The Wedding Girl Read online

  `I'm sorry,' he said. `Francesca, I'm sorry.'

  `Don't say sorry to me,' said Francesca in a jerky, scratchy voice. `Don't say sorry to me. Say sorry to our Lord.'

  `Francesca . . .'

  `You must pray for forgiveness. I'm going-' She broke off and took a deep breath. `I'm going to pray too.'

  `Can't we talk?' said Rupert desperately. `Can't we at least talk about it?' He got up and came towards her. `Francesca?'

  `Don't!' she shrieked as his hand neared her sleeve. `Don't touch me!' She looked at him with glittering eyes in a sheetwhite face.

  `I wasn't '

  `Don't come near me!'

  'But-'

  `You made love to me!' she whispered. `You touched me! You-' She broke off and retched.

  'Francesca-'

  `I'm going to be sick,' she said shakily, and ran out of the room.

  Rupert remained by the door, listening as she ran up the stairs and locked the bathroom door. He was trembling all over; his legs felt weak. The revulsion he'd seen in Francesca's face made him want to crawl away and hide. She'd backed away from him as though he were contaminated; as though his evilness might seep out from his pores and infect her, too. As though he were an untouchable.

  Suddenly he felt that he might break down and weep. But instead he made his way unsteadily to the drinks cabinet and took out a bottle of whisky. As he unscrewed the cap he caught sight of himself in the mirror. His eyes were veined with red, his cheeks were flushed, his face was full of miserable fear. He looked unhealthy inside and out.

  Pray, Francesca had said. Pray for forgiveness. Rupert clutched the bottle tighter. Lord, he tried. Lord God, forgive me. But the words weren't there; the will wasn't there. He didn't want to repent. He didn't want to be redeemed. He was a miserable sinner and he didn't care.

  God hates me, thought Rupert, staring at his own reflection. God doesn't exist. Both seemed equally likely.

  A bit later on Francesca came downstairs again. She had brushed her hair and washed her face and changed into jeans and a jersey. Rupert looked up from the sofa, where he was still sitting with his bottle of whisky. It was half empty, and his head was spinning but he didn't feel any happier.

  `I've spoken to Tom,' said Francesca. `He's coming round later.' Rupert's head jerked up.

  `Tom?'

  `I've told him everything,' said Francesca, her voice trembling. `He says not to worry. He's known other cases like yours.' Rupert's head began to thump hard.

  `I don't want to see Tom,' he said.

  `He wants to help!'

  `I don't want him to know! This is private!' Rupert felt a note of panic edging into his voice. He could just imagine Tom's face, looking at him with a mixture of pity and disgust. Tom would be revolted by him. They would all be revolted by him.

  `He wants to help,' repeated Francesca. `And darling ...' Her tone changed and Rupert looked up in surprise. `I want to apologize. I was wrong to react so badly. I just panicked. Tom said that's perfectly normal. He said ' Francesca broke off and bit her lip. `Anyway. We can get through this. With a lot of support and prayer . . .'

  'Francesca-' began Rupert. She raised her hand.

  `No, wait.' She came slowly forward, towards him. Rupert stared at her. `Tom said I must try not to allow my own feelings to get in the way of our . . .' she paused `... of our physical love. I shouldn't have rejected you. I put my own selfish emotions first, and that was wrong of me.' She swallowed. `I'm sorry. Please forgive me.'

  She edged even closer until she was standing inches from him.

  `It's not up to me to hold back from you,' she whispered. `You have every right to touch me. You're my husband. I promised before God to love you and obey you and give myself to you.'

  Rupert gazed at her. He felt too shocked to speak. Slowly he reached out a hand and put it gently on her sleeve. A look of repulsion passed over her face, but she continued staring at him steadily, as though she was determined to see this through; as though she had no other choice.

  `No!' said Rupert suddenly and pulled his hand away. `I won't do this. This is wrong! Francesca, you're not a sacrificial lamb! You're a human!'

  `I want to heal our marriage,' said Francesca in a shaking voice. `Tom said '

  `Tom said if we went to bed then everything would be sorted, did he?' Rupert's voice was harsh with sarcasm. `Tom told you to lie back and think of Jesus.'

  `Rupert!'

