There are very few things in this world that bring me as much joy as weddings do. I mean, how can you not love a giant, fairy-lit, all-day, all-night party where you get to dress up, dance, drink bubbly and watch two people you care about vow to be best friends forever?
If sharing a peak emotional experience surrounded by all the ones you love and admire is ‘overrated’, ‘overpriced’ or ‘over the top’, you just haven’t been to a really good one yet. Which is what I told my fiancé Adam when he suggested we elope and spend all our savings on cocktails and jet skis. I waggled my finger and spelt it out in no uncertain terms that was never going to happen for us. There hadn’t been a wedding in my family since the 1930s. Our big day, in the quaint little church at the top of our town, surrounded by all our friends and family, was to be La Shebang Totale.
So, today is my wedding day. Sorry, typo! I keep saying that, but of course I mean our wedding day. Even though it’s me who has planned everything down to the smallest detail. A DNA test would now confirm that I’m at least sixty-six per cent Bridezilla. But it will all be worth it because you only want to do this once, right? And once it’s done, there’s no going back, so you may as well throw everything you have into getting it as close to perfect as possible.
And I’ve promised Adam that it will be the best day of our lives. I can’t believe it’s actually here. May 29th has been the centre of the universe so long, it feels surreal that it’s come, that the sun rose and this morning started like any other ordinary day. Which, of course, it isn’t. From now on May 29th will never be just an ordinary day. It’s our wedding day, and this time next year we’ll open a bottle of champagne that we’ve kept back from our reception and exchange paper gifts to mark our one-year anniversary and we’ll look back on all our amazing, dream-like photographs and remember what a perfect day it was, and how frazzled and nervous we felt, but how it all played out beautifully without a single hitch in the end. We’ll cosy up on the sofa and reflect on all we’ve achieved and everything we hope for in the future. May 29th will be our day to remember our love, thank the heavens above for bringing us together and toast the two of us, Lily4Adam4Ever.
So, I have high hopes for today. I’m wearing a hand-made gown shaped like a cupcake (but elegant; I know, but trust me) and I’ve got a bouquet of the most beautiful fresh, wild flowers I’ve ever seen. My real hope is that my future groom’s eyes will well up with tears of joy as he watches me walk towards him. And I’m hoping everyone I care about will be there to witness me giving my heart to the person I love. I’m also hoping that the saying ‘Dance like no one is watching’ will be something people take to heart once the band starts playing. And I hope that when I look back on today, only the most joyful of memories will spring up in my head.
Relax, I know a wedding is only the sparkly tip of the iceberg. I know it’s so much more than just a pretty dress, live music and a free bar. To me, a wedding day is the beginning of the most intimate earthly relationship you’ll ever have. In two minutes, when I walk down that aisle and recite my vows, I’m really saying ‘I do’ to a lifetime commitment with the one I love. I’m saying ‘I do’ to a lifetime of challenges, of obstacles and rainy days, and I’m saying ‘I do’ to a lifetime of highs and laughter and support and sunshine.
The person who’s waiting for me, right now, at the end of the aisle is the person I’m going to experience all of life’s blessings with for the next fifty years or more, if we are lucky. He’s the person I’ll buy my first house with, the one who I’ll spend lazy Sundays with and the one I’ll have children with (or another dog, if that’s more appealing).
And this formal Church ceremony is going to be so special, but I really can’t wait for the after-party. This beautiful long, wrapped ivory gown has a trick up its sleeve. Once the music starts, I’m going to whip off the frilled layers of tulle and organza and have that first dance with my husband in a gorgeous, beaded minidress. Complete with vintage lace garter of course.
Hopefully, my best friend Hannah may feel well enough by then to give a toast that’ll make me cry and then I’ll do the chicken dance with my granny and maybe even convince my mum to sing. I hope I will feel love in ways I’ve never experienced before, and that nothing but happiness will fill my spirit, but most of all I hope that happiness is one that doesn’t go away as I ride off into my happily ever after.
My granny stands beside me at the church steps. She steadies her own royal blue fascinator and dabs her eyes with a tissue. ‘It’s eleven on the dot, Lily.’ She nods towards her watch. ‘It’s time. Are you ready?’
I smile at her, hook my arm into hers and take my first sure steps down the aisle. I had planned that Hannah would be my maid of honour but she came down with a violent episode of food poisoning in the early hours of this morning and my back-up bridesmaid was too hung-over to step in, so it’s just me and my grandmother, which is absolutely fine as I feel such love and pride emanating from her as she tightens her grip around my elbow. It’s actually worked out even better that we can share this together, just the two of us.
With each step, I see all our guests beaming at us. We don’t rush; wanting to take it all in, to see everyone and everything in this perfect suspended moment.
Is this really it?
