The Vintage Summer Wedding

by Jenny Oliver

  She wanted to walk up and say, I’m sorry that you felt I drove you away. To say, I wish you hadn’t slept in a bed with Melissa Hope. I want to be able to hold your hand and say thank-you for cutting the roses that were clearly beautiful but made me sick. I want to straighten your collar. Ask when you cut yourself shaving. See if you need anything for the shed. Hear you laugh about all the spiders living in there and how you wake up at two a.m. to the sound of the foxes and get a bit scared but lie there trying to be macho and not care. Ask if you’d come back to sleep in my bed.

  But instead she watched as Seb gave a quick nod and then turned, his sleeve brushing past the honeysuckle, the scent drifting softly her way as he opened the gate. He paused on the threshold, she saw his shoulders rise and fall as he took a breath and then he turned back and said, ‘Good luck today, I don’t think I’ve said it, but I’m er…’ He paused, plucked a leaf off one of the spindly white flowers, ‘I’m really proud of you.’

  As he closed the gate behind him, Anna felt her fingers tighten around the red sequinned material as her heart seemed to batter itself against her ribs like a puppy left at home by its owner.

  The minibus trip to London was like they’d raided an American Apparel. When she’d presented the group with the box of goodies, she’d never seen faces light up with such delight. The boys were yanking out pairs of tracksuit bottoms in electric-blue, turquoise, red and there was even a white pair that Billy took a particular liking to, all with the NYC Academy logo stamped on the thigh. There were baggy T-shirts, baseball tops with coloured sleeves, hoodies and truckers caps with big embroidered NYCA emblazoned across the front. The girls fought over sequinned leggings in every colour of the rainbow and gold lamé leather-effect skin-tight trousers that Anna rather fancied for herself. There were crop-tops in hot-pink and blue leopard-print, luminous vests, fluffy headbands, wristbands, big chunky white socks and, at the bottom, was a shocking purple and yellow tutu, its layers of net jutting out like the ones Anna had worn at the EBC. As Anna let her fingers run across the fabric, Lucy snatched it and held up high like a bridesmaid catching the bouquet. ‘This is mine!’ she whooped and pulled it on over the top of her gold lamé leggings.

  It seemed to Anna, at that point, as they were all pulling on their clothes, laughing at each other, back-combing their hair, pulling caps down low, that if the bus broke down and they never made it to London, this would have been enough.

  ‘If you could take a seat somewhere on the left and wait for your number to be called,’ a girl in a black T-shirt and trousers with a clipboard directed them into a holding pen like an aircraft hangar at the back of The Oval. ‘The producers are running late, so I can’t give you a time,’ he said, before moving onto the next in the queue.

  ‘The producers?’ Anna said, making a face. The room smelt of other people’s snacks, sweat and dirty carpet.

  ‘That’s who the audition is in front of, Miss.’

  ‘What, not Simon Cowell?’

  ‘No.’ Lucy rolled her eyes, flumping up her back-combed top-knot, ‘You’ve got to audition to get to him.’

  ‘But I thought that was the point.’ Anna scowled. ‘I thought we were going to meet Simon Cowell.’

  ‘Do you fancy him, Miss?’

  ‘No!’ Anna said, blushing.

  ‘Miss fancies Simon Cowell. Wait till we tell Mr Davenport. He’ll be well jealous.’

  Anna laughed, then she thought of Seb’s face that morning when he’d told her was proud of her and she almost spontaneously burst into tears. Looking away from the group, shielding her eyes as if the shaft of sunlight from the windows was too strong, she stood up and said, ‘I’m just going to…to the loo.’

  ‘He’s not here, Miss. You won’t find him,’ Billy joked.

  Anna feigned a smile, feeling the water collecting in her eyes and nipped away to find the loo, where she blotted her face and blew her nose, trying not to think of Seb ‒ the smell of honeysuckle, the flaring pink rhododendron flowers, the hazy sun, the shaving cut on his chin. She took a couple of deep breaths and focused on the moment. On her colourful little group.

  On the way back to the waiting area, she caught glimpse of one of the auditions. Another dance group, all arms and legs in perfect sync. She took a step closer and peered through the gap in the hoarding that separated the audition space. They were amazing. She bit her lip and watched as they tumbled and jumped, as their music morphed and their costumes changed and their whole routine flipped into a new realm.

