The Ship of Brides(67)
Author: Jojo Moyes

A free spirit. She had found herself believing this new version of herself, as Ian described it. Some time earlier, when she had found herself naked and self-conscious before him, he had said she was a goddess, the most alluring creature he had ever seen, and something else that made her blush, his eyes unfocused in admiration of her, and she had found herself determinedly becoming alluring and goddess-like when she really wanted to reach for a dressing-gown.

This must mean he’s right for me, she told herself. He has it in him to make me better than I am.

Outside, the traffic was picking up. Somewhere below the open window a car door slammed and a man shouted insistently, ‘Davy, Davy,’ apparently unheeded.

‘So,’ she said, disentangling their legs and sliding round so that she was leaning over him, some small part of her still shocked at the feel of his naked skin against hers. ‘You really, really love me, do you?’

He smiled at her, his hair matted against the pillow. She thought she’d never seen a more handsome man in her entire life. ‘Do you really have to ask?’

‘And I never do anything to upset you, or irritate you?’

‘Couldn’t,’ he said, reaching over to the bedside table for a cigarette. ‘Impossible.’

‘And you want to be with me for ever?’

‘More than. For infinity.’

She took a deep breath. ‘Then I’m going to tell you something, and you’re not to be angry with me.’

He pulled a cigarette from his packet with neat white teeth, and paused, using the arm looped round her neck to cup the flame of the match as he lit it. ‘Mm?’ he said. A soft plume of blue smoke rose into the still air beside her head.

‘We’re getting married.’

He looked at her for a moment. His eyes creased upwards. ‘Of course we’re getting married, my little duck.’

‘Tomorrow.’

She didn’t like to think too hard about that next bit. The way those creases hardened and his eyes became less soft.

The way the not-so-Sleeping Beast had suddenly become more so.

‘What?’

‘I’ve fixed it up. With a justice of the peace. We’re getting married tomorrow. At the Collins Street register office. Mum and Dad and Deanna are going to be there and the Hendersons have agreed to be our witnesses.’ Then, when he didn’t say anything, ‘Oh, darling, don’t be cross with me. I couldn’t bear the thought of you going off again and us only being engaged. And I thought seeing as you do love me and I love you and we only want to be together there wasn’t any point in waiting months and months and months. And you did say you’d got permission from your commander.’

Ian sat up abruptly so that she fell against the pillow. She pushed herself upright against the headboard, the sheet gathered round her chest.

Ian had leant forward, his back to her. It might have been her imagination, but there appeared to be grim determination in the way he was smoking his cigarette.

‘Now, darling,’ she said, playfully, ‘you’re not to be cross. I won’t have it.’

He didn’t move.

She waited several lifetimes, and slumped a little. The pert expression of disapproval slowly faded. Eventually, when she could bear it no longer, she put out a hand to him. His skin, where it met hers, sang to her of the previous hours. ‘Are you really cross with me?’

He was silent. He put out his cigarette, then turned back to her, running a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t like you organising things over my head . . . especially not something as – as important as this.’

Now she dropped the sheet, leant forwards and put her arms round his neck. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she whispered, nuzzling his ear. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’ That wasn’t strictly true: even as she had made the appointment, she had known that the flicker of nervousness in the pit of her stomach was not purely anticipation.

‘It’s a man’s place, after all, to arrange these things. You make me feel . . . I don’t know, Avice. Who wears the trousers here?’ His was face clouded.

‘You!’ she said, and the last of the sheet dropped away as she slid a slim leg over him.

‘This isn’t some joke, is it? It’s all set up? Guests and everything?’

She lifted her lips from his neck. ‘Only the Hendersons. Apart from family, I mean. It’s not like I organised some huge do without you knowing.’

He covered his face with a hand. ‘I can’t believe you did this.’

‘Oh, Ian, sweetheart, please don’t—’

‘I can’t believe you—’

‘You do still want me, don’t you, darling?’ Her voice, tremulous and a little pleading, suggested more doubt than Avice felt. It had never occurred to her that Ian might change his mind.

‘You know I do . . . It’s just—’

‘You want to make sure you’re head of the household. Of course you do! You know I think you’re simply masterful. And if we had had more time I would have left it as long as anything. Oh, Ian, don’t be cross, darling, please. It’s only because I wanted to be Mrs Radley so badly.’

She pressed her nose to his and widened her blue eyes so that he might lose himself in them. ‘Oh, Ian, darling, I do love you so much.’

He had said nothing initially, just submitted to her kisses, her murmured entreaties, the gentle exploration of her hands. Then, slowly, she felt him thaw. ‘It’s only because I love you, darling,’ she whispered, and as he gave himself up to her, as she slowly became lost, felt their bodies restoring him to her, as the Sleeping Beast awoke, a little part of her reflected with satisfaction that, difficult as these things could sometimes be, through intelligence, charm and a bit of luck, Avice Pritchard usually had her way.

He had been a little odd at the wedding. She knew her mother thought so. He had been distracted, selectively deaf, bit his nails even (an unbecoming habit in a grown man). Given that there were only eight of them, and that he was an officer, she had thought his nervousness a little excessive.

‘Don’t be silly,’ her father had said. ‘All grooms are supposed to look like condemned men.’ Her mother had hit him playfully, and tried to raise a reassuring lipsticked smile.

Deanna had sulked. She had worn a blue suit, almost dark enough to be considered black, and Avice had complained about it to her mother, who had told her not to fuss. ‘It’s very hard for her, you being the first to get married,’ she had whispered. ‘Do you understand?’