Page 15 of The Long Way Home

Four

Magnolia

I helped plan a lot of the wedding from afar.

The colour palette, the flowers, the dresses — Marsaili has two sisters, both are bridesmaids as well — the older one who somehow managed to secure the title of maid of honour over me has the style of Christopher Walken and is about as visionary as a brick. The younger one — or ‘the shit one’ as Bridget and I have come to call her — is also useless.

Bridget is too. She tried to be helpful, but she suggested roses and ranunculus in the same bouquet so she was obviously an absolute and immediate dead end.

But all the planning was good for me. Kept me busy. Because as it turns out, I used to spend a lot of time with my friends in London, and in New York I didn’t have that many people who were around all the time.

There was Rush whenever he was in town. And Lucía Nieves-Navarro, my whacky telecom-heiress neighbour from Mexico who shared my floor with me. Then there were others I met throughout the year, but New York is so transient.

I still travelled a lot for work — I was busy, I had things to do. I guess I just hadn’t consciously realised how much of my time I had filled with BJ and Paili.

She’s living in Spain now, I heard. I’m pretty sure the Spanish Flu is fairly under wraps now, but if it’s not, I do hope she catches it.

Anyway.

The wedding’s at St George’s. Obviously. Like there’s anywhere else to get married in London besides St Paul’s Cathedral, but that’s where I want to get married so I made sure to steer Marsaili away from that venue.

We arrive in Hanover Square twenty-five minutes after the wedding was supposed to have started but that was barely my doing and was primarily on account of London’s hideous traffic and also just a little bit because Bridget decided to ‘do her own make-up,’ which if you’ve ever seen her try to do her own make-up you’d understand why we’re late and you too would have wrestled that dark fuchsia, high pigment travesty from her colour-blind little hands.

Marsaili’s dress is gorgeous.

From Pronovias’s SS2022 The New Oasis Collection — the Kufra dress.

Asymmetrical neckline with one long sleeve, one sleeveless, a form fitting mermaid cut with some light beading and a subtle but rather lovely train.

The maid of honour is in a dusty blue ruffle-shoulder embellished gown from Marchesa that on my mother would look like an Oscars gown but on this lady it’s just sort of a mess. Like she’s going to the Yule Ball at Hogwarts.

The Shit One’s in a simple silk cape gown from Valentino that’s very classy, sort of a subtle… I don’t want to say lilac because lilacs are stupid, but not not lilac.

I wrangled Bridge into this gorgeous baby blue Tony Ward gown with a flowy tulle skirt and these gorgeous puff sleeves and coerced her into the Anilla 100 crystal pumps from Jimmy Choo and, to be honest, she looks a bit like Cinderella and I’m nearly jealous but I can tell she feels beautiful so my jealousy simmers at a health 30%.

And me? A dress from the Elie Saab Spring 2011 Couture runway that I asked him to recreate for me. Nice, pastel, bright purple. Sheer, lace paneling, figure hugging, subtly belted with draped silk crystal organza that I’ve paired perfectly with the Carrie Crystal Bow Mule 75 from Aquazzura.

We’re all holding hydrangeas, lavender and white rose bouquets and the colour theme for the wedding is to die for, if I do say so myself.

I’m nervous, standing out there, waiting to walk in.

Bridget first, then me.

I know I’m going to see him. I know he’s going to be here. It was a big thing — a big discussion in our family. Everyone flew over to talk to me about it.

Took me out to Nobu to butter me up. Bridget thought it was deeply inappropriate that he be invited. My father and my mother both said he had to be invited because they were inviting the rest of the Ballentines, and then my father said my mother needed to bugger off and what was she doing here anyway? And then Bushka said he has a great arse and to pass the rock shrimp tempura. Marsaili said it would be rude not to and that if I’m as over him as I tell everyone I am, that I should be fine with him being there, but that if I insisted he not come, she’d insist it too.

So they invited him because I couldn’t tell them that actually he is the drain in the centre of me where all the happy things fall through and that I feel his absence in everything. Everything. Breakfast time, cups of tea. Bumblebees. Honey. The stars. Gucci. The Discovery Channel. Long drives. Driving in general. Willow trees. Uno. Old Skool Vans. Tiffany’s. Maserati’s. Boys with tattoos.

And now here I am, standing on the steps of St George’s with a thudding heart in my throat and eyes that don’t know where to look because I’m afraid they’ll find the thing they’re dying to see.

Henry and Taura appear at the top of the stairs and then he jogs down them, throwing his arms around me.

“How good is it having you here in London?” He picks me up off the ground, jostling me around.

I give him a wry look and straighten his bow tie. Blue and cute from Tom Ford. I know, I picked it out. Giorgio Armani classic tuxedo suit, little blue crescent moon and star cufflinks with Elkan Penny Loafers also from Tom Ford.

“Well, you mustn’t get used to it,” I tell him as Taura curls her arms around my neck.