by Zoë Folbigg
At the top of the sweeping staircase, double doors are pulled open by ushers to reveal the wedding venue. High above family and friends, two chandeliers twinkle in excitement, light refracted onto crystal from winter sunshine, through long tall rectangular windows looking out onto Big Ben on the right. Those not whispering expectantly turn around to see who the double doors were swept open for, from their neat rows of chairs across a huge oak-sprung floor. Maya is startled to be stared at, but Tom’s brother swaggers towards the front to place the cake and macaron tower on its stand in the right-hand corner of the room. On the left, a woman with brazen hair and curves squeezed defiantly into a little black dress waits for her cue. Between them a table covered in a crisp white tablecloth holds a registrar’s folder, and large balls of fuchsia, orange and purple roses bring a Brazilian zing to a stoic city venue. A huge wooden heart-shaped frame spray-painted in silver hangs from the ceiling above the table, a studio prop from Nena’s Tiny Dancers show, swinging ever so slightly as it hovers in anticipation.
Tom holds hands with his four-year-old best man while he says hellos to guests and talks to his parents at the front.
‘Untle Izaat!’
‘Arli!’
Isaac Vernon scoops his nephew up in his arms and together the two of them give Tom a bear hug, Arlo enjoying the novelty of being the same height as his daddy and his uncle.
Maya fusses over the macaron tower and twists it a little to show off its best side.
‘Perfect!’ she whispers to herself, and looks towards the back for a single chair to sit on. Maya – and Tom’s brother apparently – seem to be the only two wedding guests without a plus-one.
Nena’s mother beckons Maya to join her at the front.
‘Hello darling,’ she says, kissing each of Maya’s cheeks. Taller, paler-skinned, more fragrant than her daughter, but her taut stomach and lithe legs tell tales of the family trade.
Maya embraces her, clutching the arm of a teal lace dress.
‘You look stunning, Victoria.’
‘You too, darling!’ she says, looking Maya up and down. ‘“Green is the prime colour of the world and that from which its loveliness arises!”’
Maya’s emerald-green dress is more vivid than Victoria’s shade of teal, although it is softened by her creamy skin and faint brown freckles. A white faux-fur stole sits on spaghetti straps and soft shoulders. Maya almost wore the Vivienne Westwood she bought with her game show winnings, but something held her back.
She takes the compliment bashfully and goes to run her fingers through rampant hair before remembering it’s pinned up in a loose bun on the side. Above it sits a long diamanté jewel, like a whisper above her right ear.
‘How’s Felipe?’ asks Maya in hushed tones.
‘Terrified!’ Victoria says giddily. ‘He thought he’d never have to do this!’
Tom spots the macaron tower atop the cake in the corner and turns to Maya.
‘Thank you!’ he mouths, clasping his palms together in gratitude.
A lady in a functional suit walks up the aisle, nods to her assistant standing behind the table, then gives the woman in the black dress a smile as if to say ‘Go’.
Smoky tones of Bebel Gilberto’s ‘Samba e Amor’ fill the grand room from front to back and guests are transported from Westminster to Nena’s father’s hometown of Salvador. A small pigeon-chested man walks in with Nena on his arm. Same height as each other, same bronze skin defying a British winter. The folds of Nena’s silk dress flow down her body like freshly poured cream running from shoulder to floor, kissing her breasts to create a plunging space from her collarbone to a sparkling waistband of silver beads and sequins. Matching silver epaulettes sparkle on her shoulders.
The guests gasp. Victoria’s mouth wobbles. Maya’s eyes fill with tears as she marvels at how beautiful her best friend is. At how, even now, Nena is full of surprise and wonder. Maya would never have picked out that wedding dress for Nena, but in it she dazzles. When they talked about boyfriends or future husbands on those winter walks along the seafront in the sideways rain, Maya imagined the acrobat would run away with the circus and marry a ringmaster in a net dress so cheap and so frilly it was only fit for carnival. But then Nena always managed to surprise, so why is Maya surprised now? She gives Nena a huge beaming smile as she approaches the front.
Nena’s enormous, mischievous eyes look humble as she hands bold blooms to her best woman.