  `I won't allow you to subjugate yourself like that. Francesca, I love you! I respect you!'

  `Well, if you love me and respect me,' said Francesca in suddenly savage tones, `then why did you lie to me!' Her voice cracked. `Why did you marry me, knowing what you were?'

  `Francesca, I'm still me! I'm still Rupert!'

  `You're not! Not to me!' Her eyes filled with tears. `I can't see you any more. All I can see is . . .' She gave a little shudder of disgust. `It makes me sick to think about it.'

  Rupert stared at her miserably.

  `Tell me what you want me to do,' he said eventually. `Do you want me to move out?'

  `No,' said Francesca at once. `No.' She hesitated. `Tom suggested '

  `What?'

  `He suggested,' she said, gulping slightly, `a public confession. At the evening service. If you confess your sins aloud to the congregation and to God, then perhaps you'll be able to start afresh. With no more lies. No more sin.'

  Rupert stared at her. Everything in his body resisted what she was proposing.

  `Tom said you might not yet fully realize the wrong you'd done,' continued Francesca. `But once you do, and once you've properly repented, then we'll be able to start again. It'll be a rebirth. For both of us.' She looked up and wiped the wetness from her eyes. `What do you think? What do you think, Rupert?'

  `I'm not going to repent,' Rupert found himself saying.

  `What?' A look of shock came over Francesca's face.

  `I'm not going to repent,' repeated Rupert shakily. He dug his nails into the palms of his hands. `I'm not going to stand up in public and say that what I did was wicked.'

  `But . . .'

  `I loved Allan. And he loved me. And what we did wasn't evil or wicked. It was . . .' Tears suddenly smarted at Rupert's eyes. `It was a beautiful, loving relationship. Whatever the Bible says.'

  `Are you serious?'

  `Yes,' said Rupert. He exhaled with a shudder. `I wish, for both our sakes, that I wasn't. But I am.' He looked her straight in the eye. `I don't regret what I did.'

  `Well then, you're sick!' cried Francesca. A note of panic entered her voice. `You're sick! You went with a man! How can that be beautiful? It's disgusting!'

  'Francesca-'

  `And what about me?' Her voice rose higher. `What about when we were in bed together? All this time, have you been wishing you were with him?'

  `No!' cried Rupert. `Of course not.'

  `But you said you loved him!'

  `I did. But I didn't realize it at the time.' He stopped. `Francesca, I'm so sorry.'

  She stared at him for a silent, aching moment, then backed away, reaching blindly for a chair.

  `I don't understand,' she said in a subdued voice. `Are you really homosexual? Tom said you weren't. He said lots of young men went the wrong way at first.'

  `What would Tom know about it?' snapped Rupert. He felt trapped; as though he were being pinned into a corner.

  `Well are you?' persisted Francesca. `Are you homosexual?'

  There was a long pause.

  `I don't know,' said Rupert at last. He sank down heavily onto a sofa and buried his head in his hands. `I don't know what I am.'

  When, after a few minutes, he looked up again, Francesca had disappeared. The birds were still twittering outside the window; cars were still roaring in the distance. Everything was the same. Nothing was the same.

  Rupert stared down at his trembling hands. At the signet ring Francesca had given him for their wedding. With a sudden flash, he recalled the happiness he'd felt that day; the relief
he'd experienced as, with a few simple words, he'd become part of the legitimate married masses. When he'd led Francesca out of the church, he'd felt as though he finally belonged; as though at last he was normal. Which was exactly what he wanted to be. He didn't want to be gay. He didn't want to be a minority. He just wanted to be like everybody else.

  It had all happened just as Allan had predicted. Allan had understood; Allan had known exactly how Rupert felt. He'd watched as, over those late summer weeks, Rupert's feelings had gradually turned from ardour to embarrassment. He'd waited patiently as Rupert tried to abandon his company, ignoring him for days on end, only to succumb with more passion than ever before. He'd been sympathetic and supportive and understanding. And in return, Rupert had fled from him.

  The seeds of his defection had been sown at the beginning of September. Rupert and Allan had been walking down Broad Street together, not quite holding hands, but brushing arms; talking closely, smiling the smiles of lovers. And then someone had called Rupert's name.

  `Rupert! Hi!'

