“Beauty girl, wake up.”

I heard this, distantly, as I floated like Millais’ Ophelia in a dream, surrounded by flowers, waiting for the final drift downwards. Rosemary was for remembrance, I muttered as I passed a knot of grass. Pansies, mmmmm, thoughts. Fennel…

“Mel, move your arse.”

I opened my eyes to the bedside light illuminating Alex, looking far more compos mentis than I’d anticipated at — what time?

“It’s two in the morning, love. I need to sleep.” He was out of the smartish tan canvas trousers and charcoal pullover I’d seen him off in earlier, and into a pair of port wine cotton pyjamas. I’d migrated from my designated side of the bed to being splayed into a full starfish position over the course of the hour I’d been asleep. Earlier, Sasha and I had helped Miranda — whom we’d found lying on the staircase, snoring — into bed and then repaired to our own rooms. Before I’d succumbed to sleep myself, I’d had one more text from Julian: Won’t be at shooting tomorrow. Amanda handled. Going back to London to spend night with Fenn. See you at rehearsal.

Rubbing my eyes, I scooted over a foot and reached out for Alex. “Mmmmmm. When did you start wearing pyjamas?”

He flipped off the light, threw over the duvet cover and climbed up into the too-tall bed, plugging in his phone when he’d settled. “Since I have to be presentable in front of others I’m not related to, when I don’t feel like putting on proper clothing.” Though I’d closed my eyes, I could tell from the ambient light that he was looking through his phone still.

“How was tonight? Was it all coke and strippers?” I flipped over on my other side, away from him and towards the window. The house was colder than the air outside; I’d opened the transom for the fresh breeze.

“Partially. I avoided the former but not much I could do about the latter when one’s rubbing her fake baps in your face.” He threw an arm over me and pulled me close against the length of his body. “I didn’t encourage it. Some mate of Jamie’s from work hired a girl who was dressed like a milkmaid because he thought it would be funny.” (Jamie’s family owns a very large dairy farm in Cheshire.) “What happened here? Everyone was asleep when we got in. Will thought you three had been murdered until he put an ear to Miranda’s door and heard her snoring.”

I stretched a little, eased my back into his chest. “I made it an early night after my appearance at the pub. Sasha told me the rest of them stayed there for a while then stumbled back to the other house to do shots.”

Alex nuzzled my head for a brief moment. “Was Min there?” He was very quiet, but I could feel his body tense briefly.

“Yes.”

We said nothing for a minute; I heard only the tick of his Patek Philippe, another watch he’d never flipped as promised, on the nightstand.

“I never wanted her to be hurt. I thought I was making things better for us. I would have done anything for her. For us. For our wee team.” I heard the catch in his voice.

“Oh Al, I know.” I know he had loved her. It doesn’t sting me. The non-selfish part of me (what exists of her) wishes they could have made it. He did fall in love with her, and she adored him. (Who wouldn’t?) They were so very sweet together, a perfect family of three with baby Lucy. She kept him grounded and while there may have been no great passion between them, they were more than happy. They were at peace.

I waited for more, but if there was any, he didn’t say.

***

By managing to drink only a few glasses of wine and couple of small helpings of brandy over the course of an evening, I faced Friday morning feeling tolerably well. The lingering effects of jet lag were far less excruciating than handling a day hungover that included the first of several events at which Julian and Alex had to be within feet of each other and not resort to fisticuffs. “A” game? I intended to bring it. Trying not disturb Alex, I slid out of the monstrously tall bed and into the sheepskin slippers I’d put out for myself the night before.

Charlie was the first down, nearly as clearheaded as me at 7 am. He was already washed and dressed for a day of shooting in a sensible wool sweater and a gilet. “Morning, Mel. Any coffee left?” He swatted my ponytail as he passed the Aga where I was stationed.

“Almost a full pot.” I had pan full of bacon frying and an earlier batch was resting between layers of paper towels. “Want a piece before the hordes descend?”

“You spoil us all, as always. Pass one over and I’ll put the kettle on to make some tea. I heard Will moving around as I came down, and he’ll want a cup.” Charlie busied himself with nosing around in the cupboards for a stack of plates for everyone, taking care not to make too many clinks with the china given the likely delicate condition of the others still upstairs.

