Party Girl at Heart

by Karen Elaine Campbell

“Hairdresser, hairdresser?” Crystal couldn’t keep the incredulity out of her voice. “What bouquet for the hairdresser? You didn’t mention that the last time we talked. It’s not customary in the UK to present your hairdresser with flowers at your wedding, you know?” She could imagine the looks on the faces of the matrons of the village if Saskia insisted on presenting every member of her entourage with a gift in the middle of the wedding reception.

  “Hmmm. That’s what Jeremy said too. Just thought I’d run the idea by you to make sure that he’d got it right. He’s a bit sketchy on some of the finer points of getting married in England. He seems a bit laid-back about the whole thing, if you ask me, he’s not really getting into the spirit of the thing,” she mused.

  “Well, it’s early days yet, we still have another…” Crystal counted the weeks on the calendar in her e-mail folder, “um, four, five, six weeks until the big day. All the banns have been read now, I attended church for you the last two times, just to make sure that they were read on time and that everything was as it should be. How is the wedding dress coming along?” It was the only thing that Saskia had been asked to arrange herself, but it didn’t stop Crystal from worrying about it nonetheless.

  “My second fitting is next Saturday, it’s beautiful Crystal,” Saskia mused.

  “I’m sure that it is,” Crystal agreed. Her heart sank. Much as she wanted to be happy for her brother and his potential bride, she still couldn’t help comparing their situation with her own. Jazz was becoming more distant as the weeks progressed; he’d taken to disappearing off at the drop of a hat with minimal explanations as to what he’d been doing. And he’d seen Verity again, she had proof of that now. She thought he’d been cheating on her, and she didn’t know what to do about it.

  She rapidly tried to bury the unpleasant thought and struggled to keep up with Saskia’s somewhat disjointed transatlantic ramblings, but the knowledge kept repeating itself in her brain, disturbing her equilibrium and breaking her concentration. Verity and Jazz. Jazz and Verity. Together, just the two of them, snapped hand in hand outside a posh London fertility clinic, Harley Street, by the looks of it.

  The photos had arrived in a plain brown envelope, blank on the outside, anonymous. The innocuous delivery with its poisonous contents had been stuffed through the letterbox by hand and had lain on the door mat, just waiting for her to find it. She shook her head and tried to concentrate on what Saskia was saying.

  Jazz had insisted that he’d not seen Verity, when she asked him before. He’d said it was old history and that she should trust him, and like a fool she’d believed him, settling for the easy option, the route of least resistance, her gran would call it, the sucker’s route. The uncertainty was crippling, even when faced with the evidence in black and white, one moment she was sure that there was nothing to it, then the next she was certain that the two of them were embroiled in a heated and passionate affair. Her own duplicity with Phil lay there, somewhere in the middle, marking the divide between them, a whole chasm lay now between her and Jazz. She was unable to broach the subject, as she knew that she should, for fear of what she might inadvertently reveal.

  Saskia was already off again on another tangent, “So, we have the marquee, flowers, table linen and music, just the same as the night of the Hunt Ball?” she asked for the umpteenth time.

  “Yes Saskia, just the way that you asked. We are using exactly the same companies, exactly the same cutlery, tableware, drinks and caterers, everything the same, except for the menu, you have a choice there, don’t forget. The numbers need to be confirmed in two weeks’ time, with a final count two days before, don’t forget that will you?”

  “Hmm, did Uncle Maurice wire you yet?” the bride-to-be asked instead.

  Crystal raised a hand to her temple; her head was beginning to throb. “Uncle Maurice? Which one is Uncle Maurice? Is he the senator from New York, or the doctor in Maryland?” she asked.

  “Neither, he’s not a real uncle, silly. He’s one of my father’s oldest friends.”

  That was news to Crystal. “Righto, so what is his surname, the family name?” Crystal asked without preamble.

  “Mistrianos,” Saskia replied automatically, unaware that she was talking along a line that for Crystal had suddenly transformed itself into a multi-headed monster a living breathing Medusa.

  Crystal almost dropped the receiver where she stood. “Mistrianos, as in Amanda Mistrianos, Saskia?” she queried, followed by, “As in Phil and Amanda, that Mistrianos? The New York Mistrianos family?” she asked faintly, barely managing to prevent herself from screaming out loud.

