Hand On Heart: Sequel to Head Over Heels (13 page)

The downside to being on holiday with friends was the lack of privacy at moments like this when you most needed it, Grace thought.  She signalled to Tom that she’d meet him up in their room, asked Imogen if she’d mind watching the twins for a moment, and slipped away from the poolside. 

‘Love, whatever’s the matter?’ she asked, when they were safely inside the room. 

‘That bloody woman called me.  Sophie.  Haven’t heard from her in years and then a call today, of all things.  Said she wanted to see me.’

‘Well, maybe she does just want to catch up?’ Grace said, wincing at the weakness of that particular argument, but trying to believe that all people have a nice part to them, deep down.  In Sophie’s case she thought it was probably unlikely. Grace knew enough about her to recognise that she was the kind of woman who would only do something if she had an ulterior motive.  She had met her only the once, but even then thought there was a side to her that no one really saw, something not quite right under the surface. 
Scratch off the beautiful face and reveal the evil witch inside
.  She should stop those thoughts now, such negativity wasn’t helpful to Tom at all.  But what could Sophie possibly want with him after all this time?

Tom had been well and truly over Sophie when he and Grace got together, but she was still a subject that they had discussed at length in the early days of their relationship.  But then Grace had talked a lot about Mark, too.  Both of them had been in big, serious relationships, with people that they thought were going to be their life partners, so it was obvious there would be issues to talk about.  The fact that Tom had spent only a year with Sophie, whereas her time with Mark was considerably longer, didn’t matter.  They’d both suffered from the breakups and had different issues to deal with, had been through experiences that made them the people they were today, plus the fact that each wanted to know everything about the other, no matter how painful the details.  There were no secrets between the pair of them, and goodness knows life was too short to try and deal with issues like this on your own.  It was a cliché but both of them thought, hand on heart, that a problem shared was a problem halved.

‘She’s trouble.  I could tell by the tone of her voice.  She wants something from me, but I’m damned if I know what.  I mean, what can she possibly want after all this time?’

Tom paced the room, gradually slowing down as his blood pressure returned to normal.

Grace felt like she should be the voice of reason, even if there was no reason to be had.

‘You never know, give her the benefit of the doubt.  It could all be perfectly innocent.’

‘Innocent?  With Sophie?  No, I don’t think so.  I gave her short shrift, anyway, so hopefully she won’t call again and I’ll never get to find out.  Not that I’ll be missing out on much.  I can live without that.’

Tom’s phone beeped with a text.  Sophie again.  Damn it, he should have blocked her number.  He’d do that now and then this would all be over before it even started.

But then he caught sight of the message.

‘Tom.  Have to speak to you urgently.  Your son is ill.’

It took a full three weeks before Mark’s mother found the strength to go back to London and face her husband.  He had phoned every day – usually more than once – to speak to her, professing his profound regret, his deepest undying love, his wish that he could turn back time, and so the list went on.  In the early days Alex had to hear all this, as Margaret refused to talk to him.  Being exposed to her in-laws’ dirty laundry at such close proximity was no fun.

‘You will tell her, won’t you, Alex dear?’ he had pleaded on the phone.  ‘Tell her I called, tell her I love her and that I’m sorry.’  Alex had always known Bruce as a very staid and formal man, so to hear this much emotion in his voice, and his expressions of love towards his wife, had been quite a shock.  She had to relay all this to Margaret, and was highly uncomfortable with her role as messenger.  Even though this was all taking place in her own home, she still didn’t feel it was her business, but in a situation such as this, intervention seemed like the only option.  She wanted Margaret to go home at some point, so that life for their family could return to normal, and the only way to achieve that was to keep passing on the messages, until Margaret eventually thawed enough to speak to Bruce herself. 