Victoria tries to mouth ‘Love you’ to Nena but her lips are too shaky to make the right shapes. Felipe gives Tom a gracious nod, patting his back as he returns to Victoria. He takes his wife’s hand. ‘Samba e Amor’ comes to a finish and the ceremony begins.
*
‘Sorry I didn’t introduce myself – I was so caught up in catching that unbelievable biscuit tower, I forgot to say. I’m Isaac.’
Isaac extends a rough but reliable hand.
‘Maya. Pleased to meet you. Again. Oh and they were macarons…’
‘Sorry, Macaron Maya,’ Isaac laughs.
Maya stands at the bar at the back of the ballroom, mixing the slushed ice of her caipirinha with a flamingo-shaped cocktail stirrer. The chink chink whirl inaudible against the music. Flavours of summer fill Maya’s body and the warmth of the room makes her shed her stole and put it on a stool under the bar.
Isaac looks down at the sweetheart neckline of Maya’s emerald-green dress. ‘Great party huh?’
‘Oh it’s amazing. But Nena always knew how to throw a party.’
‘Look at them!’ Isaac says, leaning back on the bar with both elbows behind him. ‘I’m so chuffed for Tom. After all that shit with Kate, I never thought he’d be in as good a place as this. And so soon. Lucky bastard.’
Maya laughs.
Isaac rubs the sandy stubble of his five o’clock shadow. A black bow tie hangs loose around his open collar.
‘Well he deserves it. He’s one of the good guys,’ Maya smiles. ‘And look at Arlo – he is too cute, you must just want to eat him up!’
‘God I love him,’ says a proud uncle.
Maya and Isaac survey the scene in front of them. Nena and Tom dance with a sleepy boy slumped over Daddy’s shoulder. Victoria and Felipe foxtrot around a sprung floor with panther-like elegance while clumsy guests attempt to glide gracefully around them.
‘Wanna dance?’ says Isaac, pulling his open bow tie away from his neck and putting it on the bar.
‘Why not?’ says Maya.
Chapter Fifty-Three
‘We don’t normally book photographers who haven’t shot for magazines before,’ says the soft voice of a girl with a tiger’s face on her sweatshirt.
‘Right…’ says James, when what he really wants to say is, ‘Why did you agree to see me then?’
They are sitting in the cafe of Tate Modern overlooking the river. James’s bottom feels cold and bony on the metal chair he’s sitting on.
The girl talks with the high quiet voice of a cartoon mouse.
‘But my art director and I really liked the shots you emailed us. And I do like your portfolio – this one is ace,’ she says, pointing to the elderly groom as she turns the page. ‘I really like the way you can almost see what he’s thinking, like you’re getting into his brain through the light in his eyes.’
James remembers the print in his backpack, equally revealing, more personal. He takes out a tube and unrolls it to show Tammy Newbold, picture editor at The Passenger, London’s coolest men’s lifestyle magazine.
‘Oh I love it. Why’s it not in your portfolio?’
‘It’s recent, I’ll put it in soon.’
‘Well it’s great. I think you’re great,’ Tammy squeaks. ‘If you feel able to handle some of the big celeb egos we shoot then we’d love to give you a go. I’ll talk to my art director and get back to you, probably after the Christmas break now, that OK?’
‘Yeah that’s great. Thanks Tammy,’ says James, surprised by the total turnaround in how he thought this meeting was go
ing.
‘I’d better get back to the office, it’s our Christmas party tonight and we’re trying to put the March issue to bed.’
‘March, wow,’ says James, leaving cash on a small silver circle. ‘I’m used to tight newspaper deadlines, turning around portraits in just hours. It would be nice to really put time and thought into a shoot.’
Tammy smiles, and wraps herself protectively under a blanket shawl. ‘Off anywhere nice now? I guess you don’t have office parties being a freelancer do you?’
‘Not any more. But I’m meeting some mates for a few drinks on Charlotte Street. How about your party?’
‘Oh the usual. A club in Old Street. The features’ girls will be dodging the creep from accounts. Someone who’s normally straight-laced will get wasted and try to dry-hump the MD.’
James laughs quietly, dimples barely reveal themselves, and he slides the cardboard tube back into his backpack, zips up the wallet of his portfolio and says goodbye to Tammy.
