by Jane Linfoot
Finger four. ‘We’re having the most awesome ceiling, because without it the ballroom would be horribly austere, but Dan’s guys have got that covered.’
Well, what would you do? In the face of so much optimism on Alice’s part, I keep my mouth tightly shut about yesterday’s no-show.
Finger five. ‘Oh, and the disco floor and the disco. That’s the guys’ department too. Along with the drinks and the furniture.’
At least there’s some good news there. ‘The chairs are here, and the covers are mostly pressed.’ It’s sounding as if we’re getting ahead of the jobs.
‘That’s brill.’ She pushes her shoulders out of the suds. ‘Because there’s something extra I’ve got to fit in today…’ There’s an uncertain note in her voice I don’t recognise.
‘Really?’ I refuse to believe there’s anything she’s not covered on her multiple spread sheets and in her manual.
‘I told you I ran into Iris a few weeks ago?’
Actually she didn’t, because if she had I’d have remembered. We used to see Iris every summer when we came to stay with my gran in St Aidan. But way more important than Iris was Iris’s brother, George. I’m guessing he was Alice’s first real love. They hung around every holiday for years, before he smashed her heart into a thousand tiny pieces. And I suspect Alice knows she forgot to mention Iris. Because whenever we’ve spoken, it’s been wedding details all the way.
‘She’s meeting a few friends for drinks; I thought I might pop over.’ Alice’s expression is blank and she’s making it sound completely throw-away. ‘Seeing as I’m here.’
So throw away, I can’t imagine why she’d even be bothering. ‘Just Iris?’
I watch her throat bulge as she swallows. ‘Actually George might be there too…’ Her voice is so low it’s almost a croak. ‘He just got divorced and he’s been asking after me… apparently.’
‘Alice…’ My alarm bells aren’t just ringing, they’re clanging. Which is my excuse for sloshing my coffee all over the tiles and shrieking. ‘You’re about to marry the love of your life, at the wedding of the century. And you’re running across Cornwall to see the guy who broke your heart? Are you sure you know what you’re doing here?’
At least one of us is calm and collected. ‘I’m simply ticking a box, now the opportunity has come up. It’s not as if Dan’s arrived yet. If he had, and we were doing things together, that would be different.’ She hands me a flannel for the coffee spill.
‘Right.’ I mop up, without thinking. Dan turning up is something else I haven’t had time to focus on. I know he’s not here yet, but I assume that, as with Alice, his work deadlines have slipped.
‘George never gave me closure. Whereas I’m on course for my perfect wedding and I’d like him to see that.’
It’s years ago, but that summer is still as fresh as yesterday. Hearing Alice crying herself to sleep. Seventeen and waiting all holiday for George to arrive, as he always did. And he didn’t have the guts to tell her he wasn’t coming. That he was going out with someone else. And he never came to St Aidan again.
‘He’s a GP now, near Truro.’
If we’re talking parallel lives, I’m not sure sophisticated, metropolitan Alice would ever have fitted in as a GP’s wife, in Cornwall of all places. She’d have hated every minute.
‘Some dragons are best left to sleep,’ I say. Cliché alert, but it’s true. If this were me, I’d be slipping this particular dragon a tranquiliser dart, not surprising it awake by drenching it in cold water, then dangling a hot human bride under its nose. ‘Leave the past alone.’ It comes out as a shout, because I know. I came face to face with Johnny. No good comes of it.
‘This is why we’re so different.’ She juts her chin out. ‘We disagree every time on the most important things. I’ve already decided I’m going. You can come too if you want.’
‘Me?’ Worse and worse. ‘I’ve got important wedding jobs to do…’ I say, knowing I shouldn’t be looking forward to a day with Quinn quite as much as I am. I’m squirming, hoping I’m not completely letting her down here. Is it really my job as a bridesmaid to stop her making kamikaze moves like this one? I’m supposed to be helping Quinn pick up a consignment of extra-special glasses Alice has ordered. Not baby-sit Alice while she goes to do whatever it is you do with old flames. Stamp on them? Re-ignite them? Please don’t let it be that. I’m doing mental equations. No glasses means no fizz. But then if I don’t keep Alice in check, we might not need either.