Then there had been the letters.  Almost every day one arrived, and Mark and Alex could only imagine that these bore the same content as the telephone calls.  As with the calls, to start with Margaret had refused to entertain them.  She screwed up the letters and threw them in the kitchen bin.  She never tore them up though, and gradually, as her hardened emotions started to thaw, Alex knew that her mother-in-law was going back and retrieving them when she thought no one was looking.  Finally it seemed that the old lady was coming round to the idea of reconciliation, and maybe they wouldn’t be stuck with her forever. 

Funnily enough it was Grace that got Alex through this tricky patch with their house guest.  They’d spoken a lot over the past couple of weeks, even with Grace now away in France.

‘Lucky you, wheedling out of getting her as a mother-in-law,’ Alex joked with her friend.

‘She never liked me, anyway,’ Grace replied.  ‘I bet you, if I had actually got as far as walking down the aisle with Mark – which, for your sake, I’m glad I didn’t – she’d have been the one to jump up when the vicar asks if anyone present knows of any lawful impediment to this marriage, and shout out that I wasn’t good enough for her son, that I was a harridan and a wastrel, something like that.  At least she loves you, you know, and I reckon the moment she set eyes on you, which must have been at one of our parties or something, she’d earmarked you as better potential daughter-in-law material than me.  Terrible really, she never gave me a chance, and then me running off with someone else, well, that just confirmed to her that her instincts about me were right.  I am a harridan and a wastrel.’

Alex laughed.  Her friend was an absolute tonic.  Sometimes she felt it should be stranger than it was that she was married to Grace’s ex-fiancée, but most of the time, it simply wasn’t.  Whilst neither would ever divulge the deepest and most personal parts of their relationships with Mark to the other, they had shared experiences, and Mark’s mother and her funny ways was just one of those experiences. 

‘I miss you, out there.  How is France?  Are you all having a fab time?’

‘It’s great.  The kids are having a ball, well, we all are.  It’s a fabulous place.  Plus there’s the added bonus of not being in the same village as your mother-in-law, or even the same country, come to that.’

Alex guffawed again.  Grace was brilliant, she loved her to bits.

The relief on Alex’s face when Margaret climbed into Mark’s car for the drive to the station was palpable.  Mark thought his wife had grown two inches taller in seconds, as she waved his mother off with a beaming smile.  She had put up with a lot, he knew that, after all she was the one who was home all the time, doing full time Granny-care, as Millie called it.

Mark felt for her, and was so grateful for the help she had given, but Alex felt sorry for the kids, who’d had the excitement of the first couple of weeks of their long summer holiday overshadowed by Margaret’s arrival.  It hadn’t been easy for any of them.  Alex felt – maybe unnecessarily – that one of them should be with her all the time, and so there had been endless games of Scrabble, walks up the hill, taking Granny to the shops and generally babysitting her and trying to take her mind off events.  Thank goodness she had finally gone, hopefully to patch up her marriage.  She had made Bruce sweat for a few weeks, then announced that she had always planned to go back to him, once she’d made him suffer for a while. 
Well, thanks for involving us all in your little plan,
Alex thought to herself more than a little begrudgingly.  It had been hard for her not to start resenting her mother-in-law; adult family members just weren’t meant to live under the same roof for more than a couple of nights at a time.

‘Serves him right,’ Margaret said on her final evening, as the adults finished dinner and they discussed her return to London.  The children had all been excused to go off and do their own thing – it was a beautiful evening and Mark thought they had had their fair share of Granny.  ‘Thank you all so much, though.  Despite the silly old bugger and his antics, I’ve actually had a very lovely time with you all.  Some proper quality time.  You really are amazing parents, you know, you two.  You should be very proud.  Makes me realise just how much of your childhood I missed, Mark, you and David.  I’m so sorry.  Nothing should ever be more important than your own children, and you two have it just right.  Your children are amazing.’

‘It’s OK, Mum,’ Mark had replied simply, his mother’s comments touching him deeper than he was prepared to let on.  He went round to her chair and hugged her, as she dabbed at her eyes.  It was probably the nicest thing his mother had ever said to him.

