Nice Day For A White Wedding

by Le Carre, Georgia

  At the same time that I switch on the light, in one quick movement I grab the door handle and yank it open. I don’t catch the girls in the act, or have the pleasure of shocking them out of their skins.

  The hallway is empty.

  I step out of my room and look up and down the hallway, but there isn’t so much as a swaying curtain, or an open door anywhere to imply anyone was here. That’s impossible: the noises were going on right to the moment I pulled the door open. I frown. There must be a reasonable explanation, and I’ll get to the bottom of this.

  I step back into my room, close the door, switch off the light, and walk to my bed. I am halfway across the room when I hear the footsteps again. But they are inside the room now. They seem to be so close behind me that I can’t help feeling as if at any moment an icy cold hand will reach out to me and trail its fingers over my neck. I rush to the bedside lamp, switch it on, and look back around me, and of course, there’s nothing there. No apparition reaching out to touch me. Everything is still. Except for the turmoil inside me. Every cell in my body is on high alert.

  My heart is pounding in my chest. It’s pounding so hard, Alex must be able to hear it through the walls. I look towards his door. There are no sounds coming from beyond it or light coming from under it. I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. I don’t need him to tell me everything is okay. I’m ok. I’m tough. I’m just letting the ice sisters’ stupid story get into my head and imagining stuff.

  No, I didn’t imagine it. I didn’t imagine the footsteps or the nails running over the walls. I’m not crazy. Maybe they are just noises that old houses make. I’ve heard about it, but I’ve never lived in such an old house before. It could be the pipes, or the floorboards creaking as the house cools down, or something. It’s what my grandmother used to call the sounds of an old house settling. She would know. She used to work as a maid in an old stately home when she was a young girl.

  I get back into bed and pull the duvet back over myself. My body feels cold. I lay with my eyes wide open, waiting, listening. Finally, when nothing else happens, I turn off the light and close my eyes. There are no more noises. Perhaps I imagined them after all. I am three quarters of the way back into sleep when I hear a baby crying.

  A baby crying? What the actual fuck?

  Does Petra have a baby here? Maybe very rich people don’t bring their babies to dinner, but surely someone would have mentioned it if she had. The crying comes again, a soft whimpering sound, and I realize with a start it’s coming from the bathroom.

  Now I know I’m letting my imagination run away with me. There’s no way there’s a baby in there. And there’s no way the ghost of a crazy old woman would be making the noise of a baby crying.

  I switch on the light and jump out of bed. I rush into the bathroom and of course, there is nothing there. I look around me. It could be the wind. Sometimes the wind can sound like a howling wolf. To the best of my knowledge never like a crying child. I walk to the toilet and flush it. The sound is reassuringly normal. It’s the pipes. Of course, it’s the pipes.

  I ignore the voice in my head. The one that tells me that this house truly is haunted.

  Cindy

  I fall back to sleep as dawn breaks over the horizon and some milky light starts to filter through the small gap in the drapes. By the time I wake up again the sun is already high in the sky even though it is only eight o’clock. I shiver as I think of last night; the scratching, the footsteps, the baby crying. In the sunny morning, it seems so ridiculous. I push the events of last night to the back of my mind. I know there must be a rational explanation and I will get to the bottom of it, but for now I’m not going to let it spoil my day.

  Getting out of bed, I walk to the tall window, pull the drapes right back, and stand looking out over the beautiful gardens. The world is green for as far as I can see. It’s the most profound thing. Just looking out into such endless, unspoilt beauty.

  I’ve never considered myself to be a country girl. I’ve always been a city girl. Even our holidays when I was younger were always city breaks or beach holidays. But just standing here like this, I feel as if this is the way life should be. Not that empty rat race of the city. I don’t feel isolated like I always thought I would in a house in the middle of nowhere. I feel wonderfully alive and enthusiastic to get out there and explore.

