by Alam, Donna
‘What’s with the Peaky Blinders outfit?’
‘I’d say it was a little more Roll Out the Barrell than it is Roaring Twenties, myself.’
‘That was Baz from IT support. Do you reckon he’s into dressing up at the weekends?’ Archer appears tickled by the prospect.
‘I forgot to tell you.’ I cringe a little, though when I try to pull my hand from his, Archer resists. ‘There’s a theme to the wedding.’
‘Oh, Christ. And you didn’t think to tell me?’
‘I forgot.’
‘But you’re not in a fancy dress.’ His eyes fall over me in an unsubtle manner.
‘Because I mostly dress like someone’s nana,’ I say, trying to tug my hand from his hand again.
‘The nana look is more housecoat and cardigan.’ It takes his phone buzzing in his pocket for him to release my hand.
‘There’s nothing wrong with a cardigan.’ Cardigans are like wearing a warm hug. They’re also a little like armour, something you can wrap around yourself when you need protection from the cold or harsh words. I wish I’d worn one now as his thumb slides over his phone then he smiles down at it. I feel a barb of disappointment or maybe jealousy that I can’t hold his attention. Just ridiculous.
‘I have never seen a nana wear a dress like that.’ His gaze whips up from his phone, taking in every inch of my favourite dress again.
Actually, if I was wearing a cardigan, I’d be whipping it off. Archer has certainly perfected the art of the hot look, no matter how insincere.
‘So, are you going to tell me the theme?’ He slides his phone away. ‘Should I have come dressed in my Chewbacca suit?’
‘Ha! As if. I imagine you’d be one of those men who dons a loincloth and gets out a bottle of baby oil when Halloween comes around.’
Archer starts to chuckle, his fingers rubbing against his sharp jaw as I realise, for the first time, he’s taken the trouble to shave. Is it ridiculous that this tickles me on some level? Of course it’s ridiculous. It’s not like he’s chopped of his ear and mailed it to me. The dissolute bad boy look will be back in a few hours.
I wonder what the rasp of a day’s beard growth will feel like.
No. No, I don’t. Because I have no interest, and he’s sleeping on the floor.
‘You look like you’re enjoying that thought.’
‘What?’ My gaze snaps to his, my backbone suddenly rigid.
‘Me in a . . .? Never mind. You were going to tell me about the theme.’
‘Oh, yes. The theme. According to the invitation, it’s Retro Vibe.’
Archer swears under his breath. ‘You might’ve warned me.’
‘Don’t worry.’ I suddenly find myself stepping into him and smoothing his tie against his chest. ‘A good suit never goes out of fashion.’ I realise how unlike me this is. In other words, I make the moment awkward . . . not that Archer appears to have noticed as his gaze darkens, the corner of his mouth hitching up.
‘Did you . . . just pay me a compliment?’ He was probably anticipating the press of my lips and the amusement that little bit of ridiculousness would bring.
‘A gentleman doesn’t tease.’
‘You know I’m not one of those, right?’
‘Oh, I know it.’ Don’t I know it. I also expect I’ll be even more fully aware by the end of tonight.
‘Come on, then. Let’s go and weave our pretty lies.’ As he tugs on my hand and we begin to descend the stairs, I push away the feeling that at some point in our conversation he was about to tell me something.
Oh, well.
9
Archer
‘Are you going to be okay in here?’
As we approach the open doors to the ancient looking church, Heather hooks her thumb as she sends me an impish grin.
‘The church? Are you asking if I’ll burst into flames as I step over the threshold? I’m hurt,’ I say, bringing our still linked hands to my chest. Yes, I have her hand in mine again and I’ve refused to relinquish her tiny paw, for three reasons.
It’s my good deed for the day, a sort of aversion therapy, though I’m not sure if she has an aversion to me or being close to people in general.
Also for appearances; no one will believe we’re dating when it’s obvious she finds it difficult to have me near. Although she did just touch my tie. Maybe she’s a magpie for silky materials.
And because I find I don’t want to let her go. Because I have to get my kicks somewhere.
