Five Wakes and a Wedding

by Karen Ross

  My own. Laughing!

  That’s the first circuit safely negotiated. Four more to go. By the time I whiz round again, I feel brave enough to lift my eyes from the track. There’s Barclay, giving me a thumbs-up.

  Ah. So that’s what Simon meant about not even trying to drive in a straight line. You just go with the ice. Let it lead the way. It’s leading me past Barclay again, and this time I lift a gloved hand from the wheel and wave at him.

  Mistake! I’ve steered too far to the right. The kart lurches to the left and does a figure-of-eight spin. By some miracle I’m still pointing the right way. Onwards and sideways, snaking into the next turn, I’ve never been so terrified yet so thrilled at the same time.

  For some reason, I’m thinking about Gloria when I enter the next straight. Last week, she attended a workshop for something called laughing yoga. Where you do yoga and, um, laugh while you’re at it. Well, this is laughing go-karting. On ice. Everyone should try it.

  One final lap. My hands and muscles are starting to ache. My overalls are soaked through from the spray of the ice. And my thighs are numb. But I savour every metre, until I slither to a reluctant standstill.

  Barclay’s on the ice to greet me. He extends a hand to pull me out of the kart, then wraps me in a bearhug.

  ‘Nina Sherwood, you’re a real speed demon!’ I bask in his admiration. ‘Didn’t you hear me tell you to slow down? You took that last bend like a real pro. Will you take part in the proper racing? On my team.’

  I’ve gone weak at the knees. Not because of Barclay’s proposition but at the aftershock of having egged myself on to do something seriously scary and living to tell the tale.

  The racing is about to begin. Four teams. One of them captained – naturally – by Barclay. I walk carefully on the ice, back behind the barrier and into the changing room where Simon is waiting with a hot drink.

  ‘That was fantastic.’ I taste blackberries. ‘Thank you so much for telling me what to do.’

  ‘You ignored most of my instructions.’ Simon smiles wryly. ‘Particularly the one about speed. Here.’ He thrusts a piece of paper into my hands. ‘Look at the lap printout times. Fastest I’ve ever seen for a first-timer. Even our Barclay’s going to be hard pushed trying to beat that!’

  By the time I return to the rink, the racing is in full swing. By now, there are more than fifty people watching, and I soon feel self-conscious. They all seem to know each another and are chatting merrily away but I haven’t got a clue who’s who.

  For one horrible moment, I think I’ve spotted Zoe Banks. But the woman who turns round as I’m contemplating hiding behind a pillar turns out to be someone else entirely.

  ‘Hello. You’re Nina, right?’ I’m startled to hear a voice behind me. ‘I’m Rosie.’

  The girl who was karting before I had my turn. The one whose exuberance gave me the courage to risk it. Close up, she looks even younger than fourteen. Before I can reply, she continues, ‘Barclay asked me to watch out for you. Told me to introduce you to people, and stuff. I’ll do that if you want, but they’re mostly boring old farts come to watch, when they could be racing.’

  I take another look at the crowd. The boring old farts seem to be my age. And younger. A quick change of subject seems in order.

  ‘So how do you know Barclay?’

  ‘He’s my godfather. How about you?’

  ‘We kind of ran into each other.’ I start telling Rosie how Barclay almost mowed down Chopper on Primrose Hill.

  She frowns. ‘That doesn’t sound at all like Barclay,’ she says. ‘He’s brilliant on a scooter. Showed me how to do a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree jump on mine. He made it look so easy but I still can’t do it.’

  Ten minutes later I’m showing Rosie pictures of Chopper on my phone – trying a bit too hard not to be an old fart – when we’re interrupted by loud cheering, and shouts of, ‘Go onnnnn!’

  We look up to see two karts side by side on the track as they go into the straight no more than an inch between them. For five gut-clenching seconds it seems they’re going to collide. Then one jousts past the other and accelerates towards the finish line.

  Barclay leaps from the victorious kart.

  ‘Same old, same old.’ Rosie sounds much older than her years. For my benefit she adds simply, ‘Barclay always wins. Except when it comes to his father. At least that’s what my dad says.’

