After the ceremony, when we are milling around in happy clusters and I’m straining to keep my weight in the balls of my feet so my heels don’t sink into the grass, I stand with Fiona, peaceful, content. I allow my gaze to drift across the scene of celebration and make an effort to lock it in my mind. All day I’ve consciously tried to hold onto the precious moments: Mark’s expression as he first saw me drift towards him, the boys’ laughter breaking through the chatter at regular intervals – my ear is attuned to that sound now, I can identify their laughter in amongst other kids’ – the beautiful flower arrangements that are everywhere and fill the air with a heady, intoxicating scent, the fizz of champagne on my tongue, although I don’t really need alcohol, I’m already drunk on joy. Seb’s hot little hand has been firmly wedged in mine for a lot of the day but he slips my grasp and joyfully dashes off to join Oli and some other children who are clustering around the cupcake table.
I am awash with kind comments from my friends, casual as they feel free to dive in amongst this, the most intimate relationship and make a judgement call. You did well there! Well-meaning colleagues chime in too, He’s one of the good ones! He is liked, popular. Exceptionally so. Since I started dating him, I have been somewhat overwhelmed by the constant wave of praise he garners. Before him I largely dated men that people rarely approved of, let alone admired.
He is admirable. I can’t argue. Why would I even think of doing so? I have started joking that whilst people like me – they might even think I’m especially lovely, in fact – when they meet him, they like him more and they realise I’m actually the duff half of the couple! I make this joke with a smile in my voice, to show it doesn’t bother me. Because what kind of woman would I be if I was bothered that people like my husband inordinate amounts? I am not overlooked. If anything, people notice me more now that I am his, and that I have the boys. He is used to being centre stage. A wife dying so young begs attention, as does being a really excellent single dad. Mark smiles a lot; he likes being liked. I mean, who doesn’t? He doesn’t have to work at it. Even when he stops smiling, say to have a conversation with the Year 1 teacher about the kid who bit Oli, he’s still adorable. I’m so lucky he chose me.
‘It’s great that the weather hasn’t spoilt a thing!’ says Fiona.
‘I know, right.’ I shake my head.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What?’
She knows me too well. ‘OK, this is crazy, but you know how my mother gets under my skin?’
‘What’s she said now?’
‘Nothing. Well, nothing new. It’s just that when I saw the weather this morning I did have a moment when I couldn’t help but wonder, if there was a God was there a chance he was a bit miffed with me, feeling the brunt of my snub?’
‘Because you didn’t marry in a church?’ I can hear the amusement in Fiona’s voice. It helps. Her laughing at me exposes my silly superstition for what it is. Fear.
I allow myself to smile. ‘I guess he’s not that annoyed anyway. He hasn’t sent a plague and pestilence, just grey skies and a bit of early morning drizzle.’
‘Yeah, it’s pretty low-grade for a slighted Almighty. Maybe it’s Frances showing her displeasure,’ Fiona teases, poking me playfully in the ribs. ‘She’s up in heaven, looking down at you and she’s pretty pissed off that you’ve moved in on her hubby and kids and her home quite so swiftly.’ Fiona, who does not have a religious belief in her head, laughs as she says this. She squeezes my shoulder affectionately, to show me she’s teasing and means no harm at all.
I shiver. It is chilly and my floaty, flimsy dress was designed and picked for a brighter day.
‘Look, you’re shivering! She just walked over your grave.’ Fiona howls at her own joke. I love Fiona, but we’re not very alike. I’m all careful and good. Or at least I try to be. She’s wild and fun and often makes bad choices. It’s part of the reason I love her. It’s unreasonable of me to feel uncomfortable. A moment ago, Fiona’s irreverence was comforting. It’s not her fault she always takes things too far and she’s just stepped over to tactless, tasteless. Fiona only ever sees the joke, the joy. She clocks the anxiety in my face and softens. ‘Seriously, Leigh, chill. The poor weather is a bit of a shame, but we live in England, crap weather is an odds-on favourite, not a surprise or a punishment.’ I nod, bury my nose in my flowers. I want the clean, rich smell of the roses to overwhelm me. ‘You do know that if there was such a thing as an afterlife – which there isn’t –’ Fiona rolls her eyes, dismissively – ‘but if there was, and if Frances were looking down, surely she’d be really pleased that her sons have found a new mum to love them.’
‘I’m not trying to replace her.’ This is something I’ve said a hundred times in the months since I met and fell in love with Mark.
‘I know you aren’t, but you will, because the boys will love you and they will
