Pedigree Crush with a Twist of Passion Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

It was six thirty in the morning. Julie was in the garden as the sun rose on her wedding day. The enclosed back and side garden of their house was enormous and she was sitting on a bench made out of three large rocks, sipping at her first coffee of the day, it was piping hot and calming. She loved this seat in this part of the garden. Phil had made it for her; she had chosen the position because it had the best view over their property. It was a simple piece of garden furniture, half ornamental and half functional, made it from three large rocks taken from Roan Head beach. He’d found the flat, broad seat that lay horizontally across the top and then it had taken weeks of beachcombing to find two tall pieces of rock that were similar enough in size to work into legs. She’d insisted that it be placed under the boughs of the huge cherry tree in the bottom left hand corner of the patio. The ground before her was littered with thousands of cherry blossom petals. The cherry blossom was her favourite tree, she loved its delicate, pale pink petals but hated that it only flowered for such a short time. She looked ahead to her fist photograph later that morning. She’d sit under the tree with her train arranged around her, and fresh petals would be falling as the shutter closed.
She thought about Phil at the hotel. Following with tradition, he’d spent the night there with his best man and long time friend, Chris Wattle. She smiled as she imagined his entire family trying to talk him out of marrying her. She could almost hear them saying, ‘It’s not too late to back out, Spud.’ But she knew that he would hold firm and be standing at that alter when she walked down the aisle. Her fiancé was a stubborn man. He wouldn’t let himself down.
Did he really love her? More to the point, did she love him? She thought that she was in love when they’d moved in together, but months of sharing a house came with all of his obsessive compulsive habits. She’d met a man who was easy going and mellow. In reality he wasn’t like that at all. He was resolute and controlling. She felt that he was almost possessed by the Catholic religion. And then of course there was the question of sex. She could understand that he wanted to go to his wedding bed a virgin. She wasn’t. And while she understood and respected his religious beliefs, there was a little nagging voice at the back of her head that told her that things might not change after the ceremony. Whenever she’d mentioned him moving into her room—their room—after the wedding, he instantly changed the subject.
Do you love him? she could hear the voice inside her head as clearly as if she’d spoken the words out loud. She ignored it and thought about her dress.
Do you love him?
She listened to the birdsong as the morning chorus practiced singing her to her wedding. She would have smiled indulgently at her inner child if that child hadn’t grabbed the bars of her cage and rattled it so thoroughly that she couldn’t ignore what she already knew.
No, she didn’t love him. But she wanted to, so that was something. She felt that with time, she could learn just how he liked the cutlery drawer arranging and she would remember to turn all of the labels of the tins in the cupboard to the front. They just needed to grow together a bit. He would smarten her up and make her more conscientious and particular about things and she would generally loosen him out. She did believe that they could make a good marriage from a troubled start. It wasn’t all about flouncy dresses and home-grown confetti trees. If she’d truly believed that it wasn’t going to be a happy marriage for both of them, she would never have gone through with it.
She felt cheated. She should have been ecstatic. She’d written it into her wedding plan, this cup of coffee, sitting under the cherry blossom, feeling ecstatic. She did feel excited about the day and the honeymoon to follow, but bowled over by true love and excitement at embarking on a lifelong union with her husband, no. It wasn’t like that. She made her first vow of the day. It was a private one. She vowed that, no matter what, she was going to be a good wife.
They’d had drinks the night before. Several empty wine bottles rested on the worktops in the kitchen. Phil wouldn’t like that. He hated an untidy home. Lisa and Emma, her sisters, had stayed over, along with Anne Wattle, the best man’s wife, at Phil’s insistence. Julie had only met her once before. She was a quiet woman, almost silent. The three of them had spent all night trying to involve her in conversation and not let her feel left out, but it had been awkward. Julie hoped that at least one of her sisters would be downstairs before Anne.
An hour later, the kitchen was buzzing with excited conversation. It was still only eight o’clock and she wasn’t getting married until one. Phil had asked her not to drink too much the night before. He said it was for her own good because he wanted her to enjoy her wedding day with a clear head. It had seemed sensible advice. Anne was teetotal and drank only orange juice. Lisa and Emma had both come downstairs with hangovers after being called by Julie two minutes after Anne made an appearance. Emma, the sensible one, suggested bacon butties to soak up last night’s wine. Lisa, the forward one, suggested Anne make them. Anne, the silent one, cooked.
After eating, Anne tidied the house and washed up while Julie’s sisters fought over the bathroom.
