Four

Magnolia

I helped plan a lot of the wedding from afar.

The colour palette, the flowers, the dresses — Marsaili has two sisters, both are bridesmaids as well — the older one who somehow managed to secure the title of maid of honour over me has the style of Christopher Walken and is about as visionary as a brick. The younger one — or ‘the shit one’ as Bridget and I have come to call her — is also useless.

Bridget is too. She tried to be helpful, but she suggested roses and ranunculus in the same bouquet so she was obviously an absolute and immediate dead end.

But all the planning was good for me. Kept me busy. Because as it turns out, I used to spend a lot of time with my friends in London, and in New York I didn’t have that many people who were around all the time.

There was Rush whenever he was in town. And Lucía Nieves-Navarro, my whacky telecom-heiress neighbour from Mexico who shared my floor with me. Then there were others I met throughout the year, but New York is so transient.

I still travelled a lot for work — I was busy, I had things to do. I guess I just hadn’t consciously realised how much of my time I had filled with BJ and Paili.

She’s living in Spain now, I heard. I’m pretty sure the Spanish Flu is fairly under wraps now, but if it’s not, I do hope she catches it.

Anyway.

The wedding’s at St George’s. Obviously. Like there’s anywhere else to get married in London besides St Paul’s Cathedral, but that’s where I want to get married so I made sure to steer Marsaili away from that venue.

We arrive in Hanover Square twenty-five minutes after the wedding was supposed to have started but that was barely my doing and was primarily on account of London’s hideous traffic and also just a little bit because Bridget decided to ‘do her own make-up,’ which if you’ve ever seen her try to do her own make-up you’d understand why we’re late and you too would have wrestled that dark fuchsia, high pigment travesty from her colour-blind little hands.

Marsaili’s dress is gorgeous.

From Pronovias’s SS2022 The New Oasis Collection — the Kufra dress.

Asymmetrical neckline with one long sleeve, one sleeveless, a form fitting mermaid cut with some light beading and a subtle but rather lovely train.

The maid of honour is in a dusty blue ruffle-shoulder embellished gown from Marchesa that on my mother would look like an Oscars gown but on this lady it’s just sort of a mess. Like she’s going to the Yule Ball at Hogwarts.

The Shit One’s in a simple silk cape gown from Valentino that’s very classy, sort of a subtle… I don’t want to say lilac because lilacs are stupid, but not not lilac.

I wrangled Bridge into this gorgeous baby blue Tony Ward gown with a flowy tulle skirt and these gorgeous puff sleeves and coerced her into the Anilla 100 crystal pumps from Jimmy Choo and, to be honest, she looks a bit like Cinderella and I’m nearly jealous but I can tell she feels beautiful so my jealousy simmers at a health 30%.

And me? A dress from the Elie Saab Spring 2011 Couture runway that I asked him to recreate for me. Nice, pastel, bright purple. Sheer, lace paneling, figure hugging, subtly belted with draped silk crystal organza that I’ve paired perfectly with the Carrie Crystal Bow Mule 75 from Aquazzura.

We’re all holding hydrangeas, lavender and white rose bouquets and the colour theme for the wedding is to die for, if I do say so myself.

I’m nervous, standing out there, waiting to walk in.

Bridget first, then me.

I know I’m going to see him. I know he’s going to be here. It was a big thing — a big discussion in our family. Everyone flew over to talk to me about it.

Took me out to Nobu to butter me up. Bridget thought it was deeply inappropriate that he be invited. My father and my mother both said he had to be invited because they were inviting the rest of the Ballentines, and then my father said my mother needed to bugger off and what was she doing here anyway? And then Bushka said he has a great arse and to pass the rock shrimp tempura. Marsaili said it would be rude not to and that if I’m as over him as I tell everyone I am, that I should be fine with him being there, but that if I insisted he not come, she’d insist it too.