  Shit.

  She could feel her heart beating.

  ‘All right, Miss?’ Lucy looked up as she returned to the group.

  ‘Fine. Fine,’ she said. But all she could see was their little hearts getting broken.

  ‘We saved you these,’ Lucy said and chucked over a pair of gold lamé leggings. ‘We reckon Mr Davenport would like them,’ she winked and Anna blushed.

  ‘Razzmatazz?’ A young brunette with a clipboard said. ‘Number 15031?’

  ‘Yes, that’s us.’ Anna held up a hand and the girl motioned for them to follow.

  ‘Ready?’ Anna asked, standing up and watching as the smiles turned suddenly to looks of absolute terror. ‘Don’t worry. Whatever happens, you’ll be amazing.’

  As they walked along behind the woman in silence, Billy an odd shade of whiteish-green, Anna thought of all the things she wished her mum had said to her when she’d gone in for that audition. Of all the things she wished she’d said after every performance. But when they were gathered, waiting in the wings of the audition pen, after she had run through some of the key things to remember, checked that the music was ready, given each person something specific to focus on, she could think of only that one thing that she would have wanted her mum to have said.

  ‘Just enjoy it.’ She smiled. ‘Whatever happens…’ Her voice hitched in her throat. ‘I’m really, really proud of you.’

  The audition space was bleak, the carpet grey with red triangles, the boards at the back a dirty shade of blue, and the spotlights beamed down harsh and unforgiving into the nothingness. A panel sat at one end, headphones on, Starbucks cups littered the table alongside cans of Red Bull and packets of Wrigley’s Extra. One girl was on her phone and barely looked up. The main guy sitting in the middle, thin-lipped and grey-haired at the temples, had lines on his face from where he looked like he’d had a nap in the break-room. Anna just wanted to run in there and do it for them. To clap her hands at the faces of the judges and shout for them to pay attention, to sit up, to take notice.

  As the music boomed, the girl put down her phone, the grey-haired man rubbed his face. Razzmatazz danced like she’d never seen them dance before. Big beaming smiles on their faces, steps almost identical, sequins glistening as they caught the spotlight, a writhing, exuberant mass of primary colours. Billy’s jumps were a foot higher, his tumbles a turn tighter, Lucy’s twerking had the hard-faced, bored panel smiling, Matt and Mary hustled like pros. Their fingers stretched high, their toes pointed, their hair swished, their bodies finally moved as one, and Anna found herself on the sidelines, her fingers steepled over her lips, willing them on, her stomach in knots like she might vomit on the spot, every move, every turn, every twist, seemed to be in slow motion and then, finally, when Mary stood to the side and ran, flinging herself at Matt, she had to shut her eyes, just in case it all went horribly wrong, just in case he didn’t lift her with effortless ease and hold her till Rihanna’s final note. But she opened her eyes just in time to see that he did and they did. And then it was over.

  Razzmatazz were smiling and sweating, doubled over in delight, clapping themselves, while Anna cast her eyes over at the producers who were conferring with unemotional faces and she pleaded with whoever was listening that they would get through. Pleaded that, while they weren’t the best, they might get through on enthusiasm alone. That they would see what she now saw. That they would see their spirit.

  ‘Thank you,’ The main man said, glancing down at his cli
pboard and then back up again. Anna held her breath. Razzmatazz were all hugging and waiting. He cleared his throat. ‘Some nice stuff there. Thanks for coming to show us, but it’s a no this time, guys.’ He nodded and Anna gasped, then watched, heartbroken, as they all nodded back, their heads low as they exhaled big breaths, and started to troop off the stage. ‘OK, next act ready?’ The grey-haired man said through a microphone on his desk. ‘We need to get this moving, guys. We’re way behind.’

  As she followed them out, Anna knew then what it was like to care. What she had been avoiding for so long. What it was like to want something so much that it made her ache.

  She watched their little slumped shoulders, waiting for tears. Waiting for the sense of failure to wash over them and the feeling of not being good enough, the dissection of what they could have done better. She wanted to turn back the clock to the euphoria of the minibus and the picking of the costumes.