‘I’m almost certain I’ll be fine,’ I add as we climb the three ancient and worn stone steps. ‘Though it has been a while. But even the devil was an angel once, you know.’
We enter the cool interior of the ancient chapel, the familiar smell of dust, old books, flowers, and lingering incense like a sensory memory. My mother didn’t take me to church, but I was fostered once by a family who enrolled me in Cub Scouts. Every week we met in the church hall, and I enjoyed it while it lasted, though I was pretty upset when I was returned to dear old mama because I didn’t get to receive the badges I’d been working towards.
The pews are decorated with ribbons and flowers, and already half full of congregants wearing hats and caps and feathered headbands. As we make our way into the nave, the organist plays Christina Perri’s A Thousand Years, which hopefully won’t last as long as all that. The sun streams through stained glass iconography above us, showering the chancel in a flood of jewelled-coloured light.
‘People have really embraced the theme.’
Heather shivers as I whisper this in her ear, her response adorably breathy and stuttering.
‘P-people like to dress up.’
‘Hmm. What a shame it’s a bit too cool in here for a just a loincloth. Except for my man JC over there.’ Hamming it up, I thump my chest twice and throw in a peace sign.
‘Did you just peace out Jesus?’
‘Shush. Get in there.’ I gesture for us to sit in the nearest pew.
‘We need to be on the left side. For the bride,’ she murmurs, tugging me to the opposite side of the aisle and into the very last pew.
‘Look, there’s the fat controller,’ I murmur as we take our seats.
‘What?’ Her reply gurgles with laughter, drawing attention of the people in front. ‘Stop making me laugh in the house of God,’ she censures primly, reaching for the prettily printed Order of Service. As she leans back, she doesn’t notice how I’ve rested my arm on the back of the pew, so I slide my thumb into the gap between the end of the zipper and the clasp of her dress. She shivers just like she did in the hotel room when I’d tickled her with the feather sex toy. Why did I do it? The thing with the feather? Because I could. And because I thought she’d turn and realise what I had in my hand, maybe even notice the cock ring and vibe on the chest on the other side of the room. I wanted to goad her, and I wanted to watch her turn deliciously pink, the colour that makes me wonder how far down it runs.
I wanted her to shiver under my hands, and now that she has, now that I’m familiar with her sharp intake of breath and have watched her try to stifle her body rippling with pleasure, it’s all I can think about.
‘Who’s the fat controller, anyway?’ Heather cranes her head, looking past the array of balding pates and silly headwear.
‘Lambeth. You must’ve heard him be called that?’
‘I have not,’ she answers without glancing my way.
‘I gather it’s because of his similarities to Sir Topham Hatt. Probably the avuncular patois and taste in sober suits, the matching vests, you know?’
‘I’m aware of the character and of the show. My younger brother was a fan when he was small.’
‘A younger brother? Check you out, offering up your secrets like a handful of loose change.’
My teasing earns me a stabby look and a badly veiled warning.
‘I also have three older ones.’ Fuck with me, fuck with my family? How cute. ‘And something you probably don’t know,’ she adds in a rush, ‘is that I have a side g
ig running children’s parties.’
‘What? So much information in that one outburst. Let’s park the whole kids party gig to one side. We’re supposed to be dating,’ I whisper, leaning closer. ‘Wouldn’t you have mentioned you’re one of five kids?’
‘Seven actually,’ she whispers back. ‘And they’re all as mad as a bag of cats.’
‘Jesus.’
Heather slides me a disapproving look as she points at the stone-domed roof. ‘Not in his house, blasphemer.’ But she’s smiling. And then she’s turning pink as I press my lips to her cheek. Turning pink and pressing her teeth into the pink flesh of her full bottom lip.
‘What was that for?’
‘Appearances.’ And because I wanted to and because I couldn’t help it. ‘Now, tell me about this mad family of yours.’
‘I’m in the middle. Three older brothers, me, then another brother and a couple of sisters.’
‘Do your parents not have a TV?’
