Chapter eight

Erin

An orchiectomy sounds so much nicer than it actually is. It sounds as if it involves orchids and petals and maybe angels gently stroking you. It does not sound as if someone is shelling one of your testicles from your scrotum like a pea from a pod.

The doctor spoke and I sat holding Paddy’s hand, gripping as tightly as I could. Paddy’s eyes were focused straight ahead and he was nodding – but his nodding was all off. There was no rhythm between the doctor finishing his sentences and Paddy’s responses. I knew it was up to me to take it all in. Cancer. Well, most likely cancer. They couldn’t be sure, you see, until they popped that bad boy out and looked at it under a microscope. The blood tests didn’t look good though. Or the ultrasound.

Paddy had tried to make jokes through it. As he lay on the table, with his tackle on display, he had told me he never thought he would be the one in our relationship to have ultrasounds. I’d laughed and said my turn would come to worry about ultrasounds. Which was ironic, given that they were talking about taking half of his baby-making equipment away. I felt my head swim a little and nipped at my leg to bring myself back into focus. I had to be the strong one.

They wouldn’t waste much time, the doctor said. They would book him in straight away. They would whip that bad boy out as soon as they could. And they would poke at it and dissect it like it was the main course in a Bushtucker Trial. I glanced at Paddy and he had gone quite pale. I didn’t blame him.

“What are my chances?” he said and I wanted to block my ears.

I didn’t want to hear about chances – I wanted certainties. I wanted ‘It will be all rights’.

“Testicular cancer is one of the most treatable cancers,” the doctor said solemnly. “If you’re going to get cancer this is the kind that you’d want to get, in most cases. Hopefully we have caught this early but the only way to really know is to get in there and look at what we are facing.”

“And you have to remove it?” Paddy asked. “You can’t just do a biopsy or whatever?”

“I’m afraid not. The only way to be really sure is to look at it all. We can insert a prosthetic testicle into your scrotum during surgery if you want.”

“And sperm. Should I freeze my, erm, sperm?”

“You may want to consider that, yes. As a precaution. If you need chemotherapy it will probably halt your sperm production – though in most cases the sperm count increases eventually and may even return to normal.”

Paddy nodded – a nod that went on a little too long.

“Try not to worry too much,” the doctor added as if cancer was something you could just shake off like the common cold. “Until we know what we are facing, try to remember the odds are in your favour.”

I didn’t want to hear about odds.

We walked out of the office holding hands but Paddy soon let go.

“Don’t tell anyone about this,” he said, facing straight ahead. “Not until we know. Not until we know everything.”

I reached out to him but he shrugged away.

“Erin, this isn’t personal. But I can’t just now. I just can’t.”

“Erin!” Paddy called from the car as I glanced one last time in the mirror to check on my hair and whether or not it was behaving itself.It was mildly frizzy but maintaining a degree of restraint with the help of some heavy-duty clips. I smoothed it again and looked myself up and down. A crisp white V-neck figuredT-shirt. Some nicely pressed cargo pants. A pair of new mules with toenails freshly painted.I looked nice and neat and tidy as if I wouldn’t stand for anyone messing with me. I didn’t know why but I was slightly nervous about meeting our wedding co-ordinator at the hotel. I knew that technically she was on my side but whenever she started talking about corkage charges, room hire and buffets I got uncomfortable. Mental maths was so not my thing. Weddings were not my thing – and even though she was perfectly lovely, I couldn’t help but worry that she was trying to rip us off. Therefore, rule one of any meeting with the very bubbly and excitable Fiona was that we went looking our best, in nice clothes with an air of importance about us. This was easier for me admittedly than it was for Paddy who was looking a little frail these days but, still, the effort was worth making.

“Erin!” he called again, as I heard his key turn in the ignition. I grabbed my bag and my keys and clattered down the hallway at lightning speed.

“Are you okay to drive?” I asked him as I clambered in beside him.

“Erin, yes, I’m okay to drive. How many times?” He winked at me and smiled but there was a hint of irritation in his voice which didn’t go unnoticed.

I tried to let it wash over me – and I tried to remind myself even more not to fuss.

“So,” I said, “we are going for a choice of main course. Prosecco and strawberries on arrival for our guests – a fruit punch for the lightweights. A buffet at ten, just a small one, and chair covers and white linen tablecloths.” I said all this with a feigned enthusiasm for his benefit.

“It will be a brilliant day,” he said. “I’m really looking forward to it.”

“Me too,” I lied, as we headed in the direction of mad Fiona and the very expensive hotel where I would be handing over even more of my money for the sake of a great day out for our family and friends.

Jules had said I needed to start getting excited about it. Yes, she said, she knew I was a wedding-phobe and that, given what had happened with my one previous serious but ultimately doomed relationship, she could understand why. But this was different, she argued. This was Paddy. Paddy was a babe. He was the love of my life.

She was right. I had known, quite quickly, that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. I had known that entirely before the horrible cancer diagnosis. So this commitment thing – the worry and icky feeling that came with it – was nothing to do with feeling sorry for him. I did want to be with him. I did want to marry him. But the big wedding? The big standing in front of everyone and declaring our smugness at finding each other? Knowing that a great deal of them would be there – like mawkish peasants at the steps of the guillotine – wondering if we were going to do the whole “till death do us part” bit so they could sob into their hankies. The fuckers.

“Why don’t you just see it as a big party?” Jules had offered.

“A big party isn’t likely to set me back the best part of a year’s salary. A big party in my book is a rake of dips from Tesco, some bags of tortilla chips and a strict bring-your-own-bottle etiquette code. I might even spring for some balloons or a few banners – but mirrors and tea lights? A cake that costs the same as a weekend away in Dublin? No, I wouldn’t factor that in.”

Jules laughed and I had found myself laughing too. “You’re right, of course,” I said. “This is just a big party. This is not about our marriage – not really. Our marriage will be between us and us alone and hopefully last a very long time indeed.”

“And the party, and the marriage, mean a lot to Paddy. It’s giving him a positive focus.”

“I know, I know,” I nodded. “I just have to get myself in the right celebratory mindset. It’s hard, though, trying to stay measured and realistic about everything else but then trying to get all gung-ho and excited about this.”

“Erin, I say this with love in my heart, but you need to lighten up. Celebrate it. Enjoy each other. Plan a Big Day like no other and start thinking you might actually enjoy it. You might surprise yourself, you know.”

I took a deep breath and looked at Paddy. “You’re good with figures. You listen and listen good. Write it all down, or get her to write it down. Do not be swayed into upgrading to the more expensive fizz. Prosecco is fine. Don’t let her bat her eyelids at you either. You’re marrying me, remember?”

He smiled and kissed me. “I promise to behave.”

Fiona was a five-foot-two-inch powerhouse of a saleswoman with exceptionally blonde hair and exceptionally white teeth. She wore a power suit and high heels which made my feet hurt just to look at them. She also wore a headset, which she barked into frequently. I, at times, wondered if it was actually connected to anything or just to the voices in her own head. She seemed efficient – exceptionally, ball-breakingly efficient. I admired that, in my own way. I couldn’t cope with a job which required that kind of organisation. Given Fiona’s responsibility of making sure everything ran very smoothly on countless wedding days for countless hopeful couples, I would combust with worry over the whole thing.

“Right,” she declared loudly, sitting down and clapping her hands. In front of her on the table sat a clipboard which was as much of an accessory for her as her headset and her killer heels. She opened it and smiled. “Let’s get down to business.” She handed us each a photocopy of the proposed schedule for the day and ran through it at a lightning pace without looking down to double-check the details or, it seemed, even taking a breath. She was like a robot. A very scary robot.

We nodded along, occasionally offering a “yes” or “hmmm” or maybe even an “okay”. At one stage I looked at Paddy who seemed genuinely very interested in the notion of speeches before the meal and cutting the cake just before the buffet. I wondered if there was such a thing as a Groomzilla.

I just listened and tried to think ‘big party, big party, big party’ while visualising how amazing my arse looked in the dress.

As if she could read my mind – which was entirely possible given her determination to know every single little detail – Fiona turned to me and asked if I had my dress yet.

“Yes,” I said, “I think so. Well, yes, I do. I’ve chosen one. I just need to order it.”

She looked horrified. Absolutely as-if-a-zombie-had-just-walked-in terrified. “You haven’t ordered it yet? But it’s less than a hundred days until your wedding. Wedding dresses don’t just appear,” she said, nodding in Paddy’s direction for support. “They take months to order in.”

“I, erm, I didn’t know. But sure we have months – it will be fine.”

“Three months may not be enough,” she said solemnly. “But all we can do is hope. Where are you ordering it from? Maybe I could put in a call?”

She poised her pen over her paper while reaching into her pocket for a phone. I wondered who she would phone. The wedding-dress mafia?

“The Dressing Room,” I replied reluctantly because I really didn’t want her to phone Kitty and tell her I was a slack bride who had left wedding-dress buying until the relatively last minute. And I didn’t want Fiona with her super-sense of efficiency to know why this whole wedding was a little bit last-minute and rushed. “But I’m sure it will be fine.”

She wrote the name of the shop down anyway. “I know Kitty, and she is very good. But I’ll still make a few calls. We have to have you looking your best. And Paddy – have you arranged your suit yet?”

“All sorted,” he said smugly and part of me wanted to elbow him right in the ribs just for being such a smarmy smuggy teacher’s pet. “We got them last week. Best to be prepared.” He winked at me. The pig, he was enjoying this a little too much. Maybe it was the time to elbow him after all.

“Good man,” Fiona said, as if he were three years old and just told her he had managed not to pee his pants for one entire day. “That’s what I like to see.” She grinned at him, her sharp pearly whites glinting in the daylight and then looked at me – just a short glimpse but one which I couldn’t ignore, and I knew that I had just crashed through the floor in her estimation and she would forever see me as a slack bride.

I, however, reminding myself of how much this meant to Paddy, bit my tongue and stopped myself telling her to stick her colour schemes and complimentary cake knife. I’d take my wedding elsewhere . . . although in fairness, with just three months to go, the chance of getting any kind of a venue outside of a chippy were slim to none. Although, I’d have been happy with the chippy. I glanced at Paddy who was smiling widely, wider than he had done in a while, and I reminded myself that this would all be worth it.