As I flipped the rashers, the grease from the bacon spattered on my arm and the Liberty-print apron I’d found hanging on the inside of the pantry. “How was it really last night? How’s Jamie? I heard about the milkmaid.”

Charlie groaned. “I tried to be polite to her, explained that I’m not interested in women so she could pass me over, but she insisted on resting her breasts on my head. I tried to put myself somewhere else while it was happening. What’s that phrase you taught me back at Bristol?”

“You went to your happy place?” I could imagine Charlie’s happy place quite easily — a warm study on a winter day where he could read his terrible detective novels by natural light, a cup of tea on his desk, five bourbon creams on a small plate.

“Mmm, yes,” he said through a mouthful of bacon. “Jamie’s himself, excited for Saturday. A bit miffed Jules decided to get some work done rather than join us last night.”

I moved the second batch of bacon to drain on a plate, and readied a crockery dish to put all the rashers in together to keep warm in the oven. A dozen eggs, beaten with a splash of single cream and some salt and pepper, waited to be poured into the bacon fat for scrambled eggs once more warm bodies made it downstairs. After I’d pushed the bacon in the lowest oven of the Aga, I pulled up a chair next to Charlie at the large farmhouse table in the center of the room.

“Want to hear some gossip?” I felt like making a little trouble. “Amanda had some news last night for us.”

Charlie blew on the steam rising from his mug of coffee. “I’m to believe that Amanda has news I can use?” He snorted and took a sip.

“Supposedly she and Julian ‘reconnected,’ as she put it, and are using this time to see if they can rekindle their old spark. But I know something she doesn’t.” Stir the pot, Mel. Stir it well. “Julian’s been seeing someone back in LA since this summer. I know. I met her.”

The copy of the Telegraph he’d almost opened dropped from his hand onto the battered tabletop with a light thud. “I don’t know which part of any of that is the most astonishing,” he laughed softly. “So, Jules and Man, our original power couple. Well, well.” Charlie fussed with the brass ring in the shape of a dragonfly he’d pulled off his napkin. “How do you feel about it? Besides the whole ‘Julian’s cheating on his girlfriend with his ex-girlfriend’ thing, of course.”

I took the French press Charlie offered to me for a top up and added some of the single cream I had left over from the eggs. (I’m on holiday — and I could always go for a run with Miranda later, if she wasn’t too queasy.) “Fine, I suppose. When I was at his apartment this summer –“

“That time you say he snogged you?”

“Yes. He was… he told me he was lonely. He wants a ‘companion,’ he says.”

Charlie snorted again. “He makes it sound like he’s Doctor bloody Who. ‘Companion’! He wants another wife. Your running off with Alex was terribly inconvenient for him, you know.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.” Charlie wasn’t wrong — Julian thrives when he has dedicated support staff. A wife was the most precious of them all, lavished with as many trinkets and treats as she desired provided she executed her role properly and with even more of the sort of slavish dedication he expected of his lesser employees.

“And this woman back in Los Angeles — I take it neither Amanda nor she know about the other.” I nodded. “I have to say, Julian’s worst instincts have been exaggerated since you split. Not the same man, not at all. I’m not saying I expect you to have much sympathy for him, but he’s adrift without you. Perhaps a wife, or at least a committed relationship, isn’t such a terrible idea.”

“Jamie can fuck himself.” Will lumbered into the kitchen, glasses askew as he rubbed his stubbled jaw. “Whose bloody idea was it to go to Crawley of all places? Fucking nightmare. And now shooting, hoo-fucking-ray.” Padding over to the stove, he absently stirred the eggs with the wooden spoon I’d left in the bowl. “Any chance of some grub, Mel?”

Charlie, who had by now opened the Telegraph to the sport section, tsked over at Will. “Rotten manners, old boy. A morning greeting wouldn’t be out of place, you know.”

Letting forth a string of obscenities sotto voce, Will stalked over to his former flatmate to blow a rather luscious raspberry. “Since when did you become my grandfather? Right then, good morning, Melissa, good morning, Charles. I feel like arse and I was hoping I might break my fast.” He dropped a low bow to me and I stifled a giggle. “My lady, hast thou provisions?”

