by Jane Linfoot
‘Maybe at the start. After a while I kind of forgot about that.’ He sounds wistful. ‘The other girls had been warned off. Whereas you were mature enough to see past my mishaps and treat me as a person.’
‘Mishaps’ is a mild way of describing his disaster catalogue. But I suppose my mum and dad had more on their mind. Boys who sent cars into ravines and over cliffs were a small threat to daughters compared to fast growing brain tumours that strike you down in a couple of months. The only thing in his favour was he was never usually in the cars he totalled. I have to push this. ‘But asking me out every morning?’ The frequency didn’t make it any less mortifying. Worse still, I was always rigid in case my inner voice accidentally got out of control and accepted, and made me the laughing stock of the entire school.
His laugh is low enough to hear under the driving drum beats. ‘Back then I wouldn’t have minded if you’d said yes.’
I somehow gulp down my appalled gasp. Years later and he still talks bollocks. ‘As if that would have happened.’ Incredulous doesn’t begin to cover it. I was years younger than him. Still am, come to that. And still sensible enough to know to keep as far away as I can. Today being an unfortunate blip that I’ll avoid at all costs in future. I sense that I need to move this on while I’m ahead, so I turn to look behind me. ‘Hey, Gracie, shall I tell you a story about snowmen?’
Before she looks up, Rory’s cut in. ‘No point disturbing her if she’s quiet. Leave that stuff to her mum. She’ll be home soon enough.’
‘How’s Erin doing?’ Seeing the latest signpost, showing that Port Giles is still miles away, I need a surefire way to steer the subject away from me.
Rory gives a disgruntled snort. ‘She might be doing better if Gracie didn’t catalogue the disasters every time they talk on the phone. Anyone can put hand cream in the bath instead of bubbles. And who knew you could get the right number of legs and arms into sleeves and legs on a babygrow, and it would still end up upside down and back to front? And fine, Gracie hated the lamb pasanda, but I’d gone to a lot of trouble with that saffron rice.’ He’s set off on a rant now. ‘As for having a hissy fit about four marshmallows in the hot chocolate instead of five – how can a three-year-old tell the difference when they can’t even count?’
I can’t help but laugh. ‘Sounds like Gracie’s on your case.’
He shakes his head. ‘Don’t I know it. Her and her mum. Erin’s been having some heart procedure in London, but she’s due home tomorrow.’ He takes his hands off the wheel to do a silent cheer. ‘It was a minor defect she was born with, but having the kids made it worse. By the time they investigated it was urgent.’ Luckily the road is straight and he takes hold again.
‘And her partner’s working?’ Another space-filler question to counteract the desolate winter landscape beyond the car windows.
He gives me an incredulous glance. ‘What rock have you been hiding under, HB? No way these poor proverbial babes would be stuck with an incompetent like me if their dad was around. Everyone knows, at thirty-eight Erin decided to go it alone using the sperm-donor route.’ He pulls a face. ‘She’s strong and very independent. Getting ill really wasn’t in her life plan. Or mine.’
I can’t resist reminding him. ‘Gracie and Teddie are actually real, not proverbial.’ And right on cue, Teddie begins to whinge.
There are better ways to spend an hour than waggling a snowman over the back of the seat to keep a six-month-old’s howls at bay, while Green Day pulsates on your eardrums. But on balance it’s better than talking to Rory. And by the time we arrive at Port Giles it means I’ve spent an entire sixty minutes without worrying about dying batteries or backing up data. As the road veers closer to the coast, the hedges open up to give a view of the sea being lashed by the rain. And then we’re winding between the neat white and grey cottages of the village, coming into Port Giles, and making our way along the stretch of road that leads to where the Old Lifeboat Station stands stark against the washed-out sky.
But as the neatly raked gravel of the car park scrunches under the tyres and we pull in further along next to two picturesque upturned boats, there’s a hand-painted blue and white sign. And the words Wedding Venue jerk me back into the room with a bang.
Chapter 14
Friday 8th December
At the Old Lifeboat Station, Port Giles: Rain stops play
‘You didn’t want to use the car park, then?’