She turns and gives me an impish look. ‘They’re just very fond of christening cake. They’re actually a couple of hippies, though not from the original wave. Not that it stopped them from giving us all terrible hippy-ish names. The girls got off quite lightly; Lavender, Primrose and me. Unfortunately, Leif, Sorrel, Brin, and Orion, who prefers to go by his middle name Daniel, did not.’
‘Brilliant!’ I’m glad they weren’t in charge of naming me. ‘Hippies? So, are your parents down with the whole free love thing.’ It might explain her anti-casual stance. In answer, she glances sideways at me rather disparagingly.
‘Really, Archer? In the house of God?’
‘I’m sure the big fella won’t mind. Not all births are immaculate. And I wish you’d call me Arch. Every time you say my name, I feel like I’m in trouble.’
‘Freud would have a field day with that.’
I become aware of someone hovering at my shoulder. A couple dressed in 1940s style clothing want to squeeze into the pew. I stand, and Heather turns sideways so they can shuffle past.
‘I suppose you’re suggesting I’m the cuckoo in their nest,’ she murmurs once I sit again. I scoff, and as my hand is once more resting along the back of the pew, I lightly pull on a lock of her hair. ‘Ouch.’ Her head turns swiftly, and she gives me a gimlet gaze, but I can see the flush on her chest which tells a whole other tale.
‘You were saying? About your parents.’
‘They’re actually disgustingly in love,’ she murmurs, not looking very happy about it.
‘But that’s great. Seven kids and the fire still strong.’
‘Until you walk in on them and realise just how strong the fire is. You’re in the wrong business. You should’ve been in the police, wrangling all my secrets.’
‘Can’t help that I find you fascinating.’
‘You can’t help flirting, either.’ She inhales, using it as a pause before she barrels on. ‘Do you suppose the woman with the flying saucer on her head is Mrs Fat Controller?’ As well as the pause, something in her tone pokes at my attention.
‘I expect so.’ I doubt he’d have brought Allison along to so public an outing.
‘I wonder if Clara is here?’ she says far too blithely for it not to mean anything.
‘Would it matter if she was?’
‘This is not really a conversation for now,’ she says as the first strains of Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” begin to fill the chapel, feet shuffling against the stone floor as they begin to stand. ‘But it would surely be awkward for her. She might feel cheated. Or even like the other woman.’
‘For the last time,’ I mutter low in her ear, ‘and in the house of God, nothing happened between Clara and me that night.’
And please let that be the fucking end of it, though by the oblique look she slides me, it’s hard to tell if it will be.
We share the Order of Service during the hymns, and I struggle through a couple of verses of “Love Divine All Loves Excelling” because let’s just say I’d never make the final of The Voice. By the time we get to “All Things Bright and Beautiful”, I give up singing in favour of miming the words with such theatrics that Heather can barely sing herself for trying not to laugh.
The ceremony goes on. And on. Readings, a soloist, and a whole lot of what can only be described as Christ calisthenics; up down, up down, and up down again, but we eventually reach the spot where no one objects, if you discount my knees, vows are recited, rings blessed and kisses exchanged, and to the strains of Stevie Wonder’s “Signed, Sealed, Delivered”, the pair make their way down the aisle, congregants desperate to follow. As the couple next to us leave by the other end of the aisle, I wrap my hand around Heather’s shoulder, signalling we should stay put. She seems to understand instinctively; we’re staying to be seen.
With my arm around her shoulder, I distract her from the faces of those leaving with silly anecdotes and idle chitchat. When we eventually stand, I dance my way out of the pew and up the aisle, some of the last people to leave the chapel.
‘You really are a clown.’ Her words bubble with amusement, the kind I can tell she’s trying to restrain.
‘Can’t resist a great tune, babe. You’re just jealous because you haven’t got my moves.’
‘Yes, that’s exactly it. I’m jealous of someone who dances like my dad.’
We exit the church in a rush as I chase her for her insolence, to find what seems like half the staff of E11even standing in small groups between the chapel and hotel. Most already carrying flutes of champagne and napkins holding canapés.