  His head had jerked up. Standing on the other side of the road, grinning at him, was Ben Fisher, a boy from the year below him at school. Suddenly Rupert had remembered his father's letter of a few weeks before. The wistful hope that Rupert might come home for some of the vacation; the triumphant news that another boy from the little Cornish school would soon be joining him at Oxford.

  `Ben!' Rupert had exclaimed, hurrying across the street. 'Welcome! I heard you were coming.'

  `I'm hoping you'll show me around the place,' Ben had replied, his dark eyes twinkling. `And introduce me to some girls. You must have the whole place after you. Stud!' Then his eyes had swivelled curiously towards Allan, still standing on the other side of the road. `Who's that?' he'd asked. `A friend?'

  Rupert's heart had given a little jump. Suddenly, with a flurry of panic, he saw himself in the eyes of his friends at home. His teachers. His father.

  `Oh him?' he'd said after a pause. `That's no one. Just one of the tutors.'

  The next night he'd gone to a bar with Ben, drunk tequila slammers and flirted furiously with a couple of pretty Italian girls. On his return, Allan had been waiting for him in his room.

  `Good evening?' he'd said pleasantly.

  `Yes,' Rupert had replied, unable to meet his gaze. `Yes. I was with-with friends.' He'd stripped quickly, got into bed and closed his eyes as Allan came towards him; had emptied his mind of all thought or guilt as their physical delight had begun.

  But the next night he'd gone out again with Ben, and this time had forced himself to kiss one of the pretty young girls who hung around him like kids round a sweet counter. She'd responded eagerly, encouraging his hands to roam over her soft, unfamiliar body. At the end of the evening she'd invited him back to the house she shared on the Cowley Road.

  He'd undressed her slowly and clumsily, taking his cue from scenes in films, hoping her obvious experience would see him through. Somehow he'd managed to acquit himself successfully; whether her cries were real or false he didn't know and didn't care. The next morning he'd woken up in her bed, curled up against her smooth female skin, breathing in her feminine smell. He'd kissed her shoulder as he always kissed Allan's shoulder, reached out experimentally to touch her breast and then realized with a sudden jolt of surprise that he felt aroused. He wanted to touch this girl's body. He wanted to kiss her. The thought of making love to her again excited him. He was normal. He could be normal.

  `Are you running away from me?' Allan had said a few days later, as they ate pasta together. `Do you need some space?'

  `No!' Rupert had replied, too heartily. `Everything's fine.' Allan had looked silently at him for a moment, then put down his fork.

  `Don't panic,' he said, reaching for Rupert's hand, then flinching as Rupert moved it away. `Don't give up something that could be wonderful, just because you're scared.'

  `I'm not scared!'

  `Of course you're scared. Everyone's scared. I'm scared.'

  `You?' Rupert had said, trying not to sound truculent. `Why on earth are you scared?'

  `I'm scared,' Allan had said slowly, `because I understand what you're doing, and I know what it means for me. You're trying to escape. You're trying to discard me. In a few weeks you'll walk past me in the street and look away. Am I right?'

  He'd gazed at Rupert with dark eyes asking for an answer, a rebuttal. But Rupert had said nothing. He hadn't had to.

  After that, things had deteriorated swiftly. They'd had one final conversation in a deserted Keble College bar, the week before the new term began.

  `I just can't . . .' Rupert had muttered, stiff with selfconsciousness, one eye on the incurious gaze of the barman. `I'm not-' He'd broken off and taken a deep gulp of whisky. `You do understand.' He'd looked up pleadingly at Allan, then looked quickly away again.

  `No,' Allan had said quietly, `I don't understand. We were happy together.'

  `It was a mistake. I'm not gay.'

  `You're not attracted to me?' Allan had said, and his eyes had fixed on Rupert's. `Is that what you're saying? You're not attracted to me?

  Rupert had gazed back at him, feeling as though something inside him were being wrenched in two. Waiting in a pub were Ben and a pair of girls. Tonight he would almost certainly have sex with one of them. But he wanted Allan more than he wanted any girl.

  `No,' he said at last. `I'm not.'

  `Fine,' Allan had said, his dry voice cracking with anger. `Lie to me. Lie to yourself. Get married. Have a kid. Play at being straight. But you'll know you're not, and I'll know you're not.'