So they invited him because I couldn’t tell them that actually he is the drain in the centre of me where all the happy things fall through and that I feel his absence in everything. Everything. Breakfast time, cups of tea. Bumblebees. Honey. The stars. Gucci. The Discovery Channel. Long drives. Driving in general. Willow trees. Uno. Old Skool Vans. Tiffany’s. Maserati’s. Boys with tattoos.

And now here I am, standing on the steps of St George’s with a thudding heart in my throat and eyes that don’t know where to look because I’m afraid they’ll find the thing they’re dying to see.

Henry and Taura appear at the top of the stairs and then he jogs down them, throwing his arms around me.

“How good is it having you here in London?” He picks me up off the ground, jostling me around.

I give him a wry look and straighten his bow tie. Blue and cute from Tom Ford. I know, I picked it out. Giorgio Armani classic tuxedo suit, little blue crescent moon and star cufflinks with Elkan Penny Loafers also from Tom Ford.

“Well, you mustn’t get used to it,” I tell him as Taura curls her arms around my neck.

Sky Rocket Maxi Dress (The Vampire’s Wife) in oxblood. Very classy.

If she wasn’t (apparently) my best friend and if she wasn’t sleeping with my actual (other) best friend, I’d be insecure about her.

She looks me up and down. “Are you trying to kill him?”

I put my nose in the air. “I don’t know what you mean.”

She ignores me. “Nervous?”

I look over at her, my eyes flick from her to Henry, and I nod.

She slips me a little bottle of vodka.

“Drink this one now, and this one,” she slips it into my bouquet, “after.”

She gives me a little wink as she backs up the stairs. “We’re on your Dad’s side. Middle-front-ish. Towards the left.”

“I don’t care—” I lie.

“He didn’t bring her,” Henry calls as he walks backward up the stairs.

I pause. “I still don’t care.”

He raises an eyebrow and points at me. “Bullshit.”

Then they dart back inside.

“Well, that’s interesting,” Bridget says, sidling up next to me.

“No, it’s not,” I tell her quickly.

She glances at me, annoyed and intrigued.

“No girlfriend?” she repeats.

I ignore her.

(“Very interesting,” she says under her breath, but she’s a mouth breather so it’s very loud.)

The music swells. Ave Verum Corpus.

Bridget starts walking down the aisle.

Then me.

And my eyes are frontward. They do not veer left, they do not veer right. And still, I can feel his eyes on me — he’s to the right of the church, not just because the right side is traditionally the groom’s side, but because I just know it.

That pull we have, the undertow of the universe always dragging us back towards each other, it has to mean something, don’t you think? That great magnetic force I’ve spent the better (or worst) part of a year fighting and defying and I feel it still, my legs trying to walk me back into his orbit — I think it means something.

Or maybe it doesn’t and I just want it to because that would give all our pain a purpose.

I don’t listen to much of the wedding sermon.

They’re all sort of the same, don’t you think?

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it’s not proud. It doesn’t dishonour others, it’s not self-seeking, it’s not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.

But it’s shit. It’s all a lie.

We weren’t any of those things but don’t you for a second try to tell me we weren’t in love. I loved him more than anything and at the end of everything, it’s all we had and it did not persevere. It failed.

The reception’s at the Royal Hospital Chelsea — beautiful, of course.

I make the rounds — put in some face time with my godfather, as well as Bridget’s. (Graham Norton. I know, I’m jealous of that too.) Lots of people flew in from America. Chris Martin, the Timberlakes, Usher. The whole thing’s shamefully star-studded, but Marsaili and my father look pleased, so that’s good I suppose. If we insist on looking on the brighter side, I suppose it’s good they’re happy… They’re just gross old people in love now. They don’t like it when I tell them that though. “Save something for the speech, darling.” My father gave his new bride a look.

“Oh, I’m not giving a speech,” I say. “The Shit One is.”

“Would you stop calling her that?” Marsaili huffs. “That’s my sister.”

My father gives her a look. “She is a little bit shit though…”

“Harley!” Marsaili growls.

