Mrs. Margaret Whitaker, youre worthy of my son! my future motherinlaw declares, her voice brimming with pride. I told James to marry a London girlthose women know their worth, they can carry themselves with grace unlike the provincial lot, thank heavens. Take Miss Lucy down the laneshe goes out on dates in tracksuits, can you imagine? And you you look like you stepped out of a postcard!
I smile. My dress truly is lovelya creamcoloured silk gown, bought especially for this occasion.
Mrs. Whitaker keeps chattering, lavishing praise on my taste, my manners, even the way I hold my tea cup. In her eyes I see unabashed delight; at last, her son has brought home a proper fiancée.
James is absolutely smitten with you, she leans in conspiratorially. He called yesterday, asked what sort of ring he should get for the engagement. I told him not to be stingygirls like you only come around once in a lifetime!
A knot forms in my stomach, but I keep smiling. Everything is proceeding as planned
A month ago I arrived in this little market town with a single purpose. I secured a job at the local advertising agency; my experience in the capital had, as they say, left me a cutabove. I rented a flat in the centre and furnished it with taste, thanks to the years I spent learning interior design back in London. Then the hunting began.
Meeting James turned out to be a piece of cake.
At a corporate cocktail for mutual acquaintances I appear in a black dress with an open back. A successful entrepreneur cant help but notice me.
Are you from around here? he asks, handing me a flute of champagne.
London, I reply, narrowing my eyes in appraisal. Ive decided to change scenery. The capital is a whirlwind
His eyes light up. A London girl is a trophy for a lad like him.
From the first moment I play the part perfectly: a little temperamental, but not over the top; independent, yet allowing him to court me; clever, but not so clever as to eclipse his provincial sparkle. I know which restaurants to pick, which compliments to accept, which gifts to decline the first time and accept the second.
Two weeks later he is utterly charmed. Three weeks later he is hopelessly in love. A month later he proposes.
Emma, I understand youre used to a certain standard of living, he says, but Ill make sure you never lack. A house, a car, holidayswhatever you desire!
I stare at him and think of Kate.
My younger sister, who came to this town three years ago for a placement, fell for the local king, a handsome, charismatic James. He whisked her to restaurants, sent flowers then he vanished. He stopped answering calls, pretended not to know her when they met.
When Kate discovered she was pregnant and told him, he blocked her on every platform.
Kate gave birth to a boy, naming him Arthur. She held on for six months, then she was gone. Postnatal depression, despair, no supportdoctors spoke in endless jargon, but the simple truth was betrayal had driven her to the grave.
Yes, James, I say, extending my hand for the ring, I accept.
Mrs. Whitaker swoons at me even more. I become, in her mind, the embodiment of the perfect daughterinlaw: educated, wellmannered, from a respectable familymy backstory meticulously rehearsed.
The wedding will be spectacular! she exclaims. Well invite two hundred guests, no fewer! Let the whole town see the bride my son has found!
I nod, discuss the menu, the dress, the hall décor. James beams, his mother flutters with joy. I count down the days to the celebration.
A week before the wedding I demand a diamond engagement ring.
Emma, weve already spent a fortune James begins.
Fortune? I raise an eyebrow. James, if thats a lot for you, perhaps we should rethink our plans. Im not accustomed to skimping on the important things. In London men give their brides real jewellery, not costume pieces.
He purchases the ring: a whitegold band set with a flawless stone, exactly as I demanded.
And then the wedding day arrives. Its a Saturday, the weather is glorious, two hundred guests fill the roomincluding the mayor, all of Jamess business partners, local press. I stand before a mirror, looking at myself in a white gown selected by Mrs. Whitaker, a veil, a bouquet of white roses
Music from a live orchestra, hired especially from the countys cultural centre, wafts through the hall. Laughter and clinking glasses echo everywhere. Everyone awaits the arrival of the happy bride
James stands in a black tux, radiant, a boutonnière of white rose tucked into his lapel. Behind him looms Mrs. Whitaker. Further back, the bridesmaids in matching pink dresses cluster, a photographer with his camera ready, a videographer and a couple of journalists.
Emma, youre stunning! Mrs. Whitaker gushes. The whole town will now see our London princess! Girls, did you see that? Isnt she a beauty?
James steps toward me, reaches for my hand, but I step back.
Emma? he notices the pallor on my face. Whats wrong? You look pale
I pull the veil off and fling it to the floor.
The white fabric lands at his feet like a torn cloud. I slip off my highheeled satin shoes and place them neatly by the wall.
Emma, what are you doing? Mrs. Whitaker exclaims. The guests are waiting! The mayor is here! The whole town is gathered!
Everyones ready? Splendid, I say, unbuttoning the top button of my dress for a breath of air. Now comes the performance. Free of charge. And very instructive.
Darling, youre scaring me James tries to smile. Whats happened?
Darling? I laugh. A cute word Remember what you called three years ago? Catherine S., the twentyyearold student from London? You know who Im talking about?
Silence falls. The journalists, sensing a scoop, ready their recorders.
Dont recall? I tease. Fine, Ill remind you. Redhaired, freckles, naïve to a fault. You met her back in the capital, invited her to train at your firm. She moved here, fell head over heels for you. You showered her with flowers, dinners, promises then you toyed with her and left. When she told you she was pregnant, you simply blocked her everywhere.
In an instant Jamess face turns ashen, his ears flushing.
Where did you? he croaks.
From the womb, I say, sweeping my gaze over the frozen crowd in the corridor. Shes my younger sister, James. She gave birth to your sonyes, you have a son, almost three now. She struggled alone for six months, then couldnt bear it any longer and ended her life
Oh my God Mrs. Whitaker clutches the door frame.
Yes, Mrs. Whitaker, pray if you must! I turn to her. Your wonderful son has buried my sister!
Emma! I I didnt know James tries to regain control. If only Id known about the child
Youre lying! I shout. She called you! She wrote! And you you acted like?
The bridesmaids in pink huddle together. The photographer snaps unnoticed. Tomorrow this town will have its headline news!
So, dear guests of this cancelled wedding, I say, almost cheerfully. All of thisour meeting, the romance, the engagementhas been a performance. A tribute to my sister, Kate, who is no longer with us.
I walk past them toward the exit, pause at the doorway, and face James.
Imagine yourself in my sisters shoes. How does it feel to be abandoned, shamed, deceived when you were at your most vulnerable? She raised a child alone. You walked away with disgrace and a dent in your wallet. Consider yourself lucky.
As I step out of the restaurant, the murmur of two hundred guests swelling behind me turns into a roar, the talk of a wedding that never was.
