Wedding Girl (12 page)

Òh shut up, Isobel!' cried Milly furiously.

Fine. I'll shut up.'

`Fine.'

There was silence for a while. Milly finished her cigarette, then stubbed it out on the windowsill.

Àren't you going to smoke yours?' she said, not looking at Isobel.

Ì don't think I want the rest of it. You can have it.'

'OK.' Milly took the half-burned cigarette, then glanced at her sister, momentarily distracted. Àre you OK?' she said. `Mummy's right, you look awful.'

Ì'm fine,' said Isobel shortly.

`You're not anorexic, are you?'

`No!' Isobel laughed. Òf course I'm not.'

`Well, you've been losing weight ...'

`So have you.'

`Have I?' said Milly, plucking at her clothes. Ìt's probably all this stress.'

`Well, don't stress,' said Isobel firmly. 'OK? Stressing is useless.' She pulled her knees up and hugged them. Ìf only we knew how far your divorce had actually got.'

Ìt didn't get anywhere,' said Milly hopelessly. Ì told you, I never went to court.'

`So what? You don't have to go to court to get a divorce.'

`Yes you do.'

`No you don't.'

'Yes you do!' said Milly. `They did in Kramer versus Kramer.'

`For God's sake, Milly!' exclaimed Isobel. `Don't you know anything? That was for a custody battle.'

There was a little pause, then Milly said, Òh.'

Ìf it's just a divorce, your lawyer goes for you.'

`What lawyer? I didn't have a lawyer.)

Milly took a final drag on Isobel's cigarette, then stubbed it out. Isobel was silent, her brow wrinkled perplexedly. Then suddenly she looked up.

`Well, maybe you didn't need one. Maybe Allan did all the divorcing for you.'

Milly stared at her.

'Are you serious?'

Ì don't know. It's possible.' Milly swallowed.

`So I might be divorced after all?'

Ì don't see why not. In theory.'

`Well, how can I find out?' said Milly agitatedly. `Why didn't I hear? Is there some official list of divorces somewhere? My God, if I found out I was actually divorced ...'

Ì'm sure there is,' said Isobel. `But there's a quicker way.'

`What?'

`Do what you should have done bloody years ago. Phone your husband.'

Ì can't,' said Milly at once. Ì don't know where he is.'

`Well then, find him!'

Ì can't.'

Òf course you can!'

Ì don't even know where to start! And anyway-' Milly broke off and looked away.

`What?' There was silence as Milly lit another cigarette with trembling hands. `What?' repeated Isobel impatiently.

Ì don't want to speak to him, OK?'

`Why not?' Isobel peered at Milly's downcast face. `Why not, Milly?'

`Because you're right,' said Milly suddenly, tears springing to her eyes. `You're right, Isobel! Those two were never my friends, were they? They just used me. They just took what they could get. All these years, I've thought of them as my friends. They loved each other so much, and I wanted to help them ...'

`Milly ...'

`You know, I wrote to them when I got back,' said Milly, star ing into the darkness. Àllan used to write back. I always planned to go back one day and surprise them. Then gradually we lost touch. But I still thought of them as friends.' She looked up at Isobel. `You don't know what it was like in Oxford. It was like a whirlwind romance between the three of us. We went punting, and we had picnics, and we talked into the night . . .' She broke off. Ànd they were probably just laughing at me the whole time, weren't they?'

`No,' said Isobel. Ì'm sure they weren't.'

`They saw me coming,' said Milly bitterly. À naive, gullible little fool who would do anything they asked.'

`Look, don't think about it,' said Isobel, putting her arm around Milly's shoulders. `That was ten years ago. It's over. Finished with. You have to look ahead. You have to find out about your divorce.'

Ì can't,' said Milly, shaking her head. Ì can't talk to him. He'll just be . . . laughing at me.' Isobel sighed.

`You're going to have to.'

`But he could be anywhere,' said Milly helplessly. `He just vanished into thin air!'

`Milly, this is the age of information,' said Isobel. `Thin air doesn't exist any more.' She took out a pen from her pocket and tore a piece of card off one of the wedding present boxes. `Now come on,' she said briskly. `Tell me where he used to live. And his parents. And Rupert, and Rupert's parents. And anyone else they used to know.'

An hour later, Milly looked up from the phone with triumph on her face.

`This could be it!' she exclaimed. `They're giving me a number!'

