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The Wedding of the Century
Not long after, we moved again. Both of us clung to the belief that the worst was finally behind us, that this new place would bring happiness, a fresh start for our relationship. The house was called The Elms, less than a ten–minute walk from the town center, tucked into a quiet row of houses. It was enormous—almost intimidating.
Downstairs was a large living room opening into a dining area, which led straight into the kitchen. Beyond the kitchen was a tiny storage space, and through the back door, you stepped into a modest garden where an oil tank stood, feeding the heating in winter. Jack assured me the oil would last us easily through the cold months. Another downstairs room remained unused, permanently shut away, a dumping ground for unwanted furniture.
Upstairs, four rooms waited. We claimed the largest as our bedroom. One of the small ones became Julian’s, a place for him to stay at weekends. Another I claimed for myself—my own little refuge. I pinned childhood photos to the wall, a private reminder of who I had once been. The last room stayed locked. The former owner had abandoned five porcelain dolls there, and they filled me with a panic I couldn’t shake. Dolls always made me think of horror films. I locked the door and, if memory serves, threw away the key.
Work found me sooner than expected. One afternoon, arms weighed down with shopping bags, I passed O’Briens Bistro. The door was open, and at the counter stood a tall, broad-shouldered man who looked every bit a rugby player—later, I learned that he was. His name was Barry. On the door, a sign read: STAFF WANTED. Without hesitation, I walked inside, still clutching my plastic bags, and approached him.
“Hello. I saw the sign—you’re looking for staff? I’d be interested,” I said.
He studied me curiously, then broke into a warm smile. “Bring me a résumé,” he replied.
I did, and within minutes, my phone rang—an invitation to interview. By the next day, I had the job. The relief was overwhelming. This place promised honest work, better hours, and above all, a boss who didn’t look or act like a thug.
At first, I hid in the kitchen, washing dishes, terrified I’d never remember the complicated sandwich recipes or catch every word of the customers’ orders. We were a small team—some Irish, some Polish. Two Irish staff, Des and Elaine, vanished within weeks, leaving Barry exasperated. But he soon noticed how hard I worked. One day, when no one else was around, he said gently:
“Teri, you’ve got to come out from back here. Don’t be afraid. Go and face the customers.”
Something in his tone gave me courage. That very day, I stepped out front and discovered I could do it. All it took was someone believing in me, and Barry did. Weeks later, he pulled me aside again.
“You’re smart and hardworking. I like that. How about becoming team leader? Better pay, more responsibility.”
I didn’t say no. No one had ever trusted me like that before. Whatever his motives, I was grateful. The job gave me a sense of purpose. I learned quickly, memorizing every regular’s quirks and preferences. Our food was no ordinary fare—we made fresh, healthy, almost luxurious sandwiches, served with coffee and warm croissants. The place was always full, and for me, it became a refuge from everything waiting for me at home.
Barry even let me help with hiring. That’s how Karolina came to join us—a red-haired, freckled Polish girl I had once worked with at Abrakebabra. She was sunshine in human form, always laughing, always brightening the room. We soon became inseparable. At work, I was happy. For a while, it felt safe.
But Jack never stopped watching me. After every shift, I had to check in, tell him I was on my way home. He always knew where I was, always. By then, it felt almost normal—he had always tracked me like that.
One night, when a new pub opened in town, I went there with Karolina. Jack was meant to meet me there. We sat upstairs, laughing and drinking, oblivious to what was happening downstairs. Then Karolina leaned close, whispering urgently.
“Jack’s at the bar with a blonde. They’re all over each other.”
My stomach turned to ice. She offered to confront him—I couldn’t. Minutes later she returned, eyes wide.
“I asked him if he thought it wasn’t embarrassing to grope a woman in public when his girlfriend is upstairs. He told me to mind my own business and turned his back on me.”
Soon after, Jack stormed up. He leaned so close to Karolina his face nearly touched hers and roared:
“If you spread lies like that again, I’ll find you. That’s my cousin Susie, and it’s none of your damn business who I talk to.”
Not once did he look at me. He left, and we sat frozen, humiliated. People stared, then lost interest. Instead of defending Karolina—or myself—I heard my own voice doubting her.
“He does have a lot of cousins. He mentioned a Susie once. Maybe you were mistaken…”
It was easier to lie to myself. At home, Jack repeated his version: Susie was just his cousin; Karolina was a liar. As always, I accepted it. My mind refused to believe he’d invent a fake cousin. Who would be stupid enough to flirt with someone else right under his girlfriend’s nose? Only a psychopath. And Jack wasn’t that. Or was he?
Months later came his sister Loraine’s wedding in Wexford. Jack bought me a black dress with a feather boa—the only dress he ever bought me. I had lost weight, and for once, I didn’t have to wear a uniform. I touched up my makeup, let down my hair, slipped into the dress, though I felt awkward—I hadn’t worn one in years.
We met at Loraine and John’s house the night before the big day. Loraine was warm and kind, John gentle and funny. Their two little boys, Adam and Conor, filled the house with noise and laughter. Being with them always hurt a little—they were so normal, so loving. Why had I been dealt such a bad hand?
The next day, we followed the vintage car that carried the bride and groom to the church. Surrounded by two sprawling Irish families, I felt strangely proud walking beside Jack in his suit. He treated me tenderly that day, like a true partner. In the hotel, amid the white tablecloths and cut glass, we sat side by side. For once, it felt like belonging.
That night, when the music swelled, Jack pulled me onto the floor. Time of My Life played, and for the first—and last—time, I saw him radiant with joy. We laughed, spun, danced like fools, uncaring of anyone watching. For a few minutes, I felt beautiful, alive.
Then it ended. He disappeared, leaving me outside in the smoking area, lighting cigarette after cigarette. His cousin David joined me—a kind, handsome man, gentle where Jack was hard. The contrast was startling. For the first time, I realized not all men treated women like property. It was a small awakening.
The next morning at breakfast, Jack and I sat alone at a table, the rest of his family at another. Without a word, he took his plate and went to sit with them, leaving me behind. Humiliation burned me to ash.
“Mind if I join you?” David asked softly. He smiled shyly, and I nodded, hiding tears.
“He doesn’t know how to behave,” he said, glancing at Jack. “The rest of us aren’t like him.”
It made me smile. For a moment, I felt seen. Jack never once looked my way. I knew then he was punishing me for enjoying David’s company the night before—for a situation he had created himself. I forced myself to forget. My only regret was that I never saw David again, never got to thank him once more.
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