Chapter nine

Kitty

The shop was busy when we arrived and an excited bride, who had come in to view her newly arrived dress, accosted me almost as soon as I walked through the door.

“Is it here?Is it gorgeous? Is it just perfect? We did get the underskirt, didn’t we? I’ve lost half a stone. Do you think it will still fit? Can we get it taken in? And the bridesmaid dresses? Can we look at those too?”

I blinked at her, the brightness of her pre-wedding tooth-whitening temporarily blinding my hung-over eyes. I wondered if I still smelled vaguely of vodka. Normally I could rattle off answers like you wouldn’t believe – appeasing even the most excitable of brides. Normally I’d have rattled back a very quick ‘Yes. Yes, Perfect, yes. The underskirt is here. If it doesn’t fit, alterations are no problem, and come at no extra cost. Yes, we can look at bridesmaid dresses, whenever you want.’

Today was different though. Today I was in a grief-stricken slump, Mark’s cheery “Hello?” still playing in my head. He had been in a bar. Drinking things. Sounding carefree. The bastard.

I turned to Ivy and back to the toothy bride whose name was escaping me. Amy. Or Anna. Or Andie. Or something.

“Yes, yes,” I muttered, waving my hand around, “all that yes. Can you just give me a few minutes?”

I turned to the reception desk where Rose was mouthing the name ‘Angie’ at me in an exaggerated fashion and I spun back on my heel.

“Angie,” I said more confidently, “if you want to go through to the dressing room, I’ll have your dress with you in just a few minutes.”

She squealed with delight – as did her mother and her three bridesmaids and the sound actually made me wonder if my brain was going to explode and seep out of my ears – before she clacked her designer heels loudly across the wooden floors to where Rose was now holding open the doors to the dressing room.

Once they were ensconced inside, with Rose nodding and smiling and telling them she would bring them Prosecco, the door was closed and Rose looked me squarely up and down.

“She spoke to him, and he was having a good time,” Ivy said.

Rose looked to me for confirmation of same.

“That’s not entirely accurate. I phoned him. I hid my number and he answered. He sounded fine. He sounded more than fine . . . he was in a bar or somewhere like that . . . and I hung up. I just couldn’t . . .” I felt my voice trail off, my head swim a little, whether through the realisation that Mark could be fine without me or through the crushing hangover.

“He won’t be fine,” Rose said. “Mark my words. He won’t be fine at all.”

“Well, I’m certainly not,” I said, feeling myself shake.

“You should go home,” Rose said.

“After madam here dragged me out of the house – no,” I said, nodding atIvy who was standing, arms crossed, looking at the pair of us. “And besides we have Angieand her dress. Jesus, we do have Angie’s dress, don’t we? It is ready?”

“Steamed and in the dressing room, behind the curtain, as always. Now, why don’t you get yourself a glass of water? I’ll get some of the fizz and we’ll do what we do best.”

“And I’ll head on now,” Ivy said gruffly. “But you’re to behave yourself, Kitty. No more scenes like that. Not over a man. And certainly not over Mark.”

All traces of her previous compassion were gone. She seemed snitty and grumpy and cold and I forgot it was she who had tidied my house and helped me brush my hair when all I wanted to do was sit on the bed and stare at the wedding picture on the wall.

She had turned and walked away before I could say feck off and, as the door slammed, the brass bell ringing above it, I heard Rose say, not too quietly, “That one will learn some day.”

“You sent her to me,” I said, accusingly, as we walked up the spiral stairs to the office.

“I couldn’t leave here and Cara wasn’t answering her phone. I’d have got your daddy to call round to you but I was afraid of what he might find and your dad has a weak heart.”

She spoke with her usual upbeat intonation but the message was clear. I’d scared her – scaredher so much she’d called in the big guns in the form of Ivy and her acerbic ways.

“I’m sorry,” Isaid to her back as she continued on her way.

“Never mind. Let’s just deal with Angie now.”

Yes, no matter how crap things were I had to go in there now, to where my bride-to-be – the most important person in the shop – was waiting with bated breath to see the dress she had probably dreamed of since she was five years old and wandering up and down her mammy’s bedroom wrapped in an old lace curtain and too-big high heels.

Get a grip, Kitty, I told myself and took a deep breath. Don’t think about Mark, not for the next half hour anyway and then you can mope all you want. Happy face, Kitty, happy face.

Steadying myself further, I opened the door to the dressing room – to where Angie sat, tapping her feet on the floor and looking as if she might combust with excitement.

“Okay, Angie, the dress is here – behind that curtain. We can just bring it out, or you can go in and try it on and then come out to show your mum and your friends. It’s your choice.”

“Can I try it on?” she asked, her voice cracking with emotion.

It wasn’t unusual for even the most seemingly confident woman in the world to crumble with emotion at the thought of her big frock. I had seen it time and time again and usually a little bit of me crumbled too. This time however I fought the urge to tell her to get a grip and sagged with relief when I heard Rose walk into the room with the Prosecco to whoops of delight from the assembled women.

Angie’s gown was exquisite – in shot silk with delicate beading on the bodice, and a full skirt which screamed fairytale. We had already looked at accessories and decided that less was definitely more and a stunning crystal-encrusted headpiece would finish the look off perfectly. I could feel her shaking as I helped her step into the gown and zipped it up. I handed her a hanky and told her she looked stunning and felt utterly wretched because, for the first time ever, I was simply going through the motions and not really feeling what I was saying.

When she left, deliriously happy by all accounts, I felt I had cheated her and myself and the guilt hit me like a ton of bricks. It was three o’clock and I knew we had two brides-to-be coming in to look around our collection and all I wanted to do was close the shop and go upstairs, lie on the floor of the workshop and sob my heart out.

“It’s always darkest before the dawn,” Rose said, kissing me on the head. “I’ll put the kettle on and make us a nice cup of tea. I even have some chocolate biscuits – fancy ones, with chocolate chips and everything. You can have two if you want.”

The hangover which was hanging heavy in my stomach surfaced and demanded feeding.

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay,” Rose said. “Don’t let this hurt you too much, pet.”

“I won’t,” I lied and watched as she made the tea and allowed me to choose my biscuits from the tin before she chose hers.

I had just ushered out another bride – a very fussy one who had tried on twelve dresses in total and still wasn’t convinced any of them were for her – and was at last able to turn the sign on the door, lock up, sit down on the purple chaise longue and survey the carnage of the dressing room. I was just willing myself to have the energy to get up and deal with it when I heard my phone beep – a message coming through.

It wasn’t going to be Mark. I knew that. I just knew. But I wasn’t expecting it to be James. Kitty, can we meet? Need to talk to you? Dinner? On me? Custom House? Eight? Yes?

My brain ached. Too many questions. And dinner? Out? With a man who wasn’t my husband? These were questions I just couldn’t cope with.

“Rose!” I called and she walked into the room and looked at me. “I have a text, from James. He wants to talk in a restaurant.”

“Do you think you should?”

“He’s his best friend,” I offered. “If anyone has any idea of what’s going on in Mark’s life it will be James. Well, you know, it should have been me but, since I don’t have a clue, James is the next best thing.”

Rose sat down beside me and lifted the phone, scrolling through the message. “But did you not talk to him on Thursday? Did he not say he didn’t know where Mark was?”

She had a point, but I was clutching at straws and I couldn’t see why he would want to see me if he didn’t know something that he hadn’t perhaps known on Thursday night.

Sharing this theory with Rose, she shook her head – just a little – and sucked in her breath. “I’m not sure this is a good idea, Kitty. Why not come home with me? You have your old room. Your daddy would love to see you – you know how he worries. And if James really does have something to tell you, he doesn’t need to take you to fancy restaurant to do it.”

“But he just might know something . . .”

“He might,” Rose said softly. “But last night you drank yourself into near oblivion and I had to send your sister round to rescue you. Consider the possibility you might be just a little vulnerable right now and going out, to a very public place, with your husband’s best friend, who might know something about why your husband has cleared off, may not end well. Come home. Invite him round if you want. I’ll make egg and chips, like you always liked, and I’ll tell your dad we’re watching Casualty and James can come and you can talk in the front room and then when he’s gone I’ll know you are okay.”

The thought of Rose’s egg and chips, and watching Casualty on the sofa with her just like I did when I was a teenager was appealing. Life was easier then. So much less complicated. There was no Mark or James or disappearing acts or strange invites to restaurants on a Saturday night but at the same time I had to know. I couldn’t not go. If I did I would only spend the evening watching the clock, and my phone, and driving myself clear bonkers.

“I’d love to come home,” I started, and Rose looked at me, knowing me well.

“But?”

“You know I have to go, Rose. If there is something to know, I can’t go on not knowing. And even if there is no big bolt out of the blue, hopefully James can help me make sense of it.” He knew Mark as well as I did, or at least as well as I thought I did. I don’t want to bombard him with my entire family – I think we need to talk alone, well, kind of alone. A restaurant is perfect. Hopefully it will stop me making a complete eejit of myself. I want to keep my cool.”

“You will call me after?”

“I promise.”

“I know,” she said, momentarily dropping her cool and calm exterior, “that I’m not your mum. Not your real mum. But I do worry.”

“You’re more of a mum to me than she ever was,” I said, hugging her closely. “And I know you worry even if you don’t show it much and I love the very bones of you for it. But Rose, you know me enough to know I can be a stubborn cow when I want to be – and I need to be now.”

She nodded and smiled. “That’s why I love you,” she said, pulling away from our hug and brushing herself off. “Now, lady, let’s get these frocks back on their hangers before we go home. It’s almost six and your daddy will be getting weak from hunger. You might not want my egg and chips, but your dad loves them. And that’s not a euphemism. Now, will I put on my Andrew Lloyd Webber CD while we tidy? Or are we in a Doris Day mood?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her neither appealed, so we settled for a rousing chorus of ‘Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina’ while my stomach churned and I wondered what on earth James could have to say to me.

