Best Man

by Briggs, Laura

  They had a history, Kate and Sean; more than just an afternoon stranded in a city, they had three whole months in Mexico. A miniature society of friends and acquaintances who were part of the slow and steady transition from friends to lovers.

  He slid his hands into his pockets, nudging Sean beside him. “You look good together,” he whispered. Sean merely grinned in reply.

  Now was the moment he should stop clinging to that afternoon they shared in San Francisco. All he and Kate had was a moment. The man she was going to marry shared a much bigger piece of her past.

  Chapter Ten

  “So, what do you have in the way of ... entertainment?” inquired Michael.

  The pub owner raised his eyebrows. “What are you talking about? A band? We got a band come in nightly if there’s not a game on the telly.”

  Michael cleared his throat. “I was hoping ... well, a band is fine. Do you know what they play?” He glanced at the slip of paper in his palm. “Not any chance they’re familiar with Coldplay, is there? Or Sting?”

  The pub owner grunted. “Not likely,” he answered.

  This was supposed to be Vicki’s job, arranging a girl’s night out for Kate, her maid of honor, and a couple of girls from the village who catered occasionally at Heathshedge. She was not supposed to tag along by invitation when Sean landed a promotional opportunity at a rock music festival, courtesy of Jean’s influence. She left a list of suggestions tucked in Michael’s coat pocket after extracting his promise to make the arrangements.

  “It’s kind of a thing,” she said. “You’re the guest of honor, see? So it’s not all girls on a girls’ night out. We’ll behave ourselves better with a guy in the room.” She bit her fingernail and gave him a smile that was meant to entice.

  “I don’t think...” Michael answered, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not a great idea. Maybe you should take Sean along instead.” He thought of chapter ten’s much-needed tweaking–he had promised the publisher a draft in what–six weeks?

  Vicki’s finger flicked the open topmost button on his shirt. “You were Kate’s idea,” she replied. “I’m just delivering like a good little maid of honor should, right?”

  “Kate’s idea?” he repeated. The reasons for this were beyond his comprehension, unless it was to save herself the sight of Sean and Vicki together. His mind flew back to the sight of Vicki’s charm oozing forth in the form of little stories about her and Sean onset, as if digging at the surface of his short relationship with Kate.

  “I’m thinking eight,” said Vicki. “At that little pub in the village where all the rowdies go to play darts. Call me when you get an answer, okay?”

  Which was how he ended up at a table cordoned-off by the bartender earlier in the afternoon, wedged in a seat between Kate and Vicki. Vicki’s blond hair was topped with a white cowboy hat, similar to one Kate was wearing, only with red thread fringe dangling from the brim like a lampshade. The band’s pulse was pounding behind them with a mediocre blend of British and American rock.

  “Isn’t this awesome?” said Vicki. “I haven’t had a good drink since I landed in Britain, except for that martini Sean bought me after the film screening.” Vicki had already polished off two rounds, twin colorful umbrellas laying on the table.

  Kate was silent thus far, with no signs that her shell was receding for this event. Her red tank top was trimmed with sequins, a plain white cowboy’s hat settled evenly on her brow. She seemed absorbed with peeling a paper straw wrapper, a Long Island iced tea untouched at her elbow. The two girls from the village were both sipping pints, their hats a pink version of Kate’s own.

  It was awkward, painfully so, to be trapped here with them. Kate’s silence seemed to grow by the second; Vicki’s red-tipped nails motioned for another drink.

  “So what’s your name, love?” One of the other girls leaned forward with a smile, her voice raised above the band. “I’m Elsie. I work in the house kitchen whenever there’s a party. Maybe I’ll be there for your wedding in a couple days.”

  “It’s not my wedding,” he answered loudly. She didn’t hear him, too busy whispering something to the girl beside her who giggled.

  “We should play a game,” announced Vicki. “Get to know each other a little better. Spin the bottle, maybe.” She plucked Michael’s sleeve as she leaned forward, revealing the plunging neckline of her shirt as she confiscated his beer bottle. She titled it back with her lips locked over its mouth, draining the last swallow from its bottom.

  “That’s better,” she announced. Placing it in the middle of the table, she spun it playfully, the form wobbling until it rested in front of the second girl from the village.

  “Hey, Annie, you have to tell us–who was your first crush?” said Vicki. The girl twined one of her braids around her hand.

  “David Beckham,” she answered. Her friend nudged her, jaw dropped in surprise.

  “What?” said Annie. “I was a late bloomer, as they say.” With a giggle, she raised a too-full pint to her mouth. Vicki’s fingers spun the bottle again, the mouth wobbling precariously until it faced Vicki.

  “Here goes,” she laughed. “I once sucked somebody’s toes on a dare.” This statement produced shocked stares from both the village girls. Kate’s eyes remained locked on her drink, half its contents now gone. She absently stirred the straw through the heavy layers of ice.

  “Toes?” repeated Annie. “Boy or girl?” There was a shriek from Elsie, whose drink spilled down her front.