  I don’t know if we have anything planned for today, but Alex did mention showing me around the stables. I keep that in mind as I get ready. I don’t own any jodhpurs or riding boots, but I choose a pair of black leggings and a long lemon colored top. I finish up with a pair of flat shoes. Sitting on the bed I French plait my hair. When I’m ready I take a look in the mirror. While I don’t exactly look like a country girl, my outfit doesn’t scream city girl.

  I debate knocking on Alex’s door, but I decide against it. I’d like to explore on my own for a bit. I head down the stairs, steeling myself to keep calm and unruffled if I meet the ice sisters. I peer into the dining room, but no one is around except for a man in uniform polishing the silver.

  He puts down the silver piece and cloth, gives me a stiff bow, and says in a thick accent, “Good morning, Miss Forrester.”

  “Good morning,” I say with a smile and a nod.

  He doesn’t smile back, but beckons to me with his hands. “Come, please. I will show you.”

  Without waiting to see if I will follow him, he leaves the dining room by a different door than the one I had come into. Clearly, he has been instructed to take me to the others. He leads me through what must be a music room since there is a gleaming grand piano in it and then down another short hallway. When he reaches the end, he throws the door open with a flourish, gesturing for me to enter.

  “Thank you,” I say with a smile.

  I step through the tall open door and smile with delight as I come out into a huge, sunny conservatory filled with padded delicate metal chairs and matching tables. Alex stands from one of the chairs as I enter. He says something to the manservant in Russian, and the man nods politely, then closes the double doors and leaves Alex and I alone.

  “Good morning,” I say brightly.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  “Sort of,” I reply, sliding into the chair opposite him.

  “Was the bed not to your satisfaction?”

  I make an offhand gesture with my hand. “I’m not used to the sound of pipes in old houses.”

  Alex lowers himself back into his chair. “Pipes? The pipes were troubling you?”

  “That and the child crying.”

  One eyebrow arches. “What?”

  “Isn’t there a child somewhere in the house?”

  He looks at me strangely. “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Well, that’s strange, because I could have sworn I heard a baby crying last night.”

  He rubs his chin. “I’ve never really heard anything, but some people do say that old houses freak them out with all the sounds of floorboards creaking as they cool, and old pipes moaning and crying. I guess that must have been what you heard.”

  I wanted him to tell me about a baby somewhere in the house and how sound echoes and carries through old houses, but I suppose it’s more believable that the pipes make noises like that than the idea that there’s a ghostly baby in my bathroom. Apart from anything, the ice sisters wouldn’t have been able to resist mentioning the ghost of a baby as well as the ghost of a crazy aunt.

  “Oh. Uh … where is everyone?” I ask, to change the subject.

  “Babushka doesn’t come down for breakfast anymore. In fact, she doesn’t usually leave her quarters before midday. I have no idea where my cousins are, but I’m getting the impression you’d actually prefer me not to run into them,” he says with a crooked smile.

  I nod vigorously.

  Alex gestures to the side table which is laid out with a breakfast spread fit for a king. There are croissants, grapefruit, yoghurt, cereal, toast, jam, honey, and just about every berry imaginable. In the hot plates ar
e bacon, sausages, and fluffy scrambled eggs.

  “All this and I can have the cook make you something else if you’d prefer,” he offers.

  “This is more than fine,” I assure him. “But coffee first, I think.”

  “Let me,” he says and gets up before I can.

  I watch him walk across the room to a trolley I hadn’t noticed. On the trolley is a jug of fresh coffee, a jug of what I assume is tea and a range of different milks, sugars and syrups.

  “It’s like being in a hotel,” I laugh as Alex pours me a coffee.

  “I know. Babushka prides herself on being a good host. She insists that every option is available to make her guests feel at home. Cream and sugar?”

  “Please,” I say.

  He finishes making my coffee, then pours himself one, which he leaves black. Dark and stormy. Just like him. Except being here, I’m starting to see a very different side to him. A caring, almost gentle side comes out in him when he is around his great aunt. I smile to myself as I remember the way he lifted her in the air when we first arrived yesterday.

