The first not-sour-enough crêpe is claggy, and I have to unstick it from the roof of my mouth before I can reply with an unconvincingsure.
But then he asks me a question that makes my brain go completely blank.
‘When you were a little girl, what did you imagine your wedding would be like?’ he asks sweetly, stroking the long bits of my slept-on hair. ‘I want you to have your dream wedding.’
I shove another bit of crepe in my mouth to buy myself some time.
The simple truth is that I am not sure I ever dreamed of a wedding. I knew I wanted to be married and have a partner, but I’ve never been able to picture the event itself.
That seems like the socially unacceptable thing to say to the man you’re about to marry. But I spent so much time as a child trying to make sure I was Doing Human Right at every step that I didn’t have much space to dream ahead.
Even when I was with Mike, I was more focused on being a good girlfriend in the moment than imagining the next stages of our lives. I love planning, but there were just too manyvariables when it came to building a life towards a specific event with one person.
It is somewhat impossible to imagine a future where someone loves you unconditionally when you can barely stomach yourself.
When I was small, I was so angry that I kept getting things wrong,beingwrong, and not knowing why I kept fucking things up. I wasn’t an angel – I said some things to people that I realise in hindsight might have been true but not kind – but even when I was kind and lovely, it didn’t always work. I had to adapt, fit myself into being the right person for every relationship.
Carys Cadwallader is a different person to everyone. My family and friends and colleagues will probably watch this show and all agree I’m acting differently, but the how and why and true version of me will vary for all of them. I think my sisters know the most truthful version of me. My parents know… someone who could be small and quiet and passive.
It’s not lost on me that the version that Dolly has met is closer to the real me than the person I am around Patrick. She’s even seen the spikier, unpalatable versions I never let anyone see.
That’s the thing about masking; it’s survival by splintering. Instead of a whole personality, I have a handful of wood chips.
There’s only so long I can get away with chewing this quickly disintegrating crêpe. What would he want to hear? Does Patrick want a wife who knows what to ask for, or demand, even? What’s a middle ground between the truth and whatever that could be?
‘I couldn’t imagine the event without the person,’ is what I manage to come up with. ‘A wedding is about two people. So what I want is whatwewant.’
Patrick takes it in, nodding slowly, and I worry for a secondthat he’s disappointed. Eventually he says, ‘You thought all that as a little girl?’ He laughs but not unkindly, and kisses me on the top of my head. ‘My sensitive girl.’
Well. He’s not wrong.
Conversational masking is back in full gear, and I turn the question back on him. ‘What about you?’
Patrick blinks in a machine gun splutter, followed by an awkward cough. ‘Well. I mean. Yeah, I thought I’d get married before,’ he says in a strained voice.
Now I regret asking. Peony. That’s who he means, doesn’t he? I only know her name because Dolly threw it at me like a grenade last night. Patrick still hasn’t really told me about her, though I haven’t talked much about Mike either.
‘To an ex-girlfriend?’ I say, wishing we weren’t having this conversation.
‘Yes, but we were young and together a long time. We hadn’t planned anything. Things change.’
It’s very clear that he wants to drop this. I feel stupid and selfish for bringing up his pain because I wanted to get the heat off me. That’s not the kind of wife I want to be.
‘I think that makes it very special then,’ I insist. ‘We get to pick everything from scratch together with no prior expectations. Just what feels right for us.’
He smiles tightly, perhaps the bitterness of the memory still on his tongue.
I shouldn’t be jealous of Peony. It’s in the past, I’m sure, no matter what Dolly implies.
‘What about a big country house? Jane Austen style? You can be Colonel Brandon, I’ll be Marianne.’
I know I’m not supposed to yet, but I grab the binder and flick through to the venues.
‘Carys—’ Patrick begins, but I cut him off with an excited noise when the page falls open on a big white stately home.
It’s beautiful. The rooms inside are decorated with intricate wallpaper woven with bits of gold leaf. At the back, sweeping steps we can pose on for our wedding photos lead down to large lawns with beautiful topiary. The perfect place for a garden reception. There’s even a marble columny thing like the one Lizzie and Darcy argue in in the 2005 version, though hopefully it’ll be without the downpour. There’s even accommodation so all our family could stay there too. A destination, yes, but something that feels homely too.
Patrick’s face lights up. ‘It’s perfect. I can just picture it.’