  She held her breath. She rehearsed a speech.

  She waited.

  But it didn’t come.

  ‘Fuck, I felt like a star!’ Lucy burst out a laugh once they were out in the open space of the foyer.

  ‘Like a princess or something. Like fucking Miley Cyrus.’

  ‘Has anyone got any change for a Coke?’ Matt asked, rummaging in his pocket and finding only copper change.

  ‘My money’s in the bus,’ Peter said, bending over to take a breath, his chubby hands on his knees, a rim of sweat on his cap. ‘I’m knackered. Seriously sweating. Miss, can we go to Burger King on the way back?’

  Anna felt her brows pull together in confusion. She watched as Billy, seemingly hyped-up on adrenaline, started doing Michael Jackson moves on his own at the side, Clara had broken away from the group and was lingering at the back, fluttering her false eyelashes at a lone guitarist about to audition, Mary was looking through her purse for change for Matt.

  ‘Is everyone OK? Do you want to talk about what just happened?’ Anna asked, tentatively.

  ‘What’s to talk about?’ Lucy looked up from inspecting her tutu. ‘We didn’t get through.’

  ‘I know,’ Anna said, as if that was her point.

  ‘We knew we weren’t going to get through, Miss.’ Matt said, a half-smile hitching its way up his face.

  ‘There was no way we were going to get through,’ Billy called from where he was moonwalking just to the left of them. ‘But we did it pretty well.’

  But it wasn’t enough! Anna wanted to say. Why would you even try if you’re not going to win?

  ‘We didn’t embarrass ourselves, Miss. And it was really fun, I’m buzzing.’ Lucy held up her hand to show that it was shaking. ‘I’ve never felt like this before. Ever. I thought we totally did amazingly,’ she added and Mary nodded, ‘Oh I did, too,’ she said quietly, her cheeks flushed pink.

  Anna glanced across at them, all their eyes staring at her like she was the one who might need their sympathy.

  ‘You didn’t seriously think we were going to get through, did you, Miss? You were the one who told us we didn’t have any steps!’ Matt laughed, checking whether he’d scrounged enough change.

  Why would you do it, she thought again, if you didn’t think you had a chance of winning?

  But then she looked at them again, really saw them. All kitted out in their NYCA clothes, strutting about like royalty. Matt’s arm slung over Mary’s shoulders. Quiet Mary who she knew wouldn’t naturally have been friends with this lot but had sat smiling earlier as Clara had slicked on eye-liner flicks and bright-pink lipstick, Mary who did this to feel beautiful. Mary who looked beautiful.

  ‘Shall we go, Miss? I’m starving, I haven’t eaten all day. I thought I might be sick everywhere if I did.’ Lucy began walking towards the door.

  As Anna started follow, Billy came up next to her and said, ‘You shouldn’t take everything so seriously, Miss.’ She looked down at him and he looked back up at her from under the peak of his cap, ‘You saved us from that crap people video.’ He laughed, then ran over to get in step with Lucy.

  Anna was left walking alone, shaking her head at the very idea of it. Of not entering to win. Of not taking everything so seriously. Of doing it simply because it was fun.

  ‘Hope it hasn’t put you off for next year?’ Matt shouted over his shoulder to her as he jogged over to the Coke machine.

  Next year.

  New York year. Fifth Avenue dressed in Chanel year. Where she would start living again.

  Why then did the colourful backs in front of her, the bobbing top-knots and sweaty truckers’ caps, seem so much more alive than anything else her imagination would conjure up? Could she really accept, she thought as she climbed into the mini-bus that smelt of hairspray, damp and salt and vinegar crisps, unable to hold in a laugh at some crap joke of Peter’s, that this might be living?

  Chapter Twenty

  The bus pulled into Nettleton square just as the afternoon was fading into evening. A bin bag full of Burger King wrappers sat by the sliding door, feet were up on headrests, heads lolling back asleep so they had to be woken by a shriek from Lucy to see the banner across the square.

  ‘Nettleton’s Got Talent!’ Was daubed in red paint on a piece of cream tarpaulin and had been hoisted across the plane trees, the lettering not yet dry and dripping down along the edges.