We approach the final pew, and my grandmother lets me go. I kiss her and thank her and then I pause. Taking a second to compose myself, to take a deep breath, because when I take my next step towards him, Adam will be facing me. Seeing me as his bride for the very first time.
His back is still towards me and, at this moment, time feels as if it is slowing down, because I’m waiting for him to turn around, but he’s not moved. He’s still facing the altar as if he doesn’t realise that I’m even here. Maybe he is crying? Maybe he’s overwhelmed with emotion! Ah Adam, you big romantic! And now all I want to do is rush up and wrap my arms around him and say ‘Don’t worry, darling! It’s okay, it’s our big day! Nothing to be scared about, I’m feeling it too, it’s just excitement.’
But I hold back, pressing my fingernails in to my palms as I wait for the last note of the song to end, just like in rehearsals, and then I take four steps towards the altar with a huge smile on my face and butterflies in my stomach. I can’t wait to see his reaction. Adam and I setting eyes on each other for the first time as bride and groom.
But here’s the thing.
He doesn’t turn to me.
He doesn’t move at all.
Adam is standing stiff beside me, staring ahead, tears pooling in his eyes. His face is grey, beads of sweat on his brow and the top of his lip.
‘Adam?’ I whisper. ‘Are you okay?’
He shakes his head. Closes his eyes slowly and then, with a deep sigh audible to the whole church, he walks away from me towards the sacristy.
I hear murmuring and shuffling amongst the congregation behind me. This did not happen at rehearsals. Heat creeps into my chest and a bolt of panic courses through me. Why is this happening? What is going on? If I don’t know, then who does?
The priest leans in towards me, his voice low and grave. ‘Lily, I think we need to take a moment in the sacristy. You go follow Adam and I’ll deal with your guests. I’ll tell them he’s feeling faint.’
Relief washes over me. ‘Of course, thank you, Father Quinn! I’m sure that’s it. My bridesmaid is ill as well, so maybe it’s a bug.’
The priest raises his eyebrow. ‘Brace yourself, Lily, I’m not too sure it is.’
In the sacristy, Adam is sitting on the lone wooden stool. He’s taken off his jacket and his black bow tie falls undone. His collar is unbuttoned and wide open. His eyes are bloodshot. He looks terrible.
‘Adam, talk to me. What is it? I need to know.’
He doesn’t answer but just keeps wringing his hands over and over.
‘I just can’t do it,’ he whispers to the ground.
Okay. He’s got cold feet. It happens. We can get through this.
‘Of course, you can, Adam! Everyone is here! It’s just stage fright, it’s easy to get nervous.’ I bunch up my tulle and organza layers and hunker down in front of him, trying to catch his eye, trying to get close, trying to de-escalate this random crazy spanner in the works and get us back on track, in front of that altar and onto the rest of our lives.
Adam shakes his head and pinches his eyes.
‘Adam, look at me!’
He won’t look at me. He lowers his head even further.
‘Adam, you can’t be serious. This can’t be happening! We can do this. All you have to do is come back out that door with me and we can do this! Everyone is waiting, everything is ready… Don’t you dare bail on me…’ I say, a hint of hysteria now in my voice as I realise this is serious. Something is really wrong.
But why? We’re here. Everyone is here. We’re at the church. This is not a rehearsal. I’m in a veil for God’s sake. And he is in his suit. On the other side of that curtain, there are a hundred people sitting in morning suits and pastel dresses, waiting for Adam and I, waiting for us to look at each other lovingly, recite our vows and throw confetti!
He better have diarrhoea. He wouldn’t do this to me, right? Not now. Not like this.
I squeeze his knee. ‘Adam?’
‘I can’t go ahead with this,’ he says, gazing past me as though he’s looking at someone else entirely, his face slowly creasing up in pain. Or is it pity?
‘What do you mean exactly, why can’t you? What can I do? Let me help you, Adam, whatever it is, we can sort it out after the wedding okay? Let’s just get through the next few hours and whatever it is, I promise, we’ll sit down after all this madness has passed and talk it through? C’mon. I love you! I want to be with you! This is our big day… right?’
I look at him in his tuxedo, like he’s getting ready to say I do and kiss me till death do us part, yet the expression on his face doesn’t correspond with that at all.
Then something shifts. His eyes flick upwards and there’s something different about him. Something deep and dark and bad that’s coming, I can feel it. I just know before he says another word that this wedding day isn’t going to be going on Pinterest. Maybe it isn’t going to happen at all. Certainly not in the way I envisaged it would. And then he says the seven words that will change my life forever.
‘I’m not in love with you, Lily.’ These seven heart-breaking words garble with the tears in his throat.
‘No,’ I tell him, my eyes searing into his. ‘That’s not true. It’s just all the craziness, all the pressure, the weight of expectation weddings bring. That’s all. You don’t mean that.’
I hold his hands in mine, but he won’t release his balled-up fists; tight, clammy and white. He pulls away from me, stands up and opens his eyes wide.
