Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed, Say I Do

I’m not a Catholic, but something about flickering votives and stained glass always makes me want to confess. Even if I only do it internally. Scarlet, cobalt, and emerald shards, cast down from the windows pull admissions from the darkest parts of me, as they scatter over the stone floor and ancient pews. Organ music swells between rows of our beloved guests, oiling the path of my thoughts.

First confession: It’s not my first time. Isaac thinks it is. Not because I lied, not this time. More because he assumed, and I chose not to correct him. For three years. But Isaac is different. He may not have a great job, or much in savings, but he gets that look when I enter a room. And I give him that same look back. He's fun and exciting and multilingual. He shares my love of watching French cinema without it being ruined by lazily translated subtitles. He has a certain way of holding me when we kiss. Firm but tender - and he strokes my jaw with one thumb while wrapping gentle fingers under my chestnut hair. . . he just has that certain je ne sais quoi.

I digress.

Second confession: I crashed the addiction therapy group where we met. These dull groups in duller community centres help me start interesting conversations with vulnerable men who I sometimes have something genuine in common with. My latest recovery was perfectly timed to coincide with Isaac’s. It took exactly 19 months. Just long enough for probate to complete from the last one.

Third confession: When I say “recovery” what I really mean is I have the odd tipple after work when Isaac plays in the local squash leagues or stays late in the office. I now only binge drink once a month when he's on the golf course. He's out often enough that I can get away with it as long as I brush my teeth and don't leave the empty bottles of Dom Perignon lying about.

I look up at the crooked grin spread across Dad's face. If you didn’t know he’d done this four times before, you’d never guess. He’s proud as punch linking arms with his only daughter and slowly marching her towards the altar, towards her latest beau. There's still something magical about the pomp and ceremony, the romance and tradition. I love that he gave me another pep talk before we got in the Rolls. Every time I get married I fork out for a more elaborate car, adorned with more elaborate satin ribbons. A girl does need to feel spoilt on her big day.

Speaking of tradition, I have the obligatory trinkets about my person, of course.

Something old. . .

Fourth confession: I never handed over Jake’s grandfather’s medals. My first husband’s will requested that they be donated to the local military history museum. It’s not often you see a real Victoria Cross. It’s certainly not often you pin one to your knickers as your “something old.” Isaac will be the last, so it makes sense I honour his predecessors on our special day. After all, they did pay for all this, in one way or another. Full decoration of the interior of the church with handmade origami flowers was not cheap - especially as the blooms in the bouquets are crafted from the pages of a first edition of Great Expectations - our favourite book.

Something new. . .

Fifth confession: I went shopping yesterday and bought the £420 gem-studded basque I’m wearing. The first thing I’ve purchased with the money from Jim. It might be slightly warped to think that my fifth husband will get the benefit of something paid for by my fourth, especially as Jim was such a skinflint. But it’s about time someone made good use of his fortune. Honestly, who wins the lottery and then sits on nearly all of the cash until forced to part with it? OK, so he did splash out for most of our chateau wedding in the Loire Valley, but I'm not sure he expected that to be such a short-term investment.

Something borrowed. . .

Sixth confession: Thomas was the unwitting donor of the very rare Kew Gardens 50 pence piece. It's currently secreted in the hidden pocket of my unique, made-to-measure, Italian lace dress. Minted in 2009, only about 200,000 of them were struck and they have a market value of around 700 times their face value. Granted that’s only 350 quid, but it’s the thought that counts. My thought is that everything should have been mine. But husband number three, Marcus, saw fit to leave his coin collection to his handsome brother. I may or may not make sure that Thomas gets this one back. Speaking of rare things, I hope the lepidopterist arrives on time. 1000 wood white butterflies being released as we exit the church will be spectacular. Confetti is so last season.

Something blue. . .

Seventh confession: My sparkling Cartier sapphire earrings were a first anniversary gift from Craig, my second husband. I picked him up at group grief counselling, and dropped him off, as it were, over the white cliffs of Dover. The memory brings other towering white surfaces to mind. Lemon sponge is Isaac's favourite cake. Our five tiers of it, with 120 hand-sculpted sugar roses cascading down below the pearlescent dove topper will be well worth the outlay.

Hang on - weights are lifting as I admit my guilt, even if only to myself. That seventh confession, now, on this sacred day, finally lets me breathe easy over what happened to Craig. Maybe I can face a few more. . .

