No Reception

by Maisie Porter

  And here it is now, Joan is pushing the tray over to a bunch of excited wedding guests, she hunches over the leaning tower as the cake wobbles on the unsteady trolley. I envision the cake sliding off the shaky trolley and splattering all over the ground. I really don’t want to make the guests eat cake from the grass. I look over at Zody; she is watching the travelling cake, I imagine that she would like a piece, I will organise for one of the students to make sure she is not forgotten. I take out Zody’s phone and walk over to the cake. I want to be the first photographer to get a shot of the only course of this festivity; once all the photographers have gathered around the trolley, there will be no space for me. All the hungry photographers around the delicious looking cake. I point the camera towards the confection, how can you take bad photos of a cake? Okay, I know how to do it badly – the opposite of everything I have ever learned. I make sure the cake looks crooked and instead of its slender shape I will cause it to look stout. The original has a gorgeous white colour, but I will work against the light and find the angle where the white cake turns into a grotesque grey tower that no wedding guest would ever desire to put into their mouths.

  “Helena!” I turn around to find Chantel standing behind me.

  “Why don’t you have your camera out? You’re missing the best shots,” I ask.

  “I’m not feeling very well; I’m going upstairs to lie down for a tad. Do you think we can untie her now?” she says, nodding towards the body in the chair.

  “What, so she can scream? No, but I am going to offer her some cake, she can try to eat it through the gag,” I say.

  Chantel shrugs and walks toward the house.

  Where’s the commitment? I question.

  Zody

  They are all a joke, every one of these photographers. Each one believing they are the most original and that a couple’s wedding day will be ruined if they aren’t the one photographing them.

  I am sitting involuntarily in this ornamental chair, my hands tied behind my back, the stiff material stretches across and into my mouth, again! But what a wedding Helena has organised. The bride, whom I recognise as being the girl with the buzz cut that I saw in the hallway last night, is wearing a cocktail length, white tulle dress. She looks stunning. I’ve never photographed anyone with a buzz cut. The groom? Well, no one ever notices the groom do they. Here is the moment I realise what the wedding photography industry represents: I see all these people, who I’m guessing are photographers, scrambling around the bride trying to outshine one another.

  I can see the completeness and the mean-spiritedness play out before my eyes. If my hands weren’t tied behind my back, I would clap.

  Deep within me I know I am as despicable as they are because, even though I am being held captive, my primary thought is that I am a better photographer than all these fools breaking into a sweat to get that one perfect shot.

  That is why I am not struggling. I am not crying. Now that the initial shock of finding myself tied to a chair has worn off I can concentrate on the wedding. I am not afraid while I sit here, I know that she won’t hurt me with all the people around and I can also tell by the relaxed manner in which the knots have been tied that this is not an act to cause me physical harm, although I do not appreciate being drugged, again! And that vile slap in the face, that can’t be forgiven. Tying me to this chair, forcing me to watch this wedding, and taking photos on my phone is an act of pure Jealousy. What Helena doesn’t know is that I am as twisted as she is. I shoot Helena a look. ‘Well played’. At that same moment, Helena looks at me and our eyes lock, she is asking me ‘Have I done well, organising this phoney wedding?’ Yes, you have, Helena, this is a perfect wedding. The weather is divine, sunny but not too sunny, when the sunlight is harsh, the features on the couple’s faces disappear (that takes so long to fix when editing if you don’t get the initial setting correct). Also, it’s not too cold where the bride shivers and tenses her body throughout her whole wedding day. And, Helena, most importantly, everyone is following your orders. Only occasionally a photographer lowers the camera they hold in front of their face and looks over at me; I am like the aged relative at a wedding that no one notices.

  And now it’s time for the wedding cake! A lady with tight grey curls hunches over as she pushes a trolley decorated with a white tablecloth on which stands a towering snowy white wedding cake, four layers high. The cake cutting is the tricky part of photographing a wedding as you have to fit the bride, groom, and cake into the shot, but you can’t photograph the cake while you’re kneeling in front of the table; this will cause you to photograph up the bride’s nose. Now all the photographers have their backs to me, and they are crowding around the table again to take that perfect photo. If only I could untie myself, this would be a perfect time to escape.

  I try to crane my neck to see what’s happening at the table, which starts to become more visible as the photographers walk away from it. They are all holding pink paper plates on which sits a slither of chocolate cake with an outline of white. “Excuse me,” a voice says to the right of me. A woman in an orange dress with a delicate face framed by a blonde bob holds out a paper plate with a thick slice of chocolate cake balancing on it, “would you like a piece of cake?” she asks in a high-pitched voice.

  I shake my head; this is surreal. No thank you. It is probably poisoned.

  Helena

  Photos can change the way we look at the world. Ugly photos will change her world. The effect the pictures will have when released into the world will not be able to be reversed. She can announce that her account was hacked again, this time no one will believe her. She will only be able to dream about the career that she once had. Business class flights to foreign countries will be something of the past.