I went home, showered, stood in front of the mirror in my bedroom and wondered what to wear. What do you wear when you’re going to meet your husband’s bestfriend to discuss said husband’s disappearance from the face of the earth? What I wanted to wear was pyjamas and bed socks. What I wanted to do was lie down, on the floor, and cry and not have to face any of it. I was tempted to phone Rose, to get her to drive on over in her wee yellow Smart car to pick me up. But no, I steadied myself. I would do this.

Picking out a pair of dark jeans and a pale lilac sweater, I dried my hair and pulled it back in a loose pony-tail. I applied the lightest layer of foundation and a dash of blusher and decided that was enough. This was not a social occasion. This was a not a fun occasion. This was not a nice meal out with a friend. This was business. Picking up my car keys, I decided I wouldn’t drink. I would use driving as a perfectly reasonable excuse for keeping my wits about me. The last thing I wanted to do was make a show of myself in the restaurant. I would be calm. I would be collected. I would be just like Rose.

James was waiting for me when I arrived. He stood up as I walked into the room and, as he looked at me to acknowledge that he had seen me, I noticed it. It was almost imperceptible but it was there – a shake of his head. I felt my stomach lurch again and I gripped the car keys in my hand tighter so that I could feel them digging into my hand – anything to ground me a little in the moment.

“Kit,” he said, awkwardly kissing me on the cheek.

“Just tell me what you know, James,” I said, pulling back from him and steadying myself on the back of the chair.

He sat back down and then gestured to the chair opposite him. “Sit down.”

“I don’t want to sit down,” I whispered. When someone tells you to sit down before imparting news to you, it is rarely because they are about to tell you something good. My mind flashed back to my daddy, his face serious, gesturing to me and Ivy to sit down and us giggling as we did, telling him he looked very serious indeed.

I had been thirteen, Ivysixteen. We had been having a perfectly lovely day before then – before he asked us to sit down and told us mum was gone.

I didn’t want to sit down, but I suddenly felt like I had no choice. My legs felt weak below me. I sat. Pushing all memories of my mother out of my head, I didn’t take my eyes off James.

“We could do the niceties,” I said, holding his gaze, “but you know why I’m here, James. You know something, don’t you?”

He lifted his knife, put it down again and lifted his napkin, unfolding it nervously before putting it back on the table.

“I spoke to Mark today,” he said.

“What did he say?”

“He told me you called him last night. Or he thinks it was you. He said you hung up.”

I shrugged my shoulders. Why Mark, or James, would be surprised that I was calling my partner of eleven years after he walks out with nothing more than a sad, sorry little letter to explain himself was beyond me.

“He wanted me to tell you he is okay,” James said sheepishly, looking down at the napkin he had discarded.

“I sensed that by the chipper tone in his voice and the thumping music in the background,” I said, trying to keep calm. It would do no good to shoot the messenger, or poke him in the face with the fork I was currently tapping against the table.

“Shit, Kitty, look, I know this is awful –”

“Did he say why he left?”

James’ gaze remained on the table in front of him and he sighed. “He said he needed some space. He just wanted to find himself. He said he knew that sounded wanky but he had to do it. He said he didn’t know any more who he is or what he wants.”

“Or if he still wants me?” The question stuck in my throat and I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes. This was not what I wanted, to cry in a public place. I sniffed and tried to steady my breathing. I regretted bringing the car. I could really have done with a drink just about then.

“I couldn’t get him to say much,” James offered.

“Did he say where he was, even?” I needed James to tell me something that I didn’t already know.

“He didn’t. He wouldn’t be drawn at all.”

“Bollocks.” I wiped the tears that were threatening to fall hastily from my face. I took a deep breath. “Did he say if he was with anyone?”

I looked at James, who had returned to staring at his napkin and I could see the flush of colour rise from his neck and up through his face. I felt my stomach twist and my heart sink.

“He . . . he said no, he isn’t with someone. Not now. But, Kitty, there was someone. And he said it didn’t mean anything but he needs to think about what he wants.”

The words washed over me like waves, drowned out by a crashing sense of disbelief hitting me full force. I hadn’t just heard those words, had I? I replayed them, let them echo through me. There was someone. It was over. It didn’t mean anything – except it made him leave. He needs to think about what he wants. Where did what I wanted come into this?

“Who?”

“I don’t know all the details.”

“Well, tell me the details you do know and tell me now,” I heard myself say – surprised at how calm I sounded.

He ran his fingers through his hair and sipped from the glass of beer he had in front of him before looking at me again. “Kitty, you have to realise I knew nothing at all about this. When I spoke to you the other night, I wasn’t lying. This is as much out of the blue for me as it is for you and if it is any consolation to you at all I told him he was being a dickhead and in danger of throwing away the best thing that had ever happened to him.”

“James. Just tell me.”

“It was someone from work. A temp. She’s not even there anymore. He said it was just a couple of times. That it was over before it started.”

James looked distraught – then again I imagine I wasn’t looking my best either. I let the words sink in, glaring at a waitress who walked over to our table to let her know in no uncertain terms that now was not the time. Then I felt like shit because it wasn’t her fault my husband was a cheating bastard. Oh Jesus. Mark had cheated on me.

“Kitty . . .” James started as I stood up, turned and walked away without saying another word. I had wanted to hear more, but now I wished I hadn’t and that I could put the words back into the Pandora’s Box they had jumped out of and close the lid. Mark had cheated on me. And he had left me. And it was down to his best friend to tell me the details. I didn’t look up as I walked out of the restaurant and broke into a sprint as I headed towards the car park. In the distance I could hear James calling after me and I cursed as I couldn’t get my car door open. The tears that had threatened to fall in the restaurant were now coursing down my cheeks and I roughly dried them on the sleeve of my jumper. This was just crap – just utter crap.

Managing to unlock the door, I climbed into the driver’s seat just as James came level with me. It wasn’t his fault, at all, that Mark was a bastard but that didn’t stop me from once again ignoring his calls for me to stay and talk. I drove off.

When I reached the house, I couldn’t go in. I sat there for a while and looked at our home – the home that we had shared together, which we had bought together, which we thought we would bring children home to together. I sat there and wondered what I had done to make it go so wrong. What had I done to push him away? Why did he have to be so utterly clichéd about it – a temp, in work, ‘it didn’t mean anything’? I would have respected him more if she had been the love of his life. It would have hurt but, Jesus, I would have understood shitting all over your marriage if you thought you had found the love of your life. But just someone who worked with you for a bit, who you shagged because you could? I sat there and I couldn’t bring myself to go in, so I turned and drove, without really thinking, to Dad and Rose’s.

It was Daddy who answered the door, who pulled me into a hug and didn’t ask any questions while I sobbed – just letting me rid myself of every tear in my body. We sat together on the sofa, him rocking me back and forth while Rose held my hand and made soothing sounds. I was grateful they didn’t ask questions. I couldn’t bring myself to say the words just yet. I felt humiliated to the very core of my being. Every molecule in my body hurt and when I was finished crying – when I simply could not cry any more – Rose guided me to my old bedroom and pulled down the covers, allowing me to climb in, still fully clothed bar my shoes, and she stroked my hair until I fell into a restless sleep. I let her because it felt nice, and I needed her to mother me. I needed to know she cared. I needed to know someone cared.

Chapter ten

Erin

“It’s not the best news, but it’s not the worst news either,” Dr Carr had said as I sat beside Paddy who was recovering from his op and had in fact spent the previous evening sitting with a bag of frozen peas nestled into his crotch. Paddy looked pale and tired. I looked pale and tired. Even Dr Carr looked pale and tired and for a moment I felt sorry for him. It must have been truly pants to spend your working career telling people they had cancer. No one would welcome that news. No one would thank you for it. No one, I would think, would even be able to take in all the nice things you may say afterwards about treatment options and positivity and getting the best care possible because the big old cancer word would be hanging there in the air.

Paddy and I hadn’t really used the word. We had spoken very openly about the fact that he was having an operation. We had secretly enjoyed the look of uncomfortable queasiness spreading across the face of male friends when we described the procedure he would undergo. But we didn’t really explain why. I’m sure people knew. One or two even asked if it was, you know, cancer. But we just parroted what Dr Carr had told us over his large moustache when we met him. No diagnosis had been made. This was just a test. One of a few tests Paddy would undergo. More blood tests. Paddy joked he was losing so much blood his Guinness intake would have to increase, purely for medicinal reasons of course. He couldn’t be going into surgery with a low blood count, now could he? He had CT scans as well. Scanning every inch, inside and out of his body to see if there was cancer elsewhere. That scared me more than the operation if truth be told, even though Dr Carr had told us that this was standard practice.

“Stay away from Google,” Jules had warned as she spoke to me one lunchtime.

I, of course, was sitting in front of my computer, Googling testicular cancer as if my life depended on it. Which it kind of did.

“There’s a ninety-five per cent survival rate,” I said.

“That’s good,” Jules said.

“Do you think so? Really? Because the way I see it, that’s a one in twenty chance it won’t be good. And that sounds pretty shite to me.”

“Think of that as a nineteen out of twenty chance that he’ll be okay,” she said softly.

But I knew she was mentally counting the people around her and imagining one of them just dropping dead.

“You have to wait until you know the full facts. You have to wait until you find out exactly what you are facing before you start talking about odds and the like.”

“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t be thinking about the odds if it were you?” I asked.

“Well, of bloody well course I would, and you would be telling me to calm myself and not to jump to conclusions before I knew the full facts.”

She was right of course, but it didn’t stop me worrying.

I knew that I was probably heading for hell when I walked in on Paddy watching Bridal Boot Camp on Wedding TV and had to stop myself asking him if he was sure they had only taken one testicle in the operating theatre and hadn’t actually made off with every part of his masculinity. I did stop myself, however, and snuggled down beside him, handed him a cold beer and asked him could we watch Match of the Day instead?

“I’m a bit wedding-obsessed, aren’t I?” he asked, smirking as he switched over. “Or maybe this was all an elaborate ruse all along while you were out of the room to get you to turn over to the footie without any fuss?” He winked at me and I kissed him.

I couldn’t resist, even though his breath smelled vaguely of beer and garlic from the pasta we had eaten earlier. “You are a sneaky one.”

