Letters to the Lost

by Iona Grey

  A sharp gust of wind released a shower of pink petals onto the happy couple and the watching guests sighed with delight.

  ‘Did you bring confetti?’ Jess asked.

  Will was leaning against a gravestone looking green again. ‘Sadly not, but I find a handful of gravel makes a cheap and ecologically-sound alternative. Oh fuck, stand by for action. Enemy approaching at three o’clock.’

  Jess looked round. A small, neat woman in a gold silk suit had broken away from the cluster of guests and was heading towards them, clutching the brim of her hat with one gloved hand. Jess had heard the term ‘steely expression’ but she’d never fully understood its meaning until that moment.

  ‘Where. Have. You. Been?’ She spoke to Will through a rigid jaw, without moving her glossed lips. ‘Didn’t you get my messages? I’ve been frantic. I was absolutely convinced you were dead in a ditch.’

  ‘That explains why you look so grief-stricken. Ma, I’d like you to meet Jess Moran. Jess – my mother.’

  Jess had no experience of meeting posh people, however some instinct told her that shaking hands was the correct thing to do. She held hers out.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Holt.’

  Will’s mother nodded at her curtly and ignored her hand, which remained stuck out like a shop dummy’s. ‘Is it too much to ask that for once you would just turn up at the right time, no surprises, no disasters?’ she said, pinioning Will with eyes like sharpened icicles.

  He took Jess’s rejected hand, enfolding it in his and drawing her into his body. ‘I’ve been ill. You really wouldn’t have wanted me here last night, I can tell you. I wouldn’t have made it today if it wasn’t for Jess.’

  A flicker of disgust passed over Mrs Holt’s fine-boned, immaculately made-up face, though whether it was at the mention of illness or the sight of her son with his arms around a badly-dressed commoner, Jess couldn’t be sure.

  ‘Well. You’re in luck, as it happens. Great Aunt Winifred cried off at the last minute.’ (She actually pronounced it ‘orf ’ Jess noticed incredulously.) ‘Miss Moran can take her place on the seating plan, though I’m afraid you won’t be together. You’ll be next to Uncle Julius, as I recall, Miss Moran.’ She gave Jess a Cruella De Vil smile. ‘I do hope you enjoy the day.’

  Surprisingly, she did.

  Maybe it was the champagne, which she’d never so much as tasted before and now discovered was completely delicious. Maybe it was the fact that she was a stranger, her history unknown, even if her less than top-drawer background was probably obvious. Maybe it was the table she found herself on at lunch, which was the dumping ground for those guests who might spoil the pastel-flower, white-voile-bunting aesthetic of the wedding. ‘Crocks corner,’ Uncle Julius cheerfully declared it, since everyone apart from Jess was over seventy. As the only ‘youngster’ they all made a huge fuss of her and, thanks to her visits to the lunch club and the years she’d spent with Gran, she felt completely at ease amongst them. Uncle Julius’s laugh rang loudly and frequently beneath the creamy canvas, until it became quite obvious that there was more fun being had on their table than any other.

  But mostly it was Will. He was seated two tables away, next to a stunning girl in a lime green dress that showed off her expensive tan and blonde hair to perfection. She had one of those haughty, well-bred faces that looked permanently miserable, and although she talked a lot, she never got as far as breaking into a smile. Somehow Will managed to maintain a pretence of courteous attention while gazing at Jess across the space that divided them. At one point, while Lime Green girl was pushing her food around with her fork and talking he also mimed putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger. Jess felt a great balloon of happiness rising inside her and took a swig of champagne to swallow it down again.

  The only bad moment came just after lunch, before the speeches began. Jess’s table was right by the door, on the path to the toilets, and Will had come over to talk to her when a tall man with silvery hair approached. ‘Oh God, my father,’ Will said with a grimace. ‘I suppose I’d better introduce you.’