Charlie nodded his approval. “That’ll have to do. And Mel, I’d love some grub, too, if you’re serving.” I answered his wink with a smile. Charlie and Will, the sublime and the ridiculous, the mannered and the buffoon, tighter now even than they’d been at 21. Part of me believes that if neither settles down by 50, they’d quite happily reunite in a bachelor pad and pick up where they left off when they’d finally gotten separate flats only three years ago in London. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if that happens even sooner — Will’s told me more than once he misses coming home from a long day in the City to play Borderlands 2 and eat takeaways with Charlie. Talk about a man who is a bit adrift without a companion.

At my direction, Will beat the eggs absently as I heated up the bacon fat. “Plenty for you all,” I said as I dodged more splatters of fat popping from the pan. “Julian told me last night Jamie’s going to be here at 8:30, but I’ll have everyone fed and out the door by then.”

The spoon fell out of Will’s hand into the eggs, splashing a little on his t-shirt. “Jules? When did you speak with him?”

Shit. “Oh, force of habit. I meant Alex. I’ll take the eggs now, Will.” He passed the bowl over as suspicion drew his eyes into a squint. “Did you hear about Julian and Amanda reconnecting?” I added, as I poured the eggs in the fat, little pops of fat sizzling up from the pan. That’ll distract him.

“No! Good god, that’s… hideous and rather appropriate. Tell me everything so I can pretend I know nothing when he’s bragging about it after the rehearsal.”

I had gotten to the part of the story Amanda had shared where Julian had spent the summer so very, very alone, ruminating on what might have been with his first love (bullshit — even she knew he never loved her), when Sasha pushed through the kitchen door, followed by Alex in his pyjamas with Miranda on his shoulders. I felt the familiar snap of jealousy at their intimate touch as she ducked to avoid striking her pretty head on the doorframe. And though I was ashamed to feel it, I was slightly pleased that the indulgences of last night were reflected in the dark circles under her eyes.

“Come take this bit of old baggage off my hands,” Alex called out to Will. “Sash and I had to drag her out of bed, and she doesn’t seem too pleased about it. Put those oven mitts on to handle her, she’s a touch clumsy with her claws.”

There are moments when the reality that my future with Alex is the beautiful now wallops me hard in the chest — this man, the one I’d tried so hard to neglect, or ignore, or evade for years, the one who’d been bought and sold by Julian to push me away — we are two now, the couple we’d wanted to be for so long. As he gently pushed Miranda from his shoulders to Will’s waiting arms, he looked only at me with the lightest smile turning up one corner of his mouth. I am yours, Melissa. I am lost to you, my sunny princess.

“Morning, gorgeous.” He gathered me about the middle from behind as I pushed the eggs around the pan. “I know breakfast for these hooligans is important, but I’d had plans for us this morning.” He leaned down to whisper in my ear; his black curls brushed my neck and I thought I’d collapse from the drugged feeling his closeness engendered in my body. “A man can only wait so long. Make time for me this afternoon, princess. I need your sweetness.”

I’ll make time for you, Alexander. I’ve wasted too much of it already.

***

“I don’t like this look on me.” Amanda scowled at the mirror she faced as the makeup artist dabbed a beauty blender around her flaring nostrils. Seated in the chair next to her, I was waiting for Chelsea, the artist working with me, to return with a glass of champagne. Another helping might dull the irritation of listening to Amanda complain about how it was impossible to get skilled help out in the country.

“You look lovely, Amanda.” (I could scarcely believe these words had come from my mouth, but perhaps they might mollify her long enough to stop the constant stream of invective.) “And it’s not like we’re even in the wedding. No one will be looking at us.”

“I look like a whore. Look at this, this eyeliner. I said ‘make me look like Kate Middleton about five years ago’ and I look like Nicola from FUCKING Girls Aloud in 2005. Like a panda bear. Why couldn’t I get your girl?” She pointed at Chelsea, who had handed me my glass and was now prepping my lids for fake lashes.

I happen to think that until recently, the Duchess of Cambridge had been wearing entirely too much eyeliner for a woman her age (which isn’t much above my own); Kendra, Amanda’s artist, had captured the 2014 “Princess Kate” look perfectly, in my opinion. “Maybe no liner on the lower lashline?” I suggested.

