At the bar, he ordered another drink, this one more gin than tonic. As the ice cubes clinked into the glass, he studied his hands resting on the polished surface before him. The lines in his skin seemed more like the first signs of age than creased knuckles; he imagined Kate’s smooth hand in his before feeling a sense of guilt.
A hand squeezed his shoulder. “Mick, excited they’re dragging you forth from your hole again?” asked Dane. “A week at the mercy of Sean’s future in-laws and bad British cuisine–I don’t envy you, mate.” He lit a cigarette, then motioned for the bartender to approach.
“A week?” repeated Michael. “A week where?” A sense of foreboding stole over him.
“In England,” said Dane. “That’s where the wedding is–you’ll be leaving early as the best man, I assume.” To the bartender, he added, “One cosmopolitan, please.”
England? Michael pictured himself holding an umbrella over Sean’s head, a downpour soaking Kate in a white wedding veil. A woman in an oversized hat like Queen Elizabeth’s stationed in a crowd of somber guests in bowler hats. Surely this was a mistake– surely the ceremony was destined for a chapel in Chicago, a nearby park, a place in keeping with Sean’s haste to the wedding.
He turned and glanced over his shoulder at Sean, who was standing a few feet away in a circle of friends. The look on Michael’s face betrayed the nature of Dane’s conversation, apparently–an incredulous glance which made Sean cringe slightly. His lips mouthed something unintelligible, but the discomfort of his body language was answer enough for Michael.
With a sigh, he turned back to his glass, staring at its contents as if the proper reaction to this scenario might be hidden at the bottom.
Chapter Five
"Will passengers please place their seats and trays in an upright position as we prepare to land in London International Airport..." The clipped British voice sounded hollow over the plane's intercom system as it drew Michael's attention from his laptop screen. He glanced out the window, viewing the landing strip growing larger and closer with speed, the cherry blossom-decorated Japanese airliner embarking from another runway in the distance.
He closed the laptop screen, banishing its words from sight as he mentally prepared himself for the week to come. A week among strangers, in a place that he imagined as nothing more than a tourist brochure on Sean's coffee table. A week in a country once nothing more than a stone's throw view from the only shores he visited as more than a distant observer.
"When is this thing?" he asked Sean, that evening at the party. He was careful to keep his voice low, in case any passing fellow guest was an eavesdropper. "I assumed you were getting married right away–"
"We are," said Sean. " In a couple weeks. It's just Kate's only family are all in England and none of them could make it for the wedding if it was in Chicago. So I thought, why not go there? I mean, I've got no family who care, the crew won't care if they don't make it–this can be all about her." His tone was casual, as if flying to another country to be married was on par with planning a skydiving weekend.
"And Kate was happy with this?" Michael asked. "Women usually like time to plan things, Sean..."
Sean shrugged. "I'm having everything taken care of," he said. "There's an estate in Kate's family that hosts weddings. I'll hire a planner, she won't have to do a thing except buy a dress and a bouquet." He took a sip from his beer as he squeezed Michael's arm with his free hand. "Relax, bro. I've got it covered."
Part of having it covered, Michael learned later, involved him. It was Sean's idea that he leave two days early to be at the rehearsal dinner–then three or four, in order to run some "errands" entailed in the best man's duty.
"Sean, I've got a deadline," argued Michael, when three days became a week in order to ensure the tuxedo rental and ring pickup while Sean was absent for a press event in France.
"Take your book with you," said Sean. He added, pleadingly. "Come on, pal. I need you. I need you to cover for me this time." It was that pleading voice that steered Michael onto the London plane the same way it once landed him behind the wheel on a road trip to Atlantic City.
Shouldering his laptop case, Michael jostled among his fellow passengers as they made their way towards the gate. He was forced to endure the hazards of checked luggage, the scrutiny of customs in order to claim his leather suitcase packed with a week's worth of possessions.
