Tables are cleared and Marcus tells me I look tanned. He hasn’t seen me since the beginning of the year so I am surprised that he is so well versed in my skin tone.
‘I’ve been on holiday,’ I tell him, and then, because the obvious next question is to ask where, I say, ‘LA.’ Marcus lets out a low whistle.
‘Nice,’ he says. ‘Do anything fun?’
‘Plenty,’ I say. ‘Loads of touristy things, went to see the Hollywood sign, spent a lot of time at various beaches, went to a really cool music shop, ate at lots of nice restaurants. You know, the usual.’ Fell ridiculously in love, had it all snatched away from me in one terrible exchange of words, came home heartbroken, I say in my head.
‘Go with friends?’ he says. I shake my head.
‘No, my… I was seeing someone who lives out there.’
‘You were seeing someone, or you are seeing someone?’
‘Um, were.’ I am not going into details. Not today. Not with him. Not when I think he’ll see it as another way to hit on me. He will try and be the shoulder for me to cry on if he thinks I’m broken.
‘That’s a shame,’ he says. Yeah, right, I think.
‘Yep.’ I’ve gone all stiff and awkward. I want desperately to change the subject.
‘Maybe I can buy you a drink later,’ he says. Jesus, Marcus, I think, I know God loves a trier, but give it a rest. I look at Rachel. She’s talking to her new mother-in-law. But she’s got one eye on us, too. As soon as she sees my head turn towards her, she catches my eye, and then immediately looks away again.
‘Maybe,’ I tell him. It’s casual, noncommittal.
I pick my way through my main course. Talking about Jesse has given me a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, and the slice of roast lamb lies, barely touched, on my plate. Marcus has had no such reaction.
‘Good grub, mate,’ he says to George, waving his knife across the fish bowl centrepiece. ‘Lovely spuds.’ A globule of gravy flies off and lands on the white tablecloth next to my glass and I stare at it. ‘Are you going to finish that?’ he waves his knife at my plate. I shake my head and slide it towards him.
After dessert, waiters come around with flutes of champagne for the speeches and toasts. Jeff stands up, shifts on his feet a little awkwardly, and chinks a teaspoon on the side of his glass. The room falls silent. One hundred and twenty pairs of eyes are upon him.
‘Good afternoon everyone,’ he says. ‘For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Jeff, and I’m the very proud father of beautiful Rachel here.’
I sit back in my seat and cross my legs as he talks. He starts with a quip about living in a house with three women and never being able to get a word in edgeways, which is funny because as far back as I can remember he’s had something to say, and definitely can get a word in any which way he fancies. He moves on to thanking everyone for coming, cracks another joke about embarrassing his daughter, and then starts on the anecdotes. He talks about the day she was born and it’s heartfelt and sentimental. He talks about when she started school, and how she caused him a lot of sleepless nights and anxiety in her teenage years. I get a mention here, and there are rumbles of laughter throughout the room. Then he moves on to meeting George, and welcomes him into their family. ‘To be honest,’ he says, ‘I began to see him as the son I never had when he drank all my beer and asked to borrow the car – not on the same day, I hasten to add.’ More laughter. Finally, he rounds off with a toast to Rachel and George, and we all stand up and raise our glasses.
When everyone else sits down, George remains standing. He puts his hand on Rachel’s shoulder and she gazes up at him.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he says. ‘On behalf of my new wife, and myself, thank you all for being here. Doesn’t she look stunning today?’ There are nods and murmurs around the room. Rachel blushes. ‘I want to start off by saying that every so often, every once in a while, two people meet, and it’s like the world tips on its axis. It’s as if the stars align.’
Oh no, I know that feeling so well. I’ve felt the earth shift on its axis. I’ve seen the stars align. My heart pounds inside my chest and the back of my neck suddenly feels hot. I close my eyes and try desperately not to think about Jesse, because I know I will cry if I do. George talks about their first meeting and it’s a story I know well, because I was there. They met at a gig in Camden. Just a small one, down in the basement of a pub. Rachel and I had bought our drinks and were hurrying to a table and she’d turned around, bumped into George, and accidentally thrown her pint down his jacket. She insisted on paying his dry cleaning bill and they swapped numbers and snuck glances at each other the entire evening. The rest, as they say, is history. If you ask them now, neither of them can remember who the band were. He finishes his speech with a toast to Marie, Lauren and me, and everyone drinks.