  “What?” he asks, as he brings my cup over to me.

  I shake my head. “I’m just thinking how different you are here.”

  “Different?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

  “Sweeter,” I say teasingly.

  He laughs shortly. “I don’t think you’ll find too many people to agree with you.”

  “Babushka would.”

  He smiles slowly. “No, she wouldn’t. She knows exactly what I am, but she loves me anyway.”

  I take a sip of my coffee, savoring the rich taste and the caffeine hit I so desperately need first thing on a morning. I look up and find Alex watching me in amusement.

  The hunger is back in his eyes. He masks it almost immediately though. “You like your coffee, don’t you?”

  “Oh, God yes,” I agree with an awkward laugh. “It’s pretty much an essential if you want me to string together a sentence of more than three words.” Avoiding his eyes, I quickly stab my grapefruit half with my spoon and slip the segment into my mouth. The grapefruit squirts its tart juice onto my tongue.

  “Juice?” Alex asks, his voice courteous. Like he is a stranger, which I suppose he is.

  I nod and he pours me a glass from an elaborately cut crystal jug. I smile my thanks at him and sip the juice. It’s icy cold and so refreshing.

  “So what’s the plan for today?”

  “I thought I’d make good on my promise and take you out to the stables. If you still want to see them,” Alex says.

  “I’d love that,” I gush enthusiastically.

  “Good. We might even go for a ride up to the lake,” he says. He laughs when he sees the horror on my face. “What’s wrong? Do you not know how to ride?”

  “I rode a few times when I was very young. I had a rich friend who owned a pony, but that was a long time ago. I’m not sure I’d be brave enough to try it now,” I admit.

  Alex throws his head back and laughs. “You? Scared of riding? Cindy Forrester, either you are just being coy, or you don’t know yourself.”

  I mean when he puts it like that, how can I really refuse? And to be honest, I’m not afraid of riding. I’m exhilarated by the thought of getting up on a horse again after all these years. “The thing is I might need a few lessons to get started …”

  “You never forget how to ride. Once you get back in the saddle, it’ll all come back to you. And you can take Nikita. She’s very gentle.”

  “Ok,” I agree with a laugh. “But no galloping off and leaving me behind.”

  “Ah, you spoil all the fun,” Alex mocks.

  Something about the way he says that makes a completely unrelated thought flash into my head. One where we are both naked and having fun. Avoiding his eyes, I put the grapefruit aside and stroll over to the long table. I drop four slices of bread into the toaster. Then I pick up a couple of sausages, some slices of the bacon and put them on my plate. As the toast pops I add them to my pile of food and make my way back to the table. There I start to assemble myself a breakfast sandwich.

  At first Alex watches me with amusement as I make the sandwich, then he shrugs and, using my left-over sausages and bacon copies me with a grin.

  “Good?” I ask, my cheeks full of food.

  “Very good,” he agrees, his eyes full of surprise and the sunlight slanting in through the half-open blinds on the glass walls.

  Cindy

  When we’ve finished eating our sandwiches, Alex stands up. “Are you ready?” he asks me.

  “Yes,” I say confidently, even though I have visions of me lying in a ditch somewhere with my neck broken.

  Alex opens the door for me and waits for me to step outside. As I do he puts his hand on my arm and stops me for a second. “Really, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  I don’t think that’s entirely true though. I think there’s plenty to be afraid of. Like the way my whole arm is tingling where his hand is. And like the way he’s holding my gaze with his eyes, which are all dark and deliberately unreadable. And the way I know if we stand like this for much longer, I’m not going to be able to stop myself from reaching up, touching his aristocratic face, and pulling it down to meet mine.

  He takes his hand away from me and the spell is broken. I clear my throat, and lurch past him into the sunshine. My clit is throbbing. Oh God, why couldn’t he be unattractive?