Rory couldn’t have parked further from the building if he’d tried. I’m tempted to use the ‘don’t worry, we can walk to the kerb from here’ line. It’s only after we’ve suffered Teddie’s roaring as we changed a nappy – Rory’s job – found missing silver wellies – Gracie’s – and checked our cheeks – me, and they couldn’t be more floury if they were baps from the bakers, but on the upside at least they’re not pink – that we set off. As I duck into the horizontal rain, pushing Teddie’s buggy towards the venue, my smallest waterproof camera bag slung on my shoulder, I realise the beer-mobile is actually up on a hump between the car park and the beach.
Rory gives me a doubtful stare. ‘What’s the point hiding away in car parks? Every outing is a Roaring Waves publicity opportunity. After the trouble I went to with that paint job, I go for maximum exposure.’ He’s back to laughing again. ‘Whatever you think, I didn’t only agree to come so I could spend a day winding you up. I’m hoping I might get some orders out of today’s foray into northern territory.’
Two hours in, I’m resigned to the fact that these badly aimed side swipes are the best we’re going to get. ‘It’ll serve you right if your four by four gets swept out to sea.’ Just saying. It wouldn’t be the first time.
He gives me a dirty look for that. ‘The good news is, the rain’s stopping tomorrow and the wind’s set to drop. Sunday should be a balmy six degrees, with enough sun for photos on the terrace deck in front of the ceremony room. The tide will be on its way out when they get married at one, so you should be good for beach shots too. Low tide’s at four twenty, high tide again at eleven.’
‘Show off.’ I seem to be travelling with my own personal weather and tide geek. As for the lifeboat station, I wasn’t expecting it could have been converted to anything so stylish. Today the grey blue frames of the floor-to-ceiling windows along the single storey extension exactly match the diesel colour of the sea. The tall stone building, with its dark slate roof, stands proud against the racing clouds, with the old boat slipway sliding down to the beach.
Rory ignores that snipe. ‘My mate’s manager here, he’s expecting us to help ourselves. It’s actually a virtual offshoot of the local pub business in the village.’ He nods at the long row of windows as he pushes through the massive blue-painted entrance door. ‘The ceremonies are held in there, with a view straight out to sea. Then, so long as it’s fine, the guests spill out onto the terraces either side for drinks, depending which way the wind is blowing. If the sun’s out, there should be plenty of natural light for your photos.’
‘Great.’ I hide my surprise by fiddling with the pushchair cover and grinning at Teddie as I push him down the ramp. For a bonehead, Rory seems to be completely across this job. And more. If we weren’t dancing round each other locking horns, I’d almost be grateful to Immie for sending him.
He can’t hide his enthusiasm as we move through into the high space of the main building, where an elliptical staircase sweeps to the upper level that sits below the sloping roof. ‘It’s a brilliant place for wedding parties. And there are fabulous hanging deck balconies on the seaward side, too.’
Inside the light has the soft luminous quality you only get by the sea. It’s splashing off the white-painted walls in a way you’d never find in London. And although it looks sparse, I can see it will leap into life once the wedding gear and the guests arrive.
‘So who gets married here, then?’ I’ve got as far as finding out that Sunday’s couple are sailing school owners, Scott and Nancy, and they’re having thirty for their buffet wedding breakf
ast, and forty more to their evening party. I’m still waiting for Jules to forward the rest of their instructions.
Rory rubs his nose as he thinks. ‘Beachy people having smaller weddings who like things quirky and simple.’ He lets go of Gracie’s hand, squats on the edge of an immensely long cream leather sofa and pulls an iPad out of his jacket pocket.
I wrinkle my nose. As I run my hand along the soft leather of the sofa back, it feels jarringly familiar.
Rory narrows his eyes at me. ‘And?’
I wasn’t intending to mention it, but seeing as he’s asked. ‘These are the kind of couches Luc used to have in his loft.’ The open plan living area of his flat wasn’t so much huge as epic. Anything less than ten feet long would have been dwarfed.