  ‘Whoop!’ Lucy shouted, sliding back the window as they all clamoured to stick their heads out and wave to the crowd that had gathered, waiting for their returning heroes.

  ‘We’re so proud.’ Billy’s mother was wiping away a tear as she grabbed him and Clara into a hug. ‘Just look at you, little stars.’ She laughed.

  Jackie was waiting with champagne and popped the cork as soon as everyone was out the bus, pouring it into plastic mugs and handing it out to grasping underage hands. ‘Congratulations!’ she shouted, holding the bottle in the air. ‘Bloody brilliant. Well done! You’ll have to do a performance for us.’ Then she shook up what was left and sprayed it over all their giggling faces.

  All their parents were there, arms round them, wanting to hear all about it, delighted with their effort, congratulating Anna, thanking her for teaching them, letting her know how much they’ve loved it, how much they’ve grown, how they’ve been really impressed.

  Anna, who still couldn’t quite believe that anyone could get quite so excited about not winning, found herself nodding, shaking people’s hands, thanking them for the invitations to dinner, agreeing when they talked about how she’d have to come up with a new routine for Razzmatazz’s part in the Christmas play, feeling slightly perplexed when they said how much the kids liked her, respected her, talked about her.

  A glass of champagne was thrust into her hand and a sticky jam tart from a huge platter whipped up by Rachel. The warmth in the air was just right, just the perfect temperature, like the suffocating heatwave had finally decided to relinquish its hold and it was hard to imagine hot being too hot. The last of the afternoon sun enough to warm her flushed skin, to carry the sounds of laughter and the sharp tang of the gnarly geraniums in cans around the square.

  ‘So I hear it went well.’ She heard Seb’s voice say behind her.

  ‘Mr Davenport, it was amazing,’ Billy shouted. ‘And we got Miss some sexy gold leggings,’ he winked.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it, Billy,’ Seb nodded a smile, an eyebrow raised, and turned back to Anna. ‘How was it?’

  She found herself suddenly shy. ‘It was good.’ She nodded. ‘They didn’t get through but it was good.’

  ‘Yeah?’ he asked, his head tilted slightly to the side, as if watching for tell-tale signs of more. ‘And you’re OK with that?’

  ‘Of course.’ Anna made a face. ‘They did their best.’

  Seb blew out a breath. ‘They did their best, eh? Blimey. What’s happened to Anna?’

  She took a sip of champagne, looked up and then away from the crinkles round his eyes. ‘She’s learning,’ she said into the bubbles.

  Seb nodded, mouth curling down l
ike he was impressed.

  Just then, she was hustled forward and knocked on the arm as someone else bustled through, ‘Anne, my dear…’ Seb’s mother, Hilary, drawled. She was wearing a pleated skirt and matching blouse in a shade of rice-pudding cream, a big orange necklace of oversized stones hung round her neck like fishing floats, ‘So your little group seem very pleased with themselves. Are they going to be on the television?’

  ‘No.’ Anna shook her head. ‘I’m afraid they didn’t make it that far.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Hilary surveyed the throng. ‘What a waste of energy.’ She sipped from her own glass of champagne. ‘But I suppose it kept you off the streets!’ she said with a snort.

  At that point Roger joined them, cigar clamped between his fingers, one hand tucked into the pocket of his cords. ‘See your father’s got himself a new piece of fluff.’

  ‘Roger, don’t be crude.’

  ‘Well, she’s what? Half his age?’

  Anna took a breath, felt herself slide her shoulders down her back, ‘She’s my best friend actually. I think they’re…’ She glanced across in the direction of the benches and the village hall where her father was standing, his arm around Hermione’s waist, the two of them laughing and clapping as Billy did a succession of backflips across the cobbles. She paused, watched for a moment, watched the curl of Hermione’s shoulders, the tilt of her head, the wide smile on her face that she usually refrained from because it could cause wrinkles. She saw the too-long flick on her dad’s hair, the flip-flops, but the shirt that was ironed and the trousers that looked a touch more tailored, she saw how Hermione’s hand wound round his at her hip. Saw the same smile on his face that he had had when he had stood beside her granny, waiting for Anna as she came out of the dressing room at the EBC. She turned back to Roger, ‘I think they make each other really happy. And that’s all you can ask, isn’t it?’