Beneath the gathering storm clouds Edith felt more stupid than strong. The humidity clung to her skin, forced its way into her lungs. She rolled her shoulders against the tension, smoothed the front of her delicate lilac dress. One of the slender spaghetti straps slid off her shoulder. She manoeuvred it back into position.
She'd worked hard for months, finally achieving some semblance of equilibrium. Now she risked undoing all of that, and for what? To see if she could? Like those fools climbing Everest. As if there was some good reason to take your body up to 30,000 feet and deprive your blood of so much oxygen you suffocated with the effort.
Still she kept walking, joining a group of brightly attired wedding-goers queuing for entry to the church. She took the errant feather of a fascinator to the head and had to duck the brim of an ostentatious, quick moving hat and then she was inside. The calm of the building cooled her veins and quietened her mind to everything but the beat of her own heart.
Carson saw her and waved. He twiddled his thumbs, the only sign of nerves. Shuffling into a pew, she took a deep breath and leant her head back, shutting her eyes and exhaling her nerves. Taking her pencil and notepad from her bag she sketched, relaxing into the familiar refrain of pencil on paper.
The wedding march jolted her back to reality. Everyone turned to face the entrance of the church, everyone except Edith. She concentrated on breathing, looking down at her dusty pink toes. The stone of the aisle darkened and the footsteps grew nearer. She looked up in time to see the back of Anthony's head glide past her seat.
The weather cracked just as the ceremony started. Torrential rain pelted the roof of the church. They sung Jerusalem accompanied by a choir of thunder. But as tends to be the way at the wedding of two people who obviously love one another, nothing could detract from the shared joy of the moment. Dozens of eyes filled with tears as Mrs Hughes and His Honour Judge Carson met in front of the altar. Nothing short of an earthquake or a tornado could distract the attendees. Edith doubted even that would have gained Mrs Hughes's attention and she suspected the apocalypse itself could have torn apart the fabric of the world around them before Mr Carson looked away from his bride.
Mrs Hughes's youngest niece was shepherded up to the podium to give a reading. Now that the happy couple had taken their seats to be replaced with a nervous nine year old it became more difficult not to look at Anthony. She wrapped the cord handle of her handbag around her finger; let the tip turn red before letting the white flood back. Then there was laughter and the child's eager voice permeated into her mind.
"I like this Dinosaur thought the Lovely Other Dinosaur.
Although he is fierce he is also tender and he is funny."
The words revealed her weakness. She looked up at the front row on the bride's side, sought out his profile, perhaps a glimpse of an eye, the corner of his mouth, a little of his golden hair. Just a morsel after so long without food.
"I like this Lovely Other Dinosaur, thought the Dinosaur.
She is beautiful and she is different and she smells so nice."
A mere glimpse was not what awaited her. Anthony was already looking over his shoulder in her direction. Blue eyes beaming and the crooked smile meant just for her.
They stayed that way through the rest of Monkton's idiosyncratic musings: Anthony looking at Edith. Edith looking at Anthony.
The clapping drew their eyes away from one another, a mutual decision to return their focus to the front of the church, to watch the final stage of the ceremony. The permanence of the day finally sealed by four small words, bands of metal and a kiss.
She walked briskly across the grass towards the marquee in the grounds which was to host the festivities. The storm had passed quickly; the sky was clear in its wake. The sun beat down and warmed her back, a long spindly shadow cast out of the bottom of her feet. The dew from the rain brushed off the ground and onto her toes. Her shadow was joined by another, even longer and more misshapen, wearing a top hat.
She squinted up at her companion.
Anthony bowed his head, his fingers went to the brim of his top hat, tipping it, as if they were in 1919, "hello."
"Hello." Their shoulders nearly touched. His hand was so near, a mere flex of fingers and she might brush it, one muscle movement and she could hold it in her own.
"Excellent ceremony."
"It was." Edith looked over her shoulder at the crowds spilling from the church and down the hill, the bride and groom posed for photographs beneath the building's imposing spire, "they seem happy."
Anthony walked backwards for a couple of paces, looking up at his clerk with solemn consideration, "They are happy." He spun back around to fall into step beside her, "you look very beautiful."
She had no idea how to respond to that sentiment. It almost made her cross; she scowled at him, aggrieved at having to marshal a response to such a compliment.
His wedding suit was grey, almost appearing silver in the sunlight. The waistcoat fit perfectly; not too loose, not too snug. The tails hung marvelously and shaped over his shoulders as if made just for him. He really was as broad as she remembered. She assumed his proportions had become distorted in her mind, but it turned out that her memories had him entirely right. He could fold her into his arms, shield her with the warmth of his body. The cravat was blue, as if chosen to match his eyes.