“I’ll try anything,” he laughed. “I mean, look at the lengths I’ve gone to, to finally get you to marry me. There aren’t many men who would lop their bits off.”

“In fairness, it was the doctor who did the lopping.”

“But it was me who supplied the faulty gonads!”

Once again I realised that I would be hell bound, because I wanted to shout: “Can we please not talk about your balls for just one night, thank you very much?”

It wasn’t that I didn’t care. It wasn’t that I didn’t admire the fact he could laugh about it – it was just that for six weeks, since the day when it became a reality and not just an operation and a maybe, it had been part of every decision-making process, every conversation and the first thing I thought of every morning. It was Saturday night. I was chilling with a beer. I wanted to not think about it – the big Cancer in our lives – and instead just enjoy my beer and football on the TV and kissing Paddy.

So, because it would be cruel to shout at the cancer patient while he talked about his faulty bits, I pushed all my negative thoughts to one side and tried to strike up a conversation about some player or other with over-gelled hair kicking a football off side, or something.

“I’m a bad person, aren’t I?”

It was first thing on Tuesday morning and I was whispering down the phone to Jules while Paddy slept upstairs.

“What makes you say that?”

“For getting impatient and annoyed and not wanting to think about cancer for a while?”

“I think that makes you human,” Jules soothed.

“But it’s not like it’s me that has cancer. It’s him. If he wants to talk about it, if he wants to joke about it and all, surely it’s my job to gee him on? It’s not that I don’t want to be supportive, it’s just . . . well . . . it’s not bloody funny, is it?”

And I realised, with a thump, it wasn’t funny at all and it was scary. It wasn’t that I had never realised I had been scared before but now, three hours away from when I was due to go and order my wedding dress, I realised just how scary it was.

The night before his surgery we had sat holding hands and chatting and Paddy had remained his usual positive self. “Once it’s gone, it’s gone,” he had said. The thought that it could have spread, that it could require more treatment . . . we didn’t want to go there. The doctors had tried to warn us, but Paddy remained resolute that we would be thelucky ones.

“We’ve done everything right,” Paddy said, “and I’m young and fit and we will be fine.”

“Of course you will be,” I said.

“At the end of the day, if you’re going get cancer, this is the kind of cancer you want to get,” he said, mimicking Dr Carr.

But he looked pale and, even though he was smiling, I could see the fear in his eyes. It was a far cry from three nights before when he had decided to have a farewell party for his testicle. “I’m not ashamed to have this bad boy out,” he had said, as he called his friends one by one and invited them round for drinks and shenanigans before the big op. He had been the life and soul of the party, which had started awkwardly as people didn’t really know what to say, or even where to look. Not that he had his bits hanging out, or anything, but I just knew people had a morbid fascination about what he was about to go through.

Jules had travelled from Belfast for the party and afterwards had helped me put a blanket over Paddy and a pillow under his head when it was clear that there was no way we were going to get himmoved from where he was sleeping. She had helped me clean up after the last guest had gone and, as we sat in the fug of stale smoke and the stink of warm wine, she had asked me how I was.

“I’m fine, sis, honest.”

“Honest?”

“Well, as fine as I can be. I’m okay. It’s not me having surgery, is it?”

“You are still allowed to be not okay. You don’t have to be strong all the time, Erin.”

I snorted. “Of course I do. He needs me.”

“He is strong himself, you know. Sure wasn’t this party his idea? Does that sound like a man struggling?” She smiled, but she also gently put her hand on my knee, which was her way of letting me know that it was okay to turn into a blubbering mess.

I was kind of surprised that she didn’t know me well enough to know that I didn’t do blubbering mess. Not any more anyway. No. I was to stay strong, which is exactly what I did as Paddy was wheeled away from me towards the operating theatre and I was left with a bitter coffee to keep me company while they sliced and diced him.

And I stayed strong when they told us the cancer was a Stage II and would require a dose of chemo to try to kill it off. That it had spread, just a little, thankfully, and that meant it was one of the more aggressive forms of testicular cancer. But it wasn’t in his lungs or organs and that was a good thing. But the thought of it spreading – those sneaky wee poisonous cells sliding around inside his body, sneaking into his nooks and crannies, invading his healthy areas and making them black and manky and rotten made my skin crawl. The doctor repeated again that the chances were goodbut my brain focused on the words “try to kill it off” – I didn’t like ‘try’, I liked definites. Still, I had promised to stay strong so I had patted Paddy’s hand and tried not to throw up and said sureit wouldn’t be a bother to him at all and what was a wee dose of chemotherapy among friends.

But that was then and this was now and, talking to Jules on the phone, I didn’t want to be strong any more.

“I don’t think I can do this . . . this wedding,” I said. “I don’t think I can keep smiling through it all. Standing there knowing everyone is watching us, knowing what is going on in our lives and knowing the battle he is fighting.”

“Of course you can. Remember it’s a ‘big party’. You can do a big party. Sure it won’t beat the big testicle farewell bash, but it will be good.”

I laughed, limply, because it was expected of me.

“And you said the dress was stunning?”

“It is.”

“And sure at this point you are only ordering it and you said the girl in shop was lovely, so you have nothing to fear about that at least.”

I made a nondescript kind of a noise, neither a yes nor a no and certainly not a ‘you know the funny thing is I never thought I would trust another man again to want to marry one and now that I do I’m well aware I could be a widow before our first anniversary’ kind of a noise.

“I suppose,” I added.

“Look, if this is all too much for you and if taking Mum with you is even more too much for you, then wait until Saturday. I’ll come down for the day and go with you, and this is not being all altruistic by the way, this is me wanting glimpse of the frock.”

“Okay,” I said, “although scary Fiona at the hotel says we’ve left it much too late and I’ll probably end up getting married in something off the peg because there is no way a wedding shop can deliver a couture gown in less than six months or something.”

“You’ll have a dress, and you’ll be stunning. Put your mind at rest if you must and call The Dressing Room and talk to them about it. But, Erin, it will be okay. I’ll be there. I’ll hold your hand. You need your hand to be held sometimes, you know. Now, on you go to work and try not to freak out.”

“Yes, Jules,” I sing-songed, knowing that when Jules was in protective sister mode there was no point at all in arguing with her.

“You know it makes sense.”

“Yes, of course. It makes perfect sense. I’ll make an appointment for the afternoon. I’m assuming you’ll want to stay over here and not at Mum and Dad’s?”

“Oh God, yes, of course, please.”

“I shall prepare the guest chamber in honour of your arrival then.”

“You do that. Now, take care, Erin. I love you loads, you know that.”

“I love you too,” I said, smiling and already looking forward to the weekend.

I hung up, feeling a little more positive and not quite so scared about the dress-buying, and the wedding and the whole cancer thing. I was smiling to myself when Paddy walked into the kitchen and wrapped his arms around me, kissing the back of my neck gently.

I turned to face him, kissing him gently, then slightly less gently. He kissed me back and for a split second I dared to hope it could become something more than just kissing. It wasn’t long though before he pulled away.

“You don’t mind, do you?” he said. “I’m just not ready.”

And I sighed and told him of course I didn’t mind because it would be wrong of me to say anything else and I did, after all, love the very bones of him and if that meant waiting until he felt comfortable enough to have sex with me again then I would. Even if it killed me. He went about making his breakfast, and I went about calling The Dressing Room and arranging an appointment for Saturday. It dawned on me that perhaps wearing white wouldn’t be such a big faux pas after all – as I was pretty sure whatever virginity I once owned was in danger of growing back.

Chapter eleven

Kitty

I knew the smell wasn’t good. Every time I turned over the whiff of three-day-old body odour hit me square in the nostrils. I just didn’t have the energy to do anything about it. It took every ounce of energy I had to get up and go to the bathroom when nature called. Showering, grooming and general cleanliness were a step beyond me. Dad had tried several times to rouse me. He had come into my room, pulled open the curtains, sat on the edge of the bedand tried to encourage me to eat something. He had given me hugs and told me I was his best girl, which was remarkably brave of him given the smell of me. He had said things would get better and he should know and I had nodded and shook my head at the appropriate moments. I didn’t want to hear that things would get better – not yet. I needed to feel how I was feeling.

I had tried to phone Mark a few times. When I say try to phone him, of course, I mean that I had lifted my mobile, scrolled to his number and looked at it, wondering should I press the call button and if so what would I say, before dropping back on the duvet and falling back to sleep.

What could I possibly say to a man I didn’t even feel I knew anymore? Who I wasn’t sure I ever really knew in the first place? He wasn’t the kind of man I ever would have thought would have lived a lie. Jesus, did people really do that? Have double lives? Put on one very convincing face at home and something completely different elsewhere? I wondered had he nuzzled her neck the way he did mine. Did he reach for her hand the way he did mine? The very thought made me want to vomit.

I hadn’t realised I had been living the plot of a soap opera without my knowledge. I always thought my life was pretty straightforward. Not boring but, you know, not out of the ordinary either. Not worthy of the EastEndersOmnibus anyway. We did normal things – shared meals together, went for walks, talked about work and laughed at old re-runs of Frasier together. It wouldn’t have set the page of a Mills & Boon novel alight, but I was happy. Genuinely happy. Not smug or anything. Well, maybe just a little bit smug. But why wouldn’t I be? I was in love with a man who had chosen me. He had asked me to marry him and we were content in our little suburban existence.

Except that – we weren’t. He certainly wasn’t. That thought would wake me from my sleep at three in the morning. And again at four. And again at five. And a few times in between. It would wake me and it would take the very breath from my body as sure as if he was in the room and had physically punched me in the stomach himself. But at least the pain from a physical punch would ease after a while. This pain didn’t ease. It just ebbed slightly until I fell into a dreamless sleep, only for the cycle to repeat itself.

Rose put her head around the door on Sunday night – or at least I think it was Sunday night – and in her usual calm and collected way asked me if I wanted clean socks and pants brought over from my house. I didn’t respond.

She returned an hour later with a small suitcase from home and sat it by my bed before kissing me on the head and telling me Dad was worried about me. Had I the energy to respond I would have told her I was worried about me too. But I barely had the energy to fart, let alone speak. So I grunted. And she left again.