  There was silence for a couple of seconds and then Saskia’s voice came through clearly, more tentative, less forceful than her usual tone: “Well yes, Crystal. That’s it, one and the same. Do you suppose it will cause a problem?” she asked, somewhat belatedly, Crystal thought.

  “With Phil and Lolly attending together, as guests? What do you think?” Crystal retorted, to say nothing of some of the other people present, she thought. Her face had been all over the news headlines for days in America, when the scandal had broken.

  “Oh, we’ll just have to keep them separated somehow, I suppose,” she replied blithely. Then another thought occurred: “Though Uncle Maurice might remember you, of course. You were all over those news bulletins at the time, when that dreadful scandal with Phil and Amanda hit the headlines. It won’t bother you now though, will it Crystal?”

  “Depends on good old Uncle Maurice,” Crystal retorted as she tried and failed to contain the panic that clawed at her insides.

  “Oh, it will be fine, just stick him and Aunt Jean on the end of a table somewhere, well away from Lolly and Phil, and wear a big wide-brimmed hat; if you keep your hair covered he’ll never make the connection,” she advised breezily. “I’m sure there will be enough other people there to help keep all of the warring parties separated. Phil is quite adept at dealing with his in-laws at this type of function, I’ll warn him off ahead of schedule, give him a chance to come up with some suitable explanation,” Saskia twittered, blithely unaware of the demons that she’d just unleashed in Crystal’s life.

  Fighting in-laws, ex-lovers, current and past indiscretions, would she be forever dogged by a past that she couldn’t outrun, no matter how hard she tried? Crystal closed her eyes and breathed in and out, slow deep breaths, calming and comforting. As she replaced the receiver, having left the Mistrianos family and goodness knows how many other skeletons firmly in the hands of Saskia, she realised that she was now running late again.

  There wasn’t time to assess the situation or panic, the second that she replaced the telephone receiver the annoying instrument rang again.

  “Hello,” she snapped as she swiped the handset from the housing.

  “Mr Reginald?” a female voice queried.

  “No, he’s not here,” Crystal stated firmly. “Who are you, and what do you want?” she added, moderating her tone when she realised just how snappy she sounded.

  “I need to speak to Mr Reginald, it’s important,” the caller tried again, bluntly.

  “Maybe I can help,” Crystal sighed unwillingly.

  “I was looking for Ms Brown, Ms Verity Brown?” the voice queried. The accent was heavy, laced with a hint of the Caribbean, not the kind of voice that Crystal was used to hearing in these parts.

  Crystal was curious now. “You’re going to have to tell me who you are and what you want, before I can help you,” she parried.

  “I have a message for Ms Brown,” the caller stated firmly, “she’s registered as being a guest of Mr Reginald at this address. It is very important. A very important message,” the caller reiterated.

  Crystal knew that she should just hang up and tell the caller to go away, she doubted that she would like anything that she was about to hear, but she was avariciously curious now. “You can give the message to me, I’ll see that Ms Brown gets it,” she offered instead.

  The caller was plainly quite unsure of ho
w to proceed.

  “I’m running late, so you need to make up your mind quickly,” Crystal warned as she prepared to hang up the line.

  The caller named a posh hotel in Knightsbridge, and proceeded to explain that there had been a mix up with the billing system, several weeks ago now, in fact. It seemed that several very expensive beauty treatments had been missed off the invoice that Mr Reginald had settled, he’d paid cash on the day, in fact. Ms Verity Brown had signed the dockets, but they’d been unable to trace her to ask her to settle the overdue amounts.

  The on-line booking agency that Mr Reginald had used had provided these contact details, but had been unwilling to process the extra costs, it was quite a steep bill.

  Crystal identified the sour taste of revulsion in her mouth as every one of the caller’s words hit their target. This was it, the absolute proof, if she’d needed it, the true Technicolor evidence of Jazz’s betrayal. She fired off their home address in cold, clipped tones and asked for a copy of the bill to be addressed to her personally, in an envelope marked ‘private and confidential’, she didn’t want the information intercepted by anyone else. She’d take care of it, she assured the caller, silently amending the statement to include ‘just as soon as I have Jazz’s head on a plate.’