  I am willing to pay the price for what I have done. The students are none the wiser, they are satisfied with their photography efforts, albeit disturbed by the lady tied to the chair in the corner. Once the ceremony was completed, she was whisked away from questioning eyes, carried by John back into her room. She now lies on the bed and doesn’t move; it looks like she may have given up.

  I sit in a chair in the corner of the room, and I notice her room is much nicer than the one I was staying in, why didn’t I stay in this room?

  I work on uploading the wedding photos to her Instagram account. I look at the time. I told Archer I would be back this afternoon. That means I should start travelling home soon. I can go back happy now, and I will return home a success. I look at Zody lying on the bed, how I can persuade her not to go to the police? Maybe we can make a deal, and she can work for me. I will have enough work coming my way that I can certainly share a few smaller jobs with her.

  “Helena, I’m going to leave now, I’ve had all the students pack up the yard,” Chantel says, sticking her head into the room.

  She peeks over my shoulder at Zody on the bed.

  “Hi, Zody,” she says and waves.

  “Are you going to let her go now?” she asks.

  I don’t answer her directly.

  “Are you feeling better, Chantel?” I ask, noticing she looks fresher, maybe because she has changed into a lovely floral dress.

  “Yes thanks, all I needed was a nap to get over the side effects of last night,” she explains.

  “Has John gone, I need him to carry Zody outside to your car?” I say.

  “My car? Are you going to put her in the boot of my car?” she squeaks.

  “Yes, you are going to take her back home but not tied up and not in the boot. As I recall, you became good friends over the last few days,” I reply.

  I call out to John. “Where is he?” I say to no one in particular.

  He appears at the top of the stairs. “Yes, Helena, are you looking for me? I’ve got to get going, I have a long drive.”

  “Don’t we all, John. Before you go can you please put Zody in Chantel’s car? Sit her on the passenger’s side. Untie her only once she is seated comfortably,” I instruct. I pick up Zody’s cloth
es from around the room and throw them into her bag and then follow John through the house to Chantel’s car.

  I’m expecting Zody to run, but I won’t be able to control that if it’s what she chooses to do. I put her bag at her feet while John removes her restraints. She doesn’t acknowledge me standing next to the door of the car. Her hair is matted and sticks to her face from when she had started to sweat the moment she realised I am a better photographer than she is. I stroke her hair but she moves her head away from my touch.

  I hold her phone in my hand; it is the one piece of her I’m still touching. I should be putting it in her lap, as a peace offering, but I decide I want to keep it. It will make a nice addition to her diary, which I still have to read.

  I linger next to the car not wanting her to leave. “Take her home,” I say with regret.

  Chantel nods.

  “No, I don’t want to travel all the way home with you, take me to the nearest train station,” I hear Zody say just as I close the car door.

  I watch as the car drives through the potholes in the dirt before it increases speed at the top of the hill just before it turns onto the main road. The last few students are also leaving, and they are raising their hand to wave goodbye to their teacher.

  “See you next week to analyse the photos we took today.” Mary sticks her head out of her window before her car joins Chantel’s on the main road.

  I wave to my students and walk into the house to do a final cleanup before I begin driving home. I hear the back door slide open and watch John enter, his frame seems larger when it is only us in the house.

  He walks up to me, and I can smell the sour sweat from all the carrying he has done.

  “I didn’t realise you were still here; I thought you left as soon as you put Zody in the car, you said you were in a hurry to leave,” I say.

  He steps closer to me. “I forgot I’d left the shed open so just had to lock it up,” he says, pointing to the backyard, and taking another step towards me.

  I put my hand out for him to stop and I touch his bulging stomach. He dismisses my hand and begins to speak as if daydreaming.

  “I just wanted to tell you, Helena, thanks for letting me have that opportunity, to be part of this assignment. I haven’t felt this excited in a long time, at first I was not sure if I was doing the right thing but then carrying that naughty girl on my shoulder.”

  I cringe.

  “Anyhow, if you have any more of these secret assignments, I wanted to let you know, I can help you if you need someone with strength,” he says, holding up one arm and touching his hairy bicep.

  “I will, John, I don’t plan these assignments often, but I will keep you in mind, you were instrumental in the smooth running of the day,” I say looking for an exit in this conversation. “You should go now, remember your long drive home,” I suggest, looking forward to being on my own. John does what I tell him, and I watch him walk through the front door, grateful when I can push the door closed behind him.

  As I turn the solid lock on the door my phone beeps in my pocket, I take it out, but there are no messages.

  I put my hand in my other pocket and take out Zody’s phone.

  I look at the screen. An Instagram alert.

  I read the message, and I feel hot blood rise to my cheeks.

  “John, John!” I call out as I unlock the door and run down the porch steps.

  “Remember how five minutes ago you said you wanted to be part of another assignment, well… one has just come up,” I say breathlessly.

  Zody

  There are potholes in the dirt track that leads to the main road; I’m sure Chantel’s car tyres are about to burst and that will send me back into Helena’s grasp.

  “You don’t need to catch a train; I can drive you straight to your apartment,” Chantel says.

  “I don’t trust a fucking word you say; you will probably dump me in the nearest bush, also I need to go to the toilet, I will go at the train station. No one was kind enough to ask me if I needed to go before I was tied up.”

