What? Am I waiting for the nail-biting moment to pass so that we can carry on and seal the deal? Or, truly, am I waiting for an interruption? Suddenly my head is full of sizzling messages that somehow won’t compute; instead they scream mindlessly, causing greater confusion in my spaghetti-like mind.
I know.
I know what I want but I can hardly bear to acknowledge it – to feel it, even. I take half the responsibility for my marriage.
I know. I want my mum to stand up and tell them she never saw me living the kind of life where you can’t find the loo door and you have to clap your hands to turn on the taps.
I know. I want Ben to stand up and tell them he loves Scott and that maybe Scott’s gay and the wedding shouldn’t go ahead. I look for Ben. He’s nowhere to be seen. Where are you, Ben? I need you.
I know. Above all, what I want, what I really, dearly want is for Adam to stand up and tell them – tell me – that he loves me and that the wedding can’t possibly go ahead. Is Adam even here? I couldn’t see him among the bobbing heads as I walked down the aisle. I turn a fraction and try to sneak a glance at the congregation out of the corner
No one stands up for me. I look around and everybody looks beautiful. Everybody looks buffed and gleaming, and preened and pampered, if not a little uncomfortable.
Mark coughs; he wants the vicar to carry on but the vicar’s noticed I’m crying and we’re not talking a quiet little tear sailing gently down my cheek. An elegant single tear is expected from a bride, almost
I turn to Scott. And what does Scott want? Scott longs to love one person, with all his heart, his soul, his mind, his body. That’s what was said in the reading. He wants this despite the odds, despite his pleas that he can’t control himself, that he has intimacy issues and that infidelity is part of his makeup. Secretly, he wants one person. I’m
‘I’m sorry,’ I mutter. I do love him even when he’s unlikeable, I do see the small child in him, just like the reading asked. But the love I feel is all about friendship. And while he’s my only offer on the table and he’s a very good offer, he’s not the offer I want. He’s not the one. I have to take responsibility in and out of a marriage. I manage to squeak again, ‘Sorry.’
Then I turn and run. I do the whole Cinderella thing, except I don’t even leave a shoe. I dash from that church and I just keep running.
73. Fern
No one tries to stop me. The congregation is frozen with shock and confusion and I’m determined to escape, so despite my precarious heel height, I’m nimble. Besides, even in a moment of extreme crisis Mark has the sense to assess the situation; no doubt he realizes a bundle of hefty security guards tackling me to the floor is not going to help this PR disaster.
Frantically I search for a vehicle to get me away from this nightmare. The horses and carriage I arrived with won’t cut it. I spot one of Scott’s security guards in a black BMW.
‘Change of plan,’ I yell as I pull at his arm and drag him from the car. Terrified by my crazy, irrational behaviour he gives up the fight – and the car – immediately.
I drive and drive. I’m unsure where to go and initially I have no plan. I can’t go directly to the airport, I don’t have a passport and I’m wearing my wedding gown – that sort of thing causes quite a stir at airports. I don’t want to go back to Scott’s; I’ve just dumped him at the altar. I don’t want to check into a hotel or go anywhere people might recognize me and call the press. The last thing I need now is a howling pack of paparazzi on my trail. I think of the places where I’ve been happy in LA. The Getty Center? Disneyland? I think I’m a little overdressed to merge into the crowds
I haven’t done much driving in America since I arrived here, I’ve always had Barry to ferry me around, but, from the passenger seat, I’ve managed to pick up the majority of the city’s geography. I thank God for the US grid pattern; their roads are so logical and uncomplicated, it doesn’t take long before I am heading downtown towards the flower district in Wall Street.
I park the car as close as I can to the block-long row of stalls. The attendant notes my attire and asks laughingly whether a delivery failed to show. I don’t find the words to answer but instead start to float towards the beautiful scent of lush blooms that signposts what I anticipate to be a staggering array of flowers.
I spot a huge, open warehouse. I can already see stall after stall of colourful amaryllis, hydrangeas, chrysanthemums and gerberas; the sight of them is the equivalent of seeing a good friend holding a glass of wine and a bar of chocolate. A plump, smiley lady asks me for a two-dollar entrance fee. I mutter that I’m not carrying any money. She shrugs and says, ‘Well, it’s late, we’re closing up anyways soon. You might as well go on in there.’
I try to smile to convey my thanks.
‘Nice dress,’ she adds. ‘Don’t get it wet.’
The bustling activity I normally expect to encounter at a flower market has started to subside. No doubt most of the day’s trading has been completed; growers, shippers, wholesalers, distributors, floral designers, event planners and retail florists will have poured through these doors this morning, even earlier than Colleen surged into my bedroom. Now there are just a few non-commercial customers wandering around. Women who are throwing dinner parties this weekend looking for deals on the flora for their centrepieces and some guys buying bouquets for their mothers and lovers. There are a few couples; most look newly engaged. Brides-to-be can be easily identified because they are generally stressed but determined; the grooms-to-be are romantic but clueless and together they search for floral inspiration for their big day. More than one bride-to-be looks at me with horror and suspicion, then takes a wide berth as though I’m bad luck. Admittedly, I must be a sight. I’m wearing the most exquisite wedding gown ever created and I’m wearing my mascara in panda bear patches. I probably do look unlucky.
On the other hand, the burly men who are closing up their stalls barely give me a second glance. Perhaps they’ve seen other brides wander among their flowers like lost ghosts. I watch the stallholders’ efficient and confident actions as they pack and stack empty crates, hose the floor and load up their vans. I’m soothed by the familiarity of their simple, uncomplicated work. I’ve missed the clank of trolleys, the thud of plastic buckets clunking on wet cement floor and the noisy blaring radios pulsing in the background. LA flower market has its own flavour. In
I wander aimlessly around the vast market, concentrating on nothing other than breathing deeply. I cross my arms in front of my body and frantically rub my hands up and down my arms, over and over again, in a hopeless effort to warm up. I’m freezing because I’m wearing a scant, shimmery number and there are dozens of huge fridges, introduced to keep the flowers cool on piping hot days, but this slight physical discomfort hardly matters. What have I done?
I realize I’ve probably ruined Scott’s career, although I know I haven’t broken his heart – it doesn’t belong to me. By running out on the wedding I’ve wasted hundreds of thousands of pounds and I’ve passed up the opportunity to enjoy millions more. As soon as the world’s press gets hold of the story everyone will agree that I am the most stupid, ungrateful woman on the planet.
But the more I stare at orchids wrapped like newborn babies – with tenderness and padding – and the deeper I breathe in the elegant fragrance of radiant ranunculus, which refreshes my lungs after so many dark smoky days behind closed doors, the more I think I’ve just done the bravest and best thing in my life. I thought my future was all about a wedding but it’s not. When I saw Scott on stage he seemed to offer an escape route. I should have recognized it for what it was; a stonking great crush. I got carried away. No, I ran away. There’s a difference.
I watch a group of voluble and raucous Mexican guys
The question pops into my head, despite my resolute efforts to block any soul-searching. I concentrate hard on the startling amaryllis and the delicate dendrobium orchids. But the harsh realities won’t go away. I have no boyfriend, no job, no home, no future. These facts are icy cold and can’t be softened, even by confident lisianthus.