‘Lily, I can’t go through with this because I’ve met someone. And I’ve fallen in love with her.’
My knees buckle beneath me and I slide backwards on to the floor.
And there I stay. Frozen. Paralysed with shock and confusion.
‘What has anybody else got to do with anything? What do you mean? Adam, what are you talking about?’ My voice is dangerously close to a wail, a deep, howling, child-like wail.
‘It’s Hannah. And she loves me. No one ever set out for this to happen or for you to get hurt. We didn’t mean for it to end up this way, but it has and I’m sorry, but it’s the truth and I can’t go through with this charade another second.’ He swallows and meets my eyes for the first time.
‘Hannah? As in my Hannah?’ I’m shaking my head. ‘Not my Hannah, she would never…’
Adam presses his palms together. ‘Why isn’t she here then?’
‘Food poisoning…’ And as soon as I say it aloud I realise how untrue it is.
‘As I said, she’s just as sorry as I am…’
I search his face, his eyes. For some sense that this is all some terrible joke, a dreadful misunderstanding. He winces. I’d like to say his eyes are full of shame or regret but they are not. They are full of pity, of commiseration. He runs both hands through his hair and stands from his chair, walking towards the small stained glass window, as if a prisoner imagining his release.
And just like that everything changes. It’s the happiest day of my life. And then, in a moment, it’s the worst day of my life. He tells me, I don’t love you. I don’t want this. It’s all over and I’m taking your best friend with me. And suddenly the room feels very small and the air very heavy and my dress feels very tight and I need to get as far away from here and from Adam and from candles and flowers and organists and my caved-in world as possible. So I hitch up my dress and I just manage to put one silver-heeled foot in front of the other, out the sacristy door, through the heavy curtain, down the aisle, past the gawping guests. I exit my wedding day alone, without looking back, without any more pleading, without any more hope that this can ever work out. For once in my life, I have no idea what’s supposed to happen next.
Happy Jobiversary to me, Happy Jobiversary to me, Happy Jobiversary to mee-ee…
Seven wonderful years. Seven years ago today, I remember my granny telling me, that if I got taken on, I should give my first job the six-month test. Can’t hate a new job too soon; can’t love it too soon. There’s a honeymoon stage, a trial-by-error stage, an ‘is this it?’ stage, a warrior stage for new colleagues and bosses to dance around each other in the ring, self-conscious about smiling or shouting too soon, trying to balance being firm and fair and friendly and familiar all at once. Not wanting to give away too much of themselves or show all their cards too soon. Except…
I showed all mine.
Straight away.
Every single one of them.
I couldn’t help it. For me it was love at first sight, the second I pushed my way through those double doors and stepped into this electric little newsroom; buzzing with energy, phones hopping and keyboards tapping away. The legendary editor, JJ Oakes, welcomed me with open arms. He told me that all I needed was a genuine interest in people, the courage to follow my instincts and a knack of getting to the point. No mention of high grades or further education. I knew in that instant that this was me. This is where I belong.
The newsroom at the Newbridge Gazette was alive with urgency and purpose and fun and excitement and passion and I wanted to be part of it from that first flutter. Call it instinct or naïvety or pure dumb luck, but I decided there and then that if somebody would just give me a chance to do this, then I’d never let them down. I’d do it with all my heart.
Getting paid to write?
Getting paid to snoop?
Getting paid to meet many weird and wonderful people and ask them your own questions, listen to their own answers?
Getting paid to drop everything and drive to the scene of a major breaking story? And hang around nosing legitimately as it unfolds?
Oh yes. Yes, yes, yes please.
This was a job I knew I could do; in time, maybe even do it well. After all, I’d done similar stuff for my mum all my life. She had no patience for the dull or the detailed; if it didn’t amuse or inform her, she switched off, so it often fell to me to edit all external dreariness, filter the banal admin of everyday life and cut out the boring bits. Few bank statements were ever opened in our house. We used them to line the kitty litter tray.
So, I tried out my best I Can Do That, Let Me Do That, Pick Me, Pick Me dance, and my amazing boss and mentor JJ Oakes, said yes. In gratitude, I paid close attention to everything he taught me, and I soon tried out some new moves of my own. And he liked them. He gave me a promotion and a desk and even paid for my driving lessons out of a professional development budget. And when I passed, he granted me a company car and even more chances to prove myself. And I loved him for it and swore my allegiance to this little paper. That was seven years ago. I didn’t need six months to figure it out. I didn’t need six seconds. I’m here to tell you that trusting my instincts really paid off: my job is awesome.
