Run For the Hills

by Carla Caruso

  ‘Yes, I saw the interview. That’s why I’ve had my phone switched off … mrmph mmmrpph … I didn’t want to risk mrmph mmmrpph … Sorry, I didn’t mean to mrmph mmmrpph … everything’s fine.’

  Risk? Phone switched off? What the hell was she talking about?

  Cody shook himself, aware he was eavesdropping. And listening to one half of a barely audible conversation, putting two and two together and coming up with five. For the millionth time, he reminded himself that theirs was a professional relationship and her private life her own.

  Getting to his feet, he went to splash some water on his face and finger-comb his hair. Then he grabbed The Wedding Entourage flyer from the coffee table and scribbled on the back in blue biro: ‘Enjoy your day off, C.’ He ducked outdoors.

  The morning air had that fresh, clean smell that always followed a rainstorm and the sun taunted him by glowing like a lightsaber. As soon as he opened the Love Shack’s front door, he had to struggle to keep a straight face. Crystal and Bo were heading down the stairs in matching white onesies, ‘bride’ and ‘groom’ spelled out respectively in pink crystals across their chests.

  ‘Have a good night?’ he ventured.

  ‘Did we ever,’ Crystal crowed.

  It was more than he needed to know.

  * * *

  The home office was deserted when Bridie headed in on Monday morning. After their first successful wedding on Saturday, the Belshaws were obviously starting their week a bit slower. Good thing Cody had since given her a key to the main house.

  As soon as she approached her desk, the landline shrieked. The working week had officially begun. Bridie flung her handbag strap on the back of her chair and leapt to answer it, the lake glinting like green glass through the window. ‘The Wedding Entourage, Bridie speaking.’

  ‘Hi,’ a cool, disturbingly familiar voice echoed down the line. ‘Tilda Hampton here. I’m interested in staging my wedding at Goldlake.’

  Bridie sank into her ergonomic chair. Well, that or she’d slumped there, temporarily losing control of her limbs. Her blood was now Slurpee-like in her veins. ‘Y-your wedding?’

  The world had shrunk Alice in Wonderland-style. Tilda Hampton was the assistant operations manager at The Cambridge, the flagship city hotel in Rory’s portfolio, known for its rooftop pool bar and award-winning Japanese restaurant. A place frequented by the who’s who of Melbourne. Tilda was also an uber-blonde, social-climbing, lipstick lesbian. A lifetime ago she and Bridie had gone to the same blonde-specialist salon. Megz once met Tilda and said she had a very dark aura. Bridie didn’t doubt it.

  Tilda pushed on. ‘An old family friend lives in the Hills and emailed me the article from the Balkissoch Watch. When I read Supermodel Search’s Vance Belshaw was in town, and all about the beautiful venue, I just knew what last-minute Christmas gift to give my girlfriend, Eloise. A wedding! My friends will adore a jaunt to the country to help us celebrate. It’s the perfect time of year to get away.’

  No doubt Tilda would get a rush out of Vance, who’d snapped Gigi Hadid and Cara Delevingne, being named as one of her photographers in the society pages. There was also the glory of her being among the first to discover the ‘ironically’ quaint venue. For Bridie, though, it was the worst situation imaginable. Good thing Tilda didn’t know Bridie’s old nickname, which she’d answered the phone with.

  ‘What date did you have in mind for your wedding?’ she dared to ask, speaking in a higher pitch to disguise her voice. It came out sounding like she’d been chugging helium. At the same time, she wrestled a stress-and-anxiety spray Megz had gifted her from her handbag, spritzing the air with its lemony, rosemary scent.

  Tilda didn’t appear to notice anything strange going on. But then, she was only ever really interested in hearing her own voice. She named the Saturday after the canine-loving couple’s wedding as her choice. Darn, darn, darn, it’d work. Bridie couldn’t turn away business when the boys were on the home stretch now.

  ‘Wonderful. And how many guests would you need to accommodate?’

  She prayed for an intimate few. Maybe she could somehow bribe Tilda to button her lip about her location. An all-paid-for facelift?

  ‘About a hundred and fifty.’

  Fuck. There was no doubt this’d include Rory. And Joni. And all the rest of the gang from the hotel group. Tilda never missed an opportunity to network, or show off.

