‘Heather,’ Tully said.
Heather managed to lift her head. Rachel and Tully had been joined by two doctors. One of them, she noticed, had blood on the paper booties that covered his shoes.
‘Can you stand up?’ Tully asked.
Heather shook her head.
‘Let me help you,’ Sonny said, and he pulled her to her feet.
‘You’re Stephen’s wife?’ one of the doctors asked.
‘Yes,’ Heather said, wondering if that was true. They’d exchanged their vows and signed the papers, so she supposed it was.
‘I’m sorry to tell you,’ he started.
Even before he finished the sentence, everyone was crying. Everyone except Pam, who tugged on the doctor’s arm and asked: ‘Can we go back to the picnic now?’
It was meant to be their wedding night, Heather thought, as she stepped out of her dirty wedding dress and laid it over a chair some hours later. Stephen had booked a hotel room in the city for them tonight. They’d sent their overnight bags there this morning. Heather imagined the bags sitting in the unoccupied room. Stephen’s toiletries, his clean underpants and folded T-shirts and jeans. They’d been planning to stay in the city for two nights. Stephen hadn’t been able to take any time off work, so they were going to have their honeymoon later in the year. On a yacht in the Whitsundays, if you don’t mind.
Heather was too tired to shower or even wash off her make-up, so she just found one of Stephen’s tracksuits in the wardrobe and pulled it on with a pair of his socks. She’d expected to wear something quite different tonight. She imagined Stephen’s face, seeing her appear in his tracksuit. He’d almost certainly smile. Her favourite of his smiles: the one that was a little perplexed, but very fond. A paternal smile, she realised. Perhaps she did have father issues after all?
She lay on the bed and, finding that even climbing under the blankets was too much of an effort, pulled the throw rug over her. It was amazing, the effect a father had on a person. A father was the benchmark that told you what to expect. What to accept. And, perhaps most importantly, what to believe about yourself. Her father had taught her to expect nothing and to accept less. And he’d taught her to believe that she was nothing. Maybe she’d come to Stephen thinking that he could overturn this belief for her?
If so, he had – ironically – succeeded.
AFTER THE WEDDING
FIONA ARTHUR
‘I have news,’ a man at the next table down from me says. He rises from his chair and glances around, commanding the attention of the guests who’ve come from the wedding.
I shuffle forward. I’ve been standing at a cocktail table, nursing the shandy I ordered an hour ago, waiting for this moment. I’ve thought to leave several times, but the idea of going home without knowing what happened is simply unfathomable. I’ve managed to avoid the lion’s share of the small talk by looking distraught. Once you’re a woman of a certain age, people tend to treat you as if you’re fragile. The other guests have smiled kindly at me in passing, but no one has drawn me into conversation, which is fine by me.
‘What is it?’ someone at the back asks.
‘It’s Stephen,’ the man says. ‘He didn’t make it.’
A wave of emotion sweeps the room. Not tears. Not dramatics. A deep, heavier type of emotion. Men lower their eyes. Women sit back in their chairs. People glance from one to the other as they absorb the news, sighing deeply. I survey my own feelings but find myself padded by a thick layer of shock.
After a few moments, the chatter starts.
‘It’s awful,’ someone says.
‘Tragic. And on his wedding day!’
‘Do we know what happened yet?’
‘Just that it was an accident. His family are all with him at the hospital.’
Everyone nods at this. This is good news. Surrounded by family fits the narrative everyone wants for this situation. At least, it fits much better than the possibility that one of the family members caused the harm.
A group of people return from the bar holding bottles of red wine. Pinot, apparently. Stephen’s favourite. The waiters follow with wineglasses and everyone is instructed to fill their glass. When all our glasses are full, a man about Stephen’s age stands.
‘I’d like to raise a toast to Stephen,’ he says solemnly. ‘A good man, who lived a great life.’
‘To Stephen,’ the crowd repeats, nodding respectfully.
‘To Stephen,’ I say quietly. ‘May he rot in hell.’