Marcus’ speech is last, and he stands up next to me and begins by agreeing with George that we bridesmaids did do a wonderful job, and carries on to say he’s known all three of us for a few years and we’ve never looked so lovely. He glances down at me as he says it and I concentrate hard on my glass. Then come the jokes about George, the banter and the full on character assassination, and I have to hand it to him, it’s a good speech. He’s engaging and he’s funny. ‘Finally, George,’ he says, ‘I want to thank you, for eventually conceding, after years of friendship, that I am indeed the best man.’ George guffaws and Rachel looks lovingly at him. ‘So, please be upstanding for the bride and groom. The new Mr and Mrs Smith: George and Rachel.’
We all stand for the third time. There is wild applause. Marcus sits back in his chair and smiles, pleased with himself.
‘Great speech,’ I tell him. He grins at me, and he’s all white teeth and crinkly eyes.
‘I meant what I said earlier, you know?’ he says. He leans back and spreads his legs before reaching across and resting his arm on the back of my seat. Good grief, he’s the very definition of gauche. ‘I’d like to have a drink with you, and I really am sorry about what happened with your chap. It’s his loss, though. The man’s crazy, Cass.’
I don’t believe he’s sorry for a second, but it’s nice to be complimented and I could do with the ego boost.
‘Thanks, Marcus,’ I say, and then I hear myself agreeing to that drink. After all, I’m definitely going home with my parents, so what harm can one drink do, right?
Chapter Fifty-Two
Cassie
After coffee over petits fours, people trickle through the double doors to the bar. There’s a tab, and a crowd getting their drinks in before it runs out. Mandy is right at the front shouting her order at the barman.
‘I’ll just take the bottle, yeah?’ she’s saying. ‘Four glasses. Thanks, mate.’
She totters in her platforms over to a table and puts the tray with the wine and the glasses down. She scans the room and waves Lauren and me over.
‘Where is Maz? I got this for us,’ she shouts across the room.
After a little while, the lights in the room dim and everybody shuffles towards the dance floor. The ukulele band huddle together on a small stage in the corner of the room and it’s the first time I get to properly look at them. Two girls and two guys. Well turned out, in a hipster sort of way. The girls are wearing flower crowns and floaty dresses. The boys are in undone waistcoats and rolled up sleeves. One of them is sitting on a cajon. Rachel and George move into the centre of the circle and the music starts. One of the girls begins to sing into the microphone. A cover of ‘You’ve Got The Love’. Her voice doesn’t really match up to the way she looks. She’s a delicate, ethereal, pixieish little thing with big, frightened eyes, but her voice is confident and loud and beautifully controlled.
Lauren is next to me and she links her arm through mine as we watch the dancing. We sway a little, in time to the music.
‘This is nice,’ she says. ‘They’ve made it all really personal, haven’t they? With the band and the Florence and the Machine cover.’
‘Yeah, i
t’s a good wedding. The wedding coordinator couldn’t get over the uke band.’
‘I don’t suppose it’s all that common.’
‘Probably not.’
‘What were you all laughing about at dinner?’
‘Huh? Oh yeah. George’s Dad was talking about furry muffs.’ I waggle my eyebrows at her.
Lauren giggles. ‘He seems a bit strait-laced for that kind of chit-chat.’
‘He was talking about hand muffs. You know, the ones you put your hands in to keep them warm. Not fannies. Apparently George’s granny had one back in the fifties. She had a dress like these that she used to wear to parties. And she paired it with a furry muff.’
‘I’ll bet she did,’ Lauren says, still giggling.
‘She’s here somewhere,’ I say, looking around the room. ‘She might be right behind us this very second, listening to us talking about her furry muff.’