  As she replaced the receiver, a cold hard knot of dread settled in her stomach. She’d survived the last practise jump by the skin of her teeth, and only then because Jonno had acknowledged how truly terrified she’d been and had brought her down ‘in tandem’, firmly attached to his own body. Now though, not only did she have the final parachute jump in just a couple of hours, a jump that she had to contend with on her own, under her own steam, without Jonno, but also she was going to have to slog this thing out with Jazz, one way or the other when she did get hold of him later today. Of course, there was always the possibility that she wouldn’t make it down in one piece at all, in which case it would save her from one confrontation, she supposed cynically.

  She sprinted around the bedroom at lightning speed, collecting together the last of her ‘flying’ things and dumped them unceremoniously into a chain-store carrier bag while her brain considered other more weighty issues; where was Jazz, for starters? He’d left early this morning and said that he’d meet her at the airfield later, but she didn’t hold out much hope that he’d actually turn up. Their relationship had been sliding backwards over the past few weeks, there were too many lies between them now, she held out little hope for their future, and that phone call had just about sealed their fate.

  Jonno was standing in the doorway to the café, leaning his frame up against the door jamb. He was drilling out a tattoo with his fingers on the wooden sill. If she was late again today, he’d absolutely kill her, he promised himself. He’d push her out of the goddamned plane himself, whether she was ready or not this time, he resolved.

  She’d only survived the last jump because he’d taken her down in tandem to be certain that she didn’t screw it all up.

  He glanced at the clipboard held loosely at his side; everyone else had already been ticked off, twice. Some of them had arrived up to fifteen minutes early and were all checked in and ready to go, and still there was no sign of Crystal. Where was she? Nothing annoyed him more than people who were repeatedly late for appointments, she knew that, and yet she still proceeded to turn up here at any time she saw fit. She was a law unto herself, that young lady, and it was about time someone taught her some manners.

  “Here she be. Over thar’ yonder, I can see that posh sports car she drives coming along the track in a trail of dust,” Jock called out, attempting to lighten the mood. If Jonno were a kettle, he’d have steam coming out of his ears by now.

  He shuffled over to stand just behind Jonno. “Just remember that she’s terrified, lad, don’t go making her any more nervous that she should be, eh?” he advised as he absently kneaded at his lower back with a gnarled old fist. His lumbago was playing him up again today, he glanced skywards looking for tell-tale clouds, there would be more rain to come, tonight or tomorrow, latest.

  “Nervous? I’d paddle the little mare’s backside if I thought it would do her any good,” Jonno replied, with a sheepish grin.

  “No doubt others have tried and failed there, m’lad,” Jock replied sagely, thinking back to the other chap, besides the American, that he’d clocked hanging around the airfield on more than one occasion when Crystal was about.

  Jonno shrugged and slapped the side of his thigh with the clipboard. “Don’t worry, she’s lucky that I’m a professional, through and through,” he joked as he ran through a few more things he’d like to do with Crystal, none of them fit under the heading of professional though. One more day, that’s all, just one more day Jonno reiterated, she’d be out of his hair for good by then, he pledged.

  Eliza was sitting at the table nearest to the door and was shamelessly eavesdropping on their conversation. She’d been watching the body language between Jonno and Crystal for several weeks now, as had the camera crew. She smiled quietly to herself. She’d swiped Crystal’s used tea cup the last time she’d been here and had surreptitiously read the tea leaves while Crystal was otherwise engaged. The tea leaves never lied, not if you read them carefully, it would be an interesting show when they did air it, so long as they didn’t edit the interesting parts in or out. You never knew precisely what these TV companies might do with the most innocent of footage though. She moved over to one side so that Jock could slide in beside her on the bench seat. “He’ll be fine once she gets here,” she commented and nodded in Jonno’s direction. “You know how antsy he gets when people are late.”

  “Arp, that I do,” Jock replied. “Now can I get you another cup of tea m’dear?” he asked politely as Lizzie looked anxiously at the clock.