  I can talk again! Now that this wretched bind is out of my mouth I feel like screaming and never stopping. “Fuck this, give me your phone; I’m gonna call the police,” I demand.

  “Take it, it’s in my bag on the back seat, pass it to me, and I’ll unlock it.” She gestures with her head to the bag lying on the back seat. “Helena told me you don’t protect your phone with a password; you know you should always lock it for security.”

  I reach over to the back seat and pat it for Chantel’s bag, bringing the large brown leather bag over onto my knees.

  “Helena says the police won’t believe your side of the story anyway,” Chantel says. “Apparently you have anxiety attacks, and they make you delusional,” she adds, happily sharing some information she was made privy to.

  I look at Chantel’s face, disappointed at my bad judge of character; to think that the other day I had briefly enjoyed this girl’s company. I search through the bag and find her phone amongst a partly sucked lollypop and a spiralled notebook.

  My hand brushes the sticky lollypop bulb. I grab the phone with my newly tacky fingers and hold the phone out to Chantel to unlock with her password. As I hold the phone up I can see my hand trembling. As I watch, for this first time I feel self pity. I don’t feel fear and I don’t feel anxious, the only feeling within me is overwhelming sadness.

  Once Chantel has unlocked her phone, I run my finger over the keypad but hesitate to press the numbers. I hate to admit it, but it will be difficult for me to explain the details surrounding the circumstances of my imprisonment. How do I explain that Helena took me hostage on account of her jealousy and then she was a kind captor because she let me go? Twice!

  Miss Swabler, the detective would patiently say, Helena tells us that the last time she saw you was at her house four days ago. She said there was some misunderstanding about an email you thought she sent you; it appears though, she knew nothing of the email. She says you may have had a panic attack while you were sitting in her lounge. Do you suffer from panic attacks, Miss Swabler? Have you passed out recently? The police officers would ask me a barrage of questions.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” I would have to admit, I have passed out recently, and I do suffer from panic attacks. I am surprised I’m not having an episode right now because just the thought of checking my phone makes me panic-stricken, I am afraid of the mess that Helena has created of my future.

  Chantel turns up the volume on the radio. I hold her phone on my lap and lean back on the headrest, closing my eyes.

  But I have no chance to enjoy a peaceful drive as Chantel feels a need to talk unrelentingly.

  “Helena appreciates you helping our group out with the photography assignment.”

  I form my hand into a fist, demanding silence. I slam it into the side of the door. Chantel jumps in surprise and continues to drive in silence.

  I look at the time on the dashboard: 1:20 pm. It’s Saturday. I have a job tonight starting at 6 pm. How can I possibly work this evening? But I’m going to work. I am going to take my broken body and my camera and photograph the shit out of that wedding tonight.

  “Tell me, Chantel, is there another round of torture in store for me courtesy of the psycho bitch? Or will she stop now she has destroyed my career?” I ask.

  Chantel shrugs. “I can’t tell you if or what Helena has planned. But next time she asks me to be involved I’ll tell her I don’t want to be part of it. I really liked you, Zody, but we just met under unfortunate circumstances,” she replies. “Have you thought about what you are going to do now for work? My boss may have a sales assistant position open at the store if you have no other options,” she says attempting to be helpful.

  I look at Chantel’s face to see if she is joking. She’s not.

  “Why do you think I should be inclined to tell you what my plans are?” I ask.

  “Fair enough,” she replies.

  “I can’t believe I’m even speaking to you, ju
st drive me home, I don’t have time to catch a train, after all.”

  “Sure, but first things first, we need to stop and get fuel, according to my GPS the petrol station is not far ahead.”

  I stretch my legs onto the dashboard of her car as Chantel approaches the petrol station, never having appreciated stretching as much as I have in the last few days.

  “Be quick,” I say. “If you are not back in the car in three minutes, I’m leaving.”

  “Aren’t you going to use the loo here?” Chantel asks.

  “Look at this place; it’s a tin shack converted into a petrol station, does it look like it would have a toilet?”

  “Suit yourself,” she says, shrugging and taking her phone and bag and stepping out of the car.

  I watch her as she lifts up the petrol pump handle and pours the fuel into her car, swinging her hips to an imaginary tune that only she can hear.

  I tap my fingers on my knee and search for a clock somewhere in the car. There’s no time displayed when the engine is turned off. I need my phone back; I can hardly function without it but I know there is no way I’m going to get it back from that loony. Cutting my losses, I’m just going to have to disconnect my service as soon as I get home. I watch Chantel walk up to the metal door of the service station. I look out at my surroundings. Maybe there’s a way for me to get home from here on my own. There is an empty white station wagon parked next to us at the only other pump at this petrol station. I look onto the busy highway and consider hitching a ride; I’ve already lived through being tied up twice so how much worse can it get? I turn my attention back to Chantel inside the shop. A thin man in a red checked shirt is in front of her in the queue, Chantel has her phone to her ear, her eyes focused on the man’s back. Almost too quickly, her head snaps to look in my direction and she waves, I don’t wave back.