We look back at the dance floor. George is twirling Rachel around. Her dress fans out at the bottom. She reaches her arms around his neck and they do the hug-and-sway slow dance that you see at weddings and proms and nightclubs just before they turn the lights back on and kick everyone out. He whispers something in her ear and she throws her head back and laughs and I think it’s funny that something as personal as the first dance as man and wife is watched by so many people. Especially when they whisper to each other in the way they do. It’s like we’re all watching a private moment between them. Surely they must know that everyone watching wants to know what’s been said. If I ever get married and have the kind of reception that calls for a first dance, I’m going to whisper something obscene into my new husband’s ear, just so I can watch his reaction. They look into each other’s eyes and rub their noses together as if they are the only two people in the room. I ignore the pang in my chest.
Pixie Chick sings the last line of the song and her voice rings out across the room and then fades to a breathy whisper. Rachel and George stop dancing and everyone claps. ‘Thank you,’ she says into her microphone. The band take a little bow and regroup. Fairy lights twinkle around the room.
‘I’m getting another drink,’ Lauren says. ‘More champagne before the tab runs out?’
‘Yes please,’ I tell her. There’s a pause before the band start playing again, and I look down at the carpet and stare at the pattern. And then they start, staccato plucking, and I know exactly what song it is, it’s been following me around all summer. ‘Call Me Maybe’, for goodness’ sake. I heave a sigh and try not to think about how often I heard it on the radio in California. The cajon comes in with upbeat, steady little thumps over and over, but I just feel deflated. I briefly consider slipping off to find Lauren but if we somehow miss each other she’ll have both glasses of champagne, and I wouldn’t put it past her to drink both, so I stay put. And then the singing starts and I’m momentarily confused by the familiarity of it all, and not because the singer is Carly Rae Jepsen, because obviously Carly Rae Jepsen is not moonlighting as the wedding singer at Rachel and George’s wedding. But because I’ve heard that voice before, singing this song, in a silver Honda in California, and before then, too, on CDs I still have at home.
Mandy sidles up to me, and I’m pleased I have someone’s arm to grip.
‘Cassie, babes, I think the singer has the hots for you,’ she says, excitedly. ‘It’s really funny, he just rocked up. Snuck in and shuffled down the side of the stage. Fancy being late to your own gig. Don’t you think that’s funny? You might be in there though because he’s definitely looking at you. Probably wondering why you’re looking so miserable. You could work that to your advantage, rebound take two.’
Oh my god, it can’t be.
Now the girls are doing harmonies and they are pitch perfect, and underneath all the lovely singing I can hear my heartbeat in my ears because it’s all clicking into place. Mandy carries on, completely oblivious.
‘Not sure the song’s entirely right though, I mean, for a wedding. I mean, surely if you’re getting married, you’ve called them, definitely.’
‘The song’s perfect, Mandy,’ I mumble, but she’s not really listening.
‘God, Cassie, will you look? You’re definitely in there. One hundred percent. He’s really trying to get your attention. I have to tell you, your flirting still needs a lot of work. Put the poor bastard out of his misery.’
But I can’t look because in my heart I know exactly who it is, and I want it to be him so much, but after everything, I just can’t believe it could be, and if I look up and it’s just someone trying to pick up a sad girl at a wedding I don’t think I’ll be able to cope. So I shake my head instead, and look at my shoes. She grabs my wrist. ‘Cassie, people are staring! And moving out of the way. It’s like the parting of the red sea. Or was it the dead sea? I can’t remember.’
Lauren comes back with glasses of champagne.
‘What’s going on?’ she says, holding mine out for me. I can’t take it. I can’t move. I am rooted to the spot. Mandy gasps as the penny drops, and she grabs my glass of champagne from Lauren.
‘Oh my Christ! I know who that is. You sent us a photo when you were in California,’ she hisses.
‘Shit the bed,’ Lauren whispers. She clamps her hand over her mouth.
‘Lauren, you look like you’ve been spooked, mate,’ Mandy giggles. ‘Don’t tell my cousin, but this is my favourite bit of today.’
Suddenly I’m all hot and a bit sweaty behind the knees. The room is spinning and I can barely hear the music. It’s drowned out by my pounding heartbeat. Does Rachel know about this? She must do. But how?