That might fix the makeup issue, but having seen the low-cut dress Amanda intended to wear to the wedding, I didn’t think the whore issue was going to be resolved overall. For a woman so fixated on others’ propriety and appearance, she’s always looked particularly cheap and slutty. No wonder she’d come to mind when Julian was casting about for a new bride. While he expected me to look classic and tasteful in public, it was Agent Provocateur and the trashiest pieces from La Perla in the bedroom. (Alex prefers me in nothing, or whatever I’m wearing before it becomes nothing.)

Amanda pouted at herself in the mirror. “Actually, I think it’s perfect after all. Give me lashes like hers and I want that highlighter she’s using too, but more of it. I want to glow for my new boyfriend. My new old boyfriend.” Kendra tittered politely; she (and I) had had to listen to Amanda tell the story of how she was falling in love (really? I doubt it) with her fabulously rich first boyfriend from uni. By her telling, Julian had been duped into marriage to a grasping, unfaithful American who never appreciated his depths, his passion, his essential goodness, but had exploited his grace and humility for her own venal ends. At first, I thought that she neglected to name me as this harridan to spare me embarrassment, but it occurred to me that it only made it a tarter criticism for her to savor when she knew I could say nothing in my own defense.

“Sounds like a bitch, if you don’t mind me saying,” Kendra offered as she swept the highlighter down the bridge of Amanda’s nose. “Do you think you might move to the States to be with him? Living in Los Angeles is a dream of mine.”

Amanda caught my eye in the mirror hanging before her. “We’ve discussed it. His bitch of an ex-wife is thankfully hundreds of miles away, shacked up with her lover in a hovel even though she took so much of his family money. It’s the only reason he continues to work so very hard — until she remarries, he has to pay her the most obscene monthly support payment.”

Chelsea tapped me lightly on the shoulder and asked me not to purse my lips while she was applying lipstain. With a stiff nod, I shifted my focus to my own face in the mirror. In some ways, Amanda had been right all those years ago — I was a dampened echo of her own beauty. If I was a muted and barely blushing rosebud, Amanda was a rose in flashy scarlet bloom, dropping petals as if there were an infinite number to unfurl on display. Her round blue eyes and naturally jammy-colored pout, coupled with her deep copper hair and quite frankly impressively oversized breasts should have kept her swimming in suitors since Julian dumped her. But Julian’s criticisms back then — that she was tedious work, lazy, incurious and greedy — rang even more true now.

Alex and I rarely spoke of the time he spent flitting in and out of her bed. Not that he was particularly ashamed, or that he thought he should spare me the irritation of being reminded that he used to sleep with a woman who held me in such low regard. Instead, I suspected it was because it reminded him that their affair was carried out to deaden his increasing panic that Julian had finally drawn me close enough that I wasn’t going to wiggle out of his grasp this time. In the months before Julian’s departure for the States, Alex was keeping a very close eye on his best friend, frequently going out with him for drinks after work, doing lines of coke together in the bathrooms of shitty Belgian bars in North London and swank champagne joints in the City and once off of Amanda’s bare arse. (I have photographic proof of this last, particularly foul indulgence — a moment which should have ended it for good with Julian after Alex had forwarded it to me. The nasty little note accompanying the image is one I still occasionally re-read to remind myself of Julian’s depravity, and how low Alex had sunk at that time to have written it.)

And when Al saw that he’d never be able to redirect my path down the aisle to anyone but Jules, he used sex to blot out his anger and sorrow. Anger at himself, more than anyone else, for deferring again and again to Julian for years that he could not take me, finally, for himself. He could no more cross Julian than I could. The sorrow — regret for not acting more decisively the many times I’d offered something more to him in the very earliest days, before I’d convinced myself he’d never want me. “I thought you deserved a quicker wit, a steadier hand, a cooler mind. And a deeper pocket,” he’d told me in that year we spent falling in love over the phone. “I was never going to be good enough for you. I still don’t believe that I am.”