  Alex comes to walk by my side, and I hope he puts my flushed cheeks down to the fresh air and nerves. That would be a lot better than him knowing it’s because I’m such a little slut. A barn filled with sweet smelling hay. Alex and I naked. Me riding him.

  God Cindy, stop it. Now!

  I push the image away, although doing it is harder than I expect it to be, and I turn to Alex determined to stop being so silly, as he starts to talk.

  “Can you see the treehouse?” he asks, pointing up into a large tree in the distance.

  I squint against the sun, spot it, and nod.

  “That was mine growing up. I was a terrible tyrant. No one was allowed in there. Petra was only allowed once because she had broken her arm and she begged Babushka so I allowed her that one time.”

  “Goodness what did you keep in there? Porn?” I ask with a laugh.

  “Of course not,” he says scornfully. “I stored the shrunken heads of my enemies.”

  I laugh again. I like this version of Alex. The sun beats down on our faces, making me feel carefree and relaxed. “Didn’t Anastasia want to go up?”

  “She was too young to climb up so high. By the time she was old enough to even be allowed up there, I’d outgrown it.”

  “How come? Did you discover girls or something?”

  He throws me a sideways glance. “I found the bratva.”

  My eyes widen. In my mind’s eye, I see a young Alex not yet tattooed, but already lean and tough. “So you really were in the Russian Mafia?”

  “I was.”

  “Why would you do something like that after all this?” I sweep my hand in an arc that encompassed the stunning landscape and the palace like house.”

  He shrugs. “I craved something more. Something real. I felt as if I had been eating the frosting on a cake all my life. I wanted blood and guts. I was looking for meaning.”

  “Did you find it?”

  His eyes are on a distant point on the horizon. “Yes.”

  I shade my eyes with my hand and stare at his hard profile. “But you gave it up?”

  He swings his head to look at me. “Yes.”

  “Why?” I ask curiously.

  “I wanted frosting again,” he says, just as we reach the end of the house and turn around it. There is a long path leading to a large courtyard lined on three sides by stables.

  “Wow,” I say. “There must be room for fifty horses here.”

  “Fifty-seven to be precise, but not a bad guess,” Alex says quietly. “When she was a lot younger, my aunt used to fill the stables with her horses. Ther
e were so many beautiful horses from all over the world. Now she only has a few here. There’s Nikita who you’ll be riding, Milan who I’ll be riding, and a couple of others. I think she has six all told, unless she’s acquired any new additions since my last visit.”

  A fair-headed lad appears out of one of the stables with a brush in his hand. He waves at Alex and shouts what I assume is a greeting. Alex replies in Russian, then turns to me. “I need a quick word with him, but he doesn’t speak English so please bear with him.”

  “Sure, that’s fine,” I say, meaning it. It’s not like he’s Petra and Anastasia, using another language so he can berate me without me knowing about it. Alex talks for a bit longer, then the stable boy nods and disappears into one of the buildings.

  “Boris knows these horses better than anyone, except maybe Babushka, and he agrees that Nikita will be perfect for you. She’s gentle and calm.”

  I nod. Now I’m here, I can feel my nerves giving way to pure excitement. I actually can’t wait to get on a horse again. I want to remember what it felt like to be so high up. I want what I never got when I was a child. To actually ride and feel the wind in my hair as I flew over open ground.

  While we wait for Boris to get the horses ready, Alex leads me up to one of the stables.

  “Come meet Polnoch,” he says.

  Inside, is a midnight black horse that stands at least twice my height. The horse is so majestic and so incredibly sleek and beautiful that I gasp when I see him.

  “He’s my aunt’s prize stallion.”

  “I can see why,” I say.

  I step forward and Polnoch comes to meet me. I reach up and stroke his neck and he nuzzles his head against my shoulder with a little snort. I laugh with delight.

  “You’re a beautiful, beautiful boy,” I tell him.

  Alex stands back a little, watching as I continue to stroke Polnoch.