by Ruby Soames
Bunny yells over the music: ‘Come on, Henry, the girl wants to dance with you! It’s your bloody wedding night.’
She pushes me over to him while grabbing onto Peter.
My father puts his arm around my back as he totters to The Girl from Ipanema while Yuleka sings loudly about an ‘enema’.
‘Enjoying your wedding?’ I ask when we’re on the dance floor.
‘It’s come off rather well, eh?’ he says.
We hobble together. The song never seems to end.
‘The girl from Nip and Emma,’ sings out Yuleka.
Henry twirls me round, and catches me hesitantly.
‘Well done,’ he remarks when I return to him in one piece. And then he looks me in the eye.
Joseph once told me that looking into the eye of a dolphin can change your life, that a glimpse into those dark elliptical orbs can transmit a moment of immortal understanding from ancient mammal to the human soul. Looking into my father’s eyes, I want to be changed, to suddenly come alive, but I see nothing in his drunken gaze.
He doesn’t seem at ease with me either, like he’s at a loss without Yuleka defining him, characterising him, creating their story as they go along. Now I remember my mother saying, Henry just couldn’t think for himself, decide for himself, he couldn’t fight for what he wanted, what he loved.
The music speeds up, we’re half way through a spin, he reaches too far as I twist towards him and he inadvertently grabs my breast. I dart away and when I look round, he is plodding off towards the table where Yuleka is sitting with one of the waiters on her lap.
‘Get up boy and gemme another Pina Colada!’ she says thrusting the waiter away and splaying her arms and limbs for her husband to stumble into.
I return to the table, and Yuleka cheers when she sees me, ‘Isn’t he something?’
I swallow a few well-earned gulps from my cocktail. ‘Yes, he certainly is.’
Henry reaches out for Yuleka’s hand. ‘You should get Yuleka to show you some moves – she can do that bottom wiggling thing.’
‘Oh, listen to him, “that bottom wiggling thing.” So cute! You know, darling, I was a professional dancer?’
Susie looks up from rolling a joint, ‘Oh yeah – thought I saw you in the Nutcracker.’
While people at the table laugh, Yuleka frowns.
‘Yeah, well, you know what? I had a podium and my own theme song. You know darling, even in twelve-inch fuck-me shoes I could do a high kick.’
‘Fuck-me ‘n’ pay-for-it shoes!’ a man next to Susie intercepts.
Yuleka ignores him, ‘But now I only dance for my big bear! And you like that, don’t you, baby?’ She rolls out and over him, covering his face with kisses.
Susie pulls Henry out from under Yuleka, ‘Mind if I take this big boy for a spin?’
I am left again with Yuleka. She leans into me and takes my arm. ‘Susie’s very jealous of me. Women always are – they know I could have any man just that like!’ and she clicks her fingers. ‘Henry is crrrrrrazy for me, devoted, well, see the way he looks at me.’ She waves at him.
‘Crazy … yes.’
‘No woman could ever make him feel like I do. English men, it takes so little to make them go nuts for it – Henry really believed me when I said he was the only man who could make me come. Imagine that darling?’ She bites at the cuticle on her little finger.
‘I wish I had that effect on them,’ I say.
‘You don’t wear enough perfume. When Henry first smelt me, he was rock hard – smell first, sight later. It’s the endolphins.’ She drinks from her Piña Colada leaving a white moustache on her upper lip. She points at her ring. ‘Isn’t it big darling?’
I nod as she fingers the rings and bangles of gold up and down her arms. ‘I designed this one myself. I’m a gemmologist, you know?’ She points at the rock on her fourth finger. ‘Henry loves to treat me. See? Diamond. Diamond. Ruby. Diamond. Sapphire. It’s like a down payment. That one’s not silver, it’s white gold. What’s the point in white gold? Anyway, darling, I know all the stones.’
‘Where d’you study that?’
‘I didn’t need to study it because I would have known more than the teachers.’ She drinks, swallows. ‘You know his last wife was a witch? Practised black magic and everything. She’s in an institution now. They’ll never let her out.’
‘Really?’
