so I don’t want to be unfair, but it really was awful. Chintz. Pink. Very Sanderson. She looked as though she’d been badly upholstered. And to top it all, she’d got this kind of Scud missile wobbling on her head.
I stepped out of the car, smiling for the video man and the official photographer who were waiting on the pavement. Then Helen smoothed the front of my dress, I took Dad’s arm, and we all walked into the cool of the porch. I spotted Robert – he was ushering – though I couldn’t see Dom. And I suddenly panicked! So I got Dad to go in and have a peep, and he just smiled, and said that, yes, Dominic was safely there, at the altar, with Charlie. And I could hear the hum of muted voices as the organist played the Saint-Saëns. Then the music drew to an end and a hush descended and Robert gave us the nod.
‘OK, Minty, we’re off,’ whispered Daddy with a smile, and we stepped forward as the first chords of the Mendelssohn rang out and everyone rose to their feet. And suddenly, in that instant, I was so, so thrilled I’d chosen St Bride’s. It’s not that I’m particularly religious – I’m not really, and nor is Dom. In fact, he said very little during our sessions with the vicar. But of all the churches in Central London, St Bride’s was the one that felt right. It’s the journalists’ church – the Cathedral of Fleet Street – and that was another reason for choosing it. And you see, I’ve always had this thing about churches that were bombed in the War. Coventry Cathedral, for example, or St Paul’s. And St Bride’s was bombed too; in December 1940, a single V2 left it a smouldering shell. But it arose, like a phoenix, from its ashes. And the vicar explained that the destruction had a silver lining, because it laid bare the Roman crypts. And no one had known they were there, and this enabled them to add a thousand years to the history of the church. Which proves how good can sometimes come out of the most terrible events because without that devastation St Bride’s would never have revealed its hidden depths. And I was thinking of that again as I walked up the aisle, adren-aline-pumped and overwrought and nervous, and tearful, and happy. As the sunlight flooded in through the plain glass windows in wide, striated rays, I lifted my eyes to the vaulted ceiling painted in white and gold, and then dropped my gaze to the black and white marble tiles which were polished to a watery sheen. And the air was heavy with the sweet smell of beeswax and the voluptuous scent of Helen’s flowers. Her two arrangements took my breath away. They were magnificent. As big as telephone kiosks – a tumbling mass of scabious, stocks and pink peonies, freesia and sweet peas; and she’d tied a little posy of white anemones to the end of every pew.
And there was Dominic, with his back to me, his blond head lit by the sun. And I thought, he looks like the Angel Gabriel himself in the Annunciation by Fra Angelico. Charlie was standing next to him, looking typically serious and kind, and he turned and gave me such a nice, encouraging little smile. Because the box pews face sideways in St Bride’s, I could see everyone as we passed, their Order of Service sheets fluttering in their hands like big white moths. First I spotted Jack, my editor, smiling at me in his usual amused and sardonic way, and next to him was his wife Jane and her sulky-looking teenage daughters, both dressed in post-Punk black and pink; and there was Amber looking wonderfully cool and elegant in lime green. In the pew behind was Wesley from work, with Deirdre, of course – oh, she did look dreary, but then she always does, poor thing; between you and me, I think weddings are a sore point with her. And there was my mother in her flowing Bohemian dress, and her extraordinary, flower-smothered hat. On the groom’s side I spotted Dom’s mother, Madge, and lots of people I didn’t recognise who must have been his clients. And everyone was looking at me, and smiling, and I knew that I was, as the expression goes, ‘the cynosure of every eye’. Then Helen lifted my veil and took my bouquet, and tucked herself into a pew next to Mum. The wedding had begun.
And it was going well. Really smoothly. It was all so …lovely. Dominic looked a bit anxious, so I gently squeezed his hand. And we sang ‘He Who Would Valiant Be’, he and I singing it quite quietly, and he looked a little agitated, but that was because there was this wasp buzzing about, and it was hovering close to him, and he had to flap it away once or twice. Then Amber stepped forward and read the ‘Desiderata’, beautifully, because she’s got a fantastic voice. Then we sang ‘Jerusalem’ and then came The Marriage. And the Rector, John Oakes, said why marriage was important, and why it should not be undertaken lightly, wantonly or unadvisedly; and then he called on the congregation to state whether they knew of any impediment why Dominic and I should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony. And that was a heart-stopping moment. In fact I hated it – even though I knew that no one was likely to come crashing in at the back raising loud objections or waving marriage certificates about. But still it made me very anxious, and so I was relieved when that bit was over and we went forward to the next part. But the wasp kept buzzing about, and it simply wouldn’t leave Dom alone, and he was getting a bit rattled and red in the face, so I gently swotted at it with my Order of Service. And the vicar said:
‘Dominic, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together according to God’s law in the Holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?’
There was a pause. An unscheduled pause. What we radio people call ‘dead air’. And the pause went on for quite a bit, greatly to my surprise. But then, eventually, Dominic spoke.
‘We-ll,’ he began, and he swallowed, as though he might otherwise choke. ‘We-ll,’ he said again, then stopped. Then he heaved this enormous sigh. And then he just stared at the painting of Christ, crucified, over the altar. And in the ensuing silence, which felt like an eternity, but was probably no more than five seconds, I felt as though I’d been plunged into a bath of ice-water, despite the oppressive heat of the day.
‘Wilt thou?’ repeated the vicar helpfully. There was another silence, which seemed to hum and throb. I watched a bead of sweat trickle down Dominic’s face, from his temple to his chin.
‘Wilt thou? Mm?’ The vicar’s face was red too, by now. And his brow was gleaming and moist. He stared at Dominic, willing him to speak. And at last, Dominic did.
‘Well …’ he stuttered. Then he cleared his throat. ‘Well …’ he tried again.
‘Wilt thou?’
‘No, John,’ said Dom quietly, ‘I’m afraid I won’t.’
I was staring at the vicar, and the vicar was staring at Dominic. And then I looked at Dominic too, and was suddenly very sorry that I’d chosen St Bride’s because my by now reddening face was fully visible to every single person in that church.
‘Come along, Dominic,’ said the vicar, sotto voce with a tight little smile. ‘Let’s try it again. Wilt thou love Irene Araminta and honour her etcetera, etcetera, etcetera – so long as ye both shall live?’
‘No,’ said Dominic, more forcefully this time, ‘‘fraid not.’ And now, as I stared at him, I was conscious of the sound of wood gently creaking, as people shifted in their pews.
‘Dominic!’ It was Charlie. ‘Come on, old chap. Let’s press on with it, shall we?’
‘I can’t,’ Dominic said, with a slow, regretful shake of his head. He looked terrible. He looked distraught. ‘I just can’t,’ he said again. And at that point, somehow, I managed to speak.
‘Are you ill, Dom?’ I whispered. ‘Do you feel unwell?’ He looked at me, and moaned.
‘No. No, I’m not ill. I’m well. There’s nothing wrong with me.’
‘Then what’s the matter?’ I croaked. My mouth felt dry as dust and I was aware of disconcerted susurrations from behind.
‘The