  Fergus Holt shook her hand with elaborate courtesy, but Jess could feel his eyes sweeping over her like searchlights, exposing every cheap stitch and working-class atom of her. ‘How nice to meet you, Jess. And what do you do for a living?’

  She blinked, taken by surprise. ‘I work in a dry cleaner’s,’ she said, and felt a beat of profound relief that she didn’t have to say ‘nothing’. Fergus Holt, however, did not seem impressed. His eyebrows shot up and the slick smile faltered, as if he wasn’t sure if she was joking or not.

  ‘A dry cleaner’s? How . . . useful.’

  He produced the word with a flourish, as if congratulating himself on managing to combine accuracy with disparagement. But Jess was temporarily distracted by the growing realization that he looked familiar. ‘Actually, perhaps you know it,’ she said, trying to work out where she’d seen him before. ‘Wahim Clean, in Church End? I’ve only been there a week, but I’m sure I recognize you from somewhere . . .’

  Fergus Holt’s face hardened like concrete, his mouth setting into a small, frigid smile. ‘BBC Two, Wednesday evenings at nine o’clock. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there are people I must speak to—’

  As soon as he was out of earshot Jess turned to Will in horror. ‘Oh God – he’s some kind of TV celebrity? You should have told me! I’ve completely put my foot in it now. I knew I should never have come!’

  Will was struggling to suppress his laughter, but his eyes were warm and deep and serious. ‘I’m bloody glad you did.’

  In the lapse between the afternoon reception and the evening one the guests drifted through the opulent reception rooms of the Holts’ spectacular mansion and Will led Jess up the back stairs (back stairs!) to his bedroom. It was an oasis of clutter in the personality-desert of the rest of the house. She lay on his bed and tried to look at the photographs that crowded the walls, but they kept going round and round.

  ‘Far be it for me to judge, but are you the tiniest bit tipsy, Ms Moran?’ he said, smiling down on her.

  There was an oar attached to the wall above his head that seemed to be rowing all by itself. ‘I think I might be. Just the tiniest bit,’ she said happily, wriggling over to make space on the bed. ‘I’m also dead tired. I don’t suppose you fancy a lie down, Mr Holt?’

  He laughed, to disguise the fact that he’d just been impaled on a white-hot spear of lust. Her cheeks were flushed with the champagne and her lips were rosy and plump. Suddenly his suit trousers were too tight again.

  ‘Better not, or I wouldn’t wake up until ten o’clock tomorrow and my mother would pulverize me. You have a rest. I’ll go down to the car and get the bags.’

  He escaped with relief, his heart throbbing. Amongst other organs. Talk about emotional roller-coaster. This time yesterday he’d been in a trough of despair and now he was hurtling towards the stars with such speed he felt breathless. And terrified. What if he’d got it wrong? What if he was misreading the signs and what he thought was attraction was just her being friendly? But surely there was no mistaking chemistry like that? Every time they’d looked at each other over that interminable lunch the marquee had practically gone up in flames.

  That was lust, he yelled silently at himself. Miraculous though it might seem, it appeared she actually found him attractive, but that didn’t mean anything beyond a quick shag.

  Outside it was raining, Will noticed with surprise. Dirty clouds had crowded into the blue sky and a stiff wind was making the marquee strain at its guy ropes like a hot air balloon. Unlocking the car he slid into the driver’s seat and dropped his head into his hands. Of course, the truth was that he wanted more than casual sex. She was perfect: funny, beautiful and brave – brave enough to stand up to his father, even, who Will had never seen flounder like that – and he was in big danger of falling pathetically in love with her.

  That was why he was terrified. The upwards swoop was exhilarating, but he wasn’t sure th
at he could survive another downwards plunge right now. He had to be careful.

  Gathering himself together, he got out of the car and collected the bags. Carrying them into the house through the back door he stood aside to let a procession of waiting staff pass with laden trays of smeared glasses, and heard the sound of tense voices coming from the boot room. He recognized Simon’s, because when he was angry he spoke with the same withering impatience as their father. The other voice was a woman’s; low and clearly tearful. He couldn’t imagine Marina doing anything as messy as crying. Intrigued, he went to the door and pushed it open.