“Question—” I interrupt, giving them both a look. “Arrie Parks is here…”

I stare over at my mother who is dressed in the brightest outfit at the whole reception: two-tone pink floor-length dress by Carolina Herrera. Marsaili gives me an impatient look. “That’s not a question, Magnolia.”

“Bit of a sticky wicket, her being here, no?” I glance between them.

“No,” Marsaili says at the same time my dad says, “Absolutely.”

We all stare over at her arse being squeezed by Enzo like it’s a fucking lemon in the back corner of a reception there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that he shouldn’t be at.

Marsaili waves her hand through the air. “It would’ve been rude not to—”

“Would it?” my father and I say at the same time and I don’t care for the synchronisation.

And then there’s a tap on my shoulder.

I’m nervous to turn around but I do it anyway because I’m brave like that, but I should have known from the tap it wasn’t him.

I’d feel it if it was.

It is someone else I love though.

“Well,” grins Gus Waterhouse. “If it isn’t my favourite heartbreaker…”

I frown at him playfully. “Mean.”

He gives me a look. “True.”

I roll my eyes at him.

“You holding up okay?” he asks tentatively.

“It’s not my best day.” I shrug breezily. “It’s not my worst either though—”

Gus nods. “Seen him?”

“No.”

He tilts his head. “Intentionally?”

I give him a look because he’s annoying like this. “Yes.”

He gives me a small smile, pleased his assessment was correct.

I take the drink from his hand and sip at it. “How’s Tom?”

“Good.” He nods. “Yeah, good. Better.”

This makes me happy. He deserves to be good. “I’m glad.”

“He loves Hawaii.”

“He would.” I smile as I think of him. “All those mountains to climb, the surf—”

“—The girls.” Gus gives me a pointed look. I think he’s trying to make a point, to make sure I know that Tom is fine without me.

I never thought he wouldn’t be. Tom is Tom England. The most wonderful, whole, beautiful man to ever grace the planet. He never needed me and I was never under the impression that he was lucky to have me; I always knew it was the other way around. What happened after he left proves that I was right. My eyes pinch at Gus because I think it’s rude he’s hitting me with a softball at my own father’s stupid wedding.

“You haven’t visited me in a while,” I tell him and he tilts his head and cocks his eyebrow. “Hawaii calling?” I guess.

Gus breathes out through his nose. “He is my best friend…”

“And what am I?” I frown, offended. “Chopped liver?”

“Nah—” He shrugs coolly. “Just the girl who broke his heart.” He flicks his eyebrows up. “And fucked his heterosexual best mate.”

Ouch.

I deserve it, I guess.

I did and it’s true.

Clara helped (with the breaking, not the fucking), but it was a lot of me in the end, I think. Me and BJ. Me and Rush.

“I should get back to my date,” he tells me, nodding his head over towards someone I recognise who gives me a small, overwhelmed wave.

“Jack Giles?” I blink. He’s so gorgeous — chocolatey eyes that are always smouldering like he’s wearing eyeliner even if he isn’t, sexy pushed back brown hair and a sensational jawline — he makes me wish I were a gay man. Or he were a straight one. “I didn’t know…” I shake my head. “When?”

“It’s recent.” He nods, blushing a little. “Let’s get a drink before you fly back out. I’ll catch you up—”

He kisses my cheek.

After that, the speeches are spoken and there’s a father-daughter dance that I dodge by hurling my sister into my father’s arms and making Henry dance with me instead. I stick close to my Safe Three because everyone in the world wants to talk to me about New York and Rush and why I disappeared in the dead of night the way I did.

Like they don’t all already know. Everyone knows.

It was everywhere. The whole of the Rosebery heard it. There’s videos of it on the internet. Do you have any idea what it feels like to have everyone see your maybe worst moment, where your heart broke on your face in front of the entire world for all to see, only to have them then use it for small talk at parties when the conversation lulls?