  What were the chances she’d pick bloody Goldlake for her commitment ceremony?

  Bridie had no choice; she’d have to leave town before Tilda’s big day. Though she would have loved to see the Belshaws’ project through to the end—she was emotionally invested now—it was way too risky. She would just have to make sure things were running like a well-oiled machine right up until her very last minute there.

  Sensing movement at the door, she turned to find Cody, all flaxen hair, sky-blue eyes and bronzed skin, filling the entrance. As for the likelihood of never seeing his face again, she couldn’t allow herself to think too hard about it. Having him sleep on her couch, mere metres away, had been torture enough. But what kind of woman would she be if, given half the chance, she’d run straight from one man’s arms into another’s?

  Swivelling back to the computer, she squeaked into the phone, ‘Brilliant. Uh, I might pass you onto one of the Belshaw brothers now to help with the finer details. Bye.’ Spinning back around like a madwoman, Bridie extended the cordless to Cody, mouthing ‘client’.

  He nodded and took the handpiece, mouthing back, ‘You okay?’, and pointed at his throat.

  Her strangled cat voice. All she could manage was a limp shrug.

  Ten minutes later, Cody hung up the phone and punched the air. ‘Hello, client number four! The month’s full and the end’s in sight. Soon we can kick this wedding bizzo to the kerb. All you’ll need to concentrate on now is admin, client relations etcetera. Can’t wait to tell my bros.’

  Bridie gulped. ‘Th-that’s great news.’

  Cody’s eyes danced, evidence of his magnanimous mood. ‘Anyway, you should be taking today off. You worked Saturday. Plus, your voice sounded strained before. I’ll send Tilda the contract.’

  Just what Bridie didn’t need. Another day off to contemplate her navel and attempt to lay low as she imagined Tilda, on a location recce, lurking around every corner. But what was a girl to do?

  She reached for her cream handbag, sliding its strap on her shoulder. ‘Okay, thanks. And, um, congrats again on securing your final client.’

  ‘Awesome, isn’t it?’ Cody grinned.

  She edged towards the door. He certainly seemed unfazed at the thought of seeing the back of her—his dance buddy—in the near future. She’d be wise to think along similar lines.

  Stepping into the hall, she just about jumped out of her skin. Russ the gardener hovered nearby, his weather-beaten face not giving anything away. Cody’s words echoed in her brain: ‘The end’s in sight. Soon we can kick this wedding bizzo to the kerb.’ Could Russ have actually heard him?

  The old guy’s face split into a wide smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Morning, Bridie. Heard your first wedding was a success on the weekend.’

  ‘Y-yes. And the garden made a beautiful backdrop for the ceremony. It was just magic once the sun came out.’

  Didn’t they say you caught more flies with honey?

  ‘Glad to hear it. Cody’s in there, I gather? I was just after a quick word.’

  ‘Yes, he is. Go ahead.’ Bridie stepped aside, hurtling away as Russ headed for the office.

  Her stomach’s sinking feeling—about Tilda, Russ and leaving town—didn’t evaporate even when she was holed up at the main-street café, nursing a hot chocolate. With mini marshmallows.

  Idly, Bridie flicked through a women’s magazine left on the table. She paused at a real-life article, entitled Me and Mum. The feature focused on a fashion designer and her financier mother, who described themselves as ‘the best of friends’. The brunette pair certain
ly looked it, with their smiling faces pressed together and their complementary pastel outfits. Something new gnawed at Bridie’s gut … lime-green envy.

  What would such a spread on Bridie and her mum look like? Would they appear like the virtual strangers they were, their smiles forced, Bridie’s mother barely able to answer the simplest of questions about her own daughter? Actually, more likely, her mum wouldn’t turn up at all. Case in point: Bridie had no idea where her ‘gypsetter’ mother had settled most recently.

  Shoving the magazine aside, Bridie sipped from her hot chocolate and coughed as some of the cocoa topping went down the wrong way. Super. Setting the mug down again, she vaguely tuned into a conversation on the opposite table about local pranksters putting garden gnomes on shop rooves in the middle of the night, surprising passers-by the next day. Pretty funny. Then, her fingers grew suddenly twitchy. And a saying sprang to mind: the devil finds work for idle hands … should she or shouldn’t she?