  ‘How’d you mean?’ I’m intrigued. After all, if Eddie Banks hadn’t put in the good word that helped me start Happy Endings, I’d never have been in Primrose Hill, and I’d never have met Barclay.

  ‘Well, according to Dad, Barclay doesn’t really want to work for the family business. But his father blackmailed him.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Says it’d kill him if Barclay walked away. So now the pair of them are always having terrible rows about how things should be done.’

  Before I can find out any more, Barclay’s at our side. Holding a silver trophy. ‘Not a bad night’s work,’ he says.

  ‘How much did you raise?’ Rosie asks him.

  ‘Close on fifteen grand. It’s for the care home down the road,’ he adds for my benefit. ‘We do it every year. Pays for a few day trips to Whitstable and the Isle of Wight.’

  We say our goodbyes to Rosie. Then Barclay says, ‘So I can either introduce you to my mates – I think they’re going for curry in Muswell Hill – but I’d much rather keep you to myself for the rest of the evening. What d’you think?’

  ‘Rosie says your mates are old farts,’ I tease.

  ‘So long as she didn’t include me in that description.’

  Barclay and I make a quiet escape.

  Even though it’s well into the evening, the air outside is still warm and humid. We’re back at Barclay’s motorbike. He unlocks a pannier and places his trophy inside.

  ‘Quick walk up to the Palace?’ he suggests. ‘While we decide what to do next?’

  Since curry is off the menu there can be only so many possibilities. We walk uphill to the Great Hall. On the summit, Barclay says, ‘I love the way the view is always changing. So many new buildings springing up across the capital.’

  He’s brought me up here to talk about architecture? Maybe I’ve misread the situation and Barclay simply wants to be friends. Just because I’ve finally stepped out of the shadow Ryan cast over my life, it doesn’t mean Barclay’s going to—

  ‘I really enjoy your company, Nina,’ he’s saying. He sounds almost cross about it, which confuses me all the more.

  ‘We have fun together,’ I say cautiously.

  ‘I had a private bet with myself tonight,’ Barclay continues. ‘Two private bets, in fact. And I’ve lost both.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d get on the back of the bike.’ Barclay stares at the horizon rather than me. ‘And I didn’t think you’d go go-karting.’

  ‘You’re saying I’m dull?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ Barclay looks at me in amazement. ‘The opposite. You’re not like any of the girls I hang out with. That’s the point.’

  ‘Maybe you’re mixing with the wrong kind of girls.’ Barclay’s a player, I remind myself. The playboy brother with a different girl every week. Am I this week’s girl? Even if that’s all I am, is that the worst thing in the world?

  ‘Double or quits?’ Barclay asks.

  ‘Is that like truth or dare?’

  ‘More or less.’ He shoots me a smile that hits my heart like a dart on a bullseye. ‘You up for it?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Is that a yes?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Let’s find out.’

  What’s Barclay up to?

  ‘I want you to turn your back on me,’ he continues. ‘Then I’ll count down from three. When I get to one, you take off your shirt.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Trust me. Now turn around.’

  I do as he asks. Which isn’t the same as agreeing to take off my clothes i
n a public space.

  ‘Three …’

  Barclay’s correct. The view up here is amazing. Look, there’s the Shard. And St Paul’s Cathedral.

  ‘Two …’

  When Barclay shouts ‘ONE’, the whole of London seems to come to a halt. What the hell. My fingers are steady as I undo the two buttons on my white shirt and pull it quickly over my head. At least I’m wearing one of my most presentable bras.

  ‘Now turn around again,’ Barclay says.

  I do so, without overthinking it, and find myself confronted with a topless Barclay. He holds out his T-shirt to me. The one with Go-Kart Champion printed across the chest.

  ‘For you,’ he says. ‘You deserve it more than I do.’

  I take a tentative step towards him. Our eyes are locked upon one another, as we both enjoy the view.

  ‘Did you lose again?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh no.’ Barclay’s look of admiration makes me feel ridiculously happy. ‘This time, I’ve definitely won.’

  I maintain eye contact, stretch out my hand, and take the T-shirt. ‘Will you be needing mine?’