Rory looks up from his screen. ‘If I didn’t already hate him, I do now.’ He gives a disparaging sniff, presumably to show he’s joking. ‘Here, I uploaded some of the pictures from the wedding I came to. I don’t know if they’ll help. I’m sure you’ll find great shots of your own, but in case you don’t have time …’
I get the subtext. In case I’m too nervous to think straight. Although I’m not offended. Seeing how far up this particular shit creek I am, I’m happy to grab all the help I can get, even if it comes from a Sanderson direction. So I perch as far away from him as I can, suspend hostilities for a moment and crane my neck to see as he flicks through. ‘That’s a good angle to make the most of the staircase. Nice backdrop of the sea with all the bridesmaids along the balcony rail. Groomsmen standing on the sofas. So where do you usually live, then?’ That came out all on its own, when it wasn’t meant to. Which is exactly what used to worry me every day on the school bus. That I’d make an even bigger fool of myself and accidentally say yes to him.
He moves onto the next one without answering. ‘The way that cluster of umbrellas looks on the terrace, it’s almost a shame it’s not going to rain on Sunday.’
As I look at the fabulous shot of guests with their brollies taken from above, it suddenly strikes me. ‘That’s the difference between taking pictures of burgers and pictures of weddings. With the food, I set it all up in advance and I’m in total control. Right down to faking the steam coming off a stew with a carefully hidden tampon soaked in boiling water.’
‘Really?’ A look of delight spreads across Rory’s face as that sinks in. ‘Cheating like that? I’m surprised at you, Holly Berry.’
I don’t even bother to reply to that comment. ‘Whereas with weddings it’s all about reacting to the moment. You can plan a certain amount, but the rest is pure spontaneity. It’s an adrenalin junkie’s dream. But for someone like me who likes certainty, it’s the stuff of nightmares.’
He pulls down the corners of his mouth. ‘Sounds like you’ll be feeling the pain, big time.’
I sigh, because the more I think about it, the more hopeless it feels. ‘Even if the venue is the same, everything else changes every time. The dress, the weather, the guests, the styling.’ As I say it, the enormity of what I’m taking on is sinking in. ‘And I’m the one who’s got to capture and maximise all those possibilities. That’s so much responsibility. There’s so much potential to fail.’
He flicks through a few more photos then turns to me. ‘Although as Poppy said – or was it Jess – if they’re anything like these, you’ll be getting some great pictures.’
I take a moment to consider. ‘In my day job, it’s all about making the product look its best.’ At Zoe and Aidan’s wedding, I wasn’t even considering if I might like the pictures. But looking at the photos on Rory’s iPad that are nothing to do with me, it’s different. ‘Capturing the prettiness and creating lovely pictures is a whole side I’ve overlooked.’ I’m surprised that a shiver zings up and down my spine when I think about that.
Rory smiles. ‘If you concentrate on the pretty bits, who knows, you might even start to enjoy it? You are a girl, after all.’
‘Highly unlikely,’ I say, with the most conviction I’ve felt all day.
His face crumples. ‘Me going on about pretty stuff. I can’t even believe I said that, either.’ He gives a groan. ‘Anyway, are you and the twelve-foot sofas still in the penthouse, then?’
I’m surprised he’s flicked back to that. ‘I wish.’ Although, as I say it, I know that’s not true. I’d hate to be there on my own. ‘Actually, I live in a room the size of a cupboard in a not very nice flat.’ It was the obvious way forward – or in my case back. Luc was fully committed to the American dream and we both knew I couldn’t stay in his apartment. He was moving on and I went back to the old room I’d always kept. Realistically flats like Luc’s are out of my stratosphere. I probably wouldn’t even earn enough to cover the service charges.
Rory laughs. ‘A London cupboard sounds well upmarket. I share some barns with some brewing tanks and an owl or two.’ Lucky for everyone local he hasn’t ended up on an estate. House prices would take a serious dive if this wild boy landed in any respectable neighbourhood.
Despite myself, I’m grinning. ‘Weddings might be the only chance we’ll ever get of flopping on a decent sofa, then.’
He stares at me. ‘What, are you crazy? There won’t be any time for sitting down.’ He laughs again. ‘Not for you, anyway. In fact, you’d better get to work now, or we won’t get lunch till tea time. Go and check out your viewfinder angles and leave me to enjoy my comfy seat.’