‘That’s why Henry’s so generous with me. He believes me when I say that God had sent me to save him. That was my job in life … to give him …’ she mouths the words, ‘pleasure.’
‘How romantic!’
‘Romantic yes, but now that bitch is after every penny.’ She has my fingers in a pincer grip between diamonds. She lifts my hand up and drops it as we hear the murmur of, ‘Speeches!’
As champagne glasses are refilled, I see one of the Crouch End girls retch. I hurry her outside.
She leans forward, head close to a giant plant. ‘That poor sod in the chair … is he really, like royal?’
‘They say so,’ I answer over the excitable, ‘Ssshhhhes’ going in inside.
‘How can his wife let him make such a fool of himself?’ she asks.
I shrug and move to the door to see Nelson, the best man, walk onto a make-shift stage wearing a judge’s horsehair wig.
Everyone laughs. He holds up a judge’s gavel and bangs it against the microphone – and again, and again, and then he starts moving his hips and dancing to the beat. As the crowd claps he stops and shouts: ‘Silence in Court!’
More laughter.
‘Even you Henry! Silence in my courtroom!’
Henry sniggers.
‘Now you are all under-dressed – I mean, Sir Henry, you are under arrest: I charge you with fatal attraction to your woman.’
Kerry groans and pours a bottle of cold water over her face. I catch something about Henry’s work and more about the Marriage of a Thousand Dreams, their website and discount rates.
Just as he starts about Henry and ‘Yukey’ and how fortunate we are to be gathered here, Kerry pulls on my hand, ‘Isn’t it exciting about the wedding?’
I move over for a better view and see Yuleka bowing to the audience before clinging on to Henry’s neck.
The Best Man calls out, ‘And Henry – Henry!’
People cheer.
‘The quintessential Englishman, Oxford graduate, esteemed man of law and letters – and you all thought Henry was only known for being at the bar of the Paradise Beach Club – he was called to the bar at the English courts - and not just for six vodkas and tonics!’
I hear chuckling and mumbling and phones going off.
‘But they call him “QC,” they call him “Sir,” they call him, “Esquire,” “Your honour,” but we should I call him … “Mr Wombat”!’
Henry jolts upright.
The crowd laughs and echoes, ‘Mr Wombat!’ They look to Yuleka.
She doesn’t laugh, instead she frowns, looks at Henry.
Nelson continues, ‘Mr Wombat! Did you know this Mrs Hardwick? This is the name his first girlfriend used to call him! Let’s not ask why – Mr Wombat!’
Henry squares his shoulders leaving Yuleka to flop over her drink. He looks at each person accusingly.
Who could have passed on this intimate detail about his private life? Who could have known?
26
Peter holds out my bag. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’
Kerry rolls her head in his direction, wipes spittle from her chin and grins, ‘Howdy, cowboy.’ She picks up a litre of water and drinks it down in one gulp.
The other London girl lands on her knees on front of her friend. ‘Man! You stink! Have you pissed yourself as well?’
The two girls knock their heads together laughing. ‘I’ll be fine,’ says Kerry.
‘Are you sure,’ I say.
‘Yeah, you better go join Prince Charming, lucky bitch. He’s gorgeous!’
‘Hey,’ says Kerry using her friend to lift hers
elf up. ‘If I hear more ‘bout the wedding, I’ll let you know.’
‘What wedding?’
The girls look at me aghast. ‘You haven’t heard? Next weekend Sylvia Amery’s getting married to Joseph West.’
‘What? Where did you hear that?’
‘Everyone’s talking about it! We’re going to crash the party – it’ll be a blast!’
Peter stands at the door with my bag. ‘You girls still nattering? Isn’t that what you Brits say?’
Kerry’s friend offers him some of her beer. He puts a hand up to say no. ‘You OK, Sarah?’
I take his hand and start walking back towards the club hoping that getting out of here will be quick.
I feel myself sway, not from the alcohol, but the shock of having a complete stranger tell me that Joseph really is getting married, that he might be coming here, and that I’m just about to walk past my father and wish him a happy wedding night. This is my moment to stand up for myself and get someone to see me, see what they’ve done. My father. I’m going to give him a wedding night to remember.
