Were driving to our wedding. At the traffic lights, my husband turns and asks, Are you absolutely sure about this? I dont have time to reply.
The light turns green just as I open my mouth.
Tom presses his foot down on the accelerator. The beige Ford Focus moves forward into the traffic, and his question lingers in the air between uslike cigarette smoke, like the scent of his Brut aftershave, like everything we havent managed to say in the last six months.
Tom I begin.
Its green, he says. Lets go.
I watch his hands on the steering wheel. Broad palms, neatly trimmed nails, a thin gold ring on the fourth finger of his left handhe put it on an hour ago at the registry office, and it still looks new, unfamiliar. Mine feels strange, too. Ive been spinning it round my finger for every photo on the steps.
My mum is in the back seat. Shes silenta rare state for herand I feel her eyes on my neck. Heavy, attentive, the gaze of someone who understands but wont speak unless you ask.
Seven minutes to get to the restaurant.
You sure you want this? I repeat his words aloud, like making sure I really heard them.
Jane. He squeezes the wheel lightly. Not now.
When, then?
Later. Guests are waiting, the table is set, Aunt Linda has come all the way from Leeds.
Aunt Linda, I repeat.
Mum coughs gently behind me.
I turn to the window. Outside, October in Sheffield passes bywet tarmac, bare linden trees lining the high street, a woman with a pram not even glancing at us. Im in a white dress, a veil on my head, though Ive been trying to take it off the whole way. Mum keeps insisting, Its tradition, its pretty, youll regret it if you dont.
I watch the woman with the pram and wonder if shes happy. Or unhappy. Or maybe shes just heading home with her baby and doesnt have any questions waiting for her at the traffic lights.
The Yorkshire Halls restaurant greets us with parked cars, red balloons at the door, and Toms Aunt Linda wrapped in a sparkly pashmina.
Just married! she calls, hands thrown up in delight. Finally! Weve been waiting ages!
And the question gets drowned out again. This timein hugs, in the scent of champagne, in the clink of glasses, in jokes and the breaking of bread.
*
The restaurant is buzzing.
About forty people are seated at the long table. Toms lotloud, generous, always singingfill one end. Minequiet, a bit overawed by all the commotionkeep to the other. In the middle are mutual friends: Rob and Annie, Steve (who works with Tom at the plant), my uni friend, Hannah.
Hannah catches my eye and tilts her head slightlyWell? I just shake my headLater.
Tom sits beside me, and were the perfect couple: smiling on cue, kissing when the call is Kiss!, clinking glasses with everyone who comes by. Hes good. Hes always been goodand that, I finally understand, is half the trouble.
Jane my dear, Toms mum, Susan, sits beside me, touching my arm. Youre looking very pale. Have you eaten?
I have, Susan, honestly.
She lowers her voice. All the brides in our family look pale on their wedding day. It means long life, love.
Thank you, Susan.
Sue, darling, call me Sue. Were family now.
I look at her. Small and round, big-hearted eyesit catches my throat, her sincere affection. Shes done nothing wrong. Neither has Tom. No ones done anything wrong. And somehow, that makes it harder.
Sue, I say. Thank you. For everything.
She squeezes my hand and goes back to refill glasses, laugh loudly, and chat with Aunt Linda.
Hannah appears behind my left shoulder five minutes later.
Bathroom, she says. Come with me.
It isnt a request.
*
The ladies in Yorkshire Halls is all marblewell, what looks like marble: shiny, patterned tile. It smells faintly of rose air-freshener. We stand at the mirror. My veil has slid askew, mascaras smudged under one eye, lipstick faded to a ghost of a line.
Talk, says Hannah.
He asked me at the lights. Before the restaurant. Are you sure you want this?
Hannah is silent for a second.
And what did you say?
Nothing. The lights changed.
I see. She fishes a lipstick out of her bag, passes it to me. Here. Fix your lips.
Hannah
Lips first, then the talking. It helps.
I put on the lipstick. Its not my colourdarker, richerbut I need to do something with my hands.
Hes doubting, I say.
Youre doubting, says Hannah.
Im not
Jane. Ive known you twelve years. Since spring youve been unsure.
I set the lipstick on the edge of the sink.
Hes a good man.
Yeah.
He loves me.
As far as I can tell, yes.
Weve been together three years.
Three years and four months, says Hannah. Im not asking if hes good or not. Im asking what you want.
Outside, musics playingsomething slow, maybe True or the like. Heels click down the corridor and fade.
I dont know, I say.
Its the first honest thing Ive said all day.
Hannah nodswithout judgement or advice.
All right, she says. Lets go. Nows not the time. But youll tell melater.
Later.
Promise.
I promise.
We leave. Dancings just getting started as we sit down.
