The second we reached the suite, Phil crashed out. If he had been sober, he might have run away
maybe absolved. Discussing all this is gut-twisting, but ultimately rewarding. We acknowledge that we’re closer now, because our bond was forged in fire.
It’s only as I’ve got older that I realise there is no shame in making mistakes, in struggling mentally, in seeking support. Love is not a given, it isn’t passive; it is a doing word, and sometimes you have to fight for it.
That’s not to say we don’t ever argue or enrage each other. But in the early days when we argued, neither of us was listening to the other — we were too wrapped up in our own heads.
These days, our rows are an effective form of communication, which can fast-track understanding. It’s also healthy to clash now and then, and helps to keep the spark alive.
Importantly, we still amuse and surprise each other — life is never boring. And after all these years — even though he’s still irreverent and impulsive, and I’m more cautious — we share the same values, and we balance out each other’s excesses.
We still see in each other what we saw then. Unlike the sniping, resentful couple in Plaza Suite, our return to our wedding night suite re-confirms that our unlikely match somehow works. It’s romantic. We have a connection. And it’s companionable.
So, 27 years late, we finally get our wedding night.
We say goodbye to St Ermin’s late the next morning, and go on to meet some close friends for a swim. As we walk towards them, grinning sheepishly and holding hands, one cries: ‘Oh my God, you look like a honeymoon couple!’ Just for now, that’s how it feels. And I think, at last, we deserve it.
Phil Robinson says:
MY WEDDING day was a happy day. Well, I could see other people were happy and having a good time. I, on the other hand, was in shock. Part of that was a hangover; the quiet night I’d promised Anna had turned into a heavy drinking session with my uncles.
I wrote my groom’s speech, sick as a dog, skin like wax paper. This was not what peak wedding-day performance looked like, even in the 1990s.
Suddenly, I was forced to confront things I’d simply blocked out. I was obsessed that the timing was wrong; at 24, I felt rushed. I wanted everything Anna did — to get married and have kids — just not now.
It was ridiculous, since I had pursued her and asked her to marry me. Now I felt like a complete fraud.
I spent the day staring at my shoes. Or at least that’s what it felt like. I don’t think I had any wedding cake. I felt incapable of meeting her expectations, for the wedding night, for ever.
When we got back to our room, I just wanted to go to sleep and wake up with all this behind me.
After that awkward day, my mental health continued to decline. I threw myself into work. Less than a year later, I had a nervous breakdown. Anna held our lives together while I flailed around.
It was probably — almost certainly — nothing to do with her at all.
Thankfully, she saw something in me worth saving. Without her, I’d have spiralled further.
I am still amazed that we found the confidence or stubbornness to have children. No one else thought this was a good idea. We had three kids under five, and were trying to pay a mortgage. This period of my life reminds me of when they used to wrap fever patients up in blankets — kill or cure. But it remains the best thing we ever did.
I began to realise that the antidepressants were numbing me — it felt as though I was watching my life unfold through a piece of twoway glass. I decided to wean myself off them. I told my plan to my doctor, who warned me that if it went wrong he wouldn’t hesitate to have me sectioned. My desire to prove him wrong got me through a horrific year coming off one set of pills after another.
Gradually, the low, dark clouds that had loomed over me were replaced by a bright blue sky,
On my wedding day I just felt trapped. Today, I feel lucky
because I could see the kids were fine. And Anna was still there.
Suddenly, at nearly 30, I had the married life I’d wanted. I’ll never forget that Anna was the first person to think I was worth the effort, all those years ago.
Returning to this hotel was not on my bucket list. I see the staircase where we had our wedding pictures. I remember the claustrophobic lift to the room. The labyrinthine corridors. And then the door. Back then I felt trapped. Today, I feel lucky.
Before we leave, Anna and I head down to the ballroom where we had our wedding reception. As we open the double doors and walk in, I feel the nerves coming back. I can place where the top table was and remember sitting there on my own, unable to speak.
But then something unexpected happens. I start remembering the happy faces of the people in the room. And some who are no longer with us. I miss them. And wish I could do it again and better appreciate it.
We take a picture of ourselves hugging and laughing. I give Anna a big kiss and, finally, we put that ghost to rest.