A Ballad of Confetti, Cake and Catastrophes

by Helen Juliet

  That sent a hot flush through Nicholas’s innards, and he focused very hard on taking his tea in both hands. “What does she teach?”

  Fynn tapped a fingernail on his mug, and stared out into the hallway in concentration. “It’s something to do with human geography, socio-economic patterns. I think,” he added with a huffed laugh.

  “Oh,” Nicholas perked up. “I study economics. And maths, so not really the same thing, but yeah. Over in Bristol. It’s nice there, have you ever been?” Fynn took a sip of tea, and shook his head. “Oh, well, yeah, I’m enjoying it. Still in my first year, but it’s got off to a good start. Are you at uni?” he asked Fynn. “Or, I mean, did you go? You’d have graduated now, unless you took a few gap years…” He trailed off. Not even five minutes and he was already unable to control his mouth. Fynn was going to regret inviting him back, that was for sure.

  He picked up the wet umbrella though and inclined his head towards the door, indicating to Nicholas that they should head into the hall. “I went to performing arts college,” he said as they walked back down to his bedroom. Once again, it was neat and tidy with the bed pristinely made. “Graduated a couple of years ago.”

  “Oh, wow, that’s cool,” Nicholas said. He plonked himself down on the desk chair again, and watched Fynn put the umbrella once more in the en-suite. He was trying not to be a dork, but he really was impressed. “That’s awesome, honestly. I’ve never been good on stage, I always freeze up.” He laughed. “So, do you dance and act and all that as well?”

  That got a laugh from Fynn too. “Occasionally I was made to act, but it was never really my thing. I like dancing, but it was always about the music for me.”

  “Oh my god.” Nicholas put his mug down of the desk (by the tie package, he noticed) and clasped his hands under his chin. “Is there footage of you somewhere doing musical theatre?” Fynn cocked an eyebrow at him, and slurped meaningfully from his tea as he perched on the bed. “There is, there so is!” Nicholas crowed in delight. “Oh go on, what did they make you do? Little Shop of Horrors? Les Mis? Oh, oh! West Side Story?”

  Fynn growled. It was a rather delicious sound. “It was Fame,” he said reluctantly. “Of course, I had to be Tyrone, the troubled black kid.” He grimaced. “And they made me kiss a girl.”

  Nicholas was surprised at how genuine and relaxed his laughter was at that. Bringing up both the gay thing and the race thing in one breath could have been awkward, but Fynn wasn’t treating it as such, so neither did Nicholas.

  “So, the West End wasn’t for you then?”

  Fynn rolled his eyes. “Hardly anyone makes it there, you know. It’s pretty depressing. But, no. I always knew I wanted to make music.” At that, he got his guitar back out again. He leant back against the pillows of his bed, and stretched his legs out as he gave the strings a quick tune up.

  Nicholas pulled at his trusty thread on the chair again. “So, you write you own music too?” Fynn nodded, and began to tease a melody out of the instrument quietly. He was so in sync with it, Nicholas found it hard to picture him ever being without it in his hands. “Can, I mean…” He bit his lip. “Would you play me something of yours?”

  Fynn gave him a tight smile. “Maybe. One day.” That was a no then. “I have a demo out with several producers right now. I’m waiting to hear back, see if they think it’s worth investing in.”

  “Jesus, fuck,” Nicholas spluttered. “That’s so epic, have you really? How many tracks? Like, a whole album?”

  To his delight, Fynn looked pleased with his enthusiasm. “There’s eleven songs at the moment, all original. But you never know with these things. I’ll probably be lucky if three make the final cut, and that’s if I get a decent producer on board who gives a damn.”

  Nicholas realised his mouth was open, so he picked up his tea again for something to do with it. “So, you’re going to be a recording artist?”

  Fynn smiled warmly at him, both corners tugging up in that way Nicholas was starting to treasure. “I’d love to record one real album,” Fynn said. He watched his fingers work the strings and the plectrum for a while, then looked back up at Nicholas. “I love performing other people’s songs too, so I was already looking to get into function stuff when you approached me. And I’ve done session work. It keeps me busy.”