She put her head round the door on Monday as well – bringing me some tea and toast which I didn’t eat and some water which I did drink. She didn’t ask me if I was going to work. I think she knew the bedraggled smelly hobo look was not going to sell any wedding dresses. Mondays weren’t particularly busy for us anyway – we usually spent them checking stock, following up orders, with Rose doing some alterations in the work room. Not that I was in a state that I could ask her if she would be okay. I didn’t care about The Dressing Room that day. I would have gladly burned it and its collection of sodding wedding dresses to the ground. If I’d had the energy.

Cara visited on Monday as well. She brought grapes and chocolates and some magazines as if I was in hospital. She stayed for an hour while I cried and left when I fell asleep having spoken hardly a word.

James sent about a million texts, which I just started to ignore. I didn’t get why he was the one apologising when it was Mark who had been the one in the wrong. In fact it was still Mark who was in the wrong. It was barely fathomable. It was Monday – four whole days since he had ripped our world apart and he hadn’t even tried to get in touch directly. I had never gone this long without speaking to him. From the moment we had met we had been inseparable. Surely he must have been feeling it too? You can’t just stop caring about someone. You can’t just switch off what you had.

If I had any talent at all for writing really bad poetry, I’d have written some corkers in those few days. I’d have made Sylvia Plath look like Dr Seuss. I was the lowest I had ever been and it was not a nice feeling.

On Tuesday, around noon, Ivy arrived. She took less of a pussy-footing approach than my dad, Rose or Cara. She marched into my room, opened the curtains and windows wide, hauled the duvet off my stench-ridden bed, ordered me to shower and dragged me into the bathroom.

“There are only so many times I’m going to do this,” she said, as she switched the shower on and let the water run to scalding hot.

I watched the curls of steam rise and wished I could float away on one of them – somewhere where Ivy was not forcibly removing my lilac jumper, hauling it over my head past my chip-pangreasy hair.

“There are only so many times I’m going to come over here and get you to pull yourself together.”

“Technically, you’ve not come here before to tell me to pull myself together,” I said, breaking my silence at last in a big way.

“Don’t be smart,” she said, hauling off one of my socks while I sat petulantly on the toilet and let her. “I know you’re going through a nightmare but you can’t lie down under it. You have to get up and get on with things. You have a business to run. You have a life to live.”

I shrugged my shoulders. Ivy made to try and unzip my jeans and I pulled back. Enough was enough.

“I can do this myself.”

“Well, why haven’t you then? Now get on with it. I’ll make some soup and see you downstairs in ten minutes. Don’t be a minute longer or a minute less. I’ll come and check. And you know me well enough, Kit, to know I will break down this door if I have to, should you not show your face. And don’t even think about climbing back into that scratcher of yours. I’m taking the sheets and putting them in a boil wash. I’ll be taking your phonedownstairs with me too, so if you mess with me, so help me God, I will put it in the boil wash with your sheets.”

I wanted to stick my tongue out at her but felt tears prick at my eyes instead. I was in the horrors and she was shouting at me so I felt myself start to snivel, and I didn’t even have sleeves to wipe my nose on.

“Oh Kit, for goodness sake,” she said, brusquely but a little softer than before, as she hauled some loo roll from the holder and handed it to me. “You can’t lie down under this. He’s not worth it.”

“I loved him,” I managed. “I love him.”

“I know,” she said, sinking to her knees beside me. “But lying here festering in your own filth isn’t going to make things any better. It’s certainly not going to win you any friends – or keep your business going.”

“I don’t care about my business!” I sobbed.

“Oh Kitty, for goodness sake, of course you care about your business. You built it up from nothing. Don’t let him take that away from you too.”

I looked and her face was serious and bordering on cross. And Cross Ivy was scary. Cross Ivy had been an almost constant companion to me after Mum had gone. She was the tough-as-old-boots teenager who kept me and Dad going when we wanted to collapse on the floor and cry. Or when we drank ourselves stupid, which was Dad and not me, in fairness. She had to grow up pretty quick and she never let us forget it.

“I’ll get showered,” I said. “I promise.”

I couldn’t quite find the words to say ‘I’m sorry for being an emotional wreck and I’m sorry Mum walked out when we were younger and you had to pick up the pieces and that you feel like you’ve been picking up the pieces ever since.’ So “I’ll get showered” was a good compromise.

She nodded, stood up and left the room and I used what little strength I could find to stand under the shower and let the hot water wash over me. I even managed a quick wash of my hair.

I had dressed in fresh pyjamas and had brushed through my hair. I smelled more fragrant and the breeze blowing through my bedroom had cleared most of the sweaty fug away. Glancing out the window I could see it was a fine, bright day. It was the kind of day which normally put me in a pathetically chipper mood – where Rose and I would listen to the radioin work, loudly singing along with the latest tunes and doing the occasional impromptu dance routine. It was the kind of day where we could take our sandwiches out to the courtyard at lunchtime and speak in posh voices about “taking luncheon in the garden”. It was the kind of day where I would phone Mark and ask him to meet me in the pub after work and we would have a couple of cold beers before wandering home, hand in hand. You see, it was the hand-in-handbit that threw me. You didn’t cheat on someone you walked hand in hand with. The word cheat jarred in my head and I forced myself to take a long, deep breath. No, I had to pull myself together or Scary Ivy would come and kick my arse.

Padding downstairs the smell of chicken soup assaulted my nostrils. She was such a traditionalist – chicken soup for the stomach and the soul.

“You need to eat something,” she said, ladling some into a pink polka-dot bowl. Everything in Rose’s kitchen was pastel and floral and floaty. Bright and cheerful, just like the woman herself.

I sat down at the table and muttered a thank-you.

“I don’t mean to kick your ass. Well, actually I do mean to kick your ass. Your ass needs kicking.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” I said, thinking of her and her happy marriage to Michael –a very sensible and reliable bank manager who wore corduroy trousers and checked shirts from Marks and Spencer and who always had a pen in his top pocket.

“I understand,” she said. “Not that my husband has walked out on me, or anything. But she left me too. She walked out on us. She cheated on us. I know what it is like to feel betrayed and I didn’t let you lie down under it then and I’m not going to let you lie down under this now.”

“It’s just . . .”

“Just unexpected? Oh Kit, we have dealt with unexpected before. Don’t you remember?”

It started when Dad asked us to sit down. I turned off the television and sat beside Ivy, both us wondering why Dad’s voice was trembling just that little bit.

My stomach started to feel funny, you know in the way your stomach feels funny when everything in your life has shifted. You don’t even have to know there has been a change before it hits . . . the uneasy feeling.

“Girls,” Dad said, his eyes darting around the room as if he was looking for divine inspiration on what to say, “there is no easy way to say this.”

I looked atIvy and she looked atme. Neither of us spoke. I think we were too terrified to even begin to imagine what would come next.

“I’m afraid Mum has gone . . .”

Daddy looked funny. And not good-funny. His face had a kind of frozen, haunted, horrible look that, even though I was only thirteen and by dint of my age exceptionally self-absorbed, I knew I never wanted to see again.

“Gone?” Ivy said, in a high-pitched echo of what Daddy had said and it almost sounded funny. Almost.

I felt a strange mixture of a giggle and a cry catch in my throat. I knew he wasn’t going to end his sentence with ‘to the shops’ or ‘up the town’. I knew this was something serious and bad and I started to feel shaky.

“I’m sorry,” Daddy said, as if it were his fault. As if he was gone. As if he had done the hurting. As if he had walked out on us. “I’m sorry, girls. I don’t know . . .” his voice trailed off.

“What do you mean, gone?” Ivy asked, her voice still high-pitched and pained.

Daddy just shook his head and sat down in the battered brown armchair opposite and looked at the letter in his hands.

“Go and get her,” Ivy said, louder.

“She doesn’t want to be got,” he said, folding the letter and putting it in his pocket. “She says she’s sorry. Oh girls, I’m sorry.”

I always wondered what that letter said. Whatever it was, it was clearly not for our eyes. Over the years I imagined in turn it said all sorts of horrible things about how we were awful daughters and she never wanted us anyway, to saying she just had to be a free spirit. Regardless, we didn’t see her again for three months and even after that we only saw her sporadically and the bond was broken. We were broken. The trust was gone. And Daddy kept apologising, just as James had done that night in the restaurant, even though it wasn’t him who had left and it wasn’t him who had broken us.

“I know, Ivy. I know we have. I just feel lost and I know I should be up kicking arses and getting angry on it but I just . . . I just can’t help it. All I have the strength to do is mope. Don’t you just think I need to mope? Don’t I deserve to mope?”

“Do you want him to win?”

“It’s not about winning. It’s about me not understanding what the hell has just happened to my life.”

“Then ask him.”

“But he won’t take my calls. He’ll only talk to me through James.” There was a slight whine to my voice which annoyed even me.

“Then talk to James and tell James to tell his friend to stop being such a god-awful eejit and talk to you like a man. Is he four? Is he still at school? Wanker.” She blew her fringe from her face and slammed closed the dishwasher so I could hear the pastel-coloured plates inside rattle loudly.

I bristled at her calling him names. Okay, so she was right and he was behaving like an arse but I wasn’t ready to hear her say it. I wasn’t ready to hear anyone say it – I was struggling enough to come to terms with his betrayal in my own head.

“Okay,” I said. “Okay. I’ll try. I promise I’ll try. I’ll go to work and be a good girl and do what is expected of me.”

“And don’t make me come over here and kick your arse again?”

“I won’t make you come over here and kick my arse again.”

“Good woman,” Ivy said, in an only mildly patronising tone. “When Mum left we said we could get through anything. We can still get through anything.”

I nodded and half smiled, thinking to myself that she didn’t have to get through any of this. This was something I had to get through myself. I was in this on my own.

Chapter twelve

Erin

Jules was hyper. She was so excited she was practically bouncing from one foot to the other, like a child desperate for a pee but too excited to leave the sandpit she was playing in.