The whole picture added up to something quite remarkable. He was made for these old-fashioned clothes. If you'd turned to the definition of handsome in Edith's personal dictionary there would be a photograph of Anthony at this very moment. Her reckless, treacherous body thrummed with awareness.
"You look –" she cleared her throat and tore her eyes away from him, "well-tailored."
He glanced down at his outfit, as if he'd forgotten his sartorial perfection, "Thank you. I can't take any credit at all for it. I bitched and moaned my way through the fitting. Mrs Hughes reminded me in her own robust way that this was her wedding and I'd walk her up the aisle wearing a pink sequined leotard if she decreed it."
He took his top hat off and ran his finger around the rim. Shrugging, he continued, "alas, the leotard didn't fit, so she went with the suit." He fixed her with deadly serious gaze, before it dissolved into a broad smile.
Edith snorted an inelegant laugh, hating herself for laughing, and hating herself even more for doing it so moronically.
"My sources tell me your business is doing very well."
His sources? "Early days, but it's pretty good."
"How is Mr Barrow finding it?"
"Prancing and preening as though we're running the Saatchi gallery."
Anthony nodded, "And you Edith? Prancing and preening?"
"Hardly!"
"I didn't think so. Not your style at all."
"No. I am proud though."
"So you should be."
To all intents and purposes a marquee is just a big tent – simple and plain; unglamourous, if anything. Not this one. Bolts of brightly coloured fabric draped from the ceilings and covered the thin walls. Twinkling fairy lights blinked beneath the thin fabric. Circular tables radiated out from a wooden dancefloor. There was a stage for the band and a bar. The tables were covered in fresh flowers and silver stands for afternoon tea. Each seat had its own unique cup and saucer.
"Oh, how nice!"
"It's quite something, isn't it? The table plan is over here."
The afternoon tea theme continued with the gilded seating plan, each table named for a famous British pottery company. Edith scanned for her name and found it, right next to Anthony's.
The words slipped out, as if he couldn't read it without her help, "We're sitting together."
"Are we?" He didn't sound surprised.
Her eyes circled the names of the table's other occupants. A couple of HHJs, three High Court Judges, some QCs. No Maud. She thought her legs might give way with the relief of it.
A small crowd had gathered behind her, trying to find their seats amongst the scattered names.
Anthony jabbed his head towards the side of the room, "come on, we're over here."
Somehow she was being led about by him, he avoided touching her, but his hand hovered just above the small of her back, the curve of his arm ushered her past Royal Doulton and Portmeirion to Wedgewood. A bouquet of pink roses sat in the centre of their table, petals scattered across the crisp white linen. Anthony held one between his thumb and forefinger. His voice was quiet, "Edith, the portrait -"
This was an intimate conversation and in her naivety, she hadn't expected it. The painting was done at the height of their affair, usually they spent the days in each other's company and the nights in each other's beds. But on the odd occasion they were apart, she directed all of the energy which would otherwise go into missing him or thinking about him onto the canvass. It was a testament to her affection, to her love. Now it was a reminder of how completely she'd offered herself and how utterly he'd rejected her. Her cheeks flushed pink, not with pride, but with embarrassment.
"It was nothing."
"It absolutely was not 'nothing'. It's – it's –" He raked a hand through his hair, disrupting his pomade, "God, I'm always at a loss for words with you." He cast his eyes to the sky and then back at her, they were so filled with intent she felt like a witness in the box or Counsel on the ropes, "it is the single most magnificent thing I have ever seen in my life, with one exception. I could say that it is thoughtful and playful and smart and humorous, but that would imply it can be reduced to a description on a page which it cannot because the single best thing about it is how it makes the viewer feel, how it makes me feel and that is indescribable, no matter how hard the Sunday papers might try."
It was like this from the very beginning, he'd floored her with his gushing words and his easy praise. Her flush became a burn and tears gathered behind her eyes.
She whispered, studying her feet, "thank you, I'm glad you like it."
He scuffed the underneath of her chin with his index finger, forced her eyes up, "not like: love."
"Anthony!" A crisp, plummy voice came from behind them. His finger dropped away and she was bereft. They were joined by two crisply attired gentleman and a tiny woman with immoveable Margaret Thatcher hair and lively eyes. Anthony shook their hands and kissed cheeks. He introduced her with an ostentatious flourish. They were all High Court Judges, his new colleagues from the RCJ. All of them knew her, or certainly knew her name.