  Nicholas felt proud of himself for no good reason whatsoever. All he’d done was fail to book any other musician, and asked Fynn as a last resort. But, still. It felt nice that Fynn had been wanting to do weddings and stuff, and the universe had put them together at just the right time. Sort of like serendipity.

  “So, is that your evening job then?” Nicholas guessed, aware he was asking a lot of questions. But Fynn didn’t seem to mind. “Session work?”

  Fynn chuckled ruefully, and rolled his eyes. “I wish. I wait tables at one of the Italian places in town.”

  “Oh,” said Nicholas, unsure of how else to respond. He knew he was lucky; he and his sisters had never had to work while they were studying. Their parents insisted they focused all their time on their education. “Is it one of the good ones?” he asked instead.

  “You’ll have to pop by some time,” Fynn said, “and find out.”

  That was the second time in this visit alone he’d alluded to seeing each other again. If he wasn’t careful, Nicholas was going to get his hopes up.

  “How about you?” Fynn asked, moving the conversation forward and sparing Nicholas the trouble of having to work out how to answer his downright flirty proposition. Because that couldn’t be right – someone like Fynn would never flirt with someone like Nicholas. Even if they were both that way inclined. “You know what you want to do after uni?”

  Nicholas finished his tea and shrugged, listening to the rain tapping against the window over Fynn’s gentle strumming. “Not really, I still have a while to figure it out. And I might do a masters too, to get the extra qualifications.” He wound the thread from the chair around his finger, making the tip go pink, then white. “Maybe some sort of analyst? I’m really good at seeing patterns in things.”

  “I can tell,” Fynn told him, nodding. But that made Nicholas frown.

  “How?” he asked, genuinely bemused. They’d never even mentioned maths until today.

  Fynn jutted the guitar neck towards him. “You’ve got a good musical ear. And rhythm. Being good at maths isn’t that different.”

  Nicholas scoffed. “Yeah, right,” he said, rubbing bashfully at his face. “I’m tone deaf.”

  Fynn arched an eyebrow at him. “No, you’re not.” He stopped playing and patted the bed duvet by his knees, indicating the end of the bed. “Why don’t you sing again, I’m sure we can find something else you know they words to.”

  Nicholas stared at the spot he’d indicated with his hand. Fynn was inviting him to sit with him again. Bloody hell. “I thought the point was for me to listen to you sing?” he asked weakly.

  Fynn didn’t seem perturbed. “We can both sing. Do you know ‘Wild Horses’?”

  As a matter of fact, Nicholas’s dad was a pretty big Stones fan. Nicholas didn’t know the words off by heart, but he knew the tune, so figured he could get the lyrics up on his phone. “It’s a bit depressing for a wedding though, isn’t it?”

  Fynn grinned. “Which is why I didn’t play it yesterday. But it’s one of my favourites to sing. We can just muck about a bit, for the fun of it. You gonna join me?”

  It seemed like an awfully big distance between the desk chair and the bed, but as apprehensive as Nicholas was, he wasn’t about to annoy Fynn, or pass up on an opportunity to get closer to him. So he rallied his courage, and nipped across the gap.

  ‘Wild Horses’ was one of those songs that a lot of people had a crack at, but Nicholas did genuinely think it was so beautiful it was pretty hard to ruin. His mum had a version by Charlotte Martin that she and his dad played when they were being sappy, and as much as Nicholas and his sisters would protest, he did think it was really sweet.

  With th
e lyrics up on his phone screen, he was able to keep up with Fynn as he made his way through the first few lines. Nicholas kept his voice quiet, following Fynn’s lead as he wandered around some of the melodies, but after a while he began to relax.

  “I know I've dreamed you a sin and a lie, I have my freedom but I don't have much time,” they sang. It was Nicholas’s favourite bit. “Faith has been broken, and tears must be cried. So let’s do some living after we die. And wi-ld horses couldn't drag me away. No, wi-ld horses couldn't drag me away. Couldn’t drag me away.”

  “It is sad, isn’t it,” Nicholas commented once they were done. “I mean, it’s beautiful but I kind of feel like their love is over, and he – she – whoever can’t let it go.”

  Fynn nodded. “I get it, though,” he said, starting up another tune that Nicholas didn’t know. “You can’t rely on people, they’ll just let you down. But, if you can make something so timeless out of it – that pain – then I think it’s worth it.”