  Before she had time to think better of it, she fished her phone out of her bag, powered it on, and googled a word she hadn’t in a while. Facebook. Reactivating her account was as easy as logging in again, even if her old password seemed like that of a stranger’s: ‘Bride2b’.

  Dangerous as it was to be online, she craved the prospect of seeing some nice familiar faces. And, okay, she was curious: had anyone really missed her, beyond Megz, her aunt and uncle, and supposedly Rory?

  She scrolled her newsfeed, her blood fizzing in her veins. It was so bizarre seeing names and noggins she knew popping up, making comments about where they’d just brunched or posing in party pics from their weekends. Clearly, the world hadn’t stopped spinning on its axis since she’d scarpered. Her heart in her mouth, she clicked on her homepage, allowing herself to fully pay attention to the notifications lighting up the top banner like a Christmas tree.

  There were messages—some private, some public—from friends in the industry, the gym and so on, asking where she’d gone, saying that they’d heard the news, that they were thinking of her. She couldn’t help wondering who was reaching out because they cared and who maybe even thought they could profit from discovering her whereabouts. How close had any of them been to her? Had they ever really known her? And was it really their fault if she hadn’t been true to herself? Joni was the only one of Bridie’s former colleagues to leave a comment, but that was to be expected. They were all on Team Rory now.

  She scanned the messages’ dates. They were days old. With her staying mute, people had moved on. If only the media and Rory—obviously keen to save face—would too. Springing back into action, Bridie permanently deleted her Facebook account in a few clicks. Seeing her old life paraded online wasn’t the comfort she’d thought it would be.

  But then, blonde Melbournite ‘Bridget June’ wasn’t who she was anymore. If only working out who she was now, and where she was headed next, would be as easy.

  Chapter 8

  ‘I look completely hideous!’ The voice of Nicola, aka bridezilla extraordinaire, echoed from the depths of the cedar-clad guesthouse.

  Bridie paused on the porch, pushing her glasses up her nose, unsure what to do. Nicola was already forty minutes late for her outdoor ceremony. She and her minions were holed up in the guesthouse’s lounge, using it as a makeshift powder room.

  If Bridie had thought the past week would crawl by with no new business to drum up, she couldn’t have been more wrong. The constant stream of demands from Nicola in the wedding’s lead-up—over the phone and in email—had made it fly. While the weather had been kinder this week, the bride had been decidedly less so.

  Bridie flinched as the shattering of glass rang out in the air. Nicola’s champagne flute likely.

  ‘I look like Cousin Itt dragged through a hedge backwards,’ Nicola continued at the top of her lungs, despite the fact guests were seated not far away on the lawn. Bridie could have sworn the string quartet upped the volume to drown out her words. ‘Shrek’s long-lost cousin. One of Cinderella’s frickin’ ugly stepsisters.’

  ‘Maybe a little more bronzer?’ the hair and make-up artist could be heard serenely suggesting. Obviously she’d dealt with her share of Bridensteins before. Not that it appeared to help. ‘And a touch of hair serum?’

  Bridie glanced at her pearly-white watch again. She couldn’t let Nicola ruin the Belshaws’ carefully laid plans. Not at this late stage. Summoning up all her courage, she grabbed a nearby dustpan and crept inside to sweep up the broken glass—and assess the situation up-close. Nicola’s ridiculous number of bridesmaids were draped around the room, looking glassy-eyed and over it before the wedding had officially begun. None seemed fazed about tending to the broken glassware but they’d probably seen it all before.

  Bridie drew to a stop, sucking in a breath. Nicola had her back to her in the make-up chair, but Bridie could still see her dress from all angles, courtesy of the mirror. It was the first time she’d laid eyes on it. A canary-yellow, ruffle-layered ball-gown, which looked like a love-child between Big Bird and a Scarlett O’Hara-style number. Yet somehow it worked. Way to stand out in a crowd, dressed in black-and-white, as per the bride’s own instructions.

  Head down, Bridie scooted over to clean up the shards of champagne flute from the carpet, as predicted. Why oh why had she gone the dirt-attracting white option for her own dress? After discarding the remains in the make-up bin, she stood up to her full height and channelled the calm of Jennifer Lopez in The Wedding Planner. Or tried to.

  ‘Wow, you look amazing,’ she told Nicola, tilting her head to one side and slowly nodding. ‘Utterly spellbinding.’