Amanda was also in London while Jules and Al killed brain cells in pubs and bars and strip clubs across the city. On a whim, Alex had sent her a friend request on Facebook in hopes that parading her ample charms before Julian might dislodge his engagement to me. It wasn’t a half-bad idea — Amanda was delighted to revive her connection with the two friends (it also involved dinner at St. John, and she’s never been one to reject a freebie). Over a meal of bone marrow, kidneys and all the offal I could never stomach there, Amanda (by Alex’s telling) was more congenial than he’d ever remembered. She recalled once-scandalous stories the boys had forgotten, spun candy-bright tales of her bachelorette life in the big bad city, and filled them in on gossip about Sasha coming out and Miranda’s recent cagey behavior involving her new fiance. (Oh, I haven’t mentioned him either — what a disaster that turned out to be; she’s awfully lucky Alex was back in her life by that point– but I shouldn’t digress more than I am already.) She flattered both men equally, and Alex felt something for her in spite of his simmering feelings for me, possibly (definitely) because she enjoyed the rivalry for her attention growing between the two men. I don’t really blame Al — if one ignores her shocking snobbery and bad manners, she is quite a juicy peach of a woman to consume. If one likes such things. Alex did.

That evening, Alex took her back to his flat in the King’s Road and began a year of indifferent sex with Amanda that made him occasionally feel something more than misery, at least for a few hours a week. What neither he nor I had known until the night before was that Amanda, supercilious, imperious, haughty Amanda, had seen their trysts as a romance. “Bad enough that she stole Julian from me,” I’d heard her tell the makeup artist. “She then has the gall to cheat on him with the only other man I ever loved. She’s marrying him, supposedly. The slut is obsessed with me.”

“All done.” Chelsea passed me a hand mirror to inspect her work. “Will this do for tomorrow?” As I’d requested, I looked the foxy side of sweet — false eyelashes, yes, but a light hand on the foundation, a dusting of blush (Orgasm again — some habits are hard to break), and only enough highlighter to impart a healthy glow rather than the disco ball effect Amanda was now sporting in the chair next to me. My lips looked like I’d been sucking on a cherry popsicle an hour before, stained a hushed pinky-red.

Over my shoulder, Miranda’s similarly low-key sultry face appeared in my mirror. Her artist had clear talent — Ran no longer looked like she was only taking a break between lavish vomits in the loo, and now glowed with a mellow golden radiance. “You look luminous, sweetie. Not like Milady of the Night over here.” She flicked her head towards Amanda, who was too deep into a conversation with Kendra about how matte a lipstick was too matte to hear.

“Well,” I said, after thanking Chelsea and confirming our time for tomorrow’s pre-ceremony session. “As I told you earlier, Julian now has no problem with seeking the comfort of an escort. Perhaps he’ll find what he’s looking for with Amanda.” I linked arms with Miranda and gave Amanda a little wave goodbye, which was met with a sneer.

I let her steer me over to the waiting area, where Minty and Sasha reclined in their spa robes, freshly released from a body polishing session. “Me-OW!” Miranda squealed. “I haven’t heard this Melissa in a while. Has kitty come out to play?”

“Kitty’s ready to play whatever game Julian thinks he can win this weekend. But you know what — he never got kitty declawed.”

Miranda dusted my cheek with her lips. “Go show him who’s a tiger, kitty.”

***

From Will’s description of that morning’s shooting, the women had had the better deal of pre-wedding activities. Sasha, Miranda and I had returned to the house around 2pm, full of the languor of an indulgent day spent being massaged, scrubbed and smoothed to silken perfection. We fairly pumped our serenity into the atmosphere, a pleasant fug of earthy body oil and bougie hedonism. In the time I’d been living in Berkeley, I’d treated myself to such spoiling exactly once, very early on, before I’d started working. Back in Pasadena, I’d spent at least one day a week getting polished and pulled and primped so that Julian would find no fault with my body. And in those last two years, as we tried for a child, I was frequently only a body to him — as a conduit for his pleasure, and as the vessel for his longed-for child. Keeping mine sweet and free from more imperfections than it already possessed was another path to avoiding his ire. It was no way to live, but I knew little else.

Alex, Charlie and Will were huddled in the library when we strolled through the vicarage door, wrapped in Welsh blankets before the fire. Will nearly kicked over the brandy when he rose to greet us, earning him a cluck of disapproval from Charlie. (“Steady on, I’d prefer the carpet not get the lion’s share of that.”)

“Miranda,” Will panted. “It was horrendous. Totally drenched, just standing around in a bloody field for hours with these two and the others shooting at clay pigeons. Don’t know if I’ll ever be warm again.”

Charlie and Alex grinned at each other. “It was actually pretty marvellous,” Charlie piped up. “Will’s just miffed that his aim was so poor. I warned him drinking that much at the stag do wasn’t a terrific idea.”