“It’s so pretty. I want to buy it and work here and surround myself with pretty dresses,” she said outside The Dressing Room, puffing on a cigarette to steady her nerves as if it were she who was about to hand over a huge wodge of money for a dress she would wear only once.

“Those things will kill you,” I said, and she stuck her tongue out at me playfully before dropping the butt to the ground and grinding it with the heel of her impossibly pointy boots.

“Jesus, sis, don’t be going all cancer-preachy on me just because Paddy’s going through the mill,” she said, with a wink and a smile so that I couldn’t get mad at her.

Not that I ever got mad at Jules anyway – she didn’t have a bad bone in her body and apart from her dirty smoking habit was almost faultless.

“I’m not going all cancer-preachy on you. I’m just kind of fond of you. And besides, I’ve had enough of chemo to last me a lifetime so if you don’t mind . . . Besides, they stink.” But as I spoke she was already liberally spraying herself with a bottle of Jo Malone which she kept in her handbag for such occasions.

“Sure don’t I smell lovely now?” she said, grinning and slipping a Polo mint in her mouth before offering me the packet.

I shook my head and linked arms with her. “Are you ready to go in now?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she saluted.

“And you will behave yourself?”

“Yup.”

“Because I don’t want this Kitty woman thinking our family is entirely populated with eccentrics and loony bins.”

“But we are entirely populated with eccentrics and loony bins,” Jules smiled.

“Speak for yourself,” I answered. I was pretty sure I had left all eccentric and loony qualities behind me. If I’d ever really had them. I suppose there was my moment of madness with Ian – which was actually about six months of madness with Ian – which ended very, very badly anyway. Christ, I shook myself, the last thing I wanted to think about on the day I bought my wedding dress was Ian – the man I nearly eloped with – or did elope with, but who chickened out at the last minute and left me sobbing into my last-minute makeshift bouquet, bought for a few pounds that morning. I should have known really – getting married in civvies with supermarket flowers – it wasn’t going to end well. Paddy sometimes referred to Ian as the one who got away. I would laugh and say “not so much got away as ran screaming for the hills” and we would laugh because there was no doubt in my mind that Paddy was the big love of my life. But for a while, for a year or two, Ian had made me feel completely unlovable, unworthy and unmarriageable. And I had vowed, no matter how much I might love anyone ever again, I would never, ever put myself in a position where I could be hurt and humiliated again. Yet, here I was, about to get married – admittedly with a proper bouquet this time – to a man who might still leave me, but in an even more horrendous way. I stopped, pulling back from Jules as she opened the door to walk through. I didn’t speak but she turned to look at me and I’m pretty sure the fear and mild nausea was written all over my face.

“Look,” she said, “it’s a big party, remember? For you and Paddy. Paddy who loves you. Paddy who isn’t going to run away and who will do everything in his power to make sure he never leaves you. You put a big smile on your face now and I will be on my best non-eccentric behaviour, even when I see you in the very beautiful dress and feel the urge to squeal like an over-excited teenager.”

I looked at her and knew she understood exactly howI was feeling and I knew I would walk into the shop, try on my dress, get measured and hand over my money and do my very damndest to feel happy and look happy and maybe I would allow myself to be happy if only for a little bit.

Breathing out, I looked in the mirror. Okay, so the dress even withstood me breathing out. This was good. There would be a minimal need for sucking my belly in. Kitty was standing back, looking at me and smiling. She was smiling so damn hard that I was pretty sure there were tears in her eyes. I glanced at the mirror again. My hair was scraped onto the top of my head, the frizz curled into a loose bun, while a tiara glinted back at me – adorned with crystals, twisted to reflect the light for optimum sparkliness. Kitty had pinned a floor-length veil to my head – one which hung softly, delicately, gently grazing my shoulders. She had even given me a pair of not-too-high heels to wear to get the full effect.

If I had thought I was in love with this dress the week before, I was now insanely, madly in love with it. Kitty’s eyes were not the only eyes with tears in them. I thought back to the cool cotton summer dress I had worn for my aborted wedding day before – how the straps had dug into my shoulders, how I was aware of it straining that little bit over my stomach, how I had clipped a slightly wilting flower into my hair which was set on frizz level 99 and had worn a pair of shoes which nipped at my toes. I couldn’t have felt less bridal if I had tried. But now, now I felt like the queen of the all the brides. Dragging my gaze away from the mirror I looked at Jules, who had stuffed her fist in her mouth and was jiggling her knees up and down in an overly excited manner. I tilted my head, my tears turning to laughter and she removed her hand from her mouth.

“I told you I wouldn’t scream like a teenager,” she laughed. “But I didn’t promise I wouldn’t do the excited jiggle,” she said, jiggling her knees up and down again. “You look stunning, sis, absolutely Paddy-will-faint-with-the-sheer-joy-of-it stunning.”

“Better than the legendary cotton wedding dress?”

She nodded vigorously, which of course I fully expected her to do because in fairness I’d lookbetter in sackcloth and ashes than in the wedding attire I’d turned up in to marry Ian.

“Better dress. Better groom. Better chance of it lasting more than five minutes.”

“I hope you’re right,” I said, switching my gaze back to the mirror, eager to get just one glimpse of myself again. I know that sounds kind of vain, but when you are like me – who could easily fit in the not-a-natural-beauty category – and you see yourself looking amazing, you like to get a good gander. My eyes were drawn to my own reflection in a way they never were before.

“I think this is definitely the dress for you,” Kitty interjected. “I mean, I was pretty sure last week but I hate to try the hard sell. Seeing you now, I have to say you should go for it.”

“I should, shouldn’t I?” I said, smiling at her, knowing that the hard sell would be the last thing she was capable of. She looked, well, too soft. Too vulnerable. Too much of a romantic.

Remembering Fionathe over-zealous-wedding-planner’s words in my head, I jolted back to reality. Would we get it in time? Were wedding dresses that hard to come by? Cotton summer dresses hadn’t been an issue, you see. I had simply gone to M&S and picked one up on a Tuesday morning when it was fairly quiet and then I had gone and eaten a dirty big scone and drank a pot of tea all to myself before going home and cleaning the flat Ian and I shared.

“The wedding is in three months – well, technically two months and three weeks. Will that be a problem?”

Kitty shook her head. “I took a call from your wedding planner during the week, which allowed me to call the supplier and, while time is a little tight for sure, we should have it here in two months.”

“Brilliant,” Jules said loudly and brightly while I, without warning, felt a big bubble of emotion rise up in me and I made an horrendous “Bleurgh” sound as my eyes started to water and my stomach constricted.

“It’s okay to feel emotional,” Kitty said, suddenly at my side with a tissue poised to stop me shedding hot salty tears on the fine satin gown I was wearing.

“I’m getting married,” I stuttered, which was very much in the stating-the-obvious category.

“You sure are,” Jules said, suddenly also at my side dabbing at my eyes with tissue.

I stood, half-stooped, a big rack of sobbing yuckiness just screaming to be released from my body. And suddenly, even though it was gorgeous and even though it made me look gorgeous, all I wanted was to have this dress off. And to not be here. And to be with Paddy and for him not to be sick. I wanted it to be like it had been in the beginning – well, maybe not the beginning when we were unsure of each other andI was still aching from Ian’s betrayal, but what it was like about six months in when I knew I loved him and more than that knew that he loved me. Christ, he loved me. And we were happy. Even when I said no, that I wouldn’t marry him because I didn’t ever want to put myself in a position where I’d be left like a cold snotter at the altar, we were still happy. We still never doubted each other. Paddy, God love him, he understood. He would tell me softly that he wasn’t Ian. That he was sure as sure could be that he never wanted to be with anyone else. He would tell me Ian was an arse and I would laugh and snort and look a little wounded and sometimes he would ask me if I still loved Ian. I didn’t. I did for a while, before Paddy came along. For a while I would have given anything for Ian to love me again – or what I knew of love, which was frig-all. Romantic, overblown notions of what it should be like. I knew with Paddy, undeniably, exactly what it should be like. And then he got cancer. And he had his testicle removed. And that wasn’t enough. And he was having chemo, and we didn’t know if that was enough. We had to wait. Was there anything more frustrating – so utterly soul-destroying – as waiting? For test results. For it to come back. For it to feck off for evermore. There was a giant big question mark hanging over our relationship and it was likely to stay there for a long time. I hauled at the zip, twisting and turning to try and take the dress off while Kitty stepped forward, exuding an air of calm, and took my two hands in her own.

“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s okay. Take a deep breath. Here, Jules, it’s okay, isn’t it?Come and stand here and talk to your sister and we’ll get her out of this dress and we’ll make a cup of tea and settle ourselves. It’s a big moment. I know.”

I felt her unzip the dress and, while Jules breathed along with me, I let an almost-stranger undress me in the middle of a shop in the city centre.

Jules handed me a bottle of beer which I looked at, pausing before bringing it to my lips and sipping. It was cold, delicious – numbing even.

“You make a beautiful bride,” she said.

“When I’m not having a panic attack and making a feckwit of myself,” I replied, trying to smile but grimacing instead.

“Don’t worry,” she laughed pulling a face. “I don’t think anyone noticed.” I thought back to Kitty’s slightly horrified face and found myself starting to giggle.

“The first time I go to her shop I bring Mammy, acting the eejit high on the very whiff of taffeta, and then the second time I’m the one who starts wailing like a frigging banshee.”

Jules stifled a giggle herself and clinked her beer bottle against mine. “You never do things by half, Erin. That’s for sure. Always a drama.”

A little bit tipsy, I climbed into bed later that afternoon. Drinking during the day never had agreed with me and, even though we had only two bottles of beer each over a long, chatty lunch, I could feel my head swimming and my eyes drooping. I had a lovely dream where everything was just peachy and was just how I wanted it to be – work going great, Paddy and I still bonking every second night, and nothing to worry about except my frizzy hair and the economic woes of the country I lived in. And I didn’t even worry about the economy too much.

I woke up to a series of text messages, most of which were from my mother asking if I had actually ordered the dress and then wondering if I had chosen a veil, a tiara and shoes. One message was from Paddy, who was spending the day with his own family, telling me he loved me. Another was from Grace reminding me I had arranged to do a phone interview with a local entrepreneur that evening, and asking how the dress-ordering went, and one was from Jules with the words Just a big party. See you later. I smiled and put my phone back on the bedside table before padding down the stairs, switching on the kettle and trying to rattle my brain into a fit enough state to conduct my interview.