  The unfortunate thing was the bridezilla really did look a picture too, with her smouldering dark eyes, bee-stung lips and hourglass figure. Shame about the personality.

  Nicola fiddled with the sparkly tiara atop her chocolate curls, seeming almost … shy. ‘R-really? I wasn’t sure about the whole look.’

  ‘What? You look incredible.’ Bridie made sure to drag out the adjective’s syllables for full effect. Sometimes it took an outsider for compliments to really sink in. ‘And no-one’s going to forget that dress in a hurry. No-one. It’s the gown of the century. Although, in truth, you could wear a garbage bag and look amazing.’ Bridie glanced at the blue-haired make-up artist. ‘Shona, you have to teach me that trick with the highlighter later on too.’

  ‘No problems,’ Shona returned, her left eyebrow knowingly curved.

  Bridie rested a hand on Nicola’s arm. ‘You should see Seth up the front. He can barely wait to put a ring on it. Just wait until he sees how unbelievable you look.’

  Nicola exhaled, defying the complicated corsetry of her gown. ‘I can’t wait to see him either.’

  If only a few choice words had saved Bridie on her wedding day. She could have kept up appearances and then annulled the occasion the following week, to much less fanfare.

  Nicola’s scowl returned. ‘And people bloody better remember this dress. It cost as much as my Citroën.’ Bridie bit her tongue as the bride got to her spiky-heeled feet, swiping at her bouquet of black-and-white roses. ‘C’mon, ladies, let’s blow this popsicle stand.’

  Praise to J Lo, the Almighty.

  The seven non-dwarves, in their LBDs, jumped up, as instructed, and scuttled out ahead of Nicola. They were probably counting down the hours. Two of the blondes, Bridie realised, were identical twins, which was kind of ironic considering the triplet camera crew.

  Out in the blossom-sweetened air, Bridie headed back towards the throng, signalling for the string quartet to start the Wedding March. The flower girls and pageboys met the bridesmaids at the end of the black carpet runner, and in order, they began their funeral-like procession. The rug, in big, white cursive letters, bore the words: ‘Nicola, I can’t wait for you to be my wife. Love, Seth.’ No doubt Nicola had come up with the phrasing. The ginger-haired Seth, at the far end, blotted his brow with a tissue. Bridie sympathised; who could help who they fell for?

  A hush descen
ded over the crowd as Nicola made her way down the aisle solo. Either, she didn’t know her dad like Bridie, had recently pissed him off, or just didn’t want to share the spotlight. Either way, she looked stunning.

  Bridie’s gaze snagged with Cody’s, beyond the row of seats. Having dropped down his camera for a nanosecond, he gave her a thumbs-up and a smile that warmed her foolish heart. He’d stepped it up in a tux to rival Daniel Craig that day.

  The rest of the festivities, spilling between a marquee and the front lawn, like the last one, went surprisingly well.

  Bar one slight irritation.

  The blondes, who Bridie had mentally dubbed the ‘Bobbsey Twins’, had decided, for some reason, to attach themselves to Cody and Vance. Okay, the reason was obvious: the brothers were hot. And the twins, with their whiter-than-white teeth and solarium tans, were, in their minds and otherwise, worthy of them.

  Wherever the pair were clicking their cameras, the Bobbsey Twins were in the background, posing, pouting and giggling. In between, they were hanging off the boys’ elbows.

  Bridie had no right to play the jealous girlfriend around Cody. Or even a protective ‘surrogate’ sister. She was an employee. A temporary one. Still, that didn’t stop her clenching her teeth whenever the twins’ silvery laughter, in unison, perforated the air.

  As the MC announced the bridal couple’s first dance, Bridie moved to the sidelines to watch. Unlike last weekend, the sky was a clear midnight-blue and the Shania ditty was replaced with Paloma Romeo’s You’re My Treasure. She wondered if Cody even noticed …

  The couple danced beneath a rustic chandelier hanging from a tree. Adding to the backdrop, on a nearby table was a black-and-white wedding cake with a whopping five tiers and a big, black bow as a garnish. It complemented the rest of the black-and-white themed menu, which had included appetisers of black olive caviar bites and pickled whitebait, and mains like pan-blackened steak and white lasagne. Somehow Nicola had pulled off the impossible again.