  The happy couple were standing amid the jumble of coats and boots and shooting sticks, looking distinctly unhappy, while Wellington the Labrador cowered in his basket in the corner. He hated arguments, and parties. Marina’s bridal make-up was in ruins, though she hastily tried to swipe away the rivers of black mascara streaming down her cheeks when Will appeared.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to intrude. Don’t suppose there’s anything I can do to help?’

  Simon’s lip curled. ‘I doubt it, unless you can stop the rain. Or bring Billie Holiday back to life.’

  ‘Oh fucking shut up, Simon,’ Marina hissed, with unbridal venom. ‘The whole day is ruined and all you can do is make fucking sarcastic comments.’

  ‘It’s not ruined.’ Simon sounded so exasperated Will found himself in the unprecedented position of almost feeling sorry for him. ‘It’s April – we knew there was a chance it might rain, but the singer getting stranded in Dublin is just bad luck. There’s no way we could have seen that coming, and there’s not much we can do about it now. No one’s going to mind dancing to a disco instead of a live band.’

  ‘I mind. It’s supposed to be a vintage-themed wedding. For fuck’s sake, Simon, a year’s worth of planning, six months of dancing lessons and we end up doing our first dance to a disco in the pouring rain—?’

  Will was in the process of making a surreptitious exit, but the bit about the singer stopped him.

  ‘Tell me it’s none of my business if you like, but am I right in thinking you have a band but no singer? Because if that’s the case I might just be able to help.’

  38

  As the light faded outside the marquee was transformed.

  Little candles flickered in glasses on the tables and strings of fairy lights made the canvas glow warmly, even if the actual temperature was arctic. Standing on the stage above the square dance floor Jess shivered with nerves and the icy wind that found its way through the gaps in the sides.

  But as soon as the band started up the nerves vanished, as they always did. The song Simon and Marina had chosen for their first dance was The Way You Look Tonight. It wasn’t one she knew very well, but when she’d run through the song list with the band in Mrs Holt’s Wembley-sized bedroom earlier they’d had time for a little rehearsal. Most of the songs were familiar, from Gran’s collection of Sinatra and Elvis and Rod Stewart, and thanks to her Lunch Club ladies she was used to singing them. She sent out a silent prayer of gratitude to Vera, for keeping her voice from rusting away with lack of use in the past few weeks.

  Simon and Marina circled the floor slowly, their movements perfectly synchronized. He held her expertly, his hand looking very big and tanned in the centre of her narrow back and probably the people standing around the dance floor and seated at the tables wouldn’t notice the coldness in his eyes as he looked at her, or hear the instructions she muttered at him through a rigid jaw.

  Above everyone’s heads Jess’s eyes sought Will. He was sitting at a table right at the back of the marquee, uninterested in the spectacle of the bride and groom and the charade of their first dance. His gaze was fixed on her, his face, in the light of the candle in front of him, full of something that looked like wonder.

  The words were beautiful. She forgot the bride and groom and she sang them purely for him.

  She was a goddess.

  Song after song, the dance floor was full, the applause at the end surprisingly unrestrained from people whose usual definition of enthusiasm was cracking half a smile. Will was perfectly ready to accept that he was biased, but she seemed to bring something magical to the music. Warmth as well as technical skill. A sweetness of tone in addition to power. Hell, he knew nothing about music, but even his parents were enjoying it – dancing together with misty smiles on their faces, applauding heartily at the end of every song – and that had to be saying something.

  He drained half his glass of champagne without tasting it. The only downside to her being up on the stage singing was that it meant he couldn’t dance with her. He wasn’t the best of dancers, but music like this meant he could have held her and breathed in her scent. He finished the rest of the champagne and acknowledged that the time had passed for being careful. It was too late. He’d fallen in love with her. Ages ago probably, as she lay on the bed in the hospital and he’d glimpsed the fragile bones of her spine like pearls beneath her skin and known that he’d do anything to protect her.

