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Thursday 7th January 1988
“Edward?” The newly-minted Serena Campbell peered concernedly at the dark lump that was sprawled across the king-size bed in the hotel bridal suite who was currently snoring at a volume akin to an industrial chainsaw. “Is that you?”
A bleary grunt to the affirmative came from her new husband.
The vindictive element of Serena’s personality chose to express itself in that particular moment as she brusquely snapped on the electric light, flooding the room with a blinding glare which was greeted with a stream of muffled swearing as Edward threw a drunken hand over his aching eyes.
“Thought as much.” Serena added grimly as she surveyed the utter carnage that greeted her. Petals from her bedraggled bouquet scattered the patterned carpet in an informal potpourri, a stench of vomit rose from the unfortunate bedlinen which had had the misfortune to get in the way of the exceedingly nauseous groom.
Edward thoughtfully chose that precise moment to pass out once again.
“Oh, perfect.” Serena twisted around and attempted in vain to unlace the tight corset of her hired wedding dress.
Several failed bouts of contortion and intense swearing later, she deemed the mission impossible. Red-faced and mildly despairing, she sank dejectedly down the wall into a crumpled heap of tulle skirt and taffeta. The dull thud of the bass from the disco below vibrated noisily through the floor as the shrieks of excited student revellers permeated her hearing.
Elopement had sounded so much more attractive than this when Edward had first proposed the idea over Christmas: a chance to escape her mother’s dominating control over wedding planning, a chance to break free and celebrate with their closest friends at the nearest branch of a reasonably priced hotel chain on the edge of town.
In the cold light of day, it had been distinctly mediocre. Edward had barely lasted through the first course of the disappointing menu before attempting to drink the hotel bar dry.
“Sod it.” Serena muttered, pushing herself towards the awaiting mini bar which occupied the corner of the room and selecting an appropriate bottle. “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”
She took an unnecessarily large gulp and felt the stinging alcohol bring tears to her eyes.
What the hell have I done?
Saturday 21st July 1990
The car journey to the church was a quiet one as the Rolls Royce purred serenely along the village roads, neither father nor daughter particularly renowned for being particularly lavish with idle chatter.
The Colonel drummed his fingers nervously upon the smart trousers of his uniform- ironed and starched to within an inch of its life. He cleared his throat gruffly and looked proudly across the backseat at the young bride who was almost visible beneath the expansive layers of ruffled satin.
His only daughter, the recently-qualified Dr Berenice Griselda Wolfe peered out nervously from beneath her veil, quite glad for the frankly absurd amount of material that the gargantuan dress seemed to contain as it provided her with an ivory cocoon in which to gather her thoughts.
How could a short walk down the aisle of her local village church seem like a marathon?
As if on cue, the familiar fluttering quiver from the depths of her belly reminded her exactly why she was currently sat in the back of a wedding car, clutching tightly onto a small bouquet of yellow carnations and white roses, on her way to the church to marry the supposed man of her dreams. A protective hand drifted subconsciously to the front of her tightly-laced gown.
The small sapphire engagement ring sat expectantly upon her finger; the ornate piece of jewellery originally belonging to Marcus’s maternal grandmother.
She felt like a fraud.
Marrying Marcus felt like the expected thing to do, as had accepting his bumbling attempts at courtship, playing along with the role of the young couple in love. Irritatingly, there was nothing wrong with Marcus that she could blame her last minute nerves upon: nothing obvious to make her recoil in disgust or repulsion, he could make her laugh, make her smile at the end of a long shift when nothing had gone her way.
Steady, reliable Marcus.
The trouble was, that despite her best efforts to convince herself that she would fall slowly in love with him, she knew that she just didn’t love him. She wanted to, so badly, even going as far as to convince herself that her pre-nuptial cold feet were just the usual nerves of having to be centre-stage on a particularly important day. He was a good friend, but that did not necessarily translate into mutual feelings of romance. Being able to love Marcus would have been so much more simple.
She had only kissed him as an aggressive act of drunken self-denial on a night of self-loathing after waking up with yet another batch of fresh memories of kissing the delectable Rachel Cattermole. The harder that she pushed her lips against his, feeling the rough edge of his stubble grate against her soft skin, the more she tried to blot out the crawling feeling of panic at the memory of straddling the lap of the stunning brunette literature student, the swooping ecstasy of attraction pulsating almost painfully between her legs as she leant forward and peppered her neck and décolletage with soft nips and kisses.
She couldn’t be gay.
She started unofficially dating Marcus the following week.