There’s no point telling him I’ve no intention of staying out for lunch. It’s only when I come to stand up, I feel a weight and find that Gracie’s crawled onto my knee. As I ease her gently down next to me, I see a chest on wheels over in the corner. ‘Come on Mrs, I think there might be a toy box.’
She stretches her hand towards Rory’s tablet. ‘I like the iPad best.’
Rory’s too fast for her. ‘Mitts off, mongrel, this one’s mine.’
I’m staring at them, shaking my head. ‘Either of you two heard of sharing?’ If it wasn’t so sad it would be funny. ‘You could play ten green bottles together? Or watch The Little Mermaid?’
‘Or not.’ Rory’s pout is almost as big as Gracie’s. ‘That could cause more trouble than cucumber sticks.’
Gracie’s joining in. ‘Actually, I only like Frozen.’
With a sigh, I peer into the toy box, pull out some brightly coloured skittles and push them towards them. ‘Try these. They’re a pub game.’ That should tempt Rory, if nothing else does.
‘Actually we might come and make ourselves useful instead. Model for you, open doors, that kind of thing.’ He pushes himself to standing and hitches up his jeans.
‘Congratulations, Rory, that’s a first. You used a pronoun that included Gracie there.’ Progress like that can’t go without a mention.
He ignores the praise and springs towards the staircase. ‘Grab your camera, see if you can get me coming down.’
What follows is the exact negative of Jules in action. Because in our case – read nothing into the inclusive pronoun this time around, obviously – the photographer is totally getting ordered around by the subject. ‘Try one against the balcony rail … leaning on the door frame … upside down, legs over the back of the sofa …’ Yes, really. Portrait, distance, close up. Jacket on, jacket off. Drenched by the rain, towelled dry. Back against the wall, knee up … next to Gracie … looking out to sea … looking in through the window from outside … light playing on stubble … shadows sculpting the hollows under cheekbones …
The next hour is a whirl. Back lit, front lit. Blurring the background, blurring the foreground. In the end, I’m the one who gives in first and collapses back onto the sofa. As I begin to flick through what I’ve taken, I’m surprised. ‘Hmmmm, some of them aren’t too bad.’
Rory nods. ‘You’ve relaxed, you’re familiar with the venue now, I reckon you’re as prepared as you can be.’ He’s looking particularly pleased with himself as he rubs his hands. ‘Anyone hungry?’
That’s my cue to jump in. I’m about to say my bit, then I think about a t
wo-hour drive home with ravenous kids and a hungry driver, and do a fast U-turn. ‘So before we go for lunch, we need to agree some ground rules.’ I’ve got this. And I’m right on it, because I can just imagine where we’ll end up if I leave it to Rory. ‘Ideally it’ll have high chairs as well as bar stools. And a kids’ menu.’ I’m not asking for miracles. I know if he went within a country mile of a place with a play area the beer-mobile might spontaneously decompose.
‘Whatever you say, Holly Berry.’ He dives into the nappy bag and whips out a packet. ‘But before we go, it’s your turn for the baby wipes.’
‘Nice try. I don’t think so.’ Then I think again. ‘Teddie needs changing again already?’
He pulls a face as he hesitates. ‘No, but you might like to check out the – ahem – toothpaste situation.’
I squint at him. ‘The what?’
‘When you said about icing before, I couldn’t see it. But since you came in from the rain on the balcony, I’m getting the full drip cake thing.’
‘How the hell do you know about drip cakes, Rory?’ I have to ask.
He looks sheepish. ‘They’re very popular lately. I told you, I go to a lot of weddings.’ His face crinkles. ‘Although this is the first strawberry base with white drips I’ve seen.’ He’s holding up his phone like he’s taking my picture.
‘Still not getting you?’
‘That whole icing on your face thing? It’s running.’ As he flashes his phone screen at me and my own face looks back at me, my eyes practically pop.
‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaagghhhhh… !’ I’m looking at everything he said and more. Bright pink cheeks, streaked with dripping white paste doesn’t begin to cover it. ‘Jeez, Rory, why the hell didn’t you say?’
He stifles a cough. ‘So maybe you will be taking those baby wipes after all?’ He slips them into my hand along with a plastic bottle and a disgustingly smug laugh.