  `I am,' Rupert had retorted feebly, then wished he hadn't as Allan's eyes flashed with contempt.

  `Whatever.' He'd drained his glass and got to his feet.

  `Will you be all right?' Rupert had said, watching him.

  `Don't patronize me,' Allan had snapped back fiercely. `No I won't be all right. But I'll get over it.'

  `I'm sorry.'

  Allan had said nothing more. Rupert had watched silently as he made his way out of the bar; for a minute or two he could feel nothing but raw pain. But after two more whiskies he'd felt a little better. He'd gone to meet Ben in the pub as arranged, and had drunk a few pints and a good deal more whisky. Later that night, after having had sex with the prettier of the two girls Ben had procured, he'd lain awake and told himself repeatedly that he was normal; he was back on course; he was happy. And for a while, he'd almost managed to believe himself.

  'Tom'll be here in a few minutes.' Francesca's voice interrupted his thoughts. Rupert looked up. She was standing at the door, holding a tray. On it was the cream-coloured teapot they'd chosen for their wedding list, together with cups, saucers and a plate of chocolate biscuits.

  `Francesca,' said Rupert wearily. `We're not holding a bloody tea party.' A look of shocked hurt passed over her face; then she composed herself and nodded.

  `Perhaps you're right,' she said. She set the tray down on a chair. `Perhaps this is a bit inappropriate.'

  `The whole thing is inappropriate.' Rupert stood up and walked slowly to the door. `I'm not talking to Tom about my sexuality.'

  `But he wants to help!'

  `He doesn't.' Rupert looked at Francesca. `He wants to channel. Not help.'

  `I don't understand,' said Francesca, wrinkling her brow.

  Rupert shrugged. For a few moments neither spoke. Then Francesca bit her lip.

  `I was wondering,' she said hesitantly, `if you should maybe see a doctor, as well. We could ask Dr Askew to recommend someone. What do you think?'

  Rupert stared at her speechlessly. He felt as though she'd hit him in the face with a hammer.

  `A doctor?' he echoed eventually, trying to sound calm. `A doctor?'

  `I thought-'

  `You think there's something medically wrong with me?'

  `No! I just meant . . .' Francesca flushed pink. `Perhaps there's something they could give you.'

  `An anti-gay pill?' He couldn't control his voice. Who
was this girl he'd married? Who was she? `Are you serious?'

  `It's just an idea!'

  For a few silent seconds, Rupert gazed at Francesca. Then, without speaking, he strode past her into the hall and snatched his jacket from the peg.

  `Rupert!' she said. `Where are you going?'

  `I've got to get out of here.'

  `But where!' cried Francesca. `Where are you going?'

  Rupert looked at his reflection in the hall mirror.

  `I'm going,' he said slowly, `to find Allan.'

  CHAPTER TEN

  asked for all the members of the family to be assembled in the drawing room, as though he were about to unmask a murderer in their midst.

  `There are only the two of us,' Isobel had said scornfully. `Would you like us to assemble? Or do you want to come back later?'

  `Indeed no,' Canon Lytton had replied solemnly. `Let us adjourn.'

  Now he sat on the sofa, his cassock falling in dusty folds around him, his face stern and forbidding. I bet he practises that expression in the mirror, thought Isobel. To frighten Sunday school children with.

  `I come here on a matter of some gravity,' he began. `To be brief, I wish to ascertain the truth or otherwise of a piece of information which I have been given.'

  `By whom?' said Isobel. Canon Lytton ignored her.

  `It is my duty,' he said, raising his voice slightly, `as parish priest and official at the intended marriage of Milly and Simon, to check whether Milly, as she stated on the form she filled in, is a spinster of the parish of St Edward the Confessor, or whether in fact she is not. I will ask her myself when she returns. In the meantime, I would be grateful if you, as her mother, could answer on her behalf.' He stopped and looked impressively at Olivia, who wrinkled her brow.

  `I don't understand,' she said. `Are you asking if Milly and Simon live together? Because they don't, you know. They're quite old-fashioned like that.'

  `That was not my question,' said Canon Lytton. `My question, more simply, is: has Milly been married before?'