Awoman arrived to do their hair and makeup and when she had finished Julie had never felt so beautiful, in fact she had never once in her entire life felt attractive at all until that moment when she looked in the mirror. She felt that she had been masked and turned into somebody that she didn’t know. She felt shy when she stood in the middle of the living room in her wedding dress. Phil’s mother had tried to buy a dress that was frumpy and unflattering to her large shape. Julie knew that she had done it on purpose to score points, to be able to say to her cronies, ‘Well, of course, dear, I did the best that I could with what I had to work with. Despite it costing four thousand pounds, nothing could make her look anything other than what she is. I did try.’ Julie had fought her in the towns and on the beaches. She told her that she wouldn’t be seen dead in any of the dresses that Violet had picked out for her. She had stormed out of the shop, giving Violet more cause to tittle tattle about her to the bridal wear proprietor. Julie had refused to return until her wishes had been listened to. Far from opting for a big fat ugly cloud of net that made her look like Antarctica, she opted for simple sophisticated elegance. Her dress had a fitted bodice that, when laced, lost an instant three inches of waistline. The skirt was a shift of heavy satin, straight-lined and flattering to the bigger woman. The train swirled around her feet and she’d chosen a full veil that fell to her waist. On her wedding day, Julie Spencer looked beautiful.
Her parents arrived, and cried. The wedding party went into the garden and Julie sat on the bench at the end of the garden with her father standing above her, one hand resting protectively on her shoulder. The photographer had arrived an hour earlier and had been setting up his equipment in the garden. It was all perfect. How could this wedding not be blessed when everything had fallen into place just as she had wanted it to?
At twelve thirty, a white Rolls Royce, adorned with deep purple ribbons to match her colour scheme, pulled up outside the front door. The neighbours had all gathered to see the bride leave. Julie felt like a princess.
At the church, standing in front of the massive oak doors, she was scared. The knave was cool and peaceful, her husband-to-be was waiting for her on the other side of the doors and yet she wanted to just stay where she was and collect her thoughts. So he had turned up. His mother, the family, hadn’t talked him out of it. Nobody had given her the ‘not too late’ speech. They had told her she’d fallen on her feet. She realised that she was bloody amazed that her future husband had turned up to marry her at all. She felt grateful. The organ took up the opening strains of The Wedding March and her father held out his arm to her. Showtime.
As they walked past each pew, the people turned to look at her. Aunties that she hadn’t seen for years beamed their gummy grins and, on Phil’s side, people that she’d never met before looked at her curiously. They reached the front of the church where her mum already had a tissue up to her face, dabbing at her eyes and sniffing loudly. Violet’s reaction was very different. As Julie approached the alter she locked eyes with her future mother-in-law. In that unguarded second before she rearranged her mask, the look on Violet’s face was one of hatred. In that second, her lip curled away from her teeth in a snarl. Julie knew that no olive branches had been laid, no alms arranged before her. There may have been a veneer applied to their relationship for the sake of appearances on this one day, but the battle swords were drawn. The four brothers and their various spouses stared, neither warmly nor openly hostile, just bland vacant stares. Simon Peter was only concerned with his own appearance and looked bored. Andrew was also disinterested; he was failing valiantly in an attempt to keep his children under control. James’ eyes swept over the yards of satin and lace and then journeyed back up Julie’s voluptuous body; they came to rest on the bodice with a sneer. John’s glance rested on Julie for only a second before straying to Lisa. He looked her up and down with lust in his gaze and his partner, Gaynor’s expression hardened and fixed pointedly on Jesus on the Cross. Jealousy leaked from her posture and hatred for Julie, who had the pretty sister, grew in the pit of her stomach.
As the procession came to the alter railing and Richard, Julie’s dad, delivered her to her husband-to-be and Philip beamed, the choristers stood. Philip tried to squeeze out a little tear and very nearly succeeded. Julie did feel emotional as the soloist’s soprano voice sang Ave Maria. At Violet’s express insistence, Monsignor Burton had been wheeled out for the day. He hadn’t left his monastery in Keswick for over five years now. The Benedictine monks cared for him and the old priest was well into his late nineties. He spent most of his time in service, or dosing in the monastery gardens and was as nutty as a squirrel’s stash. The clergy had refused point blank to turn the poor old gentleman out of his routine. It would confuse him, they said but Violet would hear none of it. As well as writing several letters of appeal to the Bishop himself, she turned up on the monastery doorstep to plead her case. She told them in no uncertain terms that the Monsignor had Married Violet. He had served at the Christenings, and First Holy Communions, of all five of her boys. She said that if he wasn’t in attendance at the marriage of her youngest child, then as long as the monsignor was alive, the wedding couldn’t go ahead. The clergy pondered this statement at length to determine if the crazy old coot was making a death threat. In the end it didn’t matter because the gilt edged cheque that she discretely handed over—‘Towards the monastery funds’—salved their holy conscience.
The Monsignor was slumped forward in his wheelchair at the side of the congregation, conducting his own personal mass in Latin to an audience of none. When he forgot which part he was up to, he simply went back to the beginning and began again. Violet said later that it had been most unfortunate and she deeply regretted her insistence that he be the guest of honour. She should have applied for Charlotte Church. At several points during the service, proceedings had to halt because he’d hit a particularly rousing part of his service and he’d fling his hands up and incant Latin in a far-reaching cry. It was only the restraints tying him into the wheelchair that held him in place and stopped him launching himself out of the chair to kneel at the appropriate times.
Everybody laughed politely, except Violet who was horrified, when Julie and Philip knelt at the altar and the brother’s had written ‘he’ on the sole of one of Philip’s shoes and ‘lp’ on the other.
