THE MARVELLOUS LIFE
At my friend Emilys wedding, we partied for two days straight, with all the booze, food, and merriment an English countryside wedding could offer. The groom was a stunnerthink Colin Firth in his prime, with a dash of humility that didnt quite match his impossibly handsome exterior. We, the collective guest battalion, couldnt help but sneak glances at Adamthose sky-blue eyes, lashes thicker and longer than any respectable English gentleman should possess (honestly, nature, what were you thinking?), a determined chin, a nose with Greek aspirations, and skin so smooth it was practically tailored velvet. The last strawnearly two metres tall and broad enough to host a rugby match across his shoulders. If we didnt adore Emily, wed have bickered over this extraordinary specimen right then and there by the wedding cake. Adam really was top drawer.
So, how on earth did you snare yourself such a catch? we pounced on Emily, each of us expertly crafting faces of long-suffering loneliness, just in case Adam had equally handsome single brothers lurking about.
Oh girls, stop it! I fell in love with Adam for his simplicity. Hes from a little village, raised by his gran, and is rather handy around the house. We met by chance when my parents bought a cottage in his village. Hes sensitive, kind, and reliable. And the way he runs his homesteadgood heavens, Mum would approve. Proper English gent, he is! It took me ages to convince him to move to the city, I lost count of the pleading nights! she laughed.
Adam adjusted splendidlynot just to the family and new relations, but to urban life as a whole: in a couple of years he mastered the fine points of good whisky, fragrances, politics, art, travel, the FTSE, sport, and rid himself of his quaint Norfolk dialect. He took the wheel of a comfy car generously provided to the young couple by Emilys father, landed a respectable job at her dads business, and, as for who gifted them the flatwell, guess for yourselves.
By their second year of marriage, Adam revealed a passionate affairwith white socks. He would parade around the house and at friends homes in blindingly white socks, slippers be damned. He wore them in wellies, stood boldly in them on muddy floorsno footwear, just enduring white socks.
Emily was not enamoured with this wardrobe quirk, but dutifully mopped the floors twice daily and stocked up on bleach. Thus was Adam dubbed Sock.
Emily discovered Adam had a mistress when she was eight months pregnant. Coincidentally, the mistress was pregnant as well. Sock was expelled from the house, fired, disowned, and mourned within twenty-four hours. Then came the sticky, dreary days of damp autumn. Emily lay dramatically on a now monstrous bed, staring at the ceiling with dry eyes.
Ill cry later. Its not good for the baby right now, she whispered.
Emily lay still, rather like Lenin reposed in his mausoleum, and we took turns in silent vigil by her bedside, supporting our friend with solemn silence.
We wanted to sob loudly, flip through the book of fate, and tear out the traitorous pages. But necessity demanded silence and patience.
When Emily was discharged, we squawked, shook inflatable balloons in the air, begged the nurses for a chance at tea, and invited them to ride off into the sunset with us, wishing everyone health and happiness en masse. The freshly minted grandad was the most enthusiastic: moved by the occasion, after promising to clean up afterwards, he carefully chalked an enormous, wonky message beneath Emilys ward windowThank you for the grandson!before attempting to sing something, only to be stopped by security. The guard, amiable enough, offered to sample the jubilant grandads playlist with him in his booth, over a nip of brandy, with no threat to public order.
On discharge day, grandad was lively, fresh, andif memory servesalmost radiant. He wept from joy and pride. Wept with proper British moderation and spirit.
We, the delegation, wept too, laughed, showered Emily with kisses, peered bashfully into the blue bundle, and carefully avoided mentioning his fathers Greek nose. Only Emily didnt cry, not even in joy.
Later. It might affect the milk, she said.
Emily stayed silent with us for two months, before finally heading off to visit Adam. Not with matches and acid, but with an overwhelming urge to rage and howl. To reproach, knock on walls with her thin fists, shame, and perhaps purge herself of the accumulated pain binding her to that bed, by unloading it all on the betrayerthe destroyer of her hopes and their world with their tiny son, a world she pictured full of knitted socks for her beloved men, little Oliver cackling, the three of them holding hands on a walk, and Adamonce so needed, so dear, now gone.
Emily longed especially to look into the eyes of that shameless creature sleeping with her husband. The eyes would surely be bold, probably beautiful. Shed spit in those eyes, decided; spit for good measure. And if needed, shed claw them out.
Where to go and perform her scandal, Emily learned from the ever-enthusiastic local grandmas during a walk with the baby. They halted her, reminded Emily that Adam was, frankly, a sod, described a colourful route towards the lovers nest and suggested possible revenge options. Emily was flummoxed, wracked inside, ready to leave without catching the house number, but for some reason, she didnt.
So there she stood, Emily, outside a shabby block of flats, needing only to go up to the fifth floorwhere spit or shriek awaited.
First floorshe figured, with her current luck, no one would likely be in, and she was wasting her time. Second floorshe thought, actually, itd be a relief if no one was home. Third floorEmily heard desperate child wailing, drifting down from the fifth.
The door was opened by a skinny, tear-streaked girl whose look couldnt be matched with Emilys mental image of the siren whod lured her gentle husband.
As Emily stared, aghast, at the forty-kilo rival sniffling before her, the child shrieked on somewhere in the depths of the flat.
Hello, Emily. Adam isnt here, he left us two weeks ago. Where he isI havent a clue, said the girl, sitting down on the floor, sobbing.
Emilys urge to scandal faded instantly. She wanted to go calm the baby for this hapless young mum, then stick her with a phrase: If you want the ride, you better pull the sledge, love! Yes, shed definitely get sledge in there. And shed deliver it with crushing, contemptuous disdain. She had a right, after allshe was the wronged party.
The baby was dry. Eyelids swollen, a vein showing on his forehead, voice hoarse. Clearly, the boy was starving, screaming for whatever tiny strength he had left, while his bewildered mum lay on the hall floor in tears.
How she searched empty kitchen cupboards for formula, rummaged desperately in the bare fridge, Emily later recalled only with difficulty.
She found a note on the kitchen table with a chilling, half-written phrase: Please in my bl…and shuddered.
The girl wept, recounting to Emily, as if to a close friend, that she had nowhere to gothis rented flat was out in two days. Milk gone, Adam gone, and, frankly, money had never existed. She was terribly sorry. And ashamed. And too late. She simply hadnt known. She begged forgiveness. And, yes, Emily could hit herought to, really. The baby was called Paul, and Emily should remember that, just in case. Paul was only nine days older than Oliver.
Emily rushed homeafter twenty minutes, Oliver would demand his feed. Running wasnt easy: two hefty shopping bags belonging to Lucy pulled at her arms, Lucy herself wheezed along, cradling a well-fed Paul. Emily ran, pondering where to fit two more beds.
Three years later, we celebrated Lucys wedding; four years onEmilys. Emilys new husband despises white socks, firmly believes life should be brighter, and adores his wife, his son, and his two daughters. Lucys now mother to four boys; her husband holds out hope for a girl…