  Barclay considers. ‘Probably on the small side.’

  I watch him lace the fingers of both his hands together. Then, in a single fluid movement, he steps forward, raises his arms as if he’s about to do a pirouette, drops them over my head and quickly pulls me in.

  ‘I’ve been dreaming of this since I messed up in Paris,’ he says. ‘Of you.’ Then – slowly and confidently – he eases his way into a kiss that tells me everything I need to know.

  For the second time in a single night, I realise I’ve never been so terrified yet so thrilled at the same time.

  38

  Barclay insists on driving his motorbike bare-chested. ‘It’s perfectly legal, so long as I’m wearing my helmet. Besides, I need to cool down.’ He shoots me a playful look.

  We leave Alexandra Palace in a roar of exhaust fumes. Barclay drives with a greater sense of urgency than before, although when we slow down to make a right turn he shifts backwards in the saddle, moulding his body into a single shape with mine.

  I have no idea where we’re going. Yes, this is the same way we came, but is Barclay planning to drop me off at home – I hope not! – or has he decided where we’re going for supper?

  In Kentish Town, we ignore the turning that leads to my place and keep going through Camden. A mile further down the road we encounter a batch of speed bumps. Barclay negotiates them like a stone skimming the surface of a pond.

  A moment later, we’re in Primrose Hill.

  Chalcot Square, to be precise.

  Barclay parks the bike between two cars and we remove our helmets. ‘Did I mention I’m living here for the time being?’ he says.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Means I can crack the whip with the builders. Seems like the quickest way to get this bloody basement finished. We’re a bit sparse on the furniture, but I thought we could do takeaway and a grand tour?’

  ‘Great!’

  We debate the merits of curry from The Primrose Poppadum versus kebabs from the Greek.

  ‘You decide. I’d better nip inside and grab a shirt,’ Barclay says.

  By the time I’ve chosen kebabs with feta salad, Barclay has reappeared in a new T-shirt. This one says, Lucky Man! I try not to look too pleased.

  In the end, we take our supper to the park, then walk hand in hand back to Eddie Banks’s palatial home.

  ‘Let’s start with the basement,’ Barclay says.

  So he wasn’t kidding about the grand tour.

  ‘Is there really a salt grotto?’

  ‘It’d be quicker to go to Siberia and cut the rocks myself,’ Barclay groans. ‘I don’t know what my old man’s playing at. I mean, we’ve done some great developments. Very profitable. But this one …’ he pauses to press something on his phone. In response, golden light appears from translucent walls that glow a soft amber orange. The colour reminds me disconcertingly of Mrs Happy.

  ‘This one’s beginning to make the Taj Mahal look understated,’ Barclay sighs.

  ‘What’s going to happen when it’s finished?’

  ‘I’m going to get very drunk indeed. Seriously? My father insists he’s coming back to London full-time. He’s been negotiating for months with HMRC about doing a tax deal that means he can afford to leave Monaco. Every time I tell him he should just pay what’s due and enjoy the rest, he looks at me like I’m a huge disappointment.’

  Barclay sounds fond yet exasperated. I remember what Rosie said about him and his father not seeing eye to eye.

  ‘Do you enjoy working for the family business?’

  ‘It’s not exactly my life’s ambition,’ Barclay sighs. ‘The legal work’s a lot more fun than the property stuff. Anyway,’ he presses his phone again, and this time a door slides open. ‘Welcome to the chill-out zone in all its solid gold glory. Ta da!’

  ‘It’s hideous!’ The words tumble from my mouth before I can stop them. ‘I mean—’

  ‘You mean it’s hideous.’ Barclay’s face is stern for five very long seconds. Then he roars with laughter. ‘Yeah. Ghastly. I tried to talk him out of it. I try to talk him out of lots of things, but …’

  By the time we’ve finished in the basement – the banana-scented wallpaper in the meditation room is a particular highlight – Barclay is telling me about his plan to take a sabbatical when the building works are finished.