`Hallelujah!' said Isobel. `Let's hope this is him.' She gazed down at the road map in her lap, open at the index. It had taken Milly a while to remember that Rupert's father had been a headmaster in Cornwall, and another while to narrow the village name down to something beginning with T. Since then they had been working down the index, asking Directory Enquiries each time for a Dr Carr.

`Well, here it is,' said Milly, putting down the receiver and staring at the row of digits.

`Great,' said Isobel. `Well, get dialling!'

'OK,' said Milly, taking a deep breath. `Let's see if we've got the right number.'

I should have done this before, she thought guiltily, as she picked up the phone. I could have done this any time. But even as she dialled, she felt a painful dismay at what she was being forced to do. She didn't want to speak to Rupert. She didn't want to speak to Allan. She wanted to forget the bastards had ever existed; wipe them out of her memory.

`Hello?' Suddenly a man's voice was speaking in her ear and Milly gave a jump of fright.

`Hello?' repeated the man. Milly dug her nails into the palm of her hand.

`Hello,' she said cautiously. Ìs that Dr Carr?'

`Yes, speaking.' He sounded agreeably surprised that she should know his name.

Òh good,' said Milly, and cleared her throat. `May I ... may I talk to Rupert, please?'

`He's not here, I'm afraid,' said the man. `Have you tried his London number?'

`No, I haven't got it,' said Milly, amazed at how natural her voice sounded. She glanced over at Isobel, who nodded approvingly. Ì'm an old friend from Oxford. Just catching up.'

Àh, well he's in London now. Working as a barrister, you know, in Lincoln's Inn. But let me give you his home number.'

As Milly wrote down the number, she felt a bubble of astonishment expanding inside her. It was that simple. For years she'd thought of Rupert and Allan as people out of her life for ever; misty figures who might be anywhere in the world by now, whom she would never see again. And yet here she was, talking to Rupert's father, a phone call away from talking to Rupert himself. In a few minutes she would hear his voice. Oh God.

`Have I met you?' Rupert's father was saying. `Were you at Corpus?'

`No, I wasn't,' said Milly hurriedly. `Sorry, I must go. Thank you so much.'

She put the receiver down and stared at it for a few seconds. Then she took a deep breath, lifted it again and, before she could change her mind, tapped in Rupert's telephone number.

`Hello?' A girl's voice answered pleasantly.

`Hello,' said Milly, before she could chicken out. `May I talk to Rupert, please? It's quite important.'

Òf course. Can I say who's calling?'

Ìt's Milly. Milly from Oxford.'

While the girl was gone, Milly twirled the telephone cord round her fingers and tried to keep her breathing steady. She didn't dare meet Isobel's eye in case she collapsed with nerves. Ten years was a long time. What was Rupert like now? What would he say to her? She could hear faint music in the background, and pictured him lying on the floor, smoking a joint, listening to jazz. Or perhaps he was sitting on an old velvet chair, playing cards, drinking whisky. Perhaps he was playing cards with Allan.

A dart of nerves went through Milly. Maybe, any moment, Allan would be on the line.

Suddenly the girl was speaking again.

Ì'm sorry,' she said, `but Rupert's a bit tied up at the moment. Can I take a message?'

`Not really,' said Milly. `But maybe he could call me back?'

Òf course,' said the girl.

`The number's Bath 89406.'

`Got it.'

`Great,' said Milly. She looked down at the doodles on her notepad, feeling a sudden relief. She should have done all this years ago; it was easier than she'd thought. Àre you Rupert's flatmate?' she added, conversationally. Òr just a friend?'

`No, I'm neither,' said the girl. She sounded surprised. Ì'm Rupert's wife.'

CHAPTER SIX

RUPERT CARR SAT by the fire of his Fulham house, shaking with fear. As Francesca put down the phone she gave him a curious look, and Rupert felt his insides turn to liquid. What had Milly said to his wife? What exactly had she said?

`Who's Milly?' said Francesca, picking up her glass of wine and taking a sip. `Why don't you want to talk to her?'

`Just a weird g-girl I once knew,' said Rupert, cursing himself for stammering. He tried to shrug casually, but his lips were shaking and his face was hot with panic. Ì've no idea what she wants. I'll call her tomorrow at the office.' He forced himself to look up and meet his wife's eyes steadily. `But now I want to go over my reading.'

