For better and for worse

I'm back from my weekend at the wedding. In this entry, as promised, the answer to several questions, (including, am I pregnant yet?) will be revealed.

Saturday morning rolls around. I wake from a disturbing dream of giving myself injections. This does not bode well, I think. But it seems my period has not arrived. So, sticking with the earlier plan, I convince E. to drive over to Boots the chemist with me to buy a pregnancy test.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" he asks.

"Sure, why not?"

"Because," he says gently, "I am afraid it will ruin your day if you are not pregnant."

"It'll ruin my whole month if it turns out that I am not pregnant. But it'll be even worse if that is the case, and I have deliberately avoided the champagne!"

He sees my point. He needs shaving foam anyway, so off we go. We get the stuff, and stand in line behind a couple with a two day old infant as they argue with the check-out girl about the price of whatever New Infant care item they were wanting to buy. The HPT packages (buy two get one free) suddenly feel slippery in my sweaty palm.

Back at the flat, I put my make-up on, change into my wedding attire. I struggle with my strapless bra and my strappy sandals. E. and I discuss his under-kilt strategy.

"I wasn't going to wear anything," he says, "I usually don't." (Answer one, part one- usually, nothing).

"It's gonna be gale forces winds today, sweetie," I reply. "Maybe you better put something on. Just in case of unexpected...gusts. "

"Good point," he agrees, and slips on a pair of blue brushed cotton Calvin Klein boxers. (Answer one, part two- depends on the weather.)

It is nearly time to leave. I go into the bathroom on my own. I take the test. My hands are shaking. I sit on the edge of the bath for the alloted minutes, watching the control line darken on its lonely ownsome. Coming out of the bathroom, I put the test down on the kitchen counter, under the light.

"Do you see a second line?" I ask.

E. looks at it. "No. Should there be one?"

(Answer two- no, I am not pregnant.)

We throw the test in the trash, and I put my coat on. We get in the car. We drive to the wedding, without saying much.

It is a lovely day, despite the wind. The bride is beautiful, radiant- even more so than brides usually are. At the reception, the tables are set with candles and very tall vases of white lilies. We sit with two single women and a gay couple (whom I shall call Alex and Joe). It's a nice mix, especially since they are cool and groovy people. We eat and we drink. We toast the happy couple again and again. The bride's father mentions the families with new babies, who have made a special effort to get to the wedding. My champagne glass is soon empty.

It turns out that one of the women at the table has recently finished an eight month relationship with a guy E. knows rather well, a funny coincedence, so they gossip about it. Further proof of what a small country this is. The couples with the small babies (three of them) are sitting elsewhere. The babies sleep, even when passed around to admiring friends.

The band plays jazz. The bride and groom twirl around the floor, kissing. One of the couples with a newborn stand nearby, cuddling their little person, bouncing her in their arms.

"Stop staring," E. whispers. My hand convulses around the stem of my wine glass.

"I was wondering what the baby's head smells like," I whisper back. E. takes my hand off the glass, holds it for a minute.

Alex comes around the table and sits next to me. He is pale, bald and smiling.

"I haven't been able to talk to you yet," he says, pointing to the tall vase, "you've been obscured by foliage."

Alex, it turns out, has been very ill. The lump in his groin, the one his doctors told him "not to worry about" for five years, was in fact very worriesome indeed. The cancer had spread throughout his body. He had a bone marrow transplant last year. Joe comes over to join us. I get the impression they have told the story many times before.

"It must have been very hard for you, " I say to him, "hard for you both."

"The thing is," Joe tells me, "is when it is happening, you don't know at first how bad it will be. And then it's happening, and you take it one day at a time. One treatment at a time. Part of you is looking on, wondering how you got to the point of this procedure, or that procedure. And you keep hoping."

I know, I think to myself, inside my head. I know. Out loud I say, "I am so sorry you had to go through that." They nod.

A heavily pregnant woman passes by our table, smoking. She stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray near E. His hand convulses on the stem of his wine glass.

I take E. to the dance floor, and we spin around. We dance the night away.

At 1am, the disco finishes. I kiss the bride goodbye, and tell them to have a wonderful honeymoon. E. and I leave the venue, heading out into drizzling rain and lashing wind. The queue at the taxi stand is a mile long. We decide to walk. I wrap my thin coat around me. The water gets on my suede sandals, my painted toes. It is cold.

"Tell me something nice," I beg E. as we struggle down the street. E. thinks a minute.

"I never knew before tonight that you are such a good dancer. You looked great, dancing. You looked so pretty tonight."

I thank him. "Tell me something too," he says, holding onto my arm.

So I tell him- how, when we came back to the table between songs, flushed and smiling, Alex had said to me how good we look together. How happy we look, how we glow.

There is rain on my face, and in our eyes. When I look up, I see we are almost home. I know again a simple truth- that we are really happy. What is not so simple is that at the same time, we are also a little bewildered. We are becoming more than a little sad.

And for better, for worse, we are in this together.