“It wasn’t the drink,” Will retorted. “I had no business being out there when my shoulder’s only just on the mend from practice the other week.” Will and Charlie still played rugby, Will at second row and Charlie as a scrum half. “Be a pet, Mel, and make us some tea.”

Alex reached into the pottery bowl at his elbow and chucked a decorative pine cone at Will’s head. “Make it yourself, you shiftless sod. My woman isn’t your skivvy. Mel, get your arse back in here and on my lap.” (I’d already started for the kitchen.)

Will pulled his blanket tightly across his shoulders and huffed his way to the kitchen; Miranda couldn’t resist a light swat of his rear as he passed. “That’s for assuming any woman will do for you what you’re perfectly capable of accomplishing yourself, William.” Stealing Will’s now open wingback seat before the fire, Miranda stretched her arms above her head and exhaled. “Mel, shall I tell Alex what Amanda said about him while she was having her face coated in twenty tonnes of slap? You’ll like this, Al.”

Alex stopped nibbling on my ear to look up. “Me? What would she have to say about me?” (The nibbling was effective — I was now antsy to pull him upstairs with me and strip him of his hideous shooting vest, tattersall shirt and wide wale cords.)

“Oh, just that she’d been hopelessly in love with you that year you two were fucking your pain away, and isn’t it just so vulgar that Mel had to steal the only two men she’d ever loved? My heart weeps.” Miranda dabbed at her eyes.

He shrugged. “Not my problem. Right, naptime. I’ve got that damned rehearsal at 7:30. Come on, lass. Time for bed. Up with you.” Alex pulled me swiftly by the hand out of the room and up the 15 steps to the upper floor. The portraits of vicars and their wives hanging on the wall regarded me as we passed, each appearing to bear a look of disapproving recognition that we were about to have “I haven’t seen you in over a week” sex in the Daffodil Yellow Room.

“‘Not my problem’? Really?” I was indignant on Amanda’s behalf. “What if she really did?” I pulled my rag wool socks off viciously and threw them towards the en suite bathroom.

Al’s corduroys now lay in a pile with his discarded vest. The slightest pong of gunpowder wafted over from the heap of clothing to where I sat on a low upholstered chair; its chintz matched that of the pink sitting room downstairs. “Why does it even matter? That was, what, eight years ago? Nine years ago? I’ve been married and divorced since then.”

He worked the buttons on the tattersall shirt, bought especially for this morning. I hated it — it cost too much for one day, and he was unlikely to ever wear it again. It was just another one of his whims he yielded to because he seemed to have enough money to do so. I wanted it off him so I’d never have to see it on him again, so I could press my bare skin against his, so I could blot out whatever thought he might have of Amanda at that moment.

“It matters,” I continued, struggling to pull my wool sweater over my head, getting caught in the arms and the collar because my body was still sticky from being massaged with oil after the polishing. “Doesn’t it change how you think about that time? Can you help me out of this, by the way? I’m stuck.” He unceremoniously yanked it over my head, leaving me in my bra and underwear. Even though he’d seen me in considerably less clothing, many times, I felt uncomfortably exposed and folded my arms across my chest.

“No, it does not.” He scratched his curly head absently, and then took me gently by the shoulders. “I really don’t want to talk about Amanda now. I want to have what I couldn’t this morning, and then I’d like a nap before I have what will undoubtedly be a singularly uncomfortable experience with your ex-husband.”

“But–”

“Hush, girl. The past is the past, and we’ve spent a fucking long time getting to the future. Now, will you be taking off that purple lace confection you’re hiding behind your arms or shall I?”

***

I continue to try to pull together my notes of this time to make sense of it all. There’s certainly more to come: of the rehearsal, the wedding, Scotland. Of our plans (still on hold) for our new home. But back in Berkeley — now, Sunday night — we’re all praying (well, as well as atheists can pray) for the safety of our fellow Californians. Where we are — West Berkeley, tucked in the back of Steve’s house — is safe, and projected to stay safe. The winds have been quieter than expected where we are, and while we can smell the smoke of the new fires in Martinez and Lafayette, the pictures coming out of the Kincade fire are harrowing.

As a native, I may be biased, but this state is majestic in its natural beauty. It’s also terrifying in its natural power. May the universe in its wisdom and mercy spare us.