13
Monday, 19th December
At Rose Hill Manor: Blowing cold and hot
When I arrive at Rose Hill Manor to meet Quinn an hour later, I cautiously drive around the bend at the end of the drive and go headlong into a blizzard. As for Alice, in the end I decide that at thirty-three she’s old enough to make her own mistakes. Yes, there’s a twang of guilt that I’m here and not with her. But she’s got to do what she’s got to do. And picking up bespoke cocktail glasses is what I’ve got to do.
As I climb out of the car, a flurry of snowflakes hits my face, blasting from all directions. I put my arm up to shield my eyes and hear a burst of throaty laughter, which has to be Quinn.
‘So what do you think? Great snowstorm, or what?’ He ambles into view around the side of the house. As the sound of the snow machines dies, the flakes waft in the air. ‘That was five machines, full on. Impressive or what?’
‘Pretty cool.’ In fact, the drifting flakes look totally magical against the snow-covered ground. I’m suddenly seven again, remembering one idyllic Christmas when we were kids, when the whole family went to a cottage in the Lake District and we were snowed in. When, just for once, our dad wasn’t on another continent doing a visiting lecture tour. And he looked up from his papers for long enough to take us out sledging. Maybe that little bubble of childhood happiness is what Alice is trying to recreate here. And if Alice has to settle for fake snow, it’s not the end of the world, apart from the way it’s clinging to my jacket like polystyrene. But I don’t want the success to go to Quinn’s head. I have to ask, ‘How long have you been playing?’
‘All morning.’ His shamefaced grimace turns to an indignant grin. ‘And? Someone has to do the testing. I’m happy to report they’re all working.’
‘And I’m pleased to hear it.’ I get out my phone to glance at the time. ‘No pressure, but aren’t we going glass-collecting?’
‘The van’s round the side. Jump in, I’ll run the snow machines back into the stables and be with you in five.’
We’ve got to head a couple of hours’ north for the glasses. I know lots of people drink out of plastic flutes at receptions, not hand-blown crystal, but that’s not Alice. And for once she bucked the London trend and ordered locally. As I clamber into the van, there’s a vague fluttering in my tummy, and not just because Quinn’s going to be driving at the speed of light. There’s something tingly about the thought of a five-hour road trip with a guy who doesn’t give a damn. Let’s face it, anything could happen here.
As he swings into the driver’s seat my tummy gives a growl.
He rubs his chin. ‘Have you had breakfast?’
I wrinkle my nose and try to decide if I’d describe his jaw as bearded or stubbly. ‘Can we pull in for lunch along the way?’ Not that I’m a flashy kind of girl, but somewhere more upmarket than a drive-thru would be nice. Maybe even a cosy pub.
‘There’s a place I know not far away, where the chips are double-fried and the sea food is…’ He stops mid-sentence. ‘What the hell…?’
I’m busy sucking in my drool, but when I see the reflection in the wing mirror, my stomach deflates faster than a whoopee cushion under a sixteen-stone bottom. Johnny? Again? Except this time he’s lost the overalls and found a disgustingly hunky parka.
Quinn exhales as he winds down the window. Not that he went into details, but from what he said last night, Quinn’s as anxious as I am to avoid Johnny. Which is why I had no worries at all about bumping into him, at least for today.
Johnny’s smile is laid-back. ‘Move over, I’ll come along too. We can call in the wine merchants on the way back.’
Quinn’s squawk of protest is desperate. ‘Don’t you have a carriage to mend, mate? Or horses to harness?’
‘All done.’ Johnny’s response is as cool as they come. No change there, then. ‘So it might be best if I drive…’
‘What?’ Quinn’s blinking in disbelief.
‘Given the icy roads…’ Johnny’s pause is pointed. ‘…and my experience on the skid pan.’
Welding and skid pans? I know it’s been years, but whatever happened to the Johnny who spent every waking hour in the lab or in the library?
Quinn gives a snort of disgust and makes speech-mark signs in the air. ‘Err, excuse me but…“My other car’s a Ferrari.” I think I can handle a van in an inch of snow, thanks all the same.’