The crucial point of the ceremony, the bit that people would talk about for months was the part where the priest asked the congregation, ‘If anybody here knows of any lawful impediment why these two people should not be joined in holy matrimony, then let them speak now or forever hold their peace.’ Donald immediately placed a restraining hand on Violet’s shoulder, momentarily manning up to stop his wife from disgracing herself. Violet had vowed that she would stand up and denounce the wedding. The chambermaids had heard her making the same threat to Simon Peter and then the whole village knew what Violet had planned. After all, if Violet did say anything, she would only be making an unholy show of herself.
The moment came and Father McDonnegal laid down the gauntlet. You could hear a pin drop in the church. The outcome of the next thirty seconds meant a lot to Gary Yardley, one of the regulars in the hotel bar, he was running a book on it. Everybody’s attention was focused on Violet. Julie had laid plans of her own and she intended to show her new family, her mettle. As the priest spoke the words she was in profile to the congrgation. She gently removed her left hand from Philip’s, gathered up her train and turned to face Violet. And there she stood demurely holding her cascading bouquet of honeysuckle in front of her. Her expression was neutral, but her eyes were wide open, challenging. Violet had nothing. She coloured to the roots of her bronze hair dye. Her face was scarlet and clashed ridiculously with the Barbara Cartland hat of flowers and feathers spilling all over her head. Julie raised an eyebrow. Only seconds had passed since the priest finished speaking, but as Julie held her ground and Violet squirmed and flustered, it seemed much longer. After Julie raised her eyebrow, effectively slapping Violet across the face with her glove, the congregation let out their first held breath and drew a second. It was clear that she wasn’t going to turn back to the altar until some response had been made.
Violet stared at her, silently imploring her to go back and continue the service. Still Julie waited. Violet cleared her throat. She made a sound that might have been a titter, or a chortle. Perhaps she attempted bell-like laughter but instead she spat out barbs from the wire. She smiled a sickly smile, pleading with her still, squirming uncomfortably in her seat, and turned to Auntie Dorothy beside her, rolling her eyes as though to say, Silly girl, she does so like her practical jokes. Her smile was forced and tight-lipped as she discreetly shooed Julie’s attention back to the priest with a white-gloved hand. Even the priest had been holding his breath.
Julie lowered her eyebrow, nodded once and with a flick of her hair, she curtsied proudly to Violet, and turned back to the altar. Philip was stiff. When she took his hand and nodded for Father McDonnegal to continue he allowed it for the sake of propriety, but Julie knew he was furious with her for embarrassing his mother.
Philip played his part. When he spoke the last of his vows his eyes shone with love, but Julie saw the glint behind the sheen that wasn’t visible to any body else. When it came to exchanging the rings, Julie’s fingers had swelled. Philip made several attempts but couldn’t push the band past the fat below the second joint of her ring finger. They heard the brother’s laughing at them in the pew behind. James guffawed. Philip was embarrassed and now Julie was angry. It wasn’t her fault that her fingers had swelled in the heat. When the ceremony was over and the register signed, the priest seemed relieved. Philip was still sulking about his mother and Julie didn’t know how she felt. She tried to analyse it while posing for photographs in the archway of the seventeenth century church. She felt a headache coming on.
Julie had been looking forward to her reception; she thought she would be able to relax then. But the headache niggled at her while they ate the succulent roast beef dinner. By the main course, the niggle had turned into a roar. She felt sick and barely picked at the food that she had so looked forward to. Desserts were her vice. She loved rich, sticky, creamy desserts. When the trifle was delivered to her plate she couldn’t touch it. The pain in her head was blinding. She just wanted to lie down. She had only taken one sip from her glass. During the toasts she only pretended to sip the vintage champagne. The noise of clattering cutlery, bustling waiters and conversation was deafening. She barely heard the best man’s speech over the pain.
Donald rose from his seat. He kept his words brief, welcomed Julie into the family and raised his glass in toast. He was stoic and dignified. What couldn’t be killed had to be endured.
Julie took months of direct, and implied, insults and stored them.
The headache had turned into a full blown migraine and she couldn’t bear it. She went from clique to clique, ensuring that everybody was having a good time. She carried her untouched flute of champagne with her and couldn’t face a drop. She heard James’ raucous laugh as the words of his conversation drifted to her. ‘Yeah,’ he said to a group of the hotel staff. ‘I wanted to write “Help me,” on one shoe and, “I’m about to be crushed,” on the other, but the lads wouldn’t let me.’
Julie took this additional insult and stored it. She left her party to go to bed before the first dance, before the cutting of the cake and before the evening got underway. She threw up while still in the acres of restricting wedding dress and then hung over the toilet bowl dry heaving for nearly an hour. She fought to get out of the dress but she couldn’t, it was like a straitjacket, restraining her and crushing her diaphragm. Fully dressed, she lay on the marital four poster and wanted to die. The day had been a disaster and she felt awful. Her head was pounding and she couldn’t face even the smallest chink of light. She prayed that somebody would come by soon and untie her from the suffocating wedding dress, but nobody did. Philip never came to bed; he stayed up all night partying with his brothers. Julie spent her wedding night ill and alone.