I make my way to the bar.

“Can I have a martini, please?” I ask the bartender. “Vodka.”

And then I feel a body saddle up next to me.

Feel it.

Even though he’s not touching me at all, I feel it in my bones. A curious, deep ache and a mild episode of SVT.

He leans against the bar.

“How’s the weather, Parks?” he asks and I don’t turn to face him.

I can’t. My heart’s going too fast, it’s run up into my throat.

I try my best to steady my breathing.

I take a long sip, don’t look away from my glass. “Do you remember Geostorm?” I reply coolly.

He sniffs but I think it’s a laugh.

“Yeah, you walked out of it.”

I still don’t look at him. “Well, it was terrible.”

“You’re avoiding me,” he tells me, looking for my eyes.

“Yes,” I say. And now I look at him.

Oh my god. He’s beautiful.

It hits me in my chest, spreads through me like a spider web. He looks different but the same all at once. Older, I think. But healthier, maybe?

Some new freckles.

More scruff on his face than when I last saw it. Just a tiny bit.

My favourite forget-me-not bow still on his thumb.

I fight the old urge to push my hand through his perfect hair — an urge I thought I shook but I guess you can’t ever really, not with a boy like him.

And his stupid pillow mouth rips at the seams of my resolve not to love him how I worry I always will, and my mind falls through an infinity of memories I’ve had with him and thought I’d have with him and worry I won’t ever have with him again.

I swallow. Count to three, breathing through my nose.

I won’t let him know he does this to me still. I’d sooner die.

“I am.” I look up at him and nod slowly. “Thank you so much for respecting my wishes and not approaching me—”

He smirks and goes “hah” and I miss him.

“Come on,” he chides with a half-cocked smile. “Had to say hello. Rude not to…”

I take a sizeable sip of my drink. “I suppose.”

Peak-Lapel wool suit and the Pre-Tied Silk-Satin Bow Tie, both from Tom Ford. White Formal Button Up Shirt from Dolce & Gabbana with the Jordaan Horsebit Gucci loafers. I love him in a suit.

BJ licks his bottom lip and tilts his head to look at me. “Oi, are you in lilac?”

Fuck. I purse my lips for a second and then roll my eyes.

“I didn’t pick the colour palette.” I shrug demurely.

“Yeah right,” he scoffs. “You’re gonna tell me Marsaili picked out this monochromatic masterpiece on her own?”

I get the feeling he’s trying to flatter me but I roll my eyes anyway because I don’t want to make anything easy for him.

He nods at me playfully. “What’d you call the Pinterest board?”

“Nothing,” I tell him, my nose in the air.

“Tell me—” he presses.

“No.” I cross my arms over my chest.

“Violet Supernova?” he guesses.

I squint at him, equal parts amused and annoyed.

“Amaranthine twilight,” I concede.

His face cracks wide into a smile.

I frown, not feeling like being teased by anyone today, least of all him. “I look good in lilac.”

His face softens a little. “Yes, you do.”

Our eyes hold.

“I know,” I tell him, my nose in the air.

He goes “hah” again and the years whistle around our ankles like leaves in the wind and we’re lovers in autumn under a tree raining orange and regret, and in that moment we’re still each other’s and time wraps around us in the infinity we thought we had but we don’t anymore because he broke us.

He smiles a little, watching me closely. “You good?”

“Yes.” I give him a glib smile. “I’m simply thrilled to be here celebrating a love birthed in the canal of infidelity.”

He laughs and for some reason it sounds like I’m ringing the doorbell of the home I grew up in.

“Here for long?” Not letting go of my eyes.

“Just a few weeks.”

“You staying til—”

“—Yes,” I cut in.

He nods, I nod. I feel dizzy. I grab my drink, take a few big sips to steady my jitters.

“So,” I take another drink, “I hear you’ve got a girlfriend.”

His face pulls funny. Strained. Uncomfortable? Remorseful? Disappointed? Frustrated? Maybe none of the above — maybe he’s just sorry for me.

