it was me, she put the phone down.’
It was only the occasional shadow such as that that interrupted our
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