Blimey, that’s one to tell Grace about the old bat
, Alex thought to herself.

Alex and Mark’s wedding was a spectacular affair.  Alex hadn’t intended it to be, and by that she didn’t mean that she didn’t want it to be absolutely wonderful, which she did, but just that she didn’t want it to turn into Wedding Number One, all over again, just with Husband Number Two.  She needed to cherish the memories of both weddings, not have the two special days blurring together and then wondering a few years down the line, when she was old and grey and reminiscing, just which wedding a particular memory had come from.  Both men were too precious to her for that to happen.

Peter and Alex were married in her parents’ local church, and then there had been a marquee in their garden, but that was where the similarity was to end.  Second time round there would have to be a marquee again, the house wouldn’t accommodate so many guests, and you could never quite rely on the weather in early autumn to do what it ought to and stay warm and dry, and therefore some kind of cover was needed.  The children were all going to be attendants of some sort
–
even Archie, who was positively allergic to dressing up smartly, was looking forward to his role as chief usher.  The girls were to be bridesmaids and Bertie pageboy
–
so that was a major difference to start with. 

And there were some rules, too, to further differentiate between the two occasions.  No big white dress, no top table, no formal speeches.  Alex had instructed her father that under no circumstances was he was to prepare a speech.  She told him she didn’t want any spoons banging on glasses to silence the guests, but if he should fancy saying a few words off the cuff, once the evening was in full swing, then he would be allowed to, but he’d have to grab the microphone from the DJ and do it that way.  That was bound to put him off, and she would happily put money on him keeping quiet all evening.  The last thing she wanted was the ‘I’m handing my daughter over to this man, I’m not losing a daughter, but I’m gaining a son,’ sort of speech.  They’d done that last time, she was too old, and she had been through too much for it to be relevant now.  Nor did she need the best man
–
Mark’s brother
–
fishing around for stories about her that he could regale the guests with.  David hadn’t known her when she was young and naive, in the days when she was likely to commit the sort of acts that warranted inclusion in a best man’s speech – again that had all been done last time by Peter’s best man.  David had first met her when she was in the role of widow and mother of three, a sensible, mature woman who had seen tragedy in her life, but who had been lucky enough to find another man to love.  That was the message that she wanted to come across about the whole day:  Love.  We are marrying because we love one another, simple as that.  It was to be a day of celebration, not ceremony.

The day dawned to glorious sunshine.  Alex felt as nervous as a virgin bride, but only because she wanted everything to go to plan.  She came out of the bathroom and gazed up at her wedding dress, hanging on the front of the wardrobe.  It was beautiful.  A straight dress in oyster pink antique lace, from the vintage shop in Worcester.  The lady who sold it to her reckoned it had been salvaged from a local country house, when the National Trust had taken it over.  Well, whether that was true or not, it had fared very well, and whatever its age, it was just right for today, understated, simple and classy. 
Just like me,
Alex sighed to herself with a giggle. 
Well, maybe not the simple bit.
  She slipped it over her head and the dreamy fabric settled around her curves.  Just a touch of makeup
–
she never wore much anyway
–
a twist and a clip to secure her hair, and a glance in the mirror told her she was ready.  Millie and Rosie came bursting in, pretty as a picture in their frothy cream dresses, and bouncing with excitement.  And then she spied her boys on the landing and a lump caught in her throat. Archie was helping his little brother fasten his bow tie; the pair of them looked divine in their morning suits, proper young gentlemen.  She gasped at the similarity between Archie now, and Peter on their wedding day, all those years ago.  Archie was so like his father.

She smiled as she watched Bertie.  He was one of those children who somehow never managed to look properly smart, whatever he was wearing.  Today he might be all buttoned up and pinned down, but there was that reckless streak peeping through, his tie slightly wonky, and his hair sticking up in places as though a bird had nested in it overnight.  Mabel came bounding in; even she had a huge pink bow tied round her collar in honour of the occasion.  It was clearly annoying her, as she kept turning round and trying to bite it.