*
Toms a terrible dancerhes always admitted it sheepishly, which I rather like. He holds my waist and shuffles, and I rest my head on his shoulder as we circle slowly. From the outside, I think, it must look right; it must look lovely.
Jane, he says quietly, close to my ear.
Mmm?
Sorry about that question. The one at the lights. Shouldnt have said it there.
When then?
Before. Long before. He pauses. Or maybe not at all. I dont know.
I lift my head and look at him. So closehis stubble is soft, flecked with silver at his temples, only thirty-two.
Why did you ask? I say.
He glances somewhere over my shoulderwhere Aunt Linda is dragging Rob into a circle dance.
Because for the last three months, you keep looking past me, he says. Not at me. Past.
Im tired. Work, wedding planning
Jane.
He says my name so gently I stop talking.
I dont want to keep you if youd rather go, he says. Thats what I was trying to say at the lights. If you need to leaveyou can. Ill understand.
The song ends. Theres applause. Were just standing there; I have no idea how to respond.
Lets have a fag, he says.
*
We go onto the little veranda, overlooking the car park and the dark park beyond. Tom lights a cigarette. I dont smokeI quit three years agobut I stand next to him, wrapped in his jacket, which he slung over my shoulders at the door.
Tell me about Michael, he says.
I dont reply straight away.
Why?
Because it matters to you. So it matters to me.
Michael. We worked together for eight months at the paperhe started as an editor in February, I was the senior reporter. Nothing happened. Literally nothingnot a word, not a glance. But I thought about him. The way you think about a city youll never visit but somehow feel youd love.
Theres nothing there, I say.
I know. Tom flicks ash aside. But thats not really it, is it? Its not about him.
Then what?
Its you. Hes quiet. Three years ago, you were different. So full of life. You had plansmagazine, book, you mentioned London
Theyre just dreams, Tom.
Why just dreams? You write well. You always have.
I stare into the darkness of the park. Bare trees dripping, a rusty dog sitting on the bench waiting for someone.
I dont know what I want, I say, honestly. I really dont. And it scares me.
I know you dont, he says quietly. Thats why I asked.
Tom, we just got married.
Yeah.
Forty guests.
Forty-two, he corrects me, little smilemy favourite, the one I fell for. Aunt Linda brought her nephew.
Why are you doing this? My throat aches.
What?
You always say the right thing. You always do.
Is that bad?
Its unbearable, I say. If you were wrong, I could be angry.
He stubs out his cigarette on the rail.
Jane. Look at me.
I look.
I love you, he says, plainly. Genuinely. Thats why I asked. Not because I want to let you goI dont. But I dont want you unhappy with me.
Im not unhappy.
Youre not happy either.
Im silent.
Its not fair, I say at last. You cant ask on our wedding day.
Maybe not. He brushes hair from my facethe winds loosened my veil. But if not now, when? Next year? Five years? Thats worse.
Someone laughs behind the glassloud and free. Party sounds leak through.
Lets go back in, I say. Its freezing.
He nods. Opens the door, letting me go first.
I walk back and think: I have to make a decision. Tonight. Before the evening ends.
*
Mum catches me on my way to the table.
Jane. Quick word?
Her tones not for arguing, so I followinto the corner, behind a pillar festooned with fake flowers.
Mum, nows really not
It is, she says. I saw you go out. I saw your face.
Mum
Dont, please. She takes my hand. Its warm, a bit roughhands that have sewed, cooked, filed bills and pasted wallpaper a thousand times. I married your father at twenty-one. Didnt know what I wanted. Thought that was normal. That you figure it out.
Did you?
A pause.
Something else turned up. Not what Id hoped for. She squeezes my hand. Jane, Toms a good man.
Everyone keeps saying that.
Because its true. But good and yours arent the same thing.
I stare at her.
So youre against it?
Im not against anything. Im for you. She sighsquiet, almost to herself. I spent thirty years with a man I respected. Which is a lot. But sometimes I thought She breaks off.
Thought what?
That I was living someone elses life. Neat, properand not truly mine.
Were silent. Aunt Linda walks past with a plateful of aspic, trailed by her nephew in a bow tie.
Mum, I mumble. Were already married.
I know.
Its in the register.
I know, love. Papers can be sorted. But your lifeyou only get one.
She returns to the table. I stay by the pillar, watching the room. Tom laughing with Rob. Sue topping up everyones salads. Aunt Linda, the nephew, Hannahwho has already caught my eye and tipped her head again.
How did I get here?
Wrong question. The right ones something else.
*
Hannah sits beside me for the next hour. She says little, just keeps pouring me water, fending off Toms cousin Toby, whos determined to talk housing prices.
At half nine, Tom slips in on my other side.
Tired?
A bit.
Want to slip away early?
I look at him.
Its our wedding.
I know. We could stay. Or leave. Or he hesitates. Or actually talk. I mean, properly.
Here?
No. Come on.