The small woman – Kate – a High Court Judge, sitting in Chancery squeezed Edith's elbow, "We all think the portrait is excellent." She capitalised the words: The. Portrait. "So vivid and modern. And he looks wise and intelligent and so handsome."
Edith laughed, "He is wise and intelligent and handsome, I'd be a poor excuse for an artist if I couldn't capture that." She flushed, embarrassed to have given herself away so easily, she might as well have announced to them that she'd slept with him, loved him. She loved him still; it was surely writ large across her face, "Thank you, anyway. It's nice to hear that people like it."
Kate smiled, "Well, we just adore your Judge." She winked at Anthony, craning her neck to meet his eye, "He's been a delightful addition to our number, we shall miss him when he relocates."
"Kate –" Anthony's voice sounded a warning.
"You're relocating?"
The master of ceremonies announced the bride and groom. He nodded and pulled out her chair, "if all goes well." She wanted to pry, to understand the machinations of his life. She reminded herself that what Anthony did, where he worked, was none of her business.
The afternoon tea felt curiously like a date. Anthony went out of his way to include Edith in the conversation, which, unsurprisingly given the amount of lawyers – barristers, no less - at the table, quickly descended into an introspective discussion of current legal issues. Amidst asking for her views on the various topics Anthony buttered her scones and passed them to her whilst making sure her tea was topped up and that there was plenty of milk. It was as though the previous few months hadn't happened at all. She'd tumbled back into a relationship with Anthony, except one where he wasn't afraid to be seen at her side, playing the part of dutiful partner.
The plates were cleared and the teapots retrieved. Their tablemates flitted away one by one, to other conversations in other locations. The band were testing-testing-1-2-3. Just Edith and Anthony remained, side by side and suddenly plunged into uncomfortable silence, because, of course, they weren't in a relationship. They never had been.
He cleared his throat, "Edith –"
"Did you enjoy the afternoon tea?" Mrs Hughes appeared behind his shoulder, beaming her happiness, arm tucked through Mr Carson's.
Anthony cast his eyes up to the ceiling, bit the inside of his cheek.
Edith stood and kissed them both, "It was lovely and a lovely ceremony as well. Thank you for inviting me."
"I'm so glad you came my dear."
Carson nodded and clapped Anthony on the shoulder, "come on Strallan, you're going buy me a pint."
"Am I?"
"You're the Father of the Bride, it's traditional."
"Stop calling me that –" They walked away across the dancefloor, Anthony protesting all the way.
Mrs Hughes sat down, adjusted her skirts, regarded Edith with a smile, "you're sure you glad you came?"
"I am, really." She fished about in her bag, showed Mrs Hughes the sketches she'd managed to begin, "I'll put the finishing touches on them when I'm back to Liverpool, frame them."
"They're grand Edith, I cannot thank you enough."
"And you're happy?"
Mrs Hughes looked at her knees, her cheeks reddened, "I didn't think I had the capacity to be so happy." She shrugged, "but here I am." She looked over the dancefloor at her husband.
Anthony stood with HHJ Carson at the bar, judicial twins, each with a pint, sipping the foam off the top. Carson allowed himself occasional glances at Mrs Hughes, as if checking she was real. Anthony mirrored that action, except he looked at Edith.
"Do you know –" Edith broke Anthony's latest look and turned back to Mrs Hughes, her was head slightly tilted, "- I met Charles nearly thirty years ago?"
"Thirty years! Goodness."
"I was in my first clerk job at Southwark Crown Court. I was plain old Miss McDonald then, straight off the train from Aberdeen. He was new to the Bar and doing his first big trial – an armed robbery - I was the judge's clerk. He was a handsome devil then, age has only improved him I think."
She laughed self-consciously and Carson must have heard her because he inclined his head in their direction and winked at them – winked! If it wasn't already obvious how incandescently happy he was, the gloriously boyish wink gave it away.
Mrs Hughes continued, "We've been friends ever since. He always popped in to see me if he was ever at the court I was clerking, he bought me flowers and chocolates during long trials. Then he became a Judge and was posted to Snaresbrook and we've been there together for nearly ten years. I thought it all happened at Snaresbrook – this silly love business – because for me, at least, it did."
She turned her knees towards Edith's and dropped her head to whisper, "But he told me three days ago that he spent the whole of that armed robbery trial hoping I'd need to interrupt - just so he could hear my Scottish burr. He said he'd loved me from the first moment I spoke to him!"