Of course some people would have been disgusted to work at the weekends when they had spent the whole week at the coalface, but I loved my work. And that was not just something I said around my boss to make her think I was a great worker. I genuinely meant it – and when I had a good interview in my sights I would get a little buzzing sensation in the pit of my stomach. Sometimes when a story was really good, when all the pieces of the puzzle slipped into place and the deadline was looming, I felt almost invincible. Does that sound stupid? I mean, I know it’s not heart surgery or international politics, but talking to heart surgeons and international politicians felt good. And writing pieces about people overcoming adversity was pretty cool too. It reminded me that people could, and did, overcome terrible odds. Stirring my coffee and adding just a splash of milk, I switched off my nervous bride-to-be persona and switched on my award-winning journalist head. It was then I felt in control again.

Chapter thirteen

Kitty

Rose was singing ‘Secret Love’ at the top of her lungs as I woke and acclimatised myself once again to my old bedroom. It had been ten days since Mark had gone. Ten days since I had spoken with him. Ten days since anything made any sense. Ten days since I had shaved my legs or paid any attention whatsoever to my bikini line. It was already looking unkempt – and yet I couldn’t quite find the energy to do anything about it. I rubbed my legs together and felt the stubble, which was actually turning into fairly soft hair at this stage. Rose was singing about highest hills and daffodils. She could actually hold a note. It was only when Daddy joined in that I woke up enough to get out of bed and wander down the stairs to tell them to keep it down.

Of course, seeing them in Rose’s pastel-coloured kitchen singing to each other almost took my breath away and I didn’t have the heart to tell them to keep it down. Instead I stood and watched, wondering how, after seventeen years, they still seemed to be as in love, or more in love, than they ever had been.

I listened as the song reached its crescendo and then I clapped, biting back tears. Rose turned and curtsied to me while Daddy bowed and smiled.

“I thank you,” he said, oblivious to his own tunelessness, while Rose winked behind his back.

“Morning, pet,” she said, opening the fridge and taking out a bottle of Diet Coke from the shelf. “I’m only letting you have it for breakfast because you’re having a hard time,” she said, as if I was still sixteen and needing permission. “And I’ll even make you a bacon sandwich.”

I had to admit that for the first time in ten days I actually felt hungry.

“How are you feeling today, love?” Daddy asked, sipping from the slightly chipped BestDaddy in the World mug I had bought him when I was twelve.

“Not quite awake yet,” I said, relishing the numbness which came when I wasn’t quite awake. That said, I didn’t feel quite so fragile. It had been a week since I had spoken with James – therefore it had been a week since the last bomb had dropped. My brain, while not happy about the situation, had at least processed it. It still made me want to boke with horror from time to time, but the desire to lie down and die had passed. Or at least had started to come and go. This had to be an improvement.

James had of course texted me every day, just to ask if I was okay. I hadn’t replied but what was I really supposed to say? “Yes, just hunky dory, thank you” or “I feel as if my insides have been torn out and trampled on”? He ended every text saying he was sorry, as if it was him who’dhad an affair and walked out.

I sipped from my Diet Coke and listened to the sizzle of the bacon in the griddle pan. Maybe today I would text James back. Maybe today I would even go home. God knows there had been a pint of milk in my fridge which would probably be close to walking itself to the bin all on its own by now. Cara had tactfully told me the night before that perhaps hiding in my childhood bedroom was not really dealing with what was going on. I had said that there was probably some truth in what she was saying but the thought of being there in my house, alone, was too scary. She would come and stay for a few days, she said, if I wanted. But I wouldn’t have the same freedom to wander around in my dressing gown and eat ice cream straight from the tub and cry at the ads on TV if Carawas around all the time. Rose was letting me away with it at home. As long as I washed my face before I went to work and didn’t tell the brides to run for the hills, it was pretty much a free run as soon as we got back to base. Diet Coke for breakfast. Ben and Jerry’s for dinner and free rein with the remote control so that, should as much as a hint of an emotional advertisement come on the TV, I could sob to my heart’s content or turn it over if I so desired.

Daddy handed me my sandwich, on thick white bread, the butter oozing over the plate. Yes, I was definitely hungry and for more than ice cream, which had to be progress. Yes, today I would go home. Even if I didn’t stay there, I would at least make it through the door.

It was just before noon when I pulled up at home. I had showered and tied my hair back and put on my freshly washed and ironed clothes – courtesy of Rose who had an ironing fetish. She had offered to come with me but I had declined. Daddy had offered to come with me too, his brow crinkled with concern, but I had smiled and hugged him and told him I would be just fine. Honest. A part of me really hoped I would be too.

I can’t deny it. I felt a little shaky walking up the path. I was struck by the thought that he might actually be there. He might actually have come home. That ten days would have been enough for him to realise all that he was throwing away. Yes, we would have work to do, I thought, crunching on the gravel driveway, but we could talk and if we could talk it might still be okay. The fact that he had cheated on me, well, I pushed that to the back of my head because I could only deal with one crushing reality at a time and him being gone was today’s issue.

I put my key in the door, half-hoping to open the door to find the heating on and the television blaring from the kitchen. I half-expected the fug of his Sunday-morning cooked breakfast to assault my nostrils and for him to wander out to greet me in his saggy tracksuit bottoms – the ones I absolutely hated. But the house was empty and cold and felt not at all like home. It was just a shell. Everything was just how I had left it the week before. The laundry hamper was still overflowing. The now musty towel from my shower was still lying on our bed. It all felt so wrong. How could nothing have changed?

Taking a deep breath, I lifted the towel, bundled it with the rest of the washing into the machine and switched it on, relishing the comforting swishing sound as the drum filled with water. A bit of noise about the place made it feel better. I don’t think I realised how quiet our house could be without even a hint of him there.

I knocked the heating on to take the chill out of the air, while opening the windows at the same time to allow some fresh air in. I knew it was wasteful but I didn’t particularly give a flying damn. I figured I was allowed to be a little wasteful just around now. I switched on my iPod and plugged it into the docking station – flicking through the playlists to find some choice Motown, which was normally my cleaning and tidying music of choice. And then I set about cleaning. Bleaching the bathroom to a loud chorus of ‘Rescue Me’, stripping the bed to ‘Signed, Sealed, Delivered’, dusting the living room to a mellow ‘Sitting on the Dock of the Bay’ and lying on the floor almost defeated to ‘What Becomes of the Broken Hearted’ – it was only when ‘Try a Little Tenderness’ hit its crescendo that I found the strength to stand up again and blast it out of me, not giving a damn that the windows were open and I wasn’t by any stretch a natural-born soul singer. I wasn’t even a fit-for-the-back-row-of-a-choir singer.

By the time my house was gleaming, my washing was out on the line and my iPod had exhausted all my favourite cleaning classics I was tired and readyto relax and not feeling quite so scared by my own home. First I would have a shower, and tackle my undergrowth, and then I promised myself I would sit down and watch TV or something equally meaningless in what used to be my comfort zone.

This had to be an improvement. I was actually quite proud of myself and even jotted off a quick text to Cara to tell her I was just fine and then I forwarded that very same text to Rose and Daddy just so that they would stop worrying. Because, I knew they were worrying. I glanced at my phone, wondering if now was the time to text James. It probably was. I was feeling stronger and really it had been unfair of me to ignore him for the past week when it had been clearly accepted that he had not done anything wrong.

I’m sorry for not being in touch. Please don’t worry. I’m fine. Or at least I will be fine.

I sent the message and stood under the shower and tried to remind myself that I had made a great deal of progress and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that there was something missing from my house.

Showered and revived, I switched on the TV, pulled the throw from the sofa over my knees, cuddled into the cushions and tried to lose myself in an old black and white movie. When my phone beeped to life, instinctively I lifted it. The hope that it would be a message from Mark hadn’t quite left me but I knew deep down that it wouldn’t be from him. I should have known it would be from James, given the frequency with which he had texted me that week, and sure enough it was from him.

I hate how we left things. Can we talk?

I pulled my knees up to my chin. I didn’t know if I wanted to talk. I couldn’t say that James and I had ever been particularly close in the past. Sure we’d had a laugh or two over the years and he had helped me deal with a drunken Mark on a few occasions when we wereall younger and much less sensible. The three of us had spent a weekend together in a caravan in the Gaeltacht which would forever go down as the worst weekend of our lives. But we didn’t really do deep and meaningful. That said, he was the nearest thing I had to Mark in my life at the moment and the best chance I had of getting any answers.

I’m at home. Call over after 6.

I pressed send, threw the blanket off my knees and wandered into the garden for some fresh air, my throat suddenly feeling all constricted and scratchy. I wondered if I should phone Cara or even Rose and ask them to come over for moral support but I didn’t want James to feel like he was walking into an interrogation. No, I would face it alone. Even if the thought of it made me want to boke.

Unlike Mark, who was never on time for anything in his entire life, not even our wedding, James was always punctual and arrived at six on the very button. We stood, awkwardly, not quite sure how to greet each other. It wasn’t a quick-peck-on-the-cheek type of scenario. He held a bottle of white wine in his hand which he gestured with awkwardly in my direction. I took it, muttered athanks and allowed him to follow me into the kitchen. It was a little strange to have him here without Mark around, but those were the breaks.

Lifting two glasses from the cupboard, I turned to ask, “You want some?”

“I think we need some,” he said with a smile.

“I certainly feel as though a drink would help,” I said, unscrewing the lid of the bottle and pouring us both drinks before gesturing towards the living room where we sat opposite each other on my matching chocolate-brown leather sofas without saying a word.

“This isn’t the slightest bit awkward, is it?” James smiled, sipping from his glass and casting a glance downwards.

“Not at all,” I smiled back – in more of a nervous way than anything else because it was bloody awkward. Each of us waiting for the other to speak without having a notion of what either of us might say. I didn’t even know if there was anything to say – apart from the obvious ‘Well this has all gone royally tits up, hasn’t it?’

