The Wedding Story

Cold feet

We spent Christmas ice-skating, walking through the snow fields in Zermatt and soaking in the hotel’s Jacuzzi. At night we ate steaming cheese-dishes in small restaurants with clumsy wooden furniture. On the way to the hotel, we’d stop for a last vin brulé then walk back slowly, careful not to slip on the ice.

On Christmas morning, my husband-to-be called his family from the hotel room. His parents asked when he was coming home. To this question, he did not offer a reply, also failing to inform them of our plans. After he hung up the receiver he stared at his feet for a long while. He then said it might be a good idea if he returned home for a bit. “To touch base.” I said if he was having second thoughts, to say it out loud.

Someone’s worst nightmare

The first week in January my-husband-to-be’s parents called to offer him a one-way ticket to Melbourne. They must have reasoned that if their son was still in Switzerland — living with a strange woman and not giving any indication of wanting to leave, a year after abandoning the family nest — he must be in some kind of trouble.

It was six weeks before the wedding and we were supposed to go see the jeweller’s that day, to pay for the wedding bands. After my husband-to-be hung up the receiver, I felt my heart galloping like a wild horse beneath my ribcage. “It’s time to tell them,” I said. My lover turned the colour of Feta cheese. The blood rushed to my temples. “If you don’t tell them by the end of this week, we’re not getting married!” I realized I was screaming.

When the news finally broke, it was a fully-blown scandal. “Young heir to clothing empire held captive by older woman in Europe.” The headlines trumpeted throughout Brighton society. Clearly, I didn’t fit the family’s expectations. I felt the judgement of these absent strangers weigh down on me; my entire life and work, shrinking to insignificance under the scrutiny. “What about kids?” It was their duty to look the gift horse in the mouth. “What if I couldn’t have any?” Said my lover.

To screen ourselves from the verbal hailstorm, we unplugged the phone. Eventually the fierce opposition dwindled into subdued resignation. “Whatever makes you happy makes us happy,” his parents admitted at last — in spite of their confusion.

My side of the family did not prove more gracious. After I sent out the invitations, my uncle called to say he and my aunt couldn’t manage the two hour journey from Zurich for the ceremony. “Would you like a wedding gift?” He apologized. “No thanks. We’ll catch up another time.” My uncle had been cajoled into this by my aunt. She hasn’t yet forgiven me for an off-color remark I made back in 1994 (I said she was a sourpuss).

Though my siblings were cool about the whole affair, my parents were not. My father broke a comfortable silence, which had reigned between us for almost fifteen years, spamming my mailbox with electronic postcards and virtual bouquets of roses. My mother’s reaction on the other hand, was more exotic. At first she went into denial. “What kind of a joke is this?” she kept repeating. Then she sent us an email that said: “I wish you both happiness, whether it’s for real or not. Whatever...” Eventually, remorse must have kicked in because a strange gift followed. She sent an old-fashioned ring, made of glass, which had belonged to a distant relative. It arrived by ordinary mail, without a card, wrapped in toilet paper.