‘I can’t go for four nights.’
‘Three.’
‘I don’t want to go to Italy.’
Perry threw his napkin on the plate. ‘Well where do you want to go, then? Pick somewhere else if Italy bothers you. Paris, New York, Baghdad? Quite frankly, I don’t care. I just want to spend a few uninterrupted days with my fiancée, enjoying ourselves. Sorry for being so ludicrously demanding.’
I took a deep breath, but Perry hadn’t finished.
‘What is it with you, Faith? Most women would be delighted to be whisked off to Rome for the weekend. You make me feel like a needy fool, wanting to spend time with you. Is Italy the problem, or is it me?’
‘No!’ I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not you. I don’t want to leave Sam for that long.’
‘So… what? You’re never going to go on holiday in case Sam needs you? That’s ridiculous. And what about his girlfriend?’
‘It’s just… right now is a particularly bad time. He’s going through some stuff.’
‘Oh, come off it. It’s always a bad time, and he’s always going through stuff.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘What then?’ He stood up, pushing his chair back. ‘Tell me, Faith. What stuff is he going through right now – stuff he isn’t normally going through – that means you can’t go away?’
Even in my bubbling frustration, I knew I should tell him. About Kane and my mother, moving to live with Grandma. Sam’s addictions. If not all of it, then at least something. He stared across the table, eyes challenging me to finally open up and let him into an area of my life that actually mattered.
‘I haven’t got a passport.’
‘Then get one. You’ll be needing it anyway for our honeymoon.’
‘I can’t afford a passport, Perry. They cost eighty pounds.’
He pulled out his wallet, yanked out a pile of twenties, and threw them on the table before storming out of his own diningroom, and then out of his own house. I swallowed a couple more mouthfuls of the gnocchi, put the cappuccino brûlées back in the fridge, and cleared up the kitchen.
In the end, we compromised. I booked four days off and we went to York. If Sam had a meltdown, we would come home. And Perry would also come with me to our first marriage preparation class at Grace Chapel. Three days before the trip, we spent an hour and a half in the lounge room at the chapel with three other engaged couples and the older husband and wife leading the class. To our relief, it involved no sharing of secrets, just a video followed by time in our pairs to work through some questions. The topics were listening skills, time together and conflict resolution.
How apt, considering the weekend to follow.
The couple leading the class were lovely. They asked if they could pray for us before we left.
‘No, thanks.’ Perry smiled his businessman smile. ‘See you all next week.’ He took my hand and led me out of the building, but as we reached the car, I stopped.
‘I think I forgot my gloves. Hang on.’ I scurried back in, to where the class leaders were tidying up the mugs and stacking the chairs.
‘Oh, hi, Faith. Did you forget something?’
‘Will you pray for me quickly, please? Perry’s waiting in the car.’
‘Of course.’ The woman – Zoe – came over and put one hand on my shoulder. She looked at me, and I could see the concern. I didn’t say anything. Goodness me. If she knew the truth, she’d be a lot more concerned.
She spoke out a brief prayer and in that short moment, as a kind woman took my secret problems and handed them over to the God these people believed could somehow help, the burden on my tired shoulders lifted a little.
The burden was back soon enough, after a ten-hour stint at a weekend wedding reception where the bride passed out drunk underneath the top table and the groom had a fist fight with his best man on the dance floor. They toppled the four-tier cake into the champagne fountain, smashing glasses in all directions, injuring three guests and covering several more with lemon icing.
Sam continued calling me several times a day – he couldn’t find his jumper, the workmen outside were giving him a migraine, April had gone out and he didn’t know when she would be home. Translation: I’m scared, I can’t cope. I’m teetering on the edge of the abyss and I need someone to pull me back.
I didn’t tell him about York. If I called in Friday morning before we left, and again Monday night, he didn’t need to know. Nor did I tell April, sure her solidarity lay with Sam. And when Dylan asked me after choir practice if I was doing anything nice at the weekend, I shrugged and changed the subject.
The Friday and Saturday in York were fine. Better than fine, once I’d managed to untangle the knots in my back and begun to appreciate the beautiful, cobbled streets and shopfronts dripping with history. We toured a couple of museums, visited the stunning Minster, called in at various tea shops, and dined in the hotel’s fancy restaurant.
