Owen opened the door only a little.
'Can I come in? They want us by the stairs.'
Bea turned towards him. 'Give us a minute.'
He looked at her open dress, then at Lena. 'Are you all right?'
'I'm getting dressed,' Bea said. 'That's all.'
Lena reached for the book. Bea caught it first.
'I'll put this away.'
Owen pushed the door wider. 'They wanted it for a couple of the pictures. I thought—'
'Bea,' Lena said.
Bea held the book against her skirt, both hands across the cover. 'Not now.'
Owen came in. He shut the door behind him, more slowly than Lena had. His cuff was straight now. He had finished dressing, ready for the thing they'd all been practising.
'What's happened?'
Lena looked at Bea, giving her the space she hadn't given him. Bea's mouth worked, but no words came.
'The words in your book,' Lena said. 'Some of them are mine. From letters I wrote to Kit years ago. Bea kept them for me after we broke up.'
Owen blinked. 'Which words?'
'The broken cup. The film and the low note. The message about a child.'
His eyes moved to Bea.
'I felt those things,' she said. 'Some of them. I wouldn't have sent them if I hadn't.'
'You copied them?'
'I used parts. I was trying to say things properly.'
Owen held his hand out for the book. Bea didn't give it to him.
'It's not the important bit,' she said. 'We're the important bit. What we've had since.'
He kept his hand there. At last she loosened her fingers, and he took it.
Lena had thought he might look through the pages. He didn't. He held the covers closed, thumb on the edge, and stared at Bea.
'The answer you gave me. About children. Was that hers?'
Bea nodded.
'But the answer was yours.'
She looked towards Lena. Lena shook her head, barely moving.
'Tell him,' she said.
'Yes, tell me,' Owen said. 'Do you want children? Not because Lena said it. Because you do.'
Bea rubbed both palms down the front of her dress. The skirt had begun to crease where she'd gripped it.
'I don't know if I'll ever want to.'
'You said you did.'
'I hoped I might.'
'Bea. Do you want to?'
'No.'
He looked down at the book. A chair scraped in the reception room; someone called for the photographer. Ordinary noises kept happening outside the door.
'All this time,' he said.
She took a step towards him. 'I love you.'
'I asked. I asked you straight.'
'I know.'
'I said if we wanted different things we'd have to stop. Before it got worse.'
'I couldn't bear that.'
He moved back when she tried to touch his arm. It wasn't a dramatic step, just enough to put him beyond her fingers. Bea stopped with her hand half raised.
Lena wanted to leave the room. She had said the thing Owen needed to hear; now she was a witness neither of them had chosen. But Bea stood between her and the door, and Lena couldn't find a movement that wouldn't look like flight.
'I'll go,' she said quietly.
'No,' Bea said.
Owen looked at Lena. 'How many?'
'I don't know. I recognised three. From different letters.'
'Were they private?'
'Yes. Those weren't even sent.'
He nodded once. There was no satisfaction in having made him understand. Lena watched him turn the book over, the beautiful hinges catching the light.
'I'm sorry,' Bea said to him.
He did not answer.
'You know I love you. You know it. You can't look at eighteen months and say none of it happened.'
'I'm not saying it didn't happen.'
'We have the flat. All the plans. We can talk about this. We can—'
'We can't get married today.'
Bea's face emptied.
'We can still talk,' he said. 'But I'm not going downstairs and saying vows while I don't know what you've meant.'
'You know what I mean.'
'I don't.'
She looked at the clock on the wall. Quarter to two.
'They're sitting down now,' she said.
'Then we need to tell them.'
'Owen, please. We've paid for everything.'
'Yes.' His voice caught at last. 'We have.'
A second knock came. The hotel woman asked through the door if Bea was ready. Bea stared at it as if it could be made to disappear.
Owen opened the door a little.
'We need to stop preparations for now,' he said. 'Please don't bring anybody in here.'
The woman paused. 'Is there something I can help with?'
'No. Thank you. We need some time.'
She looked past his shoulder. Lena saw her take in the unfinished dress and Bea's bare feet. Then she nodded, professional enough to leave the question where it was.
Owen shut the door. Bea had started crying, quietly, wiping under her eyes with the edge of the towel. She had put so much work into getting ready, and now she was trying not to undo it.
Lena took a tissue from the box and held it out. Bea looked at it, then took her own.
'You can go now,' she said.
Lena went towards the door.
'The rest of them don't need to know what's in the book,' Owen said.
She stopped. 'I won't tell them.'
He looked at her for a moment. Not grateful. She had not expected grateful, but there was a part of her which wanted it, something small and mean which needed to be told she had done one thing right.
'Give us a little while,' he said.
Lena opened the door and went out.
The reception room was empty. A sunlight stripe fell across the top table, lighting the painted card stands one by one. She had painted Bea's stand with a finer brush because she'd wanted it to be perfect.
Through the next doorway she could hear guests settling, the low rustle of clothes, the clearing of throats. Lena went to the outside doors and stood facing the glass.
She was not going to be walking down the aisle with flowers. No one had told the guests that yet. She held one hand round the other wrist, in the place Bea had gripped it, and waited.