I look in the mirror, brushing my hair back from my face, applying mascara. We’re having a registry office wedding, and then a small reception in a restaurant nearby. I’m wearing a silk dress in dove grey that Dougie picked out. It’s not my style, but he was adamant that I should develop a more sophisticated look now I’m to be a married woman.
He’s giving me away, as Dad isn’t here.
I lean forward and slide a pair of pearl drops through my ear lobes. I don’t look like me at all. Maybe that’s good.
I go down the stairs – the same ones Elizabeth fell down – and I’m blinded for a second by sunshine streaming through the glass over the front door. I stumble, lost inside that liquid gold, and clutch the banister tightly, my breath caught in my throat.
Sounds from the TV reach me. I follow the noise and find Grace lying on her tummy on the floor, the cat, which she’s named Fat Mog, stretched out next to her, tail twitching. On screen there’s a band singing in front of a huge crowd. ‘What are you watching?’ I ask.
‘It’s a pop festival,’ she tells me. ‘They’re trying to make South Africa free. Wet Wet Wet were on. And it’s that man’s birthday – you know, the man in prison there.’
‘Nelson Mandela?’
‘Yup.’ She sits up and scoops the cat into her lap. ‘That’s him.’
‘Well, sweetheart, I’m sorry, but we have to switch it off now. We don’t want to be late for Dad.’
The tabby struggles out of her arms and stalks off, tail in the air. Grace doesn’t seem to notice; she’s looking at me with an anxious expression. ‘Cat … you know you’re marrying Dad? But I can’t … I can’t call you Mum, because,’ her lips tremble, ‘because I already have a real mum, even if she’s dead.’ To my horror, tears spill from her eyes, rolling down her cheeks.
I stare at her, stunned by her words. She thinks she’s betraying her mom by accepting me as her stepmom? ‘Hey, don’t cry, sweetheart.’ I crouch to wipe her tears away. ‘I’ll never replace your real mom. I know that.’
She nods gratefully, and presses her face against me, sniffing.
‘Listen, bug, you can call me whatever you like,’ I tell her. ‘Stinky Pants or Big Ears …’
She laughs.
‘That’s better! But seriously, Grace, don’t worry. Of course, if you ever change your mind, I’d be thrilled to hear you call me Mom. But if it doesn’t feel right, that’s okay too.’
On screen, Lenny Henry is doing a Michael Jackson impersonation.
‘Cab’s due in five minutes,’ I say, standing to look at my watch. I nod at the set. ‘You’d better turn that off now. Go get your dress on.’
Upstairs, I knock on the spare-room door. Daniel and Mom have flown over for the wedding, and Daniel has gone ahead with Leo to the registry office. Mom looks up. ‘My goodness …’ She dabs the corners of her eyes with a lace hanky. ‘You look real beautiful, Catrin.’ She takes my hands in hers and squeezes. ‘I’m happy for you. He’s a gentleman. I can rest easy knowing this one will take care of you. And the little girl seems nice. But of course, you can have your own baby now.’
I let go of her hands. I think of Grace’s tearful face. I can’t call you Mum. ‘We haven’t discussed that, Mom.’
Mom rolls her eyes. ‘You’re not so young any more. Let me tell you, the years pass mighty fast. Leo can provide for you. He’s a top surgeon. There’s no need to be cautious about,’ she lowers her voice, ‘money.’
‘It’s not money I was thinking about.’
But she’s still speaking. ‘Lucky that your relationship with that young drifter never came to anything,’ she says. ‘You wouldn’t be living in a house like this, I’m sure.’
I frown. ‘I don’t want to talk about that, Mom.’
She leans towards me, the scent of roses overpowering, and touches my arm. ‘Though actually, luck didn’t come into it. I was looking out for you. A mother always knows what’s best for her child.’
A prickle of cold runs across my skin. ‘What? What are you talking about?’
The sharpness of my voice makes her take a step back. ‘Oh, nothing. Forget I said anything.’
‘No.’ I make an effort to calm my voice. ‘No. Tell me, Mom. Please.’
‘His letters,’ she says, keeping her eyes on my reaction.
‘Letters?’ The word crashes through my head like a runaway steer. I stare at her. ‘He didn’t write any …’
She looks wary now. She nods. ‘Well, yes, he did. A few, anyways.’