That’s right, I didn’t just push Craig off the cliff. . . my shoulders are relaxing. . . I also poisoned Marcus. . . my brow smooths under my feathered fringe. . . I hid Jake’s heart medication. . . the knots in my stomach are releasing. . . I drowned Jim in the bath. . . my eyes are truly opening for the first time in years.

There’s Isaac waiting for me! Open eyes, open hands, open heart. His strength, his compassion, his love radiating towards me. He’s full of smiles and wiping his eyes.

Wait. Who’s that next to him? That’s not Sam, his best man. Sam is much taller, where’s Sam?

The man beside my fiancé turns to face me and my shoulders creep back up again. Craig. Waiting for me. His morning suit is fading and beneath it his khaki shorts and grey t-shirt appear. The side of his face is caved in, blood washes down his neck and shoulders, his legs are twisted at grotesque angles, and one trainer is missing. Just how the Coast Guard found him.

It’s not real. It’s not real. Jitters, they call it – the stress of the authentic commitment I’m about to make. This time the words matter. That's why I've never been nervous before: the others didn't count.

We reach the altar. My father places my hand in Isaac’s and takes a seat on the front pew. He winks at me. The way Marcus used to. Exactly the way Marcus used to. Deep lines resurface on my forehead. He even turns his head and clicks his tongue in that infuriating way. When he turns back to face me square-on he’s acquired designer stubble and, oh God no, he’s clutching his throat as his face turns red. Marcus is now sitting in the front row where my dad should be. Dying in full view.

It's not real. It’s not real. I’m just exhausted from all the planning and arrangements. Focus on the priest, look for strength.

Father Corburn’s ruddy cheeks and sparkling eyes offer a kindly welcome as the last few bars of the wedding march play. He’s going to speak. We rehearsed this (as if I needed to do that again), so it’s all plain sailing now. I wait for his words, but the colour drains from his face, and the knots re-shackle my stomach. He’s grabbing his chest and sinking towards the floor. It’s Jake, half standing, half crouching before the congregation.

I turn to face my family and friends as they rise to their feet for the first hymn. Are they seeing this? No. It's not real. It's not real. The room is full of happy faces, happy tears, happy song. Just get through the ceremony and all will be fine. A few drinks at the reception and I’ll laugh this off.

Isaac is right there, holding my hands. Wait. His nails are painted black. Dare I examine his face? My fingers are wet. I look up at him. It’s not real. It’s not real. His eyebrow is pierced, and he’s dripping with water. His clothes are sodden for a moment, then they dissolve and he’s naked. The scent of citrus bubble bath hits the air, and my vision is clouded again. But it’s definitely Jim standing before me.

Jake, in father Corburn’s place, has started the service. His voice wavers violently between a whisper and a screech as he invites our guests to offer us their support with our marriage. He cackles as voices respond in unison from the nave.

“We will!” they exclaim.

I pull my hands back from Jim’s grasp, but he holds them tight and brings me a step closer to his soaking form. Thick, fragrant steam billowing around him blocks what remains of my view of the church. A vision appears in the misty air. It’s Isaac. Wonderful, kind, loving, Isaac. I’ve found reality at last amongst this frightfulness.

But he’s not here in church. He’s at the top of the stairwell in his block of flats. He's looking down and laughing a horrible, lip-curling, smirking, laugh. A young woman in a business suit lies twisted and broken at the bottom of the stairs, her head and limbs in impossible positions.

He fades momentarily, and returns with a flick knife in his hand. Blood covers his shirt sleeve and jeans as he kneels and gathers up the edges of a plastic sheet from the ground. There’s a naked woman, bleeding in the sheeting. She’s still breathing as he wraps the crinkling shroud around her and drags her unconscious body away.

The mists shift and Isaac reappears at the wheel of a Jeep. My Jeep. He’s speeding towards another woman who screams and waves her arms, dazzled by the full-beam headlights. He doesn’t slow. She's thrown across the street by the impact. Nausea engulfs me.

Jake is back in view. Still crouching and grey-faced in the place of the clergyman. It seems the ceremony has progressed while my mind was absent. He’s staring at me with a spark of revenge in his eyes. It’s bright enough to shine through my confusion.

“Do you take this man to be your husband, to love him, to honour him, to comfort him, and to keep him, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, until death do you part?”

My lips move against my wishes as I wonder how long that will be.

“I do.”