"He admitted that he would probably never have been brave enough to tell me if His Honour Judge Strallan hadn't told him to. He was terrified. A man who makes observations and points and arguments for a living and he cannot convey his feelings to the woman right in front of him."
Were they still talking about Carson? Mrs Hughes took Edith's hand and clasped it between her own, "sometimes very, very bright men are very, very stupid too. If you can forgive him that, you have a chance at real happiness." They were not still talking about Carson.
"Mrs Hughes I'm not sure -" she tried to inject an innocent tone into her voice, it didn't work, the words came out like a strangled plea.
Mrs Hughes smiled across the dance floor at her new husband, "I am not a fool." She tilted her head towards Edith, "you fancied him since your first time at Snaresbrook. There was a moment, sometime after you took that trip to Cambridge, when you stopped acting like a giddy schoolgirl around him and he started acting like a giddy schoolboy around you – I knew then that something was going on."
Edith's feigned expression of confusion didn't fool her one jot.
The pints were finished and Anthony and Carson were making their way towards them. Mrs Hughes offered one last hurried whisper, accompanied by wide, imploring eyes, "I have never known him so happy as when you were painting him."
"Ladies." Carson smiled down at them both.
Anthony handed Edith a flute of champagne, as though she'd sent him to the bar for a drink, on an errand, as if he was her – well - her something. Their fingers touched as she took it from him, "What have you two been chatting about so conspiratorially?"
Mrs Hughes arched an eyebrow at Anthony, "I was telling Edith how lucky I am to spend my professional life and now my home life surrounded by such handsome, charming judges."
Anthony nodded sagely and spoke seriously, "Ah – of course."
Carson cleared his throat, "Well, I've imbibed the right amount of Dutch courage now. I wonder if you might let me spin you around the dance floor Mrs Hughes?"
Before she could answer her husband both Anthony and Edith broke out into giggles.
"You can't –" Edith started.
"- call her that." Anthony finished.
"She's not Mrs Hughes any more." Edith smiled at her, "you're Mrs Carson now."
"I suppose I am." She stood to take her husband's hand.
"Well then, will you dance with me, Mrs Carson?"
Anthony shook his head and laughed again, "I think Charlie, that you can call her Elsie."
He looked to his wife then, "Goodness, may I?"
"Yes, Charles, I do believe you may. At least most of the time." She gave Edith and Anthony a wry smile as Carson led her to the dance floor.
Etta James belted out At Last.
Anthony took Mrs Hughes's vacated seat and watched the couple. Edith watched Anthony.
"Have you ever seen a happier pair?" His blue eyes shined with light. He took her hand from where it hung limply at her side and twinned his fingers with hers.
Etta sung, "you smiled, you smiled, oh, and then the spell was cast."
She stared intently at their mating fingers. She should take her hand away. Acquaintances – friends – ex-lovers – whatever they were at this point, whatever the label, they should not hold hands. Instead she brushed her thumb across the back of his knuckles and he held tighter.
He whispered, still looking at the happy couple, "dance with me?"
She shook her head, "alright."
At Last finished just as Anthony took her into his arms. Her arm to his back, his hand on her hip, their fingers still twinned. She fit to him like she belonged there. A lost puzzle piece finally found to complete the picture.
It was Sinatra's unmistakeable voice filling the marquee next. One of Anthony's favourites, a tune he'd whistle when he was happy, Cheek to Cheek. The one he'd sung in her ear a lifetime ago. He led them round the dance floor a little quicker then usual and guided her into several spins. It was impossible not to smile, a big band playing and dancing with a man who knew how, who knew her. It chased all the sadness away, however temporarily.
He smiled too and bent his head, closer than necessary, "I've missed dancing with you." Another spin and his lips glanced the lobe of her ear as he whispered, "I've missed you, sweet one."
The song faded away. She remained in the circle of his arms, trapped by his gaze.
The tapping of silver on crystal pulled their attention to the top table. Carson's best man stood to start his speech. Edith looked at Anthony's smiling face and down to their still joined hands. He had no business missing her, and she had no business being glad that he did, not unless something dramatic had changed since they last met. The audience laughed at some worn best man gag. Edith's head swum, she bit her tongue to stop from screaming all the questions charging through her mind: Why are you holding my hand in public? Where is Maud? What is going on?
Then Anthony's head bowed low and his breath was at her ear. Wonderful, seductive, frightening words brushing around the shell, "come outside with me."
She didn't say yes, but she didn't say no either, and she was following him, still gripping his hand. Afraid to let go, afraid to hold on. They weaved through the crowds, fingers knotted.