Chapter 14
On the weekend, Dave and I drive out to Broxbourne, leave the car in a pub car park and walk along the River Lee. I’m not a great one for nature and I don’t know the names of trees or wild flowers, but there’s lots of them and it’s pretty. I never realised there were so many different shades of green. There’s a field on one side, with some horses. The ducks swim along the river in straggly little families, fluffing their feathers in the sunshine. We hold hands, ambling along the towpath. And it’s like we’ve turned the clock on our relationship back to how it used to be. That’s when he says it.
“I’ve got some news.”
“Good news?”
“Remember that friend of Zak’s you wanted me to phone?”
“How could I forget? It’s OK, you don’t have to. Carry on with the Hasidic portraits.”
“I called her.”
“You don’t have to, honestly. I understand. No compromises with commercial crap.”
“I wanted to. You’re right, I need to start thinking a bit more practically. Raise some funds.”
“Really?”
“I’ve been to see her. Big woman, red hair, garish dress sense.”
“This is Zizi?”
“I think her mother named her Susan.”
“And?”
“Says she’ll try me out for a magazine shoot.”
“What’s the subject?”
“Sort-of home and garden type of stuff.” He’s half looking away from me, and half muttering it.
“That’s just the kind of thing you’ve always loathed. Are you sure you really want to do that?”
“Oh you know, the pay’s surprisingly good.”
“But what happened to art?”
“That’s bullshit and you know it. Showing off.” I look at him, but he’s still avoiding eye contact.
“Look at me and say that again.”
“No pain, no gain, kiddo,” he says in his Clint Eastwood voice.
“It’s not a joke.” His face drops.
“No it’s not. If we’re serious about getting hitched – and I bloody well am – both of us need to be earning some dough. I don’t think your parents or mine are going to fork out for much of a do.”
The mention of our marriage brings a lump to my throat. I know we’ve announced it to my parents which means it’s real and does exist, but somewhere deep inside I don’t really believe in it. Even forgetting my night of idiocy with Jon, the fact that I’m actually engaged to be married seems like something theoretical and distant, not practical and immediate. It’s an idea that’s still taking shape. I smile in a way that I hope is sphynx-like and mysterious but suspect is more like an uncomfortable grimace. Thankfully Dave doesn’t seem to notice, he’s still on photography.
“So?”
“So, be happy. But not too happy because it hasn’t happened yet.”
We have a pint and a cheese sandwich to celebrate, sitting on the lawn outside the pub.
On the way home, driving along a country lane, Dave suddenly tells me to pull in. Up ahead of us is a picturesque little church. I don’t worry much about this, because it’s what he does. In London, he’s always pointing out interesting bits of architecture and historical whatnots, though he favours industrial features, mostly Victorian. This church is older than that, with ivy growing up one side. All around it, ancient gravestones peep out of the grass at odd angles, like a set of bad teeth.
“This is really cool,” he says. “Come and have a look inside.” According to the inscription on a brass plate, there’s been a church on this site for hundreds of years, though the present building is Georgian. Sunbeams pierce the stained glass windows, reflecting on the airborne motes of dust. He gets his camera out to run off a few shots of the carved ceiling and simple altarpiece. Then he takes my hand.
“Do you fancy getting married here?” Suddenly the whole marriage thing is terribly real. Dave is taking it seriously in a way I didn’t expect him to. Worse than that, it’s all going off in the wrong direction. I should love the fact he’s thought so carefully about it, that he’s taking it seriously for God’s sake, that he wants it to be utterly beautiful. Unfortunately there’s just one thing I can’t stop myself saying.
“But it’s a church.”
“Yes. And I believe it is common practice for people to get married in places of worship.”
“Hold on a second,” I say. “I know we’re not going for the big Jewish thing, with the canopy, stamping on the glass and people shouting ‘Mazel tov’. But getting married in a church is something else completely.”
“Think of it as a location. We don’t want to get married in a register office, do we? A church is the only cool kind of place to get married.”