It was a month later when she woke up in Rachel’s bed after a distinctly drunken night out following a blazing argument with Marcus. Prickling with shame and self-doubt in the cold light of the morning, a panic-stricken Bernie had tiptoed out of the dingy basement flat which served as student accommodation without a backward glance, guilt clinging to her as close as a second skin. Too late, she realised that her shoes were still strewn lazily across the threadbare carpet where they had unexpectedly departed company in the early hours of the morning. She had walked home barefoot, clutching a thin cardigan around her as she shivered in the chilly drizzle.
Cheat.
Denial soon took hold; a multitude of excuses soon generated from a whirling mind overwhelmed with confusion.
She had eventually slept with Marcus a few weeks later; a mediocre disappointment in comparison, but she had gone along with events with a mild sense of enjoyment, mentally schooling herself to blot out any memory of Rachel’s glittering dark eyes as her raven hair dipped between Bernie’s thighs.
Fuck.
Several weeks later, a trembling Bernie had set down the fifth pregnancy test on the bathroom side to complete a quintet of positive results. The row of smiling faces on the tests was a far cry from the panicked expression which adorned her own. Steady, reliable Marcus had taken the news surprisingly well and had proposed on the spot; an offer which a confused Bernie had vaguely agreed to before realising the extent of the commitment that she had blindly accepted in her moment of panic.
Church bells echoed through the summer air in joyful excitement as the last of the milling guests filed into the church.
Well, here goes… Bernie thought to herself as she fought to extract the infernal dress from the back of the vintage car.
You might as well try to make it work.
A loud chord from the church organ prompted the guests to their feet, twisting around to get the first glimpse of the beautiful young bride as she walked slowly towards her soon-to-be husband, gently holding onto her father’s outstretched arm.
It was several months later that the majority of the same congregation would return to St. Stephen’s Church for the christening of Cameron Michael Dunn.
Saturday 23rd February 2019
“Ready?” Serena Campbell turned to Berenice Wolfe she stood fidgeting nervously with the braided cuff of her ceremonial Royal Army Medical Corps uniform.
“Bernie?” her tone was softer this time as she reached for her partner’s hand and squeezed it tightly, her thumb gently caressing the back of the trauma surgeon’s hand. “Are you ready?”
The taller woman looked up from her intense study of the swirling grain of the ancient wooden floorboards and smiled softly as she surveyed the vision of perfection before her. Serena’s inspired choice of a slender-fitting burgundy gown with the slightest hint of A-line skirt complemented her cropped brunette hair and flattered her gentle curves.
Bernie swallowed slightly nervously, her stomach fluttering for a different reason on this occasion.
“Of course. Sorry, just needed a moment.” she stumbled slightly, “I can’t believe we’re finally doing this.” she added softly as they walked hand in hand to stand outside the cream-painted pillar-flanked doors of the beautiful Lenton Hall.
“I know,” Serena smiled radiantly as she leant forward to place a reassuring kiss upon Bernie’s lips. “But here we are.”
Exactly on time, the double doors swung open and the two brides walked arm in arm into the beautiful Georgian hall to an excited murmur from their assembled friends and family. A besuited trio of Jason, Cameron and (upon her specific request not to have to wear a dress) Charlotte all hovered at the front of the room; all chosen for the role of ‘Best Person’ and equally charged with the responsibility for ensuring the safe delivery of the rings and for actively policing the tactical exclusion of Bernie’s cousin Matilda from the open bar at the reception. Memories of Matilda’s spectacular booze-soaked swallow dive into the fountain at Charlotte’s 21st birthday celebrations were still a matter of family legend.
Serena allowed a fond smile to grace her lips at the sight of a small framed photograph of Elinor which sat in pride of place upon the table at the front, surrounded by lit candles and a delicate bouquet of flowers. It had taken a lengthy sabbatical and several attempts at finding the right therapist, but she was finally in a place where she could see the way forward; the heavy clouds of grief slowly lifting from her shoulders.
As she turned to take Bernie’s hands in hers she became aware of the other bodies assembled in the room: a cheerful thumbs-up from a grinning Fletch and Donna who were attempting to restrain the youngest of the Fletchlings from running amok in the historic venue, a beaming Evie meeting her gaze with a mouthed “Good luck”, a beautifully-dressed Morven with a glittering engagement ring adorning her finger, as well as the usual crowd of hospital staff and friends.
As the ceremony proceeded, a ray of weak wintery sunlight poured in through the full-length windows and cast a soft spotlight upon the two brides.
Bernie felt an uncharacteristic moistness in her eyes as she made her vow to Serena, her mind wandering back to the first time that she had stood at the front of a gathering of friends and family. She had felt nothing but shame, a fraud, a liar… now as she gently reached forward and pulled her new wife into a tender kiss to tumultuous cheers and applause from their friends and family, she knew that at last she was at peace with herself.