Silver

Chapter 30 - then

My first thought when I saw my readymade husband standing by the celebrant in the church: 'thank God he's not butt ugly.'

He wasn't super attractive either. He was in between. He had dark hair cropped in a preppy style, brown eyes, an asymmetrical nose and when he smiled his lips were thin and his teeth small. However, there was something comforting about his smile, like slipping into a warm bath. His black suit was a bit daggy. His pants were too long in the crotch and his shoulders swam in the fabric. He wore a red tie which clashed with the pink ribbon around my waist.

It was one of the biggest moments of my life - meeting the guy I was supposed to grow old alongside. Yet all I could think about was the audience before me and what they were thinking and how strange it was that such a private moment was also such a public moment. I became so wrapped up in my head and my own thoughts (was I smiling too much or too little, should I hold my bouquet low on my tummy or by my side, had I made the guests travel too far?), that I couldn't process this moment of meeting my husband. It was all overwhelming and all experienced in an internalised blur.

When we said our traditional vows I liked the sincerity in his voice. I was relieved that he didn't tongue-kiss me in front of everyone, like I saw Valerie's new husband do three month's ago at her wedding ceremony. His kiss when the celebrant pronounced us husband and wife was quick, warm and respectful and he put his arm around me in a confident and soothing way, as our few guests came to congratulate us.

We signed the marriage certificate together, at a small teak table, holding hands. We both wrote our names in print and then our signatures made it official. I discovered his name was Alistair Schwartz and I'd just become Sylvie Olivia Schwartz. SOS. Save our soul. 'Certificate of marriage' was stated in large cursive writing, under the Australian emblem, like I'd won a prize. I discovered the word 'marriage' was silver. I'd thought it would be pink or rose or magenta, something warm. But instead it was metallic grey. Silver. Grey with silver lining.

The photographer took a photo. We posed with our pens poised. My mother placed her hand on my shoulder and told the photographer to take another shot. I kept still, looking in the small crowd for my father who was introducing himself to his in-laws. 'And another shot for my zaplet page,' mum said. 'Smile Sylvie.'

In the hire car, on the way to the restaurant, Alistair's first private words to me were 'what was with the church?'

It's the tradition that the wife gets to make the decisions about the wedding day, choose the chapel, organise the celebrant, the ceremony and the reception and the husband is responsible for organising the honeymoon.

'It's where my parents got married,' I said. 'My father loves that church.'

'It was pretty cool,' he said, giving me a cheesy smile and his first wink. I was pleased that he appreciated the church. It was a classic 1970s church on the hill in Lorne, with side walls that opened up like a space shuttle and a deck to both sides with sea views.

'We're not religious,' I said.

'Me neither,' he said.

'I hope you didn't all mind coming this far out from Melbourne,' I said.

'Not at all. I love getting out of town. I hope we can do this sort of thing often.' He winked again.

'Where do you live?' I asked.

'Melbourne,' he said.

'Yeah, but where in Melbourne?'

'No, in actual Melbourne,' he wound down the window a little and rested his elbow on the door handle. 'I've got an apartment on Spring Street. I hope you like it.'

'Isn't it noisy?'

'Sometimes,' he said. 'Can I hold your hand?'

Our driver could hear everything. I felt a little embarrassed, but I said 'sure'. He took my hand, weaving his fingers between mine and gently stroked my thumbnail with his thumb.

'I think we're going to be very happy together,' he said. 'Were you worried?'

I hadn't expected this intimate talking so soon. It took me by surprise.

'Just the usual nerves, I guess,' I said. I didn't want to tell him that I was so scared of marrying a stranger that I'd sat on the toilet for almost an hour that morning.

'I can't believe how lucky I am,' he continued, now stroking his finger up my arm. 'You are so beautiful.' He made me feel warm and fuzzy on the inside and when he went to kiss me I completely forgot about the driver and opened my lips.

'You are fantastic,' he said, his whole face beaming.

'You too,' I said, completely in the spirit of things.

'My worst fear was that I would end up with one of those Lolita freaks.'

'Sorry?' I said, suddenly alarmed.

'You know, those girls who dress up like porcelain dolls. I don't understand why anyone would want to dress up like children. It's very strange.'

My heart plummeted like a slinky down steps.

'They are just being individuals,' I said.

'It's individualism gone mad,' he said, definitively.

Later, at my non-reception, aka casual dinner, I finally got a chance to talk to Millie alone in the toilets at the restaurant.

'He doesn't like Lolitas,' I said to her, as we were washing our hands by the mirrors.

She actually let out a sigh, 'Oh Sylvie. Let it go,' she said.

'Huh?'

'You've got to let it go,' she said. 'That whole Lolita thing, it's time to move on.'

It's true, the last couple of times I'd seen Millie, she'd been dressed mainstream. Even on my wedding day, she was wearing a boring black cocktail dress.

'But it's part of me,' I said.

'Is it? Is it really?'

'Well, it's not like a toe or something,' I said, 'but...'

'Exactly. It's not like a toe.' She put her hands under the hand dryer. It was too noisy to speak for a few moments. Once the dryer stopped, she said. 'You've got to choose your own happiness,' she paused. 'You can choose to be happy or choose to be unhappy. It's your choice.'