Baby Blues and Wedding Shoes

by Amanda Martin

  And no one wants it more than I do. Of course everyone probably thinks that, but all the others already have careers to focus on. Well, maybe not Dawn, but at least she has done something with her life. Raising four kids is impressive by anyone’s standards.

  Helen considered her life helping Daniel build his career as a consultant. Even though he had a full-time PA in the office, Helen still managed much of his social diary as well as hosting his various events.

  It’s not like I do it for free.

  She thought back to when Daniel had suggested she leave her Executive Assistant role to work for him as his social secretary. She had agreed on the proviso that it was in a formal capacity. She had even written a contract outlining her main duties and time commitment which amounted to about a third of the hours she had worked previously.

  The look on his face when she had suggested he pay her the same £40k salary pro-rata -- mingled disbelief and respect -- had left her grinning for days. Not for nothing did I get a first class degree at Kings College, Helen thought to herself wryly.

  Of course, working for Daniel was rewarding and not just in the bedroom. His glory was her glory, particularly when it was one of her social events that helped clinch a deal.

  But it isn’t the same as doing it all for myself!

  Helen was shocked by the intensity of the thought. She shrugged off the feeling. I’m obviously still jaded after a night of no sleep.

  Normally she loved being Daniel’s right hand man, as it were. She generally found the dinner parties entertaining, if only because it gave her a chance to see Daniel in action.

  Just as she was about to lose herself in images of Daniel in action the night before, Helen’s gaze was dragged back to her laptop. The photos had loaded and there were now fifty or so thumbnails on the screen, tantalizingly too small to see properly.

  Emptying her mind of any preconceptions, Helen selected view slideshow and sat back to look at each shot individually, beginning to end, before making any decision.

  The first dozen shots were good. Helen felt the corners of her mouth twitch and her pulse began to quicken. She couldn’t really tell until she went into the image, to see how sharp it was, whether the quality was up to scratch. She was running through any editing the images might need, in terms of tweaking the histogram or brushing out any errant flies, when an image flashed up on her screen that truly cleared her mind. Shaking off a shiver Helen hit pause, knowing that she didn’t need to see the rest of the shots.

  Helen studied the photograph. Rosa’s eyes stared back into hers, the light from the laptop screen enhancing their glow. All the other images were of Rosa looking over her shoulder, as Helen had requested. She remembered, though, that she had made some sassy comment to Rosa about Ben and Rosa had glanced directly at the camera with the cheekiest expression. The girls had connected down the camera lens and it was captured there for the world to see. Rosa was stripped of her normal aloofness; laid bare as a twenty-something girl having naughty thoughts about her man. It was incredibly sexy but also fun and light-hearted.

  Helen became aware of an aching feeling in her face and realised she was grinning manically. She glanced swiftly round to make sure no one was watching her, although she felt so full of joy that she was surprised she wasn’t flashing like a beacon.

  It took no time at all to ready the print for submission. There were no blemishes and Helen was reluctant to play with the light or colour for fear of diminishing the immediacy of the photo’s impact. In all the time since she’d signed up for the photography course six months earlier Helen had not taken a single photo of which she was so immensely proud. She wanted to rush home immediately and show Daniel. She wondered if today was the day to come clean about her new hobby, to confess that she wasn’t always pounding the treadmill when he thought she was. Surely the quality of the shot would show him that it wasn’t just a frivolous hobby but something she could make real money doing. Daniel would understand it from that angle. Then she remembered the awards ceremony and thought better of it.

  If I win - if this image is going to be on a magazine - then I’ll tell him.

  She penned a quick email and attached the photo, wondering briefly whether she should use her full three submissions. After a moment’s thought Helen decided to be brave and go with just the one. She wanted the image to have full impact and knew that it stood a better chance solo. Connecting briefly to the internet, Helen sent the email, waited for the confirmation that it had been received, and shut the laptop with a click.

  Floating on a euphoric cloud, Helen wandered dreamily out of the library. A delicious smell wafted from the food van parked up in the small courtyard and Helen realised, even before the pleading gurgle from her tummy, that she was ravenous.

  She craved something greasy and unhealthy rather than her usual salad wrap.

  Well, I am celebrating, she shrugged, tucking into a pasty with gusto. Daniel would probably disown me if he could see me now, perched on a wall, eating a steaming hot pasty from a paper bag.

  Helen thought she’d never been happier.

  Chapter Three

  Marcio’s thoughts swirled with the sway of the boat. He lay with his hands behind his head, watching the horizon rise and fall, his view alternating between sea and sky. Both were a deep and calming blue, the distinction between the two made only by the glinting sun from one causing diamonds to dance on the other.

  Marcio closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun, allowing the warmth to smooth the creases from his face. Fire demons darted across the insides of his eyelids until the colour intensified to a vibrant orange, as if shining through a bottle of rosé.

  Beneath the tranquillity Marcio was conscious of a roiling sensation deep in his stomach, like the beginnings of hunger, even though he’d grabbed lunch before leaving the harbour. He concentrated on the feeling, trying to form words around it. It felt like nerves but what was there to be nervous about? He was floating in a sea of contentment, figuratively and literally, and it was only going to get better from here.