We slip out again. This time not the verandaa little sheltered yard out back, wooden bench, lamplight spilling gold.
We sit down.
Tom, I say. I need to tell you something.
Im listening.
Im not in love with Michael. Really. Theres nothing there, there never was. My hands rest in my lap, fiddling with my ring. But that doesnt mean its all fine either.
I know.
Im thirty. I live in Sheffield, I work at a paper, I write stories about local business and council budgets. Its a normal life. A good one.
But?
But some nights, I open a document and just write. Not for work. For myself. And its the only time I I falter. I cant explain it.
When you actually live, he says.
I look at him.
Yes.
Ive read it, he says. You left your laptop open in February. I didnt mean toI saw the first lines. I read it all.
Tom
Sorry. I know I shouldnt have. But Jane, its good. Its really good. You have no idea.
I say nothingI dont have words.
Why dont you write? Really, I mean.
Because I falter.
Because its scary, he says for me. Because if you try, you might fail. Or succeedthen everything changes.
I stay silent. But thats my answer.
Jane. I know this is mad, saying it now. But lookif youre afraid Ill hold you back, youre wrong. I wont. Never wanted to.
You cant know that.
I can. Ive watched you hold yourself back for three years. Every time you did, you got that looklooking past me. Its not me. Its you. Only you can stop yourself. Im just beside you.
I find myself cryingquietly, tears running before I notice.
It doesnt mean were all right, I say.
No. Doesnt. He doesnt reach outnot trying to comfort, just sits alongside. But it means we could try. If you want.
What if I dont?
Then Ill let go. Thatll hurt, but I will. Hes quiet a while. Jane. Be honest. Just once. Do you want to trytogether?
I wipe my cheek. The veil catches on the jacket button, and finally I slip it off, sitting it beside me on the bench.
I think of Mumthirty years with a respected man. Of Hannah, who got divorced at twenty-eight and says its the best thing she ever did. Of Sue with her gentle eyes. The open laptop in February and a manuscript meant for no one.
The traffic lights.
The words I never spoke.
I want to try, I say. But with a condition.
Im listening.
Ill be writing. Properly. And youre not to say its silly, or not a real job, or tell me to get something stable.
Ive never said that.
I know. Im saying it for me. I need permission. But not from you. From myself.
Hes silentthe right kind, the kind that doesnt fill the air with words.
And another thing, I add. We need to talk. Like this. Not just on our wedding day, and not just at the traffic lights.
Deal.
And about London. When I say it, a tightness in my chest eases, like a dress loosened. I want to try submitting work to London publications. Or even move. Not sure yet. But I want to try.
Tom looks at me. Then he says:
OK.
Just OK?
OK, he repeats. Well go. Together. Or you first, then me. Well figure it out.
I laughunexpectedly, a bit nervously.
Tom. Youre mad.
Probably. And he finally laughs properlywide, warmer than all evening. But Im your madman. Officially now.
Officially now, I say.
We sit in silence a minute longer. Somewhere inside, the music starts up again, distant cries of Kiss! echo, and the night carries on without us.
Shall we? he asks.
Lets.
He pulls me upand I notice his ring already feels more right. So does mine. Or both.
*
Hannah catches me in the doorway.
So? she asks.
Fine, I say.
Thats it?
Fine is loads, I say. Trust me.
She studies me for a second, then nods.
All right. Hot meal just came out. Lets grab it.
We go back. Aunt Lindas telling some story about Leeds, her nephew stares in horror, Rob and Annie are slow-dancing, Sue dabs at her eyes with a tissuewho knows why, laughter or something else.
Tom sits beside me. Pours me champagne, himself some water.
Whats the toast, then? Aunt Linda asks, raising a glass.
Tom glances at me.
To not being afraid, he says.
Aunt Linda blinksits not a usual English toastbut drinks anyway. We all do. Me too.
And I think: maybe thats the answer. Not yes or no at the lights. Just dont be afraidand see what happens next.
*
We leave around midnight. Guests stay onAunt Linda clearly means to outlast everyonebut Tom says the bride and groom are allowed to slip away, and no one minds.
The drive is quiet. A good sort of quietnot that tense one from earlier, but a different calm, as if somethings finally changed, and we can just be.
I gaze at the window. October Sheffield rolls by againsame wet streets, same lamps. But something feels different. Or maybe I do. Not sure.
Tom.
Mmm?
When did you know? About my look.
He thinks.
June. We were driving up to my folks and you stared out the window all the way. I kept chatting, you replied with polite little nods, but your mind was somewhere else.
You never said.
Didnt know how. He sighs. Got used to not talking. Awful habit.
Yeah, I say. Ive got it too.
We stop at traffic lightsdifferent ones, not those.
Jane, he says.
Yes?
Are you sure this time?
I look at him. He looks at meseriously, a little weary, with that same smile at the edges of his eyes.