  ‘My life’s on hold till then,’ he says. ‘But once we’re done, I need to stop coasting. Time to reassess my priorities. I’ll be thirty-five next year, and that’s too old to keep being the playboy brother, wouldn’t you say?’

  Barclay’s smile scores another bullseye. It’s followed this time by an arm looped around my waist as we walk into the upstairs part of Eddie Banks’s home.

  Five flights of stairs. By the time we get to the roof terrace – the view is almost a match for Alexandra Palace – I’m out of breath.

  Barclay and I sit alongside one another in comfy, wicker armchairs, cold beers in hand. He finishes a story about the time he challenged a Serbian builder to a wrestling match – ‘It wasn’t until I was in hospital on morphine having my collar-bone mended that I discovered the old bugger had an Olympic bronze medal!’ – and suggests we go inside.

  All at once, I feel nervous. It’s that time of night when you either go home …

  … Or stay.

  I hesitate, waiting for Barclay to make his next move.

  ‘Another beer?’ he asks.

  Three hours later, we’re still chatting. I’m stretched out on a couch the size of a small yacht, my head in Barclay’s lap, while he gives me a light head massage.

  ‘You’re very good at this,’ he says.

  ‘Isn’t that what I should be saying to you?’ I tilt my neck to one side and look up at him.

  ‘I mean, here I am, spilling all my secrets’ – it’s true, Barclay has just finished a story about the girl he wanted to marry when he was twenty-five, who turned him down in favour of a career as a zoologist in Borneo – ‘and you’re such an easy person to talk to. You’ve told me all about Gloria and her good works at the law centre. Not to mention Edo and his art. And Kelli’s extended honeymoon, now that film of hers has wrapped. But the person I really want to know about is you!’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done?’

  ‘That one’s easy.’ Barclay resumes his head massage and I’m glad I don’t have to look at him. ‘When my ex-husband dumped me, I pretended he was dead.’

  ‘Pretended?’ Barclay seems amused. ‘Well, I suppose that’s marginally better than killing him. I didn’t know you’d been married.’

  ‘Why would you?’

  ‘So what happened?’

  I start telling Barclay about my marriage and its demise. He peppers my story with remarks like, ‘What a bastard,’ ‘That must’ve been hideous,’ and ‘Remind me never to cross you!’

&nb
sp; By the time I get to the bit about watching Ryan unwrap his farewell gifts, we’re both snorting with laughter.

  ‘A little baby T-shirt you say. Nice! Glad to know I’m having a good influence on you.’

  I hope Barclay can’t see me blush.

  ‘You’re blushing!’ he says.

  I pull myself upright.

  ‘Too much beer.’

  ‘Me too.’ Barclay fixes me with an intense stare. Is this the bit where he says he’s over the driving limit? And offers to Uber me home. Or—

  ‘I’ll make us some coffee,’ he says.

  I follow him down two flights of stairs and into the kitchen of my dreams. Oversized light fixtures crisscross the high ceiling, shining pools of light onto pristine granite surfaces and a wealth of cupboards. While Barclay busies himself with coffee, kettle and cups, I prowl the edges.

  A brace of steam ovens, each one large enough to roast a haunch of venison. Induction hobs with no visible controls. Glass-fronted wine fridge. Warming drawers galore. One of those big spray taps – the sexy ones that look like a shower attachment – stands sentry over a sink that’s easily big enough to bath a baby. Everything in mint condition, and probably never been used. The whole look is stunning, yet peculiarly soulless.

  Barclay puts two mugs of coffee on a glass dining table. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘Big enough for a good game of table tennis. Maybe we’ll try that next time you’re over.’

  Next time.

  Two words full of promise.

  ‘So how’s business? Sorry, I should have asked you before.’ Barclay sips his coffee. ‘I meant to say, you did a good job with poor old Mrs Happy. Do you think she’s made her first complaint to God yet?’

  I laugh at the thought and I’m soon telling Barclay about my ideas for a Funeral Expo.

  ‘Cool,’ he responds. ‘I was just reading about a Liverpudlian, one of the first Beatles tour guides, whose mates came to his send-off dressed in Sergeant Pepper jackets. Hired the original Magical Mystery tour bus, too.’