  Bringing his unruly mind and body into focus, Marcio ran through his lines for the following day. Mia had insisted he write his own, cautioning him to make them genuine, rather than one of his many fictions. They had been easy to write, his love was deep and sure, his heart clear. As he thought about it now, Marcio wondered where the churning in his gut was coming from.

  “Just the normal jitters,” he said out loud, causing a seagull roosting on the mast to flap its wings in protest. The movement mirrored that in Marcio’s stomach. Analysing the fluttering, and aware now of an alien taste in his mouth, Marcio realised it was more like angst than nerves. He wondered if it was the idea of living with someone after being by himself for so long. He wished, not for the first time, that Mia’s family weren’t quite so traditional.

  “So archaic, not to have shacked-up before the big day. What if we drive each other bonkers?” He addressed the seagull who tipped his head in response but said nothing.

  Marcio thought about all the times Mia had stayed with him in his tiny London flat and knew they would have no problems living together. Mia was easy to be with. She never argued, never had a cross word to say about anyone.

  In fact the only time she ever gets even vaguely cantankerous is when I spend too much time out here.

  As the words walked through his mind he looked at the distant horizon and the butterflies in his stomach reared up, all taking flight together. He knew then the cause of his disquiet.

  “Will I still be able to write, if I can’t be alone in your company for days at a time?” He addressed his thoughts to the boat, which creaked in response as if to say, Of course!

  He stroked the deck gently, feeling the smoothness his hours of labour had produced. It seemed wrong to feel sad - childish even - when he knew the reality was that it was mostly his job that kept him from sailing. If he finished renovating the boat enough to run charters – his intention once he and Mia were settled in a fam
ily home – he’d be aboard significantly more.

  “It won’t be the same.” He knew his voice sounded mulish; a small boy facing an unacceptable compromise.

  “Too late now,” his adult-self responded. “The wedding’s in,” he consulted his watch, “twenty-three hours.”

  A light breeze lifted his dark hair and gently kissed his skin. Marcio tried to imagine what the future would be like after tomorrow. It would be odd leaving London more or less for good. He planned on keeping the apartment, at least in the short term. Strangely, Mia was more understanding of his need to go to London for work than she was of his desire to hide away on his yacht. He suspected it was because she loved visiting the city too, generally finding an excuse to accompany him if her business allowed. Now her salon was established enough that she had staff it was easier to get the time away.

  Not that she’s come recently, he mused. Must have been busy with the wedding plans. He thought guiltily that he’d pretty much left the arrangements up to her apart from writing his own vows at her request.

  “Women like that sort of thing,” he said to the seagull, knowing as he uttered the words that it was an excuse and a poor one at that. The truth was, as much as he loved Mia, the idea of wrestling with seating plans and invitation lists filled him with horror.

  Lucky Mia’s known me since birth, Marcio thought. After living in the vineyard next to his for two decades, Mia was practically family already. She undoubtedly knows better than me who in the extended clan has to be invited. Probably even knows all their names, which is more than I do.

  In fact, now Marcio gave it any consideration he would have to say she seemed to delight in all the planning, closeting herself away with her best friend Leandra for hours, looking at dresses and flowers. He’d caught them a few times and they’d looked up guiltily at his entrance. He imagined Leandra convincing Mia to spend just that bit extra on the dress, the flowers, the shoes, as if Marcio were some ogre who would deny her anything her heart desired.

  Besides, Mia was paying for all that. His bit was the venue, alcohol and food. The bills were a worry, especially with his wages so sporadic. Mia had insisted that her beauty salon was doing well enough for them to live comfortably once they were married, whether he got work or not, but it irked him not to be able to take care of her and the babies he hoped would follow soon after.

  Aware that his thoughts had taken a gloomy turn, Marcio levered himself up from his prone position and checked his watch again.

  “Best get back,” he muttered, and went to weigh anchor. “Mum will have my hide if I’m late for dinner.”

  Near land Marcio’s phone began to bleep as two text messages arrived. He didn’t need to look at them to know who they were from.

  The first was from his sister, Benita.

  El meu germà entremaliat fugitiu. Where are you? Mum’s going to flay you alive. Not having second thoughts? Dóna't pressa a casa. B

  “Yes, Benita, I’m hurrying home. Don’t nag!”

  The second was from Mia, and its words were eerily similar.

  El meu amor, Et estrany, T'estimo. Esperem que vostè no està aconseguint els peus freds com es diu. Mx

  “Now why would Mia ask me if I’m getting cold feet? Why does everyone assume I’m running away?” He looked around as if the reason was somewhere on the boat. “It’s a gorgeous day, why wouldn’t I have a quick trip to clear my head? I’ll be home by six.”

  He glared at his seagull companion who had fluttered back onto the boat from his position flying astern. Apparently sensing his mood the seagull took off again immediately with a disgruntled squawk.

  “What have you got to complain about?” Marcio glared at the bird. “You’ve got the whole ocean to fly over and no one expecting you home for dinner.”

