spreadsheet on which she eked out their wedding budget. Their honeymoon was to be a two-day mini break in a Cotswolds spa hotel. She would be back in the office on Friday. They bought her a wedding ring in Hatton Garden for £35 and every so often she took it out of the little blue velvet box and tried it on her finger. She’d never worn rings and the wedding band felt tight and restrictive. She couldn’t stop staring at it.
On the way to the register office, sitting with her mum Maureen and her sister Vic in the back of a London black cab clutching a hand-tied bunch of daffodils and irises (Vic had insisted she take something blue), Elizabeth realised she hadn’t heard from Jamie since the previous afternoon. They’d spent the night before their wedding apart and she’d assumed he was just sticking to tradition. In the end, she’d texted him a jokey photo of a bride in an enormous meringue dress with a smiley emoji. But he hadn’t replied. They’d gone for more than twenty-four hours without speaking and she couldn’t remember a time in the last ten years when they had done that.
She was wearing the vintage lace garter Vic had laughingly given her the night before (something old) and it was chafing the soft skin on her inner thigh. Elizabeth had scratched it irritably several times already and now as she surreptitiously lifted the hem of her dress, she saw that the flesh around the garter was red and angry. Her dress was a vintage 1960s sleeveless shift and was the colour of apricots. She thought it would be a statement dress – look at me, I’m in a fun, flirty, fruity frock – but now she regretted it. The dress was creasing terribly in the traffic jam on the Euston Road. The plastic comb of flowers she’d tried to weave through her hair wouldn’t stay in place and was now hanging drunkenly by a thread around her ear. The daffodils started to droop. She noticed her left hand (no engagement ring) was resting on the cab door handle and that she’d clenched it tight, as if about to open the door.
‘What are you doing?’ her sister asked sharply and Elizabeth’s hand dropped, lamely, back to her lap. Vic had got married in a country church wearing a long cream silk dress that melted over her curves like liquid silver. She’d looked stunning. ‘Won’t be long now.’ Her sister had smiled brightly at her, as Elizabeth imagined Vic must smile at her clients before she led them into the dock to be sentenced. Of course they should have known the traffic would be terrible, it was a Wednesday afternoon. A woeful workday Wednesday. Who gets married on a Wednesday? Vic’s face softened when she saw Elizabeth’s brimming eyes.
‘Mum, tell you what. You keep the taxi. We’ll walk. I feel a bit sick and could do with some fresh air and it would be good for Elizabeth to get a quick breather.’ Vic was all lawyerly efficiency. She was wearing a smart navy blue coat dress. (‘It’ll always do for court afterwards,’ she had told Elizabeth on the phone after she’d bought it. At the time, Elizabeth had felt hurt, as if her wedding wasn’t excuse enough for her sister to buy a new shocking pink dress, but now she couldn’t help thinking how wise it was.) Vic had inherited their mum’s fairer skin and hair – although she’d dyed it so many times during her flirtation with the post-punk revival that Elizabeth could barely remember its original shade – and she had it cut short and pixie-like, a style that served her even better now, when she was almost in her forties and the mother of two small children, than when she’d flirted with The Libertines.
Elizabeth tumbled out of the cab trailing her posy of wilting daffodils as Vic led her firmly to one of the round tables nailed to the pavement outside the Globe pub on the Euston Road. The few hardened drinkers still on their feet turned to stare at them over their pints. Vic put her Hermès bag on the table and Elizabeth noticed a yellow lawyer’s pad poking out of the top, as if her sister might find time during her wedding to catch up on a bit of casework.
‘What’s up?’ Vic had said briskly.
‘I don’t know… It just doesn’t feel right…’
‘Look, Lizzie, it’s just last-minute nerves. It’s fine. It’s Jamie! You’ve known him for ever! Being married isn’t any different.’
Elizabeth had torn unconsciously at the daffodil petals. She raised her panic-stricken face. ‘Vic, I know it’s ridiculous, but I feel we’ve rushed into this wedding. It was so lovely, being with your boys at the birthday party and in that moment, when Jamie proposed, I wanted that life so badly. The life that you have, Vic. A domestic life. Babies. So I organised the wedding really quickly, I thought Jamie was right, we’d waited long enough. But oh God…’ Elizabeth looked desperately at her sister. ‘I panicked, Vic. I panicked about Forever. About it being Jamie, and no one else, ever again.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I met this man at a work party, just a few days after Jamie proposed. And, Vic, he was so unlike anyone else I’ve ever been with! He was funny, he made me laugh and he was so interested in me and my job – and I don’t know, just so different to Jamie! He made me feel so good about myself. I thought I could have one last fling, I thought it wouldn’t matter. But of course it does matter – and I’ve felt so guilty ever since. But Vic, I can’t stop thinking about him!’
‘Oh, Lizzie! But it’s just the once? Just this one time?’
‘Yes. You know there’s never been anyone else, Vic. I’ve been longing to find the moment to tell Jamie, but the days seemed to race past and I couldn’t find the right moment. And every time we confirmed another detail of this wedding, I didn’t see how I could tell him! But now it feels like we’ll be starting our marriage all wrong.’
‘Oh, hon.’ Vic hugged her. ‘Look, Lizzie, let’s try and be practical. There are ten people waiting in that building over there for you to turn up like a blushing bride. And one of them is Jamie. Jamie, the boyfriend you’ve been with since uni. Jamie, who’s trying to save the world and who’s good and kind. You do want to marry him, right?’ There was a long pause. ‘Hello?’
Elizabeth looked at her sister in desperation. ‘Yes, I do. But oh, Vic, it feels so final! And I’ve only had sex with seven people! I keep thinking – is that enough to last me a lifetime?’
‘Well, I’m not sure it’s all about the maths, Lizzie. But I bet lots of brides go through this. I’m sure it’s really usual to panic about committing yourself to one man, for better or worse. Look, I’ll do whatever you want, but are you sure now is the time to tell Jamie? You made a mistake and you regret it. Maybe he never needs to know? Or maybe you can tell him, in time. But now? I’m not sure.’
Elizabeth nodded, numbly, and Vic was suddenly businesslike again. She found herself being propelled along the Euston Road towards Marylebone Town Hall. Large splashes of rain began to stain the apricot dress. Vic ran up the wide stone steps, half dragging Elizabeth behind her. At the town hall doors, she turned suddenly and said, ‘Who was it?’
‘What?’ Elizabeth was almost breathless. She tried to smooth down the damp creases in her dress.
‘Who was it? That you slept with?’
Elizabeth bit her lip. ‘Harry Hutchinson.’
‘Harry…? Wait. You mean Hutch? The guy who does that late night football show?’
‘Yes. And Vic, he’s married!’
‘Oh, Lizzie,’ was all that Vic said as she pushed open the doors to the town hall.
Elizabeth took two quick brisk turns around the block to pull herself together before walking into Paddington Green Police Station. The only time she’d been in a police station before was when she had to take in proof of her insurance after she’d been caught doing 89 mph down the A12 and sent on a National Speed Awareness Course (‘As if you need to be taught about speed,