‘A few?’ The room tilts. ‘Wait. How did you know they were from him?’
‘You said he’d be writing. They had an English postmark.’ Her voice is almost confiding.
‘He wrote me letters?’ I feel sick. ‘He wrote to me and you … what? What did you do with them?’
She’s wary again. She pats at her hair. ‘I burnt them.’
‘No.’ A small sob breaks free from my throat. ‘How could you do that? It wasn’t your right. It wasn’t your right to do that.’
‘He was no good.’ She puts her chin in the air. ‘I could see it, even if you couldn’t.’ She reaches out her hand to me, and I flinch back from it. ‘You were blinded by his charm, Catrin. I don’t blame you.’
‘What did he say in his letters?’
‘Oh, I don’t rightly remember …’
‘You must remember something. Tell me. You owe me that.’
‘Well. My goodness. I guess it was the usual sort of thing. Promises. Talk about love. And I do recall he sent some kind of poem. About the ocean.’
A strangled wail punctures the air. The noise is coming from me. I sink onto the bed and lean forward onto my knees. Sam! Inside, I’m crying his name.
Mom is still talking. A white noise crackles around my head. I put my hands onto the bedspread either side of me to feel the texture, pinching a fold hard between my fingers. I’m fighting to make sense of what she’s telling me. Sam wrote to me. He didn’t forget me. He kept his promise.
But it’s too late.
I stare up at her. Her words resolve themselves out of the crackling. ‘Now, Catrin, don’t go making a scene. It was for the best.’ She puts a hand to her throat. ‘Lordy, I don’t understand you – it was so long ago.’ She looks hurt. There’s a prim tightness to her lips. ‘You’re getting married to Leo,’ she says, as if I’ve forgotten.
What would she say if I told her that the poem she read is now a hit song played on the radio? There’s no point. None of it matters any more.
It’s too late. The words thunder through me over and over. Too late. Too late.
I have a sudden urge to get up and run – run past her and out of the house. And go where? I think. Where can I go?
Then Grace is in the room, bouncing with excitement. ‘Taxi’s outside.’ Her cheeks are flushed. She’s wearing a dress in the same dove grey as mine, with a pink sash around her waist.
I get up on shaky legs. ‘Thank you, bug,’ I tell her. ‘Let’s go. We don’t want to keep Daddy waiting, do we?’
I don’t look at my mother as Grace slips her hand into mine.
I won’t remember the details of my marriage vows later. Everything is a blur. As I stand next to Leo in front of the registrar with my posy of daisies, I feel like I’m coming down with flu. I’m dizzy enough that I think I might faint right there. I squeeze the stalks of the flowers hard, my knuckles flaring white. ‘You look beautiful,’ Leo mouths. The registrar, a woman in a dark suit, is speaking. I tell myself to breathe, focus. Repeat her words. Smile.
Afterwards, my lips must feel cold to Leo, but he’s smiling and laughing, his arm around my waist. Grace throws handfuls of confetti when we are outside on the steps. I blink in the hazy sunshine, ducking under the shower of paper.
It takes a long time to get to the restaurant. Our cab is stuck in a jam. The others are following behind in a different taxi. Our car nudges along at a stop-start pace. Music drifts out of the cabbie’s radio. Applause, and then another song. ‘There’s a concert in honour of Mandela, apparently,’ Leo tells me. ‘I think it’s being broadcast live.’
Our driver nods. ‘Terrible traffic all day. Don’t know why we got to interfere with what’s going on in another country. They can sort themselves out, can’t they?’
Leo raises his eyebrows at me. I raise mine back.
A new song begins, and my heart jumps. First time I saw you, beside the ocean blue … The audience roar in appreciation. His voice floats over the airwaves, soft and intimate. Remember us kissing slow on the Avenue … My body is cold, then hot, my pulse leaping under my skin.
I lurch forward. ‘Turn it off,’ I tell the driver. ‘Please.’ Sliding the partition window shut with trembling fingers, I sit back, hoping Leo can’t hear the thunder of my heart, sense the shock ricocheting through my body.
‘I don’t mind having you all to myself for longer,’ he’s saying. He runs his fingers through my hair, picking out bits of coloured confetti: yellow, pink and white in the palm of his hand. ‘You are happy, aren’t you, darling?’