  The band struck up a new song – the last one of the evening, she announced to a chorus of muted disappointment. She bent to the microphone and for a moment the dancers stilled and the evening hung suspended as she opened her mouth to sing the first note.

  ‘I–I–I’m—’ She sought him out with her eyes. Staring straight at him from beneath her lashes, her delicious mouth curved into a wicked invitation of a smile. ‘Mad . . . about the boy . . .’

  Oh Christ.

  Thank God he hadn’t taken those stupid pills.

  Darkness had fallen while she’d been singing, creating an enclosed world beneath the softly lit dome of the marquee. As everyone drifted away from the dance floor and the babble of conversation rose again, Jess high-fived the pianist and accepted a brief, sweaty hug from the guy – Paul – on trumpet.

  ‘Nice work, kid,’ he said, reaching into the breast pocket of his dinner jacket and holding out an envelope. ‘That’s your cut. You’ve earned every penny.’

  She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t, honestly. I was here anyway and . . . well, I enjoyed it. Thanks for having me.’

  Paul looked doubtful. ‘Well, if you’re sure? But if you fancy a regular job we might just have one going – Suzy’s unreliability is getting to be an issue. We’d have you like a shot. Let us know.’

  ‘I might just do that . . .’

  She turned round. Will was standing on the empty dance floor in front of the stage. He had his hands in his pockets and a look she couldn’t read on his face. He shook his head, as if lost for words, and then took a step forward and held out his hands.

  She took them and jumped down from the stage, stumbling slightly in her too big shoes. He caught her, steadied her, opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he had intended to say was lost as somehow their lips came together.

  Oh God, the strength of him. Her legs, already shaky, virtually gave way beneath her but she gripped his shoulders, anchoring herself against him as the world dissolved away.

  In the corner the DJ who would take the party into the small hours was setting up, and a sudden burst of music made them jump apart. ‘I was going to save this one until the end of the night,’ he murmured into the microphone, over the opening bars of the cheesiest slow dance song in the history of disco, ‘but if you guys are ready for it now . . .’

  They laughed, but it didn’t extinguish the incandescent lust that glowed between them. His eyes were dark, the want in them impossible to misinterpret. He took her hand, slowly raising it to his lips and pressing a kiss into the centre of her palm.

  ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He pulled her off the dance floor. She stopped at the edge of the marquee to take off the red shoes, and then they were running across the grass, holding hands and laughing breathlessly, a little dazed by the urgency of their need. As the damp earth soaked her tights she remembered how she’d run away from Dodge, in fear and desperation, and she wanted to shout back over her shoulder at the
girl she had been that she was doing the right thing. That she wasn’t just running away, she was running towards something. A better future.

  A better man.

  Hand in hand, they slipped through the legions of staff in the clattering, brightly lit kitchen and up the narrow staircase to his attic room. Kicking the door shut he reached for her, taking her face between his hands as he kissed her again.

  It was quiet up here. The DJ started up in the marquee below, but the music was muted. Moonlight silvered the walls and threw precisely defined shadows across the bed and the floor. The molten excitement pulsing through her veins cooled a little, and she felt a shiver of doubt as old memories resurfaced. Memories of Dodge. Pain. Humiliation.

  As if sensing her hesitation he pulled away.

  ‘You. Are. Incredible,’ he whispered. ‘And there is nothing I want more than to take you to bed right now and make love to you for about the next twelve hours.’ He kissed her lips, very lightly. ‘But if it’s too soon, or if it’s not what you want, that’s OK. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure I can manage twelve hours anyway.’

  His face was grave in the bluish light, his eyes dark and liquid. Looking into them was like stepping, naked, into a warm summer downpour; delicious, exciting, good. Her misgivings melted and she reached up to touch his lips.

  ‘It is what I want,’ she breathed. And then, moving away from him she peeled off her dress and walked across the moon-splashed floor to the bed.