  Nicholas sat back, and gave a nervous laugh as he considered him. “Wow,” he said. “Bleak, bitter millennial, much?” he teased, but he did sort of mean it.

  “Not bitter,” said Fynn, unfazed. “Practical.”

  “That you can’t rely on people – anyone? Ever?”

  Fynn shrugged. “Not completely, no. Art lasts. People don’t.” Before Nicholas could respond to that particularly pessimistic statement, he flashed him a grin. “Hey, do you know this one?”

  Nicholas let the comment drop, but it niggled away at the back of his mind as they worked their way through a few more songs. Did Fynn really believe people were just destined to let him down? That didn’t sound very promising.

  Nicholas wondered again where his parents were.

  Fynn distracted him though by launching into a favourite Killers track of his, and by the time Nicholas was done belting his way through ‘Mr Brightside’, jumping around the room like a deranged lunatic, he’d forgotten all about the bleakness of their last conversation.

  Chapter Seven

  Sadly, after a couple of hours, Nicholas had to call it a day. “There’s something complicated going on with fairy lights this evening,” he admitted to Fynn as he triple-checked he had the package of ties in his hands. He couldn’t forget them again, because then Fynn would think he was doing it on purpose to make an excuse to see him, and that would be pure mortification. “The whole family has to be there, and my job is to unbox everything before they arrive.”

  “Hey, no worries man,” said Fynn. He clapped him on the back as they both stood, and Nicholas froze. He was pretty sure that was the first time they’d touched. They might have shaken hands, but to feel his solid presence on his back…

  He got a hold of himself. “It’s been fun.”

  Fynn retrieved his now-dry umbrella for him. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Well, I’m checking out the town hall tomorrow. You’re welcome to join me, if you’re not buried under a mountain of confetti.”

  Nicholas laughed, but it was a serious concern. “Sure, uh. Sounds great.” He really didn’t have much of a clue why Fynn was keen to keep hanging out with him, but he couldn’t bring himself to question it too much. He just wanted to enjoy it while it lasted.

  Nicholas did an awkward thing where he paused at the front door too long, then stepped back with a nervous laugh. “Right, see you later,” he said, then turned to head for the stairwell without looking back. He didn’t hear the door close, but Fynn probably just did it quietly.

  The walk back seemed quicker than before, despite the fact Nicholas decided not to wait for a bus as the traffic was bad. He hummed along with the music blaring from his earbuds, the ties clutched protectively to his chest.

  When he got home, it was just Kinny still, and although she said hello and had a quick chat with him about the weather (with them both determined not to start panicking just yet) he could tell she was still busy with her work. Instead, he headed upstairs with a beer, put on one of his latest playlists on his laptop, and tried on his entire wedding outfit.

  The ushers were all hiring matching suits to complement the groom, but Nicholas hadn’t wanted to intrude on Peter and his friends. He got on well with the guy, but he hadn’t been upset not to have been included in the wedding party. He and his mates had been close since school, where they’d run the role-playing society for three or four years. Sometimes their Warhammer matches and Dungeons & Dragons games lasted for hours (or years if you counted whole campaigns) and they had all these old in jokes that were sometimes hard to follow.

  It had been enough for Nicholas to go on the stag do, which had involved LARPing in the woods. They’d been completely smashed, so the whole thing had been pretty hilarious. He was glad to leave them to it for the wedding preparations, and anyway, on the day, he would definitely want to help look after Clara, who was bound to be nervous.

  So that meant he’d been free to sort out his own suit, and he had to say, thanks to a little help from a rather fabulous shop assistant, he thought he’d done a bang-up job. He’d decided to go for an inversion of the colour scheme, so while all the groomsmen would be sporting black suits, silver waistcoats, white shirts and pink cravats, he’d gone the other way. His suit was silvery grey, and was tailored perfectly to his slim frame. He had a black shirt, white pearl cufflinks, and a beautiful pink bowtie. The bowtie had only just been delivered over the weekend, as had his black and white spats shoes, so this was his first time trying on the whole ensemble.

