The Bride Who Wasn’t
There was no one in the village quite like Peter Farrow. He never bothered with adverts in the County Gazette or local radio; his name and his number flitted from neighbour to cousin, whispered at vicarage teas and over pub counters, borne on the wind of the English grapevine. Master of ceremonies for a village fête? Piece of cake! Toastmaster at a golden anniversary? Certainly! Hed even hosted the nativity play at the primary school once, charming grumpy dads and mums alike.
It all began one odd afternoon. An old mate was getting married; the hired toastmaster vanished suddenly (rumour had it hed run off to the pub and never stopped). No time to search for another, so Peter took up the microphone.
Hed always had the taste for performance. In school, hed been the star in a little players’ club, later joining the college drama society and, at university, never missed the spring festivals or those raucous comedic quiz nights. His first impromptu performance was such a hit that, right there in the church hall, two guests pulled him aside and begged him to host their own family dos.
Peter landed a job after graduation at a prestigious yet terribly underpaid research institute in Oxfordpittance, really, just a sprinkle of pounds! But his side gigs grew. The extra cash lifted his spirits and soon, the entertainment jobs paid nearly ten times more than his salary as a junior research assistant.
One year in, Peter took the leap. He handed in his notice, spent his megre savings on proper sound gear, registered himself as a sole trader, and announced his treading of the entertainment boards to Her Majestys Revenue and Customs. Simultaneously, he began weekly singing lessons (he had the pipes and ear for it, after all), and soon became a singing compère, crooning three evenings a week at the White Hart down the High Street.
At thirty, Peter was handsome, comfortably off, and held a reputation for being a talented host, DJ, and singerable to put sparkle into any gathering. He was a bachelor, by design: young women hovered round him like bees to jam. He merely had to wink and one would appear, eager to agree to anything. But gradually, as his friends married and their little ones arrived, Peter began to yearn for a still, sturdy sort of happiness. Trouble was, he just couldn’t fancy anyone enough for forever. The casual lasses were good for, well, the obvious; what Peter wanted now, though, was one woman for life.
“You just need to meet a sixth-former, train her up neatly, and then, when she turns eighteen, wedding bells, my friend!” hed joke, half in earnest, to his mates.
He even started accepting jobs at school leavers balls, casting about for someone special, but the modern girls either bored or perplexed him, not what hed pictured at all. Unperturbed, he joked that he was hunting rare game, watching for an unusual bird among the young. And so it was, perhaps, that fate decided to play a trick on my odd cousin Peter.
It began innocuously, as these dreams always do. A woman rang up, voice clipped and polite: “We need a master of ceremonies for a wedding. Are you free on the 17th of June? Smashing! Could we meet?”
Meet they did. And, as Peter later described it, it was as if the very floor beneath him turned to clouds. The woman said her name was Rosalind. She was dazzlinga sort hed never shared air with. She spoke crisp, precise, all business: “I want this and that at the reception, please.” Peter was mesmerised. Not just beautiful, but razor sharp as wella dazzling rarity! At first glance, he reckoned Rosalind might be twenty-five, maybe a touch older. But in conversation, she off-handedly mentioned once being a Young Conservative, which meant she had to be at least forty!
They discussed every detail, struck a deal, and Peter insisted on a formal contract, as he always did, though Rosalind smiled and waved it off, “No need, I trust you. Your reputation precedes you!
But Peter explained, I have to make things official for HMRC, you know. Avoid fuss with taxes. What he didnt say was how badly he wanted proof that Rosalind was real and not just a midnight illusion.
Her phone chimed with a text. Ah, thatll be my fiancéhes come to fetch me. Can I offer you a lift?
Peter declined but escorted her to the waiting car, partly by habit (it was always interesting to see couples together), but this time more by green-eyed envy. The fiancé was not what Peter expected; instead of a dapper man of forty, out sprang a lad, clearly younger than Peter himself.
All alright, Rosalind? said the lad.
Rosalind beamed, Of course. When isnt it? She slid into the car. The young man, opening and closing the door for her, turned to Peter. Youll be our compère? Rosalinds always on about your sparkling witmy cousin Harry recommended you. Sorry, forgot my mannersRobert, the fiancé!