‘Up to you.’ A second later Johnny’s yanked open the passenger door and it’s me he’s smiling up at. ‘In that case, I’ll come in next to you.’
As re-introductions go, this one is sudden and horribly up-close. In an ideal world this three-seater bench seat would be twice as wide. When Johnny slams the door shut his thigh is practically welded to mine and I’m staring down at sharp designer jeans that couldn’t be more different from Quinn’s lived-in version.
To take my mind off Johnny’s thigh, I’m watching Quinn’s broad fingers heading for the gear lever. At the last moment, they veer off course. As his palm lands flat on my knee my gasp leaves my eyes popping. Somehow the shock freezes my vocal chords, because although I feel like shrieking, I don’t even squeak. Johnny and I watch, mesmerised, as Quinn’s hand clamps into a tight squeeze. If I’m gob-smacked, Johnny’s worse. And Quinn’s grinning like he’s a kid who’s found the key to Santa’s grotto. If I’d known my leg was going to get this much scrutiny, I’d have made sure I picked some tights without a hole in.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Johnny frowning like a storm. The best I manage is a ‘what the fuck?’ glare in Quinn’s direction.
He responds with one last pat and a low laugh. ‘Ready to go, Sera?’ Then he’s pushing the van into gear and we’re pulling away.
Once Quinn’s let go of me, Johnny settles back into his seat. At a guess, he’s trying to act like nothing happened. ‘Leopard legs, Sera? Aren’t they very 2006?’
Another snide reference to the past there. And who’d have thought animal print would have run and run the way it has? Not that anyone can take any fashion comments seriously from a guy who’s dressed head to toe in John Lewis’ casual menswear.
‘My tights came from the H&M summer sale. This year.’ I say, pointedly.
When I mentioned cosy lunches, I was not thinking me squished in the middle of a best-man sandwich. Apart from the leg-grabbing – and who knows what that was about? – there are two clues that Quinn isn’t exactly thrilled that best man two – or should that be best man one? – has come along for the ride: a) the furious bull snorts coming out of Quinn’s nostrils, and b) the deep furrows on his forehead. He flips on the radio, turns up the volume, and the next minute Pirate FM is perforating our eardrums.
With Frosty the Snowman reverberating around the van cab, Johnny digs in his pocket and pulls out a set of battery operated fairy lights. I watch as he unwinds them along the dash. As we head between the avenue of trees along the drive and he clicks the tiny lights on, Quinn’s brow descends into a full-blown scowl.
Somehow I seem to have inadvertently landed in the middle of a territory war. The lights have lovely copper wire and flat, white illuminated stars, and I’m desperate to say ‘Sooo pretty’. Instead I take a deep breath and stare down at my knees. Big mistake.
The one and only time my legs were this close to Johnny’s was years ago and back then they were naked. If that sounds bad, the rest is way worse than anything you’re imagining. He invited me to be his ‘plus one’ for the department formal, the Christmas after I left uni. More fool me for going. I’ve re-lived that weekend in my head a thousand times and every time it makes me feel like I want to crawl into a hole and never come out. You don’t want the gory details. Not with Johnny sitting right next to me. The upside is that it’s whooshed every bit of this morning’s hunger away. If we stopped at a gourmet restaurant, I couldn’t even manage an amuse-bouche. Locking my eyes on the snowy hills we’re whizzing past, I hope for Alice’s sake that her ‘blast from the past’ is giving her more space than mine is.
The A30 passes in a blur. If the atmosphere hadn’t been so awkward, I’d have been singing along. Let’s face it, it’s impossible to listen to ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day’ and not join in. We sit through Chris De Burgh, the X-factor finalists and numerous adverts for garden centres and chipped windscreens. ‘Let It Snow’ is just beginning when I have a thought that makes me lean forward and turn down the volume. Because there’s something I need to ask.
‘So when’s Dan arriving?’
These are the guys who should know, but there’s a stiffening either side of me.
‘He’ll be along any day now.’ Quinn twitches his nose and fiddles with the fog-light knob.
‘Still tying up loose ends…’ Johnny adds raking his fingers through his hair.
‘Celestial skies don’t come cheap.’ If Quinn’s thrown that in as a distraction, it’s worked.
