style="font-size:15px;"> Feeling as joyous as a small child skipping, I’d arrived at the church. Twenty-one years old. About five months pregnant. On the cusp of becoming Mrs Zachary Masters. Dad’s eyes had glistened when he saw my white wedding dress, which could have come straight off the pages of Vogue. Stylish. Classy. And nothing like the dress I’d promised myself while still at the fashion college. If I ever got married, I was going to wear a multicoloured backless creation, with a big ruffled collar, and I planned to go barefoot, with wildflowers in my hair.
Where had that rebellious artist gone? Had being under the spell of Zak’s love made her disappear in a puff of smoke, for ever?
My gaze shifted to the illustration of the dreamcatcher. At our wedding one of my aunts had drunk too much bubbly and kept referring to Zak as the ultimate dreamboat. Images filled my mind of Zak’s face, as I’d walked up the aisle. I’d glimpsed a grave expression as our eyes met, and assumed it was the sense of occasion he must have been experiencing. Instead, I now knew it concealed his disenchantment at committing to a future about which he’d been in total denial. I bit my bottom lip. Had the last ten years really been based on a lie?
During the wedding breakfast and evening dance we’d used every opportunity to touch each other. I’d spent most of the day mentally unbuttoning his shirt. When people transferred from the dining room to the dance floor, Zak had grabbed my hand and pulled me into a cloakroom. Within seconds he’d trapped me up against the coats, lips urgently pushing mine apart.
As for the wedding night, I still recalled every minute. How we’d practically run to our bedroom, having said the final goodbyes to friends and relatives wishing us all the best for our Maldives honeymoon. Me joking about how I’d married an old man who wouldn’t have the stamina to consummate the marriage. I’d trembled with anticipation as he’d unlaced my wedding dress and trailed his expert tongue down my hips and across my thighs …
‘You, me, for ever, babes,’ he’d said hours later, in a husky voice, before we eventually fell asleep.
Tears pricked as I focused again on the notepad and the lucky number seven. Perhaps if we could recapture the fire of the early days, our relationship would survive. I thought back to a seven day summer break we’d taken in Europe, on our own, a few years ago. At heart I was something of a homebird, but Zak had a huge lust for travel. I hadn’t wanted to leave April but Zak had persuaded me to go. Perhaps even then he’d sensed something going awry between us.
I recalled a late-night beach walk, the rose-and-peach sunset, the lapping of tropical waves. How we’d sat down behind some secluded rocks and, perspiring with the evening’s humidity, watched the moon rise. Guitar music from a beach restaurant had accompanied my giggles as Zak gently pushed me flat onto the sand. With one swift movement he’d removed my sundress, my heart pounding hard. Had I mistaken sexual attraction for everlasting love? Had my naivety and lack of romantic experience come back to knock me sideways, one decade on?
I put down the pen, the memory of that trip now giving me a feeling heavy enough to sink the Titanic. Just the thought of his strong, capable hands caressing another woman …
My throat hurt and constricted to fight a wave of nausea.
My mind flicked back to our other luxurious trips and how I’d occasionally thought it might be fun, for a change, to try camping. However, now that I was faced with the real prospect of swapping tents for cruise boats, the budget lifestyle didn’t seem nearly so appealing.
‘What am I going to do?’ I whispered and tears streamed down my face. ‘I still love you, Zak. Despite the bravado, I don’t want to let go. I’m scared.’ I covered my face with my hands. After a few moments I sniffed, took away my fingers, and refocused. It was exhausting, the continual push and pull I now faced between feeling as vulnerable as a young sapling’s stem, yet needing to be as sturdy as a grown tree’s trunk. Come on, Jennifer. There had to be a positive in this. Maybe not a glass half full but a glass containing at least a few dregs.
Perhaps, I don’t know, splitting from Zak was a chance for me to gain some independence – to carve an identity for myself, separate from being Zachary Masters’ wife and charity organiser. My eyes tingled again. Thing was, I’d always loved both those labels, and didn’t want to swap them for waitress or lodger or someone who had to actually check receipts and regard lunch out as a rare treat. I knew I sounded incredibly spoilt. My cheeks flushed.
‘Get over yourself, Jenny,’ I said sternly and hoped that talking to yourself wasn’t actually the first sign of madness.
I managed a wry smile and reflected on my pampered, materialistic life.
Just imagine you suddenly couldn’t afford your favourite brand of chocolate or moisturizing cream. Marriage, parenthood, it had all been so easy, with Zak taking care of the bills and me controlling the domestic front. I’d become used to the best of everything. It had felt uncomfortable at first, but soon I started taking things for granted like … like not having to worry about money when August came and we’d have to kit April out with a new school uniform.
I’d said it myself, recently, whilst thinking back to my college days – I needed to stop gliding through life. I swallowed. Perhaps this was opportunity knocking at the door – or rather, ramming a hole through it; maybe it was the wake-up call I needed.
‘Boom!’ I said and thumped my fist on the table, for one second coming over all Theresa May, a Prime Minister determined to see Brexit as a new beginning and not an end. I know. A bit up and down at the moment, wasn’t I, like an electrocardiogram reading, zigzagging into peaks and troughs? One minute distressed, the next defiant. I guessed that was how my life would be for a while.
Noah entered. ‘Everything okay? Just wondered if I had any kitchen roll left.’ He smiled, voice sounding warm and sunny like honey, lifting the sinking feeling in my chest.
‘I’m fine. Thanks. It’s becoming clearer, what I have to do. First up – concentrate on taking charge of my own life.’ I went to stand up. ‘Right. Better go. Sorry for … intruding. You’ve been exceptionally kind.’
He came over and gently pushed me back down, then rolled up his sleeves, as if he would help me tackle any challenge. Mad thought really, as we barely knew each other. I was just one of his customers. Noah was simply my local coffee shop owner. He sat down next to me.
‘Finding my own place to live and getting a job …’ My voice wavered. ‘At the moment it seems like a tall order but lately I’ve realised it’s time I faced a challenge. Maybe this is fate. Everything happens for a reason, right?’
‘What, even a breakup, after ten happy years together?’ he said gently. ‘That’s how old April is, right?’
‘Yes. And they were happy years. Or so I thought. Turns out Zak and I had different expectations about our future …’ I really tried to keep the self-pity out of my voice. Luxuriating in the poor me’s felt comforting, but ultimately would achieve nothing.
Noah looked uncharacteristically serious. ‘Expectations are a difficult thing to manage.’ He paused. ‘If your heart says so, then go for it. It’s always worth trying to change.’
I stared at him. What was the story behind that ever-cheerful veneer? I used to think that he was just one of life’s optimists. Now I wasn’t so sure. We were hardly the best of friends, yet he was being remarkably supportive. Had he, too, once faced life-changing events?
‘There’s really no going back?’ he said.
‘No.