In the throng of greeters waiting for the passengers to emerge, he spotted a man holding a placard with the name "Michael" written in marker. An unfamiliar figure dressed in a uniform style customarily denoting members of a hotel staff.
"Mr. Herriman?" The inquiring voice was British, addressing Michael in confident tones. "Allow me to take your luggage, sir."
Sean hadn't mentioned the possibility of someone collecting Michael at the airport, an arrangement which clearly slipped his mind when they last spoke before the flight. With a sense of annoyance, Michael forced a smile to his face.
"That's all right," he answered. "It's not heavy." He generally avoided the personal discomfort of trailing along behind a person paid for the specific purpose of carrying a bag he himself could handle. The man with the placard seemed not to mind the refusal as he directed Michael towards the airport doors.
The car waiting for him was not a cab, he discovered, but a polished Austin Healey. "Won't you climb inside, please, sir?" The uniformed man opened the door to the backseat, opening the trunk of the car for Michael's bag.
Are you–a family member of the bride?" Michael asked, tentatively.
"Employee of the estate, sir" he answered. "The home is a bit of an inn for tourists these days, as I'm sure you're aware." He climbed in the driver's seat, the engine purring to life when he turned the key.
"Sorry," Michael answered, "I was under the impression the family lived there." That was the impression Sean's version of the story created, a bevy of well-connected relations indulgently hosting a family wedding–not a paid event outside the realms of Kate the photographer's earnings.
"Only the knight lives there, sir," he said. "But family's welcome to visit and receive accommodations at a reasonable rate for special events."
The traffic of London vanished as they drove on, the first signs of the countryside visible through Michael's windows, the scenes of travel speeding along in a way no view through an airliner's window ever flew. Michael leaned against the leather seats, one hand supporting his head as he contemplated the scenario into which his life had become sucked for the past week or so.
The road curved in a winding fashion, the Austin Healey turning onto a stone lane beneath an arching gate. Through the trees, Michael glimpsed a sprawling manor that reminded him of a Jane Austen novel. Stone the color of pale sand beneath a heavy blanket of green vines, turrets rising from the roof in the fashion of historic palaces.
The driveway was lined with hedges trimmed in topiary shapes and neat boxes, flanked by a green lawn on which he imagined guests playing cricket, as if cricket was still the fashion for tourists at elegant foreign hotels. He craned his neck in spite of himself, gazing past the pillars at the formidable front door to the manor house.
"How old is the house?" he asked. He saw the driver's head incline in his direction.
"Heathshedge Manor? Four hundred years," the man answered. "A bit more, perhaps. Branch of the Tudor family once owned it. But it passed on to the Granger name through marriage." He turned the wheel, slowing down as the car aligned with the front lane of the house.
"Here you are, sir," he said. The engine was still running although the car was braked, a sign that Michael was meant to make his exit at the entrance to the house. Waiting on the steps, hands folded before her, was a woman in a printed silk dress.
Something about her posture, her calm demeanor, called Kate to Michael's mind almost instantly. When he emerged from the car, the woman stepped forward as if on cue for delivering a speech.
"Mr. Herriman?" she inquired. "The best man?"
"Th
at would be me," he answered. The driver had opened the trunk of the car, giving Michael only a brief second in which to rescue his bag from being carried by another person.
"How nice to meet you." The woman stepped forward, hand extended politely. "I'm Louisa Pennicot. The bride's aunt."
He shook her hand, surprised by the limpness of her fingers. "Kate's aunt," he repeated. "Are you the–the lady of the house?" He wasn't certain what title belonged to the wife of a knight, his mind conjuring images of a fair maiden in a flowing headdress and long sleeves.
Louisa laughed. "I'm afraid not," she answered. "Sir Andrew is my brother. I merely volunteered to greet the wedding party's members as they arrive–a little courtesy to save the housekeeper from unnecessary duties."