‘Where’s Henry?’
‘They won’t notice if we don’t say goodbye. Let’s just get outa of here,’ says Peter.
‘I’ve got something very important to say to Henry.’
‘Sarah, he’s – Sarah!’
I move fast around the club looking for Henry. Peter’s behind me calling me back. People look up, no one’s seen Henry, no one seems to remember who he is.
‘He’s probably outside!’ says Peter grabbing my arm. ‘What’s this about?’
Henry and Yuleka are talking loudly to each other by the dustbins in the car park.
I see her slap his arm. ‘So why is everybody laughing when he says “Mr Wombat!” ‘
Henry holds her by her shoulders. ‘I don’t know!’
‘Tell me! Who called you a womble? Who?’
‘Can we please just discuss this calmly, like adults. Come on!’
‘No! I don’t want to be “like adults!” They were all laughing at me! And you don’t defend me!’
‘Defend you? What are you on about?’
‘They were all laughing at me!’
‘Oh for God’s sake, that Nelson … he’s some sort of a pot head darling.’
‘I bet it was that Bunny who told him! She hates me! They all hate me and I hate them.’ She lunges at him, ‘And I hate you!’
‘Darling! Please!’
Yuleka yanks an Amaryllis flower that has detached itself from her hair and stamps on it until there’s nothing left but pink slime.
‘Just tell me, do you still love her?’
‘Love who?’ asks Henry trying to stop her arms from pounding the parked cars.
‘Love her!’
‘Love who?’
I feel Peter’s hand on my shoulder. ‘Sarah, if what you have to say is important, might be better to wait.’
Mesmerised by this argument, I don’t answer.
‘You do, you love her! That woman! That bitch who called you, Mr Wombat.’ And with that Yuleka slaps Henry repeatedly over his shoulders with her open palms.
Peter sings out, ‘Night you two. Great party!’
Henry dodges a kick to wave us goodbye. ‘Good … night, and thank you for …’ He says while holding Yuleka’s swiping hands away from his head.
There are only the four of us outside. Maybe this is the moment – I’m confused, angry and drunk enough.
Henry’s voice sounds through the dark. ‘Thank you for being our bridesmaid, Sarah.’
‘My pleasure,’ I whisper as the bride swings a left hook and knocks his glasses off.
‘Oh yeah, oh yeah – why don’t you call him Mr Wombat? That’s his name apparently!’
‘Yuleka! Stop this – you’re being ridiculous!’
‘I’m ridiculous! I’m ridiculous! He called me “ridiculous” – there! Two witnesses! OK, that’s it! I want a divorce! Ridiculous, am I?’
Peter turns to me, ‘Would you mind walking? It’s not that far and …’
‘Let’s,’ I say over the sound of Yuleka crashing two dustbin lids together.
She calls out to me, ‘We must do lunch, darling!’
‘Boat trip maybe?’ says Henry trying to put his arm around Yuleka.
‘That’d be great!’ says Peter moving away faster.
The next I see is Henry diving to the ground to pick up his glasses.
‘See my foot? See my foot, here, Henry Hard Dick? I’m gonna crush your precious spectacles if you don’t tell me, who is she, Henry? Who is the woman who called you Mr Wombat?’
He rubs his eyes wearily. ‘Why are you asking all these questions?’
‘Because you’re still in love with her!’
27
We arrive at the white bridge that links the Paradise Beach Club’s gardens and the beach. Peter scoops me up by my waist and twirls me around.
‘Your face! It’s like, white satin – that came out corny, I just, God, Sarah – the way you look in the moonlight!’
So here goes, my first kiss since Joseph.
A breeze whispers through the palms. Peter is strong yet tender and it’s a really expert kiss. He feels for my hand and holds it as we stroll through the hotel’s side entrance to our rooms. Ferdi is waiting for me outside Peter’s door.
He nods, ‘Ma’am’.
Am I so predictable?
My date doesn’t blink as he walks ahead of me, throws his jacket across the bed and opens the doors onto his balcony.