Finally, I work up the courage to tear my eyes from the floor. They dart around the room, at Rachel and George’s guests watching this all unfold, and finally settle on Jesse, strumming away on a baby blue ukulele, as real and as present as anyone else in this room. And he’s scrubbed up really, really well. Wedding Jesse is the best. Charcoal-grey trousers, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a skinny black tie, a fraction too loose. He’s had his hair cut, and it’s shorter now, but still nicely dishevelled. And Converse. Always Converse. He looks like he just rolled out of bed this morning, threw on a suit, and decided to come to a wedding, and I love it, more than I thought possible. I let him catch my eye, and now that I have, I can’t look away.
‘I take it back about the song. This is the most romantic thing ever,’ Mandy squeaks. ‘People are going to be talking about this for years.’ She knocks back the champagne, leaving less than an inch in the bottom of the glass just as Pixie Chick taps his arm and nods towards me, and he takes his cue, jumping off the stage.
‘Okay, you’re up, Cass, go to him,’ Lauren whispers, nudging me sharply with her elbow, propelling me forward, off the carpet and onto the dance floor, and as the band carry on with the song, Jesse and I stand in front of each other, still not breaking our nervous eye contact. I don’t know what I think or what to say. My mind is blank and overloaded all at once. I just can’t wrap my head around any of it.
Suddenly I’m really shy, and that feels new because I’ve never really felt shy around him before, not even at the beginning. Not even when I told him I was, the day I landed in California. He tucks the ukulele under his arm and takes hold of my hands and it’s familiar and comforting.
‘I thought you were a bass player?’ I say, and nod towards the tiny instrument. ‘Bit trebly for you, no?’
He rolls his eyes and his whole posture changes, relaxes. ‘Right, but Dad started us all off on ukes. It was all part of his master plan for Billboard Chart domination.’ He drops one of my hands and passes the ukulele to Lauren.
‘Why didn’t you reply to my email?’
‘Some things are better said in person,’ he says, and looks around the room. ‘But probably not right here.’
I reach my arms around him and cling on tight, squeeze my eyes shut and bury my nose into the crook of his neck. He smells just the same as he did when we first met in London and I’m there again.
In that bar. By the river. Up in his room. The song finishes. Around us people clap. Someone even wolf-whistles.
‘I’ve missed you,’ he says into my hair. ‘And I’m sorry I fucked everything up.’
‘I’ve missed you too,’ I whisper. ‘And I’m sorry I ran.’
‘Let’s get out of here, people are looking. Oh, and someone’s filming.’
We leave with the half full bottle of wine that Mandy bought, and head out into the sprawling grounds. The light’s faded and trees loom in stark black silhouette, barely lit by the thin strip of a crescent moon hanging in the sky. A fallen tree juts out on to the lawn and we make for it. My dress catches on a shard of bark as I perch against it, and a breeze whispers through the trees. Neither of us speak and aside from the music inside, it’s silent. I swig the wine.
‘So…’ I say, when I can’t stand it any longer.
‘So,’ Jesse repeats.
‘That was unexpected,’ I say, nodding towards the abbey. ‘In there. With the ukulele. Did you pick the song?’
‘No. Rachel forced me into it,’ he says. ‘She said it would mean something to you. She also said when I arrived that I had to perform with the ukulele group or I wasn’t allowed to see you. Didn’t want to argue. Everyone knows you don’t cross a bride on her wedding day.’
‘Wait, what? I don’t understand.’
‘So, I got in touch with her after your email. She told me to get my shit together.’
‘Ha! Yeah, that sounds about right.’
‘Yeah. Anyway, I stopped acting like an asshole, and I found this… hang on.’
The light from his phone illuminates his face. He’s concentrating. He taps the screen, swipes through something and then hands it over. ‘Take a look.’
I swap the wine for the phone and look down at the device in my hand. Instagram. A woman and a baby, and a screen name. NicoleInNY.
‘Oh my god,’ I gasp. ‘This is her. Nicole.’
She’s a babe: gorgeous wavy auburn hair, clear skin, bright eyes, dimples. Made up and styled nicely and holding her tiny little baby in her arms. Looking incredible for someone who probably still couldn’t even feel her own vagina at that point. And sitting with her is her rather dashing boyfriend. He’s tagged. Kevin Ito. its_kevin_ito. He looks well turned out and rich, and she looks like she’s hit the jackpot and knows it. One thing’s for sure, I’ll be creeping on this couple later on.
Call Me, Maybe Page 32