He nods once. “I do.”

Have we lost touch? I wonder. The thought makes me feel panicky. Has a year apart changed our channels? I don’t think I can hear his thoughts anymore.

“She’s not here.” I glance around.

He shakes his head. “Felt like that might be inappropriate—”

“—And yet, here you are.” I give him a curt smile as though I’m not hanging on to every word he’s saying.

“I was invited.” His eyebrows flicker in defence and he shrugs a little. “Mum made me,” he lies.

And I can tell he’s lying — his mouth falls at a particular angle when he’s lying. I don’t even care that he is, I’m just glad I can still tell. Glad to have not lost him completely.

“Besides,” he shrugs again, “I didn’t want Mars charging down the aisle and tackling her. The society papers have been surprisingly drama-free in your absence,” he tells me with a look.

I roll my eyes.

“Are you seeing anyone?” he asks and I wish I could say yes. I wish I had a boy I could wear like a hard hat for my heart, but I don’t.

“I was,” I say because it’s fractionally less pathetic than a plain old no.

“What happened?”

I give him a cool look. “None of your business.”

He nods once. “Do I know him?” he asks after a few seconds of silence.

I think about it for a second — everyone knows Rush, but that’s not who I’ve been dating. Not for a while, anyway. If you were going to call what we were doing ‘dating’ — which I wouldn’t, though my grandmother might. Rush and I, we’ve let them think that we’re together because people always talk and sometimes it’s easier to have them talk about the wrong thing. It gave me a minute to work out if the other thing was the right thing, but it wasn’t. He wasn’t. I don’t think anyone else will ever be. It doesn’t matter anyway. I shrug with both my shoulders and my mouth.

“I’m not sure — I don’t know. No, probably.”

He nods again, relieved a bit, maybe, and my eyes snag just below his right thumb.

I nod my chin towards it, which makes me feel strange because once upon a lifetime ago I would have reached over to touch him just so I could touch him. “Is that a tattoo of two dead bees?”

He looks sprung and covers it with his over hand, flashing me an apologetic smile and my shields slide on up.

“Yeah.” He shrugs like it’s silly and not callous.

I nod once. “Right.”

He peers down at it, mouth pulling a bit strangely. “Someone told me once that they’d never go extinct—” He looks over at me. “She lied.”

I give him a curt smile. “She wasn’t the one who killed them.”

His eyes fall and he swallows, breathing out of his nose.

“Anyway,” I sing brightly as I spin my Jennifer Meyer flower diamond ring around my finger, “I should get back to bridesmaid duties.” I tell him this quickly — I don’t know why — maybe because even though he’s figuratively killed the metaphor of us and displayed it permanently on his body, I still don’t think I could bear the thought of him leaving me first.

He presses his lips together as he nods. “Yeah.”

I take a step away from him.

“Bye—” I do a weirdly passive non-wave but almost wave.

His mouth twitches, amused at it. “Bye.”

I turn away.

“Hey, Parks—” he calls after me and I look back. “Can we meet up before you go back? Have a chat?”

My heart starts racing.

“Yeah.” I nod very, very casually. “I guess… We can do that.”

“Okay.” He smiles a little. “I’ll call you.”

“You don’t have my number anymore,” I tell him just because I want to, I don’t know why.

“I’ll get it from Hen,” he says, not letting go of my gaze.

I nod again and walk away, ignoring all the eyes on me and him — I haven’t missed this, the fishbowl effect — but I don’t care because it’s BJ and something about him will always be worth it.

I slip into the bathroom, lock the door and lean against it as a terrible revelation dawns on me. It’s like the morning sun when you forget to close the curtain — it’s my fault, I should have closed the curtain, I knew the sun was there, I knew the sun would eventually rise again, but I didn’t close the curtain and now this invasive, bright, shimmering light wakens me from the slumber I was using to avoid it.

I still love him.