  “Well, just a small one, maybe,” she answered. “I don’t suppose we’ll be up now for another half an hour at least. Thank you, Jock.” It was nice to see a man with old-fashioned manners these days she noted, it made a lady feel cosseted and special, not that she had any ideas on that score now. She was well past the first flush of youth herself and she’d been living alone for almost a decade since her dear husband Francis had departed, she valued her own space and independence far too much to hold girlish romantic notions at her age.

  In the large industrial kitchen at the Dog and Duck, Hetty, Imogen, Barbara and the other ladies from the Primrose Manor Bridge Club had been tasked with packing the huge wicker picnic baskets with the assorted party food that the eager members had generously donated. Doug had been roped in to take charge of the coach and drive it too, and Bernard and Maude and Maisie and Gordon were responsible for the make-shift bar. Reg had supplied the cool boxes and several bags of ice. The vicar had unearthed the ground sheets and tin mugs and plates that the Scouts and Brownies used around the camp fire and had stuffed them into an old military style tote bag, left over from the last jumble sale.

  Once Crystal had roared off down the High Street in the Aston, scattering the ducks by the pond in her wake and rounded the last bend in the village on the way out of town, ‘Operation Parachute-Jump’ had immediately cranked into action. Several heads popped out of doorways as if in unison and the ancient old charabanc had reversed around the corner from behind the pub to the pre-arranged pick-up point. Doug gave the signal, five beeps on the horn, and Hetty clambered on first, taking up residence in the seat beside the driver and ticking off the names on her clipboard, as one by one the villagers loaded the supplies into the cavernous boot and then straggled their way onto the bus. Mary, the vicar’s wife began handing out sachets of out-of-date sunscreen, also left over from the last jumble sale.

  “It will be hot, over there on the airfield, on a lovely day like today,” Mary warned the church organist as she tried to refuse the proffered medication, “and I hope you’ve packed a hat, George,” she badgered the organist’s husband as he tried to sidle past without her noticing.

  “Now, who’s missing?” she asked Hetty as she c
ast a professional eye down the list.

  “Jazz is on his own in the Land Rover, by the looks of it, though where he is right now is anyone’s guess, Mark and Ruth and the children are making their own way there, as are the ladies who live out of the village and now that Lolly has gone back to America with Phil we have a few spare places,” she replied.

  “Oh dear, I didn’t know that Lolly was going so soon, I’m pleased that she’s better, of course,” Mary prattled, “but I do hope she doesn’t want her money back, or it will completely upset the figures, and I’ve had to collect an extra pound off everyone already to pay for the flags and the streamers, I left those out of the original costings, but it wouldn’t have been the same without something to wave. You know what folk are like,” she worried, “there’s bound to be one who complains if I have to ask them to contribute again, to cover the shortfall.”

  “Now, now, don’t you worry about that, Mary. If there’s any money short I’ll pay for Lolly’s place as she’s my granddaughter, there’s no problem there, now go on over and take your seat beside Peter, sit with your husband before someone else does.” She offered as she took off her cardigan and prepared to close the doors.

  Chapter

  11

  ACCORDING TO PLAN

  Crystal had been hiding from Jonno ever since she’d arrived at the airfield, just over an hour ago. She hadn’t needed to take a second glance at him to know that he was absolutely furious with her. As she’d bumped the Aston up over the grass, attempting to circumvent the car park altogether, he’d stalked out of the club house and taken one sweeping all-encompassing glance around the vicinity, only halting once he had the car firmly in his sight. He’d focussed on the vehicle with a single-minded determination and pinned her with a blistering stare, albeit from a distance. While he stood there, in the shadow of the open doorway and watched the stilted progress of the vehicle, Crystal proceeded to manoeuvre the skittish sports car through the throngs of people milling about on the concourse, conscious for once of the large family gatherings and the animated groups of friends and acquaintances spilling out over the edges of the allotted space and into the areas designated ‘staff only’ or ‘out of bounds’. There was, she noted, barely standing-room left now around the arena where the parachutists were supposed to land. She gave an involuntary shudder as she drew abreast of the big ‘X’ newly painted on the grass, it always helped, she supposed, to have a large target to aim for. Right across the whole airfield people were hunched up together eating ice-creams and hot dogs, or sprawled out on gaily coloured picnic rugs, like tiny pockets of finely coloured jewels set against the characteristic starkness of the airfield.