And I wasn’t alone feeling this way. The whole news crew felt it too, we were a team, a family, in it together, doing what we loved. When the shit hit the fan, we all gave up evenings, nights, weekends, sleep, sanity and a degree of hygiene to share takeaways at our desks, drink neat gin from mugs, spray ourselves down with Febreze and tap into our deepest reserves to meet that deadline. To make a great local paper. We were the peoples’ paper, stories for them and about them, no story too big or small, if it was happening within our readership, we ran it! It’s what we did, and we loved it. The success of the Newbridge Gazette was our success. It reflected who we were and it was such an adrenaline rush! That’s what got my heart pumping. Here in this fourth-floor office is where I found my calling, where I published my first article, where I met my first group of real friends. It’s where my life really began.
So Happy Jobiversary to us, dear Newbridge Gazette. I love you, I mean that.
I hope to God it’s not our last.
I’d be lying if I said things are still awesome, though. They’re not. Things around here have been weird for a while now. Since our latest external consultancy report recommended we ‘cease trading with immediate effect’. That confirmed how badly Gareth, JJ’s successor and current Editor in Chief, had run the newspaper into the ground, filling it with page after page of planning permission and tender applications and second-hand car sales. What my mum would call the ‘boring bits’. I was relegated to page ten, a single page devoted to human interest features and community social events. One page, just enough space for two photos and 950 words of content. All my old friends and colleagues left, unable to stand it any longer: Gareth’s totalitarian rule, his egotism and incompetence. I would have gone for the Editor in Chief job myself except the timing was all wrong; I was still getting over Adam jilting me at the altar and running off with my best friend. Exactly the gossip-tastic kind of heartbreak that you want when you work at the local paper. I can see the church that staged my worst nightmare from my desk. Well, I used to be able to, before I stuck a big, leafy plastic plant in the way to block it from my view.
But, anyway, I wasn’t exactly in the right frame of mind to sit in front of a panel and field questions on sales strategies and circulation figures and future operating models. I was barely keeping my head above water. Struggling to work out how I was supposed to be successful, fit, happy, well rested, clean, be a good daughter/reporter/friend, and remain sober with only twenty-four hours in a day to work with. I wasn’t my ‘best-self’ at the time.
So when much to everyone’s disappointment – especially mine – JJ retired, Gareth put himself forward for JJ’s old job. He blinded the panel with his bullshit, over-promised and under-delivered. We lost our best staff, the quality of the paper suffered, and people noticed – namely the readers. Sales plummeted and continue to do so at an alarming rate. Gareth still refuses to acknowledge it has anything to do with him and his leadership; he refuses point-blank to seek help. Why would he possibly need help, right? He gets angrier and angrier every passing week, scapegoating each step of the way, so it never appears his fault. So instead of excitement or purpose, what we’ve got now is a distinct shiftiness in the air. And it appears infectious, toxic and suffocating for those of us who love this place, want to save it and make it work. But as long as Gareth is in charge as Editor in Chief, it’s near impossible to see how that will happen.
I hear you. If things are so bad, then why am I still here?
Where else would I go? This is where I belong. I’ve never really had the desire to go anywhere else, everything I was after was right here: great job, great community, great town. If I couldn’t make things work in Newbridge, then what chance did I have as a stranger starting from scratch in some other place? And, if I’m brutally honest, I don’t want to risk another big, fat ‘no’, personally or professionally. Been there and done that, got the lousy T-shirt.
How am I dealing with this? Well, I keep a very low profile and try to stay out of the office as much as I can. The situation reminds me of The Lord of The Flies. We know rescue isn’t likely and we’re done crying about it. Now, primal strategising has kicked in, it’s everyone for themselves. Each looking at escape routes, at the best place and time to jump, gauging who we should cling to as our best chance of survival. With our current readership at an all-time low, some of us will be sacrificed, devoured and cast aside. Everyone has taken on that sidelong look that means if it comes to it, they’ll eat you. And lick the bones.
Take yesterday, whenever I ventured near Gareth’s office door to check on a lead or offer an idea for a story, he slammed shut his laptop. When I asked if he was feeling okay, he coughed into his fist and made strange rubbery faces at me with a garbled, incoherent commentary. And despite his raspy protestations and gum-baring, he didn’t look okay at all. Sweaty… well, sweatier. And pale. And the raised red line of an itchy scalp that began at his forehead had flaked all over his shoulders, which hasn’t happened since we were sued for defaming the Chief of Police over a year ago. Gareth’s doing. We had one suspected burglary in the town and Gareth ran with the headline ‘Crime Up 100% Under New Police Chief’. Up 100% only because there hadn’t been a burglary recorded in living memory. I told him I thought the headline was ill-advised (and the Chief of Police is really nice and IMHO does a great job for our little community), but Gareth’s not keen on my input. Or my presence. Or me generally. So yes, instead of the proverbial calm, we have this weird cannibalistic shiftiness before the storm. And, frankly, I’m done with it. I’d say I’m ready for the storm. Or the Apocalypse or Armag. . .
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