‘See you in the New Year, James.’
*
The wintry night beyond the long high windows of the Grand Hall makes the carnival atmosphere inside seem even more sizzling as Nena and former chorus-line colleagues take to the floor in a group samba. The elegant dress from this afternoon has been hitched up to her knickers, showing a brown thigh that reminds Maya of Princess Tam Tam.
A flurry of snow starts to flutter under the light of the black lamp posts on the street outside and Maya surveys the scene inside. Happy. Tired. Glowing from the many compliments she received for her lemon and lavender cake and the macaron tower on top.
This is how I want to remember today.
Maya is never the last one standing at a wedding, so she finds her white stole, props her silver clutch under her arm and pushes open one of the huge doors that leads to the sweeping staircase. At the bottom of the stairs, Maya collects the hatbox from a cloakroom attendant and swings it with abandon by its cord handle, relieved it is empty as she heads out into the frozen flurry.
‘Taxi!’ she calls, into the buzz of Parliament Square.
‘You leaving already?’ A figure standing in the light of a lamp post puffs on a cigarette. Snow falls onto the shoulders of his white jacket and melts.
‘I have to catch my train,’ says Maya. ‘And really, you don’t want to see my lambada.’
‘No really, I do!’ Isaac laughs.
A taxi drives past without stopping.
‘Well it’s always best I leave that to Nena. Taxi!’
Taxis whizz past. Taking politicos back to their constituencies, tourists onto clubs and couples from their office parties to steamy hotel rooms. It is the last Friday before Christmas.
‘Here, let me try. TAXI!’ Isaac yells, as he throws his cigarette butt into a drain.
A taxi stops. Maya feels slightly disempowered. And very cold.
‘Thank you. Again. You had my back earlier with the cake, I appreciate it.’
‘No problem. Hey can I call you sometime, go for a drink?’
Maya looks at Isaac. Tall and dashing with messy sandy blond hair and the same deep-set but twinkling eyes as Tom. She thinks of Tom and Nena and Arlo, who has got a second wind, upstairs on the dance floor in a happy bubble of love.
I want love. I want Train Man, I want James Miller.
‘Can I say no?’ Maya smiles warmly as she shivers.
‘Of course!’ laughs Isaac, taken aback by honesty.
‘You’re lovely, but it’s just if today has taught me anything it’s to follow my heart. The butterflies and all that stuff. It matters. It hits you. Nena could have anyone at uni, she’s never been short of a date since then. But Tom, he just… BOOM, changed everything. And when you know, you know. And when it’s forced, well you know that too.’ Maya is shivering.
‘Are ya comin, love?’ shouts the cabbie, trying not to sound riled.
Maya nods and Isaac smiles as his sturdy arm props the taxi door open.
‘Well you know I was only asking you out for a drink, not to marry me, but it’s cool, I understand.’
They laugh.
‘It was lovely to meet you, Isaac. And I’m sure we will again. Maybe I’ll know how to do the lambada by then too.’
Maya slides her hatbox across the seat of the taxi and gets in after it.
‘Nice to meet you, Macaron Maya.’
‘See you around, Untle Izaat.’
Isaac gives a lackadaisical salute as he closes the door and nods Maya on her way to the train station.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Maya rushes across the terminal, under the reverse waterfall, past the wall of orange digits, to her train on platform 8. An Inferior Train. The last train home. Her skipping heart starts to sink a little as she knows that tonight, the last Friday before Christmas, this train will be the vomit comet, full of burger and Cornish pasty smells, sticky floors, and drunken men trying to be funny. In her emerald-green dress to just below very cold knees, Maya feels far too elegant for an icky Inferior Train after midnight.
Why didn’t I just book a hotel?
A ten-second high-pitched beep, the ding of doors, and the driver announces that tonight this train will be stopping at all eight stations along the line to Hazelworth, not the usual two.
*
Her tired arms hug the hatbox as Maya’s stole gives little warmth on a train with broken heating. She tries to rest her head on the box but the stiff curve of cardboard and its monochrome stripes make her feel even colder.