James had been best man at our wedding and he had become misty-eyed during his speech, wishing us many, many happy years. He had even taken me around the floor for a dance later and whispered that Mark was a lucky man and we made a wonderful couple. “One of those Hollywood couples – you know, happy endings and riding off into the sunset.”

Yep, we were a Hollywood couple all right – just more of a Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston kind of a couple than a happy-ever-after kind of a couple.

“Look, I know I’ve said it a hundred times, but I’m sorry it was me who told you,” he offered. “I’m sorry he did it in the first place if the truth be told and that he didn’t have the manners or guts to tell you to your face.”

“Did he tell you? Before now, that is? Did you know?” I had to ask and I felt strong enough to deal with it if he said yes, that he had been complicit in the whole sorry affair all along, but James just shook his head.

“I swear to you, I didn’t know.”

He looked genuine enough. But then Mark had looked genuine enough when he told me he loved me just hours before he cleared off.

“I would have told him he was a prick,” James offered, sitting back in his chair a little more and sipping from his wine, a little more deeply this time. “I would have punched him,” he added and I smiled because I couldn’t imagine James ever punching anyone in his life.

“He was your friend. He is your friend. You must have talked?” I curled my feet under me and stared at my wineglass, the smell enticing me to lose myself in the drink.

“We talked,” James nodded. “But in the way men talk. It’s not a myth, you know. We don’t often do feelings. We talked work and beer and Top Gear and football. If I asked how you were he would tell me you were fine – busy but fine. There was no hint.”

“But he told you last week?” I had to know every detail.

He sighed, sipped from his wine, even deeper this time, and looked back at me. “When you phoned me and told me he was gone . . . I just . . . just couldn’t believe it. So I called him and he answered.”

I bristled. I thought of all the times I had called. All the times I had shouted at my phone to try and get him to answer. I thought of how I’d slept with the damn thing on my pillow and had rung it almost on the hour every hour to make sure it was working. I thought of how I had cried really quite hysterically . . . and then I thought of how Mark had answered the first time James had called. I was trying to process all this information when I realised he was still talking.

“. . . needed to get away. He needed to clear his head. He sounded, I don’t know, strange.”

I thought of the cheery tone in his voice that time I had called – strange wouldn’t exactly have been the word I would have used.

“He said he had wanted to tell me, wanted to tell us both, but he got caught up in everything and didn’t know where to go or who to turn to.” James shrugged his shoulders.

I just drank from my glass again, already starting to feel a little tipsy. It was, of course, entirely possible my head was swimming for another reason – a reason related to the general feckwittery of my husband and not to anything alcoholic.

I forced myself to breathe, realising I had been holding my breath and that I was in serious danger of turning blue and passing out.

“I know this is shit,” James said.

“More than you realise,” I stuttered, unsure if I wanted him to keep talking at all.

“He told me about her then. He said he just felt flattered and he said he had been an asshole.”

I nodded my head. “Was it my fault?” I asked. “Did he say it was my fault? Did he say I was awful?” I was aware there was a whine in my voice and I sounded pathetic and needy. I watched as James shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the slide of his arse against the leather sofa giving me all the answer I needed. Clearly it was my fault. Or Mark thought it was my fault, which meant I could now legitimately crucify myself into believing it was indeed all my fault. Despite my deep breaths and the fact that I had stopped gulping at my wine, I felt a little nauseous.

“He didn’t really go into it,” James offered limply and I plastered on a fake smile and got up to open a window and let some air in.

“Yes, he did, James, but I won’t ask you to go over it. Not now anyway. Part of me wants to know, but I’m not stupid enough to think I’m ready to hear it. Did he say why he couldn’t tell me himself? Why he didn’t talk to me?”

James shook his head. “Not really. He said he didn’t really know how to explain it.”

“Like hell he didn’t,” I spat, my smile fading and my anger rising.

“He’s a dick. He’s my best friend but he’s still a dick and I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have come over. This was a bad idea.” James made to stand up but I gestured – some weird international-sign-language type thing – for him to sit down.

“No. It was kind of you. To tell me. To let me know. I know this must be hard for you too.”

“You’ve no idea how hard,” James said, running his hands through his dark hair and sitting back into the chair and sighing. “You really have no idea.”

James had left when the bottle of wine was finished and when we had simply said “This is hard” too many times for it to be socially acceptable to continue saying it.He had told me to call him if I needed anything – anything at all but especially man things – like leaving the bin out, unblocking drains, that kind of thing. Of course I was more than capable of all of this but it was nice that he offered. I had crawled into bed – for my first night back in my marital bed after knowing my husband had cheated on me – and mercifully I slept. I wasn’t haunted by weird dreams. I didn’t wake up in the night, turn to put my arm around Mark and start sobbing. I just slept and when I woke up I got up, made a proper non-Diet-Coke-related breakfast, dressed in my black trousers and purple satin blouse and went to work.

I didn’t cry in the car – not even when Snow Patrol sang about ‘Chasing Cars’ on the radio. I did not even get the mad rage when a car which looked like Mark’s but wasn’t cut me up at the traffic lights. I didn’t slump in despair when I opened the doors to the shop and saw our mannequins dressed in their white lace and shot satin. I just switched on the radioand ran upstairs to the workshop to put on the kettle in preparation forRose’s arrival. There was a calmness on me that day – one step further from the day before. Maybe each day would see me move a step on. Of course that new-found inner strength didn’t stop me checking my email to see if he had sent me a message or checking his Facebook for any updates (there was none – which was a blessed relief for now – I lived in fear of him telling the world he had gone from married to ‘it’s complicated’ or even worse, married to single). There were no messages on the office answer phone – no form of communication at all from him or anyone else. I opened the sash windows, watched as a lone tourist walked along the city walls as the traffic sounds grew louder. It was a lovely day – not overly warm, with bright shards of blue sky and the promise of a day that would stay dry. I was standing at the window, breathing in and smiling, when I saw Rose walking down the street, dressed in bright pink with a purple scarf around her neck. There was no missing her – she exuded the calmness and happiness I could only dream of andwhich I hoped would be contagious. She was launching into a chorus of ‘Oh What a Beautiful Morning’ as she walked through the door and I walked down the stairs. Seeing me, she stopped singing and gave me that same look she had been giving me every day since Mark had left – that slight-tilt-of-the-head-are-you-okay look.

“Morning, Rose,” I said, giving her a quick hug. “I’m fine, honest. And yes, I survived the night back in the house. And nothing bad happened. James came over and we talked, but I didn’t get all over-emotional or make a show of myself and today I am determined not to mope around but instead to get on with things – because even though wedding dresses are the least of my notions at the moment, this is my business and what I need to do.”

She hugged me back and I breathed in her perfume and allowed myself to lean into the softness of her embrace.

“Good woman yourself,” she said. “I’ll just go put the kettle on. We have a ten thirty appointment, a fitting at one and a few orders to put through. That rep wants to know what samples we want in too, when you get the chance, and I’ve a couple of alterations to be getting on with. Wee buns to us.”

“I have the kettle on already for you,” I smiled, relishing the thought of a busy and distracting day. “And I even brought a couple of muffinsfrom the bakery so help yourself. And then let’s get this day started.”

“Okay, boss,” she smiled, heading for the stairs and stopping to look back at me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“You don’t need to ask,” I smiled. “I’m getting there. Now go get your tea – I know you are good for nothing without it and I’ll go and make sure the dressing room is ready. Bit early for Prosecco this morning perhaps – so can you make sure there’s some fizzy water and the like in the fridge, just in case?”

“Will do,” Rose said and disappeared from my view.

I walked into the dressing room and set about opening the French doors to let in some air and switching on the various spotlights which would show off the dresses and the bride-to-be in the best way possible. I tidied the magazines on the table and made sure the flowers in the vases still looked acceptable and didn’t need to be replaced. Then I made sure the changing room was tidy and that there were a couple of boxes of tissues sitting around for when the bride and whoever was accompanying her became emotional. It was all looking good. I still got a thrill from seeing our dressing room ready for an appointment – it still gave me butterflies in my stomach and I smiled as I stood for a second on the podium and tried to remind myself to believe in happy endings.

My ten-thirty appointment was a second-time bride who was as nervous as any young bride we had in the door.

“I had the full works first time,” Nuala Lochlainnsaid. “Big rock. Big do. Big hair. Honeymoon in Mauritius. All that was missing was the big romance. But this time – I have that.”

She smiled, a gorgeous full-faced smile which accentuated the gentle crow’s feet at her eyes and her dazzling white teeth. She flashed a simple engagement ring at me – yellow gold with a modest solitaire diamond set in it. “We’re doing it a little less flashy this time, but I want to knock his socks off. My friends said this was the place to come . . . so here I am.” She smiled at me and then at her two friends who were sipping from their Prosecco glasses despite the early hour. Gesturing to her almost flat tummy, she smiled. “Two kids. I definitely want a dress which hides the evidence. Something elegant. Not too fussy. Something which makes me look about ten years younger if possible.” She laughed and I mentally ticked off another number on my wedding-dress bingo. If I had a fiver for every time a bride told me she wished a dress could make her look younger or thinner, I would be a very rich woman. Still, who didn’t want to look amazing on her wedding day? My entire business was built on that very notion.

“Nuala, let’s have a little look and see what we can come up with,” I said while mentally working through the dresses in our stock until my brain focused on two or three dresses which screamed youthful, flattering, non-fussy elegance.

And then I smiled as I watched Nuala transform into a bride before my eyes even though she had not so much as a scrape of make-up on and was crying tears of joy.

“You look lovely,” her friends wept as I stood back, admired my workand heard the ding of the bell on the door announcing the arrival of another customer. I knew Rose wouldn’t hear it – by this stage of the morning she would be hunched over her sewing machine singing along to the Grease soundtrack – Grease being a definite Monday-morning favourite. So I excused myself, walked through to the reception area of the shop and came face to face with a woman who I had not seen in five years and who I had not wanted to see ever again, if I could have helped it.

“Mother,” I said, the words sticking in my throat.

“Katherine,” she replied. “I wondered could we talk?”