Yes, I say.
The light turns green.
We drive on.
*
The flat greets us with darkness and the smell of catour Daisy sits on the windowsill, staring with a look that says were late and shell remember.
Evening, Daisy, I say.
Daisy turns away to the glass.
Shes in a huff, Tom says. Left alone all day.
Like Daisy, I say. She sulks when you stay silent too long.
He laughs softly, tiredly.
I kick off my shoes by the door; theyre beautifulwhite, small heel, Mum debated them for a month. I look at them and think, tomorrow Ill wear slippers and thatll be just fine.
Tom hangs his jacket, loosens his tie.
Fancy a cuppa?
Love one.
We head to the kitchen. He puts the kettle on, I get out the mugshis favourite blue one with a polar bear, mine with, Dont Touch Before Tea though I really drink coffee (Mum bought it for my birthday three years ago).
Jane, Tom says as the kettle boils. Can I say something?
Go on.
Im glad we talked. Hes looking at the kettle, not at me. Ive wanted to, for ages. Just never knew how.
Me too.
Were a right pair, he says, no malice, just a wry smile.
We are, I agree.
He pours the water. I fetch the teabags. Were not loose-leaf peoplemaybe one day, but not yet.
Daisy hops from the windowsill, saunters in and rubs against my leg.
She forgives you, Tom says.
Cats get over things quickly, I say. We could learn from them.
We sit at the little kitchen tablewhere the morning papers and Toms work stuff pile up, and in the evenings two mugs stand side by side. Just an ordinary table. Ordinary kitchen. Ours.
Tom.
Mmm.
Tomorrow Ill open that document up. And Ill write something. A whole page, at least.
He glances over.
Good.
You wont ask what it is?
When youre ready to show me, you will.
I nod.
All right, then. I will. One day.
We drink our tea in silence. Daisy curls by the radiator, closes her eyes. Rain taps against the windowsoft, October, gentle.
I think about Mum. Must call her in the morningshell head home at ten, I need to catch her before. Tell her what? Just thank you. Shell know what for.
Tom, I say. What are you thinking about now?
He thinks for a second.
That weve run out of sugar, he says.
I burst out laughinggenuine, belly-deep.
Thats all?
And, he adds, suddenly serious, that Im married. Still doesnt feel real.
Me neither. I look at my ring. Its almost familiar now. Tom. Will everything be alright?
He doesnt rush, and thats what I valuethe honesty, no false promise.
I dont know, he says, at last. But were going to try.
A simple, honest answer.
Lets try, I say.
*
A week later, I open that document.
There are eighteen pagesI hadnt realised Id written so much. I read, edit, cross things out, add bits. Three hours later, I havent eaten, but Tom brings me a plate of sandwiches and leaves it beside me without a word.
A month on, I send the first five pages to a literary journal. Nothing bigjust a local Sheffield one, but a real one. Just to try.
Three weeks later, they write back, asking for more.
I ring Mum.
Mum, do you remember what you said about living someone elses life?
I do, she says.
Im writing my own, I tell her. Slowly. But I am.
Shes quiet. Then just says:
Thats wonderful, love.
No fuss. Sometimes thats all you need.
*
In November, we go to Londonthree days, open-ended. Tom takes leave, I bring my laptop.
We walk, drink coffee in indie spots. One day, I spend hours in a magazine officenot the one I submitted to, another. The editor chats with me about regional writers. She says shed like to see my work; hands me her email.
In the evening, were in a café off Old Street, Tom eating soup, me watching London outside, thinkingthis is it. The city Ive dreamt of. Not as in dreamssmaller, busier, pricierbut real. Alive.
What? Tom asks.
Nothing. Just looking.
Do you like it?
I think.
It scares me, I admit. But I do.
Thats usually a good sign, he says. When it scares you but you like it.
I study him. He eats his soup as if its all the same.
Tom. Do you regret it?
Regret what?
Marrying someone restless like me.
He thinksreally thinks. I know now, his pauses mean hes finding the words.
No, he says. Calm people are duller.
Youll regret it one day, I promise.
Maybe. He grins. Not yet, though.
Its snowing outside. First snow of the yearwet, London snow, melting instantly on the pavements. People walking past, collars up, some laughing, someone on the phone. A normal night in the big city.
I open my laptop. Not the old file, but a new blank one.
Writing? asks Tom.
Ill try.
Take your timemight order more soup.
I write the first line.
Look at it. Delete it. Write another.
He sits across from me, scrolling his phone; London drifts by behind glass, the snow melting. Its just an ordinary evening.
And I think: maybe this is what happiness looks like. Not a revelation, not fireworksjust a person opposite you, ordering soup while you write. Just a city outside. Just a first sentence youre not sure where will go.
Just dont be afraidand see what happens.
I write the second line.