Alex grabbed her brood and pulled them all towards her in a huge hug.  ‘My darlings, I love you all so much.’  And before she could start crying with the happiness that threatened to overwhelm her, she took a deep breath.  ‘Come on guys, let’s go get Mummy married!’

Mark had spent the night at the same hotel as his brother.  This might be second time round for Alex, but she had to remember that Mark had never been married before, and so he wanted to do as much as he could in the traditional way, which for him meant not bringing bad luck into the marriage by seeing his bride the night before.  He was happy to do pretty much everything else the way Alex wanted it, he could understand why she wouldn’t want to replicate her first wedding.  Besides which, he didn’t want to feel like all he was doing was filling Peter’s shoes; he hated the thought of any guest who might have been at Alex’s first wedding going away comparing the relative merits or otherwise of both occasions.  He was his own man, and his relationship with Alex was as far more than merely replacement husband. 

Mark did have one or two surprises up his sleeve for Alex
–
pretty big surprises, actually
–
which he hoped she would love.  It had been a devil to keep them a secret; he had needed Archie’s help in organising them, so had to tell him, but he was pretty sure Archie was mature enough not to spill the beans to his brother and sisters.  There was no doubt that Rosie would have blurted everything out instantly, bless her.

‘I, Mark, take you, Alexandra, to be my wife,’ Mark gulped, tears welling in his eyes.  How he was going to get through these vows without crumbling seemed an impossible thought at the moment.

‘To have and to hold, from this day forward.’  He sniffed and drew a deep breath, as he looked into the eyes of the woman he loved.

‘For better, for worse,’ the vicar prompted, thinking that in the heat of the moment, Mark had forgotten the vows he had so carefully learnt.

‘For better, for worse,

‘For richer, for poorer,’ he carried on unaided.

‘In sickness and in health,

To love and to cherish,

Till death us do part.’  Please God, he sent up a silent prayer, let Alex never have to go through with me what she went through with Peter. Let us both live till a ripe old age, and then quietly slip away, together.  No one should have to suffer pain like that. 

The rest of the ceremony passed in a dream for Alex.  She and Mark barely took their eyes from one another and as the vicar declared, ‘I therefore proclaim that they are husband and wife,’ she breathed out.  How long had she been holding her breath for?

Her new husband kissed her, then pulled her close, then there was an immense cheer from the congregation.  Were they allowed to cheer in church?  She didn’t care, it was lovely and spontaneous and then… hang on minute, who were all these people standing up at the back with trombones and trumpets and goodness knows what else?

There was a ripple from the audience
–
how many of them had been in the know about this?
–
and then the band began with what sounded like The Beatles’ ‘All you need is love’.  Mark’s friend from work, Josh, stood up and grabbed a microphone that somehow Alex had failed to spot as her father had walked her into church earlier.  There was another huge cheer.  Alex knew exactly where this was heading.

‘There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done,

Nothing you can sing that can’t be sung,

Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game,

It’s easy…’ began Josh, in a deep, soulful voice. 

Alex was gobsmacked and her hand went to her mouth in disbelief.  It was emotional enough seeing this happen in the film; she had watched ‘Love Actually’ so many times with Mark, it was her ‘go-to’ film when she just wanted to watch something lovely.  Or when Christmas was coming.  Or any time really.  That wedding scene always made her cry.  Keira Knightley looked so beautiful and then she married her perfect man and then their friends erupted into that very same song, from within the congregation, the upstairs balcony, all around, until it seemed like everyone was playing an instrument.  And… oh my God, this was happening at her own wedding.  Oh wow, she couldn’t quite believe it…

‘All you need is love,

All you need is love,

All you need is love, love,

Love is all you need.’