The ceiling! I was so preoccupied with Alice and her after-bubble-bath plans, I forgot to ask. ‘So when’s the ceiling coming?’
Quinn shakes his head. ‘Not today.’
I screw up my face. ‘But don’t they need two days to fit it?’
‘This is why we’re all here in advance.’ Quinn’s drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘To give us tolerance when things go wrong.’
That’s a word I seize on. ‘It’s gone wrong?’
Johnny cuts in, ‘No one said that.’
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear these two guys, who aren’t exactly the best of buddies, were closing ranks.
I go back to my original question. ‘So where did you say Dan is?’
‘Still working…’ That’s Johnny.
‘We’ve got things covered here…’ That’s Quinn again. And they’ve actually said diddly squat.
Johnny joins in… ‘I mean, Alice only just got here herself.’
Oh shit. Alice is the last person I want to talk about. Even as we speed along at a hundred miles an hour – well, that’s what it says on the speedo – she’s probably meeting George. Air kissing, at the Shark and Shrimp, moving straight through to recriminations over canapes. By the time they’ve got hot and bothered over mulled wine and mince pies, anything could have happened. Suddenly, adverts for garden centres and Christmas shopping seem so much less dangerous than talking about Alice.
‘And we were managing fine before she turned up.’ I say breezily, as I reach for the volume knob. ‘It’s only a wedding, after all. Who needs a bride and groom?’
14
Monday, 19th December
In the hire van: Salt and frosted glass
So you know those times when things are so dreadful you can’t imagine they could possibly be any worse? It’s bad enough that I have to listen to ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’, and hold back my werewolf howl on the ‘Youuuuuuuuuu’ part. But when we get to the glass factory, there are way more boxes than we’d anticipated. We’re expecting cocktail glasses, but it turns out we’re collecting glasses for every eventuality. Martini, flutes, tumblers, wine. As for how many ways are there to pack a van, I’m guessing that depends on how many best men you have. And how hard-headed they are.
‘It’s obvious, we stack them high.’ Quinn’s indicating hand is way above his head. ‘Like a tidal wave.’
Which sounds logical enough to me. But total bollocks to Johnny.
‘Or…’ If Johnny’s being cool and p
ersuasive, it’s probably because by rights he shouldn’t even be here. ‘We put them one box deep across the floor… like the sea.’ Despite that empathising watery afterthought, Quinn isn’t going for it.
‘No, so long as we keep them upright we’re good to go high.’
At this rate we’ll still be here when it’s dark. What’s more, if they don’t hurry up, my numb toes may have turned to ice blocks. I’m turning to hear Johnny’s counter-argument, but as Quinn stands back and folds his arms, he accidentally moves into a phone-signal area. The pocket of his duffel coat is suddenly jumping and beeping. And the minute Quinn answers his phone, he’s out of the game.
Johnny grabs me by the shoulder. ‘Quick, jump to it, load as many in as you can while he’s talking.’
By the time Quinn comes back, it’s too late. The boxes are safely stowed and the back doors are slammed shut.
‘Everything okay?’ I send him a pacifying smile, which is way more than he deserves, considering the knee-grabbing incident, earlier.
His dismissive head-shake suggests exactly how pissed off he is that he hasn’t got his way. Which is weird, because thus far I hadn’t got him down as a bad loser. Although somehow I doubt he loses often.
Johnny holds out his hand. ‘Have you got the keys? Precious cargo and all that. I’ll drive back.’
Quinn shakes away his frown and a grin spreads across his face. ‘Like hell you will.’ He’s in the driving seat faster than you can say ‘High Ball’.
They say people don’t change, and it’s true Johnny was always the cleverest person out. But I don’t remember him being this domineering with other guys back in the day. Yes, he had girls queuing round the block to go out with him. I mean, no guy should have it handed on a plate every time. It can’t be good for them. But maybe he’s met his match with Quinn. Quinn’s easy confidence and rugged good looks are a dynamite combination for any woman looking for a guy. Which – just saying – definitely isn’t me. But the threat of male competition might be why drop-dead gorgeous Johnny feels he has to prove himself here.