'OK,' she said, and smiled. She came over and sat down beside him on the sofa -a smart Colefax and Fowler sofa that had been a wedding present from one of her rich uncles. Opposite was a matching sofa which they'd bought themselves; on it sat Charlie and Sue Smith-Halliwell, their closest friends. The four of them were enjoying a quick glass of wine before leaving for the evening service at St Catherine's, at which Rupert would be reading. Now he avoided their eyes and stared down at his Bible. But the words swam before his eyes; his fingers sweated on the page.

`Sorry, Charlie,' said Francesca. She reached behind her and turned Kiri to Kanawa fractionally down.

`What were you saying?'

`Nothing very profound,' said Charlie, and laughed. Ì simply feel that it's up to people like us' he gestured to the four of them-`to encourage young families into the church.'

Ìnstead of spending their Sunday mornings at Homestore,' said Francesca, then frowned. `Do I mean Homestore?'

Àfter all,' said Charlie, `families are the core structure of society.'

`Yes, but Charlie, the whole point is, they're not!' exclaimed Sue at once, in a way which suggested the argument was not new. `Families are old news! It's all single parents and lesbians these days...'

`Did you read,' put in Francesca, àbout that new gay version of the New Testament? I have to say, I was quite shocked.'

`The whole thing makes me feel physically sick,' said Charlie, and gripped his wine glass tightly.

`These people are monsters.'

`Yes but you can't ignore them,' said Sue. `Can you? You can't just discount a whole section of society.

However misguided they are. What do you think, Rupert?'

Rupert looked up. His throat felt tight.

`Sorry,' he managed. Ì wasn't really listening.'

Òh sorry,' said Sue. `You want to concentrate, don't you?' She grinned at him. `You'll be fine. You always are. And isn't it funny, you never stutter when you're reading!'

Ì'd say you're one of the best readers in the church, Rupe,' said Charlie cheerfully. `Must be that university education. We didn't get taught much elocution at Sandhurst.'

`That's no excuse!' said Sue. `God gave us all mouths and brains, didn't he? What's the reading?'

`Matthew 26,' said Rupert. `Peter's denial.' There was a short silence.

`Peter,' echoed Charlie soberly. `What can it have been like, to be Peter?'

`Don't,' said Francesca, and shuddered. `When I think how close I came to losing my faith altogether ...'

`Yes, but you never denied Jesus, did you?' said Sue. She reached over and took Francesca's hand.

Èven the day after it happened, when I visited you in hospital.'

Ì was so angry,' said Francesca. Ànd ashamed. I felt as though I somehow didn't deserve a child.' She bit her lip.

`Yes but you do,' said Charlie. `You both do. And you'll have one. Remember, God's on your side.'

Ì know,' said Francesca. She looked at Rupert. `He's on our side, isn't he, darling?'

`Yes,' said Rupert. He felt as though the word had been forced off his tongue with a razor. `God's on our side.'

But God wasn't on his side. He knew God wasn't on his side. As they left the house and headed towards St Catherine's Church-ten minutes away in a little Chelsea square Rupert found himself lagging behind the others. He felt like lagging so slowly that he would be left behind altogether. He wanted to be overlooked; to be forgotten about. But that was impossible. No one at St Catherine's was ever forgotten.

Anyone who ventured through its portals immediately became part of the family. The most casual visitors were welcomed in with smiling enthusiasm, were made to feel important and loved, were exhorted to come again. Most did. Those who didn't reappear were cheerfully telephoned `Just checking you're OK. You know, we care about you. We really care.' Sceptics were welcomed almost more keenly than believers. They were encouraged to stand up and express their reservations; the more convincing their arguments, the broader the smiles all around. The members of St Catherine's smiled a lot. They wore their happiness visibly; they walked around in a shiny halo of certainty.

It had been that certainty which had attracted Rupert to St Catherine's. During his first year in chambers, miserably riddled with self-doubt, he had met Tom Innes, another barrister. Tom was friendly and outgoing. He had a secure social life built around St Catherine's. He knew all the answers and when he didn't know the answer, he knew where to look. He was the happiest man Rupert had ever met. And Rupert, who at that time had thought he would never be happy again, had fallen with an almost desperate eagerness into Tom's life; into Christianity; into marriage. Now his life had a regular pattern, a meaning to it which he relished. He'd been married to Francesca for three contented years, his house was comfortable, his career was going well.