Absolutely amazing.  This tiny village church didn’t have the benefits of an upstairs balcony, nor did enough of their friends play instruments, but the effect was the same.  The band was brilliant and Josh’s voice was amazing.  And then Archie, yes, her very own Archie, popped up in the pulpit with his electric guitar.  Just like in the film.  More tears streamed down her face.  Bless him, he hadn’t been playing very long, it must have taken him ages to practice this.  And when had he practiced it?  Surely she would have heard him at home?  He played brilliantly, looking like the proper rock star up there with all the actions.  Oh…oh…

‘Oh, Mark,’ she managed through the tears.  ‘You are wonderful.  This is just… just…’

‘You don’t need to say anything,’ he replied.  Just hold me quickly so no one can see me crying, too!’

The evening reception whizzed through way too fast.  Alex flitted from friend to family member, from child to adult, making sure she spoke to everyone, ensuring every memory was well etched into her brain.  She couldn’t forget one single moment of this, it had been an amazing day, and it wasn’t over yet.  She just hoped to goodness someone had filmed every second, especially that song in church.  She was still reeling at all the trouble her new husband had gone to.  And Archie, well, she was proud of him beyond words.

It was late into the evening when an Indian man, smartly dressed in a long kurta and turban, tapped her on the shoulder.  He looked just like Jimmy from the Indian restaurant in Purbrook.  Hang on, it
was
Jimmy.  What on earth was he doing at her wedding? 

‘Takeaway for Mrs Hopper?’ he asked, presenting her with a large box.  ‘Open please, missus.’

‘But I didn’t…’ Alex began.

‘No, you didn’t, but I did,’ Mark replied mysteriously.  ‘Do as the man says and open the box.’

Alex lay the box on the table and unwrapped the cellophane.  The DJ had cut the music and everyone was watching them.

Inside was an iPod docking station, iPod attached.

‘Press Play,’ Mark said.

‘Oh my God,’ Alex exclaimed, as Bollywood music started to play.  ‘What’s happening now?’ 

She didn’t have to wait long to find out, as a string of gorgeous Indian Bhangra dancers, in sequinned saris, began to stream into the room.  Mark whipped the iPod up to the DJ, who plugged it into his speakers, and they were surrounded by this amazing music, and these beautiful dancers, and Alex was overwhelmed.  She didn’t know where to look first, couldn’t take it all in.

The dancing only lasted five minutes or so, then all the guests watched as the dancers disappeared behind the side of the marquee, only to reappear seconds later bearing a variety of Indian dishes, which they placed on the central table, aided now by what looked like all of Jimmy’s waiting staff from the restaurant.

‘Well, what more could everyone want, after a night of booze and dancing, than a curry, don’t you agree?’  Mark laughed, pleased that his other surprise had been well received by his new wife.  Well, she couldn’t fail to love it, it was fabulous.  Hours of planning, yes, but worth every second he had spent, just to see the look on her face.

‘Mr Hopper, darling husband of mine,’ Alex began, somewhat drunkenly.  ‘You are amazing, you are the master of surprises.  This is the BEST wedding I have ever been to.  I love you.’  She hiccupped.  ‘And now, I think you and I should go and get some of that curry before this lot wolf it all down!’

Alex stared in puzzlement at the screen.  How on God’s earth had that happened?  Honestly, all she had done, or so she’d thought, was go on one of these Facebook quizzes that were forever popping up on her Timeline.  This one was ‘Can we guess who you are?’  A fifty-year-old artist friend of hers had come out as a twenty-six-year-old man who loved beer and darts, so clearly it was a load of absolute rubbish, but Alex could never resist.  These things were put on earth to distract middle aged women from more serious tasks such as getting on with dinner. 

‘What do you think of this car?’ asked the first question, and underneath was a cartoon picture of a red sports car of indecipherable make.  The obvious answer for Alex was ‘A waste of money.’  Shame there wasn’t an answer which said ‘Something my teenage son drew for an art project.’  OK, so that will make them think I’m a woman.