The words were polite and spoken with a smile, but something about the wording made Michael feel like their presence was a burden upon the house. He hoisted his bag and followed his greeter through the front doors, her silk skirts fluttering as she crossed the threshold.
A polished walnut staircase descended to the main hall, a massive chandelier dangling above from a ceiling of sconces and elaborate plaster. An interior sleek, dark, and grand, from velvet furnishings to tapestries displayed on the dark paneled walls. Michael's sleeve brushed the petals of a vase full of lilies parked beside the stairs as he climbed upwards behind Louisa.
"Are you and Kate close?" he asked. "I don't suppose this is where she grew up," he joked. The clasp of Louisa's necklace, he noticed, was tarnished metal trimmed with pearls.
"I haven't seen Katherine since she was in school," Louisa answered. "As a little girl, she sometimes came to the estate, I believe. On holiday–that was when I usually saw her." She pushed open the door to a room on the second floor.
"This is your room," she announced. "Sir Andrew originally intended for the wedding guests to occupy the third floor, but he changed his mind when Katherine informed him what a small affair it was–these rooms have a much better view of the grounds." She twitched open the lace paneled curtains, revealing a graveled path, signs of landscaped, formal grounds beyond it.
"There is also an excellent desk in this room, with a good lamp," she said. "A requirement for writers, I believe. Katherine told us you were a writer." This last part she added almost shyly.
"I am," he answered. He placed his suitcase on the floor beside the bed, glancing at the heavy brocade spread, the oil painting on the opposite wall of a woman in hoop skirts and a bonnet. Louisa touched his arm as she approached.
"I'm rather a fan," she said, her voice low as if imparting a secret. With that, she moved to the door. "Once you are settled, there is a lunch awaiting you in the kitchen downstairs." With that, she closed the door behind her.
Removing his laptop from its case, he plugged the power cord in with its adapter to prevent frying its motor. The notes for his latest book spilled forth from the side compartment, a shuffle of paperwork he piled next to it on the desk. His fingers tugged the lamp's cord lightly, a sudden burst of light emerging from beneath a white shade which seemed as thin as paper. He switched it off again.
The last change he made was to tack the map of Scotland in 1295 to his wall, a series of x's in red pen marking locations in his manuscripts. The corners of the paper were creased and pock-marked from numerous pinnings and re-pinnings in the past, Michael's finger rubbing a dog-eared section gently where a strip of tape held it together at the fold.
He assembled a sandwich downstairs from a platter of sliced cold cuts and bakery buns. The kitchen was largely silent, except for the sound of a radio trilling a newscast and the steady thump of a knife slicing carrots against a carving board. The cook gave him a crinkly-nosed smile–she appeared to be the only member of the kitchen staff at this time–but continued with her work largely in silence. He wondered if there were others employed here, if this kitchen would be teaming with cake bakers and hors d'ouvers assemblers in less than a week, or if this silent figure would be frantically preparing for a host of guests.
He climbed the stairs to his room, where the door was ajar. Standing at his desk, reading his open manuscript, was Kate. At the sound of his approach, she turned around.
"I'm sorry," she said, with a blush of apology. "They–the housekeeper Mrs. Hammond–showed me to your room by mistake."
"You just arrived?" said Michael. "I guess I assumed you were already here."
"I had an appointment in Chicago," she answered. "For an assignment, actually. With a modeling agency." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she spoke, then glanced towards the computer screen.
"I believe I mentioned once that I was a fan," she said. "I apologize. I couldn't resist when I saw it..." Stepping aside, she moved closer to the door as Michael approached.
"No, that's okay," he answered. "I'm happy to have a fan read a page or two." In reality, he dreaded the thought of someone reading his manuscript before it was finished, but in this case, it sent a pleasant tingle through his skin that Kate had read something from his work that no one else had.
"I should go," she said. "Again, I'm sorry."