  It was nearer seven than six by the time he arrived at the vineyard and he knew he was in trouble. The sun was still high in the sky but the family would be waiting to sit down to dinner which this evening was to be held outdoors to accommodate the extra numbers.

  As he stood in the driveway, contemplating the old farmhouse and the greeting that awaited him once he entered, Marcio felt tempted to put some earplugs in as a preventative measure. His entire family were squeezed in for the night ready to celebrate with him the following day. The only person not there was Mia who still lived with her family and would therefore be spending the night there.

  I wonder if I can sneak in like I used to, Marcio mused, looking at the wizened tree that twisted itself up past his old bedroom window.

  “If you break your arm doing something stupid Mia’s going to break the other one,” an amused voice spoke from behind him.

  Marcio turned and saw his eldest sister Benita leaning against the garden wall, a basket of fresh herbs over one arm. Trust Benita to read his thoughts, as she always did. She doesn’t look angry though, Marcio noted with relief as he headed over to embrace her.

  Benita tried to look stern as she hugged her older brother, holding him close for a beat longer than usual.

  “Were you dreaming in the blue, brother mine?” Her voice was fond beneath the attempt at severity.

  “But of course,” Marcio shrugged. “Why the big fuss?”

  “Mia was here earlier, dropping off the flowers and Fabian’s suit. She looked pale, ill almost. Have you upset her? Mòmia thought maybe you two had a quarrel and that you were hiding so as not to have to face everyone and tell them the wedding is off.”

  Marcio shuddered at the thought of telling his vast family that there would be no wedding.

  “Of course we haven’t had a fight. Mia never fights; you know that. The woman is an angel. She’s bound to be nervous though, not least because she’s planned everything.”

  “Exhausted as well.” Benita’s tone was heavy with disapproval.

  “I know, I know, I should have done more. But really, it only occurred to me today that Mia has done everything.”

  Benita made an angry noise with her tongue and teeth.

  Marcio laughed. “That didn’t come out exactly right. What I mean is, Mia hasn’t asked for my help. She requested I write my vows but she seemed happy to do all the planning, her and Leandra together.”

  “Hmmm.” Benita’s response was non-committal. She suspected her brother was right but didn’t want to let him think he had got away with it that easily.

  “Well, you’d best come in and make amends with Mòmia.”

  She handed her basket to Marcio, hooked her arm through his and led him into the house.

  Chapter Four

  “Hello, darling, sorry I’m late. Some selfish bastard threw himself under a train at Hammersmith. The Tube has been a nightmare.”

  Daniel bent to kiss Helen as she stood at the stove stirring dinner, trying to keep it edible.

  She could hear Daniel’s voice continue as he headed into the bedroom to take off his jacket and tie. She pictured him hanging them both in the wardrobe before checking his hair in the mirror.

  “Selfish wanker,” he called out from the depths of the wardrobe. For a second Helen wondered if he was referring to himself and his tardiness. Then she realised he was still animadverting about the man who had committed suicide thus causing commuter traffic chaos.

  “Honestly, do these people realise how inconsiderate their actions are? Bringing rush-hour to a standstill just because they’re so pathetically sad as to want to top themselves.”

  Helen heard his voice fade as he went into the en-suite. “Why not jump off a cliff instead? The sea wouldn’t care. Less mess too, I imagine?”

  Helen shivered as she considered the poor soul who had taken their own life. How desperate do you need to be to do that? And in such an awful way? Tears pricked at her eyes as she imagined how lonely and scared the person must have been. Maybe they left behind a wife, kids. It was all Helen could do to stop herself from sobbing.

  Daniel re-entered the kitchen still muttering under his breath as he took the glass of wine waiting for him an
d stood next to Helen.

  Noticing her red eyes he said curtly, “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing. Chopping onions, that’s all.”

  Daniel shrugged and proceeded to fill Helen in on the events of his day.

  Helen’s mind wandered as she dished up dinner and carried the plates to the dining table. All the while Daniel’s voice washed over her. For some reason her thoughts were drawn back to the man who ended his life so emphatically.

  Would you worry about the chaos, the lives disrupted by your actions? Surely if you were that desperate you would be beyond seeing the world around you. Beyond feeling connected to it. Or maybe you would want to cause chaos; to get the world to see your pain, to notice you, if only for a moment.

  Aware of the maudlin nature of her musings, and of the dangers associated with not attending to Daniel, Helen pulled at her scattered thoughts and commanded them to pay attention.

  She realised that Daniel was still analysing why he hadn’t won an award the previous week and Helen found herself having to stifle a sigh. It had been bad enough on Saturday night. Daniel was furious when the award went to a competitor. Even now, a week later, he was questioning every element.

  Helen braced herself for the accusations that would follow his train of thought. In the aftermath of losing Daniel had lashed out and had more or less accused her of not putting enough effort into the submission. Thankfully fresh complaints were not forthcoming. Daniel seemed to be subscribing to the view that his competitor had bribed the panel of judges.

  Helen kept her face in a mask of concerned agreement and smiled inwardly. She knew that, underneath his brusque exterior, Daniel cared for her too much to really believe she would scupper his chances at advancement.