  He felt really cool and stylish as he twirled around admiring his reflection in the mirror, and maybe just a little bit cute. He hoped Fynn would like it, and blushed at his silent optimism. Tomorrow he should ask Fynn what he was planning on wearing; not that he was worried he’d make a faux pas, more so he could picture it in his head before the big day.

  By the time he’d carefully packed everything away again, he’d finished his beer. So he went downstairs to fetch himself another, then opened the door to the den to face the fairy lights. He noticed Archibald had made himself pretty scarce since the dress incident, and Nicholas suspected the cat knew that this time, he had really fucked up.

  He sat himself on the floor and carefully unwound the first lot of the boxes of lights like he’d been told, then began slowly wrapping them around some wicker wreaths his mum had bought from a craft wholesaler. He heard voices as people started to arrive back home, but nobody came in to bother him until Danielle came home.

  “Oh, there you are,” she sighed by way of a greeting. As if he wasn’t doing exactly what she’d asked him too. “There’s been a disaster, you better come into the kitchen.”

  Nicholas’s heart plummeted. Had she found out about the dresses? Or the harp? Not knowing what to expect, he made sure to lay the lights down where they wouldn’t get tangled, and closed the door behind himself as he headed to the kitchen.

  The island was covered in pizza boxes, and he sighed happily as the smell of hot cheese and meat hit his nose. His dad handed him another beer. “You had a good day mate?” he asked as they both cracked their bottle tops off.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said, eyeing up everyone as they scrambled to get into the pizza boxes. Well, everyone except Danielle, who was stubbornly blending another green something-or-other. He waited until she was finished and the noise had diminished. “So, what’s the big emergency?”

  “Oh, it’s not that bad,” his mum assured him as she handed out plates to people.

  Danielle huffed, and Clara swallowed her bite of chicken wing. “Aunt Sally has food poisoning,” she said gravely.

  Nicholas frowned. That was it? Sally and her family were coming down from Scotland, but they weren’t flying until Friday evening. That gave her three whole days to recover. Four until the actual wedding.

  “Umm,” he said. That was nothing compared to the bridesmaid dresses, which, admittedly not everyone knew about, but still, he wasn’t sure he was seeing the catastrophe. “That’s a shame,” he offered.

  Danielle h
uffed. “If she can’t come, it’s a disaster.”

  “Well, yeah, it’ll be a shame,” Peter agreed. He still had his Games Workshop polo shirt on, which was unfortunate as a big dollop of barbecue sauce dripped down his front. “Ahh shit – oh, sorry.” He looked guiltily around at Nicholas’s parents, but they didn’t care about things like a spot of bad language.

  “Oh don’t worry love,” Nicholas’s mum said, proving him right. She handed him a sheet of kitchen roll to wipe it off. “I’ll just pop it in the wash later. Robert, is your sister really not well?”

  Nicholas’s dad sighed, and swallowed a mouthful of pizza. “She had to go to hospital today.”

  “Oh no,” Kinny gasped. “That sounds serious.” Nicholas had to agree, and paused with his slice halfway to his mouth.

  His dad shook his head. “She’s already been discharged, but yes. They treated her for dehydration and a pre-existing stomach ulcer, so it’s a little more serious than just a bit of throwing up.”

  “Poor Sally,” bemoaned Clara. She was nibbling as a slice of pizza, anxiously glancing at Danielle’s smoothie again.

  “So she might not be able to come?” Nicholas asked. “That’s really sad.” He liked Aunt Sally a lot; she and her four sons, Nicholas’s cousins, had a serious Pokémon obsession and were always good fun to be around.

  “No, it’s not sad,” Danielle interjected, then rolled her eyes. “I mean, of course it’s sad, but if five whole people drop out now, that puts our entire seating plan into serious jeopardy. That’s half of a whole table gone. Not to mention we’ve already printed everything up, it’s too late to change it now.”

  Nicholas had to say, he was a trifle more concerned with his aunt’s health than he was some poster, but he didn’t feel like incurring Danielle’s wrath just then. “Can’t we just have a table of five people?”

  “The minimum is eight,” Clara told him.

  “Alright,” his mum said cheerfully. “Well, what are they going to do if people just don’t show up on the day? That’s not our fault.”