"No, it's all right," he answered, "Really. I–I wouldn't mind a little conversation with a familiar face, since I'm on foreign shores." The words coming from his mouth seemed slightly jumbled, faltering as they emerged. "I realize it doesn't seem strange to you being here. And maybe you have other plans–"
"It seems stranger than you think," she answered, with a smile he couldn't interpret. "I haven't been in this house since before my university years."
"That long?" he said. "I mean, not that it's been that long for you compared to me..." He reddened slightly, realizing how short a span of years separated Kate from the memories of this mansion.
"Why do say that?" she said. "It isn't as if you are old, yet you talk about yourself as if your life is practically over." There was a hint of laughter in her voice–something new, something different from the stranger in the airport or the reserved figure at the engagement party.
"Feeling older and being older may be two different things, but not to the mind sometimes," he answered, somewhat cryptically. "Compared to me, Sean is a–" he paused, before finishing, "–a teenager."
He had been on the verge of saying "frat boy" before he caught himself, not certain if that terminology was applicable in Britain; and aware that if it was, it might offend her to hear it applied to her fiancé. A twinge of guilt shot through him, the image of Sean's beaming face almost saint-like in comparison to trite words uttered by a middle-aged friend.
"Hardly a teenager," she laughed, as she lifted a leather suitcase and her familiar rucksack from the middle of the floor. "But he does seem so, in a way. I suppose he still has some growing up to do."
She let her hand rest on the doorway for a moment before she slipped through it and disappeared down the hallway, no doubt in search of the correct room. He was tempted to go and help her, although he could think of no plausible reason why he should. Or how his being present could possibly help, since he had no knowledge of this house.
*****
Sean heaved his suitcase onto the bed. "Dude, I am worn beyond existence," he said, flopping down backwards beside it. Michael rolled his eyes from his seat at the desk, a series of notes spread around him and piled on the floor.
"Worn out from what? Flying?" Michael asked, with a snort of derision. "Last night you were struggling to download 'Tommy Boy' to your computer–"
"The whole pack-up was a bust," said Sean. "First, Antonio came by because there was a dispute involving the props master from the shoot. I got a call about the press pool thing–that's on Wednesday in Paris, by the way, then I got this call about my permit for shooting next year in Lincoln Park. It was totally exhausting. But worth it." He was wearing a grin when he rolled to face Michael.
"So's Kate around?" he asked. "I told her it was the four-thirty flight, totally not expecting to make two o' clock."
"I haven't seen her," Michael answered. "I've been a litt
le busy." He waved his hand in the direction of the paperwork.
In truth, he had considered going downstairs for lunch, then changed his mind. A night's sleep in a strange place left him groggy, a toasted muffin at breakfast had seemed too filling. The real reason, however, was a desire to avoid awkward conversation with Kate's relatives, the temptation to glance at her for guidance or prompting as he navigated his way through the channels of their morning conversation.
"Holed up with work," said Sean. "No surprise. I think the only place you enjoy getting out," he said, sitting up, "is some backwoods village in Ireland."
"The backwoods are in the southern U.S.," Michael said. "And it's Scotland where I go on vacation." A pointless argument, given the fact he had been to Dublin and Ulster in the past.
In a kinder tone, he added, "So what's first on the agenda? Wedding rings? Wine selections?"
Sean pointed a finger at him. "All in good time," he answered. "In the meantime, let's get some air," he said. "See some sights. I got something to show to Kate." On his feet again, he shifted his bag onto his shoulder.
Kate was in the hallway, a door open behind her as proof she had been in her room until this moment. Michael heard female voices downstairs, a man's laugh followed by the sound of the front door closing. He watched as Sean wound his arm around Kate's shoulders, pulling her close for a kiss.
"Come on and show me around," he said. "I wanna see the famous grounds of this place–Heathshedge, or what's it name–and pick out a spot for a reception. There's this band in Liverpool who volunteered to play for us since I'm using their song in my next film."
Best Man Page 5