‘A good wedding party, Miss Sarah?’ asks Ferdi stifling a yawn.
‘Well, as we left they were fighting in the car park, so, I guess so.’
Peter walks out to the terrace and calls back to Ferdi, ‘Could you bring us four brandies. That’ll be all.’
I join him outside on the terrace where he is lighting rows of tea lights. When he finishes the last one he turns to me. ‘Wanna sit in the hot tub?’
‘I’ve had too much to drink.’
‘Me too. It’s strong stuff.’ He flicks away a mosquito, sits back in his chair and we listen to the waves over the shore, snippets of distant conversations as guests walk back from their evenings out. Peter has changed from the party animal of earlier to someone quiet, pensive, almost moody. Something is definitely on his mind.
Every few seconds the cicadas chirp in chorus and then stop – all but one, who continues chanting until he realises he’s on his own. Then he stops – and they all start again then stop, but the soloist cicada continues. Peter and I both notice it and the more we tune our ears to this lone insect, the louder he sings.
‘Is he a brilliant individual or just stupid?’ I ask.
‘There’s a species of cicada near the Mississippi that takes seventeen years to mature – just lives in the ground, eating sap and shit – then when he’s mature, he breaks out of his skin, goes to the top of a tree, mates, falls off and dies. Do you think that’s a fulfilled life?’
‘Depends how good the fuck was.’
‘That what you think, Sarah? Are we only about reproduction?’
‘Peter, is this some obscure chat-up line?’
‘I’m interested in nature, that’s all, Sarah. I like to know what’s going on around me.’ He stares at me intently. I sip my drink as the cicadas start up again.
There’s been a distinct drop in atmosphere and I wonder if maybe I should leave. Peter cups his brandy glass and circles the amber glow. His forearms are the same colour as his drink and his muscle definition is shapely. He puts his drink down, leans forward and clears his throat.
‘Why did you lie, Sarah?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You heard me.’
He moves closer so that his blue eyes are level with my face, burning up my thinking time.
‘Lie? I don’t know what you’re talking about?’
‘Why did you lie about who you are? You said you were called Banks. You’re not.’
‘Oh that. When I met you and Bunny
and –?’
‘Yes. That. Then. When you lied. You made out you were some friend of the Templeton-Crest’s daughter. She’s never heard of you.’
‘No, I’ve never met their daughter.’ The brandy heats my throat. ‘You checked up on me?’
‘When you arrived, I asked reception what your name was. It wasn’t Banks. It’s Tyler. So, before we get to know each other any further, who, really, are you?’
‘I’m Sarah, just Sarah Tyler,’ I say. Peter’s face is stony, unconvinced. ‘When I was introduced they thought they knew my dad and I didn’t disagree with them – it seemed less complicated than to explain. The heat … the … I didn’t want to go into who I was … y’know?’
‘It’s less complicated to lie?’
‘It was just a silly misunderstanding. Are you really bothered by it?’
‘Not really, but Bunny is. She checked you out. After she met you she had a feeling so she made a few calls. She has some pretty outlandish theories about what you are really doing here.’
‘I’m sure the reality would disappoint her, shall we just keep her guessing?’
‘Unless one of them is true …’
‘Who do they think I am Peter?’
Peter looks out to sea. ‘Are we being honest here? Honesty is very important to me – I can’t tolerate people bullshitting me and I will find out.’
‘Yes, I am honest. It was silly of me, the other day. I was just shy and put on the spot … it didn’t mean it as a lie lie.’
‘OK. My concern is that I think you could be,’ he stops, grimaces as if he has a mouth full of sand, ‘a journalist.’
‘A journalist?’ Relief! Disappointment. Relief. ‘A journalist!’
He scrutinises my reaction. ‘Come on. Some very wealthy and important people stay here, there’s always some snoop hanging around in the bushes with a wide angled lens.’
‘No! No! Peter,’ I can’t help laughing, ‘No, I’m not a journalist.’ It would be too complicated to say that one of the reasons I’m here is to escape the same media attention. ‘Look, I’m here on holiday! Surely you can tell a journalist – you’re one yourself!’