Across the aisle a woman with lank brown hair scraped tight into a straightened ponytail slumps across a man in a leather jacket. A group of teens out of sight but well in earshot cackle about their night at Camden Stables. Maya tries to cling to memories of a beautiful day as she cuddles into her ribs for warmth.
Please just get me home.
The carriage suddenly plunges into darkness and the train brakes to a screeching halt. The woman with the straightened ponytail slips off her boyfriend’s lap, sliding down his legs and into the facing seat in front of her. Maya’s fall is broken by the hatbox, which bends under the impact.
‘Shit,’ Maya whispers.
The clock on her phone says 01:31. Panicked passengers go quiet as everyone waits for an announcement. Maya looks at her phone and scrolls through photos of the day to give her a lift. A box flashes up: twenty per cent battery remaining.
Bugger.
Maya switches off her phone to preserve what battery remains and looks out of the window to try to decipher where she is. A freckled nose accidentally touches smeared glass and makes her recoil. It’s pitch-black outside, which means they’re either in a tunnel or at the part of the track where the train passes through a high grassy verge that must only be as wide as two trains. Maya knows this line. Given the lack of houses and the time on the clock, she thinks – hopes – that she is three quarters of the way home.
A voice crackles faintly from above.
‘Sorry about this, there seems to be a problem up ahead. Signals are all fine but we’re not sure if someone is messing about on the line. Since I put on the brakes so suddenly we do have a bit of an electrics failure but we’ll get them switched back on as soon as possible. We are behind another train and waiting for further information, but as soon as I hear I’ll let you know. In the meantime, sorry for the delay and the darkness. I’ll update you shortly.’
On the other side of an internal door, Maya hears people shout.
‘Turn the heating on, mate!’
Maya shivers, and switches her phone back on for reassurance.
Another box flashes up: ten per cent battery remaining.
Already?
She looks across at the silhouette of the woman with the ponytail as she tries to rouse her boyfriend, still oblivious that they have been plunged into darkness, somewhere on the line. He is dribbling and asleep and smells of beer and sweat and stale leather – but he is there. However useless he is right now, that woman isn’t on her own.
&nb
sp; At 01:53 the lights come back on. The giggling teens who had started telling ghost stories sound disappointed. Maya is relieved. She looks at her phone once more for company.
Please start moving.
More pictures: Arlo kissing Nena with the soft clumsiness and innocent beauty of a besotted four-year-old; Tom, Nena and Arlo sitting opposite Maya on the circular top table; Victoria rubbing lipstick off Felipe’s cheek; close-ups of the macaron tower before it started to look threadbare; university friends; samba dancers; TV presenters; backing singers.
What a shit end to a brilliant day.
Without announcement or fanfare, the train starts to roll slowly out of the darkness of the tunnel or the grassy verge, and Maya sees fields changing colour from the hard dark brown of frozen winter soil to white in the flurry of snow under the moonlight. She now knows exactly where she is, almost three stops from home, slightly heartened by some light and familiarity.
‘Sorry about that, someone did jump onto the track in front of the train ahead. That one’s stuck but we’re going to roll into the next station where this train will be taken out of service.’
The driver pauses for the collective groan he can’t hear from his cabin at the front of the train.
‘Station staff will advise you on a rail replacement service, or you can find alternative transport.’
Maya’s mind races.
Alternative transport? At 2 a.m. in a sleepy village station?
Maya can’t wait for hours in the snow for a rail replacement service. Especially not in a strappy green dress, silver sandals and a tiny faux-fur stole.
The pub will be closed.
Maya looks at her phone desperately.
She thinks of Jacob and Florian but knows they’ll both have been out drinking tonight. And she can’t call Clara and Robbie and wake three exhausted little boys. And Herbert and Dolores will be long asleep, snuggled together in bed in the house on the hill, mobiles left downstairs or switched off.
I have no one.
Maya looks in her silver clutch and scrabbles around for cash. She knew Felipe Oliveira wouldn’t let anyone pay for a drink at his daughter’s wedding so she didn’t take much money with her, only what was in her purse as she rushed to get the hatbox of macarons and its large lemon and lavender base into the taxi that was waiting outside her flat at lunchtime. Maya sees the reassurance of a crisp twenty-pound note.