For a fleeting moment, Peter wanted to throttle Robert the fiancé right there, wipe that grin off his face. But all he did was shake the chaps hand tightly. Peter Farrow. Pleasure.
After that meeting, Peter lost his easeand his sleep. He searched for any excuse to phone Rosalind, longing to hear her voice, see her again. As the wedding day drifted closer, he thought hed go mad. He confided only in his best mate, George.
And the schoolgirls? George teased. Werent you after the perfect wife, fresh out of the sixth form?
Peter groaned, What rot! Forget all that. Rosalind is the dreamI dont want anyone else!
Then tell her! George urged, but Peter snapped, Dont be daft! Shes engagedshes happy. Why would she look twice at me and my idiotic feelings?
Sometimes Robert would pop round, all cheerful. Rosalind sent me, she wanted these delivered Peter seethed inside, barely civil. He toyed with abandoning the wedding altogetherreputation be damned!but how else could he see Rosalind one last time? That thought made him back down in cowardly longing.
Two days before the wedding, Rosalind calledTo polish the programme; everything must run perfectly, you understand. The office was being redecorated, so they met at Peters flat. Laughing and chatting over minor details, everything seemed to gleam. When plans were set, Peter poured them both a glass of prosecco, raising his: To a perfect wedding!
Rosalind grinned. With pleasure!
The champagne flickered confessions into existence. At some point, on a tide of bubbling bravado, Peter kissed her. To his amazement, she returned it. Their heads, it seemed, spun right off.
Peter awoke in a fright, tangled in bedsheets, the London sun a dull gleam through his curtains. Had it really happened? Or was it just the wildest of dreams? The bed was emptybut the next pillow clung to a faint trace of her perfume. Sosurely it was real? Tormented by hope, Peter stumbled out of bed and rang Rosalind.
She answered blithely. Morning! Apologies, snuck outso much to do, you understand, wedding and all!
So is the wedding still on? Peter managed thickly.
Of course! Why wouldnt it be? Everythings splendid!
Were all women so unfeeling? How could she? Peter couldnt rest. Sabotage the wedding? But then, did he really want such a merciless woman in his life? After a little thought, he admitted he did. Any way he could have her.
The next day, Peter arrived early at the Royal Oak, where the main hall glittered with bunting; the decorators giggled at him over armfuls of peonies. Then, to his astonishment, Rosalind appeared herself.
Hello, I dashed away as soon as the registry finished, just couldnt wait to see you! She glowed, and Peter just stared.
Waitso youve been to the registry? Then ran off?
She rolled her eyes. Honestly, dear, would I trawl about London with a merry band of twenty-somethings when I could be here with you? Arent you glad to see me?
He frowned, But arent you getting married today?
For a moment, Rosalind looked utterly baffled, then broke into peals of laughtera clear, genuine sound that pulled a smile out of even Peters stunned face.
Of course not! My daughter Emilys the bride! Shes just back from university in Durhammet Robert there, you know. Goodness, did you think I was marrying a lad? And that two days before the wedding Id dally with someone else? What do you take me for?
At last, it dawned on Peter: Rosalind had never once said Im the bride or were getting married, always the bride and groom. Robert, too, always called her Rosalind and maam. How stupid hed been! And so he finally asked the only question that mattered:
“And youare you spoken for?” When Rosalind smiled and shook her head, he blurted, Marry me. Please.
The wedding itself sparkled. The toastmaster outdid himself; every guest floated home delighted. The blissful couple embraced Peter. Thank youabsolutely wonderful. How can we ever thank you? Emily laughed.
Ill thank him myself, Rosalind smiled, hustling them out to their waiting Bentley. You two go on; Ill see to everything else.
News of Peters engagement to a woman nine years his senior shot through the Farrow family more quickly than the local gossip on the cricket green. The lot were wary at first. But when they met Rosalind, everyone quietly agreed, Who wouldnt fall for her?
And Rosalind and Emily had babies two weeks apart, their family dancing on in a joy that only strange English dreams could imagine.