“I don’t think my parents will be happy about coming to a church to see me married.”
“But these days a church has no religious implications at all,” he insists. “It’s neutral but pretty. Rural, in an inner city kind of way. Romantic in an English kind of way. There’s no such thing as a nice register office. However much they try, there’s always the depressing air of bureaucracy.”
“It’s still a church, though. That means a vicar, hymns, Lord’s Prayer and all that.”
“Nobody takes it seriously. What else is there?”
“A lot of people have a humanist service. We choose prayers that we like, or readings, or poems.”
“That’s a bit Blue Peter isn’t it?” In the pause before he answers, it hits me. This walk in the countryside was his idea. He must have known this church was here. Now the conversation about work strikes me as horribly calculated. He’s played me, priming me to feel good about him, by throwing me a carrot. He’ll drop the artistic pretentions to pay for the wedding. And while I’m feeling grateful to him, he slides in the church business and expects me to fall for it.
“If you think it will be easier,” he says, “let’s talk to the vicar about bringing in some Jewish stuff. Let’s see if we can put together something tailored to our needs but based on the traditional service. With lots of flowers. Ranunculus and gerbera if you like. Bold colours.”
“Hold on a second, not so fast.” My heart is banging in my chest. I should walk out now and tell him the whole thing’s off. He can’t just expect me to go along with this.
“Elizabeth, you are always telling me that you aren’t that religious. You haven’t set foot in a synagogue since we met, and that’s two years ago.”
“We do Passover, w-we always have a Seder – you know that!”
“So once a year, you and your folks sit down for some chicken soup and matzo balls. That doesn’t strike me as reflecting a deep religious commitment, any more than Christmas lunch makes the rest of the country into devout Christians. And if I remember correctly, you trotted home for turkey and all the trimmings with your parents in December – you’re already halfway there.”
“Yes, but it’s a long way from that to getting married in a church.”
“It’s one way of showing your parents that you are your own, separate person. You have to decide, are you going to put them before me?”
“Of course not, but they are dubious about the whole project as it is.”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“I just know.”
“And there was me thinking they were warming up. Silly old me.”
“They do like you. You are perfect in every possible way. Except one.”
“Now let me guess – would it be something to do with the kind of toothpaste I use? No, of course, they don’t like my record collection. They are into Acid House, and can’t understand what I see in Wham.” I try not to laugh, and fail. “Elizabeth, you want to marry me, I want to marry you. Can’t we leave your parents out of it? You’re old enough to make your own decisions.”
“I’m terrified they might be right.” I say, looking away. “What if they really do know something about me that I don’t understand myself yet?”
“All they are saying is that they don’t feel entirely happy and relaxed with me, because I’m not like them. I’m not a middle–aged, middle European businessman. Terribly sorry, my dear, but I’m not marrying them, I’m marrying you.”
“I feel like a fraud getting married at all, it’s not for people like me. It’s for girls who believe in the redemptive power of a designer wedding dress and the sanctity of the perfect table setting.”
“There’s no rule that weddings have to come out of a ‘Brides to Be’catalogue. It will be special in the way that we want it to be.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me round so that I am looking directly at him. “Not the way our parents want it to be. It’s about what makes us happy – wearing fur loincloths in a cave if we like.”
“Being married and being happy are not the same thing. Look at my parents.”
“Now who is falling for the glossy magazine view of marriage? Believe me, your parents are happy. That’s what happy looks like. They have loved and supported each other for nearly fifty years. It doesn’t get much better than that.”
“Apart from the times when they want to kill each other, or themselves.”
“For better or for worse, remember?” I’m about to snap back that “better or worse”, far from being universal, comes from the Christian wedding service. But I think better of it.
We look at each other across the sunny, dust-glinting haze of light. And, somehow, I realise that I’ve pretty much agreed to the church. After the ceremony, a liberal minded rabbi will come to the reception to bless our union, but I doubt that will impress my side very much.