‘Arch!’ I turn at the sound of my name to find one of the advertising reps making his way over to us, one hand on his glass, the other in his trouser pocket that seems to start at his thigh. The tiny knot of his skinny tie lies loose around his shirt collar, his movements more chocolate wrapper than rapper swagger. ‘Wah gwan, bruv.’
By his greeting, you might think he’d spent time in Jamaica, but the kids from Barnet to Bromley, and probably beyond, all seem to speak like this today.
I reach to shake his outstretched hand when we end up exchanging a weird fist bump instead.
‘Man, didn’t know you knew the popster.’
‘The who?’
‘Poppy, bruv. The bride. ’Cause you wosn’t at E11even when ting was around.’
‘Ah, no. I don’t know her. I’m actually here with Heather.’ I wrap my hand around her hip, bringing her body closer, though maintaining a suitably chaste PG rating. That’s when I notice her body is stiff.
‘I-it’s nice to meet you,’ she stammers, swallowing a little convulsively.
‘Nah, blud,’ he says, reaching out to exchange the fist bump thing on her, which is a bit weird, and weirder still when she covers his fist with her fingers and gives it a limp shake. ‘Man knows we work in the same building.’
‘Man . . . does?’ Heather looks at me for a translation, but it’s all I can do not to laugh at her expression.
‘Bruv, dat gal is peng!’ To reinforce his compliment, he gives Heather the once-over, throwing in a very unsubtle teeth kiss for good measure.
‘Oi, watch it.’
‘No beef, blud.’ He holds up his hands, his smile the size of half a bike wheel. ‘Want some munch, bruv? It’s inside, innit.’ He gestures behind him to the hotel. I’m not big on the whole road man London dialect, but I get that he’s praised Heather’s good looks, and he’s now going inside to eat. Innit.
‘Er, yeah. We’re not ready for food yet. We’ll maybe catch up with you later.’
‘Safe.’ And with his version of goodbye, he takes himself back to his group.
‘What . . .?’ Heather blows out a breath, her tension subsiding with it. ‘Just what in the name of arse was all that?’
‘Dat roadman talk, innit?’ I say, imitating him. ‘Man be like a total rudeboi.’
‘He was certainly rude. Do you think he speaks to his mother like that? It’s like another language. One that makes me feel very old.’ She pulls free from my arm to
face me. ‘How do you know what he was saying?’
‘I’m a man of many hidden talents.’ I place my hands on both her hips, mildly surprised when she doesn’t object.
‘I don’t even think I’ve ever seen him before, but he works at E11even?’
‘They keep him down in the ad space dungeon.’
‘How on earth does he communicate with people?’
‘I’m pretty sure he speaks some version of legible English, maybe not the Queen’s English, but enough to do his job. You’ve really never seen him before?’ She shakes her head. ‘You don’t like meeting new people, do you?’
‘Not particularly.’ Now I feel the tension returning to her body before she pulls away, creating a little distance between us.
‘It’s just an observation,’ I add in a mild tone. ‘And it answers a lot of questions.’
‘If you’re going to start annoying me, people will have a hard time believing we’re a couple.’
‘Shows what you know.’ I grab a couple of flutes from a passing tray. ‘It would probably work to our advantage.’ I wink at her, then glance at the happy couple currently being tortured by their photographer under a huge old yew. ‘I can’t imagine a day more redundant than this.’
‘You don’t like weddings?’
‘I don’t like the thought of tying yourself to one person for life. It’s the definition of masochism if you ask me.’
She takes a decorous sip of her champagne. ‘Perhaps you’d better keep those sentiments to yourself for the purposes of today.’
‘Oh, prickly peach. Don’t worry, those who didn’t see us in the pews will know we’re together after the little roadman headed inside and told the rest of the mandem, or crew as it were, that the redheaded hottie digital manager is here with me.’
‘You’re saying that if this were a regency romance, I’d be ruined by the association?’
‘You’re only as bad as your reputation.’