  “Oh, yuck,” she said. “Look at me, all sopping–Kenny, bring me a towel!” She downed the last swallow in her glass before setting it aside.

  “Michael, order another,” said Vicki. “Come on, you’re not having a very good time.”

  “I’m having a fine time,” he answered, his smile tight with this response. Shouldn’t she be more concerned with the kind of time the bride-to-be was having? The stifling atmosphere, Kate’s miserable silence–at this moment he would give anything to be sucked back to his room on the estate, catching Charlotte and Louisa in the covert act of reading his manuscript.

  The red-tipped nails were tapping against the glass bottle, as if debating the merits of another spin. “Let’s give everyone something to talk about, then,” said Vicki. Leaning across the table, she seized the lapel of his coat, pulling him towards her. He felt her mouth against his, a sense of heat and pressure that made his skin tingle.

  Vicki drew back after a moment. “How was that?” she asked. Her eyes searched his for a moment before flickering in the direction of the bar again. “Hey! Another round over here!”

  Kate was staring at Vicki, her lips parted in shock. A look of rage, of contempt, even, as her fingers curled around her glass. Vicki noticed, her brow furrowed above a little smile of incomprehension.

  “What?” she asked. “Katie, you look like you’re mad.” She reached across to squeeze Kate’s hand. It was withdrawn from reach in response.

  “You need another drink,” said Vicki, motioning for the already-busy bartender.

  “No,” answered Kate. “I don’t want one –”

  “Well, you need it,” Vicki answered, her voice slightly huffy. She reached for Kate’s half-full glass as Michael’s hand closed over her wrist.

  “Enough,” he said. “Change the subject, Vicki. To something else, please.” Kate was avoiding his glance; the other two tablemates had fallen silent momentarily.

  “Fine,” said Vicki. She made no move to pull away from him, so he released her arm, attempting a polite smile in the same moment.

  “I think I should go,” he said, gently. Vicki’s fingers pulled at his sleeve insistently, trying to draw him down again as he rose.

  “Don’t be a party pooper,” she said. “Kate doesn’t want you to go, does she? Tell him, Katie–”

  Kate said nothing, although he heard a chorus of pleas from the other two girls at the table. An evening in shambles, without hope of repair, yet he felt a brief hesitation at the sight of Kate�
��s brooding figure. As the bartender approached with a new round, he pulled away from Vicki and her guests and moved towards the door.

  The fish and chips shop was the only other place open in the village, within view of the designated pick-up spot for when the estate’s Austin Healy would arrive for them. Beneath the buzz of florescent lights, he sampled a basket of fried fish strips and crisp potatoes. There was no ketchup, merely an empty bottle on the table, so he doused them with a little vinegar and salt.

  He wondered if the girl’s night out would end shortly, an abrupt closure to the drinking scene between four comparative strangers. He wondered why Vicki had kissed him like that, why that was the first idea that popped into her head beneath the tide of drinks.

  Would he be upset if Kate had kissed him instead? He closed his eyes at the thought, willing himself with a force of purpose to think of something else. He pictured the battle scene in chapter ten, a field of hacked limbs and mangled bodies, Macleod’s mind on his friend’s bones buried at the foot of the narrow cave. Maybe his publishers would extend his deadline if he was late; his editor would be merciful when he shared a tale or two about this week’s circumstances, perhaps.

  He wiped his fingers on a napkin, left a few pounds on the table and rose to leave. The streets outside were damp and cool, the first little shower of rain in two days misting Michael’s glasses as he walked along. The distant chimes from the church sounded ten o’ clock, an hour later than he assumed. The car from the estate would pull across from the pub soon, prepared to usher the wedding party back to Heathshedge.

  As he passed the doorway to the pub, he could see the dark outline of two locals engaged in a heated discuss about soccer. A woman’s laugh echoed from inside, the sound of a radio drifting from a car in the distance. A figure leaned against the side of the building, staring into the street until his approach attracted its notice. He avoided eye contact as he passed, his usual practice when walking at night in strange places. The person’s hand touched his arm.

  “Michael.” He recognized Kate’s voice. Her breath was scented with the Long Island tea, her gait uncertain as she moved closer.

  “I’m sorry about earlier,” he said, placing his hand on her arm to steady her.

  “I’m the one who’s sorry,” she said, thickly. “I just thought–I don’t like Vicki very much. And with you there, perhaps I would be a bit more polite. Only instead...” She stumbled forwards, almost resting against him as he steadied her.

  “You should wait inside,” he said “You’d be more comfortable. I’d let you know the moment the car pulls up–”

  “She made me angry on purpose,” Kate continued, vaguely. “She doesn’t like me, either, Michael. You know.” She took another step forward and stumbled off the curb; her weight was now entirely in Michael’s arms, his body supporting hers.

  “You were a gentleman,” she said. Her face rested against his shoulder as if he was cradling her in his arms. “Chivalrous. I have always heard it was dead.”

  He laughed softly. “A real gentleman would have handled that confrontation far better than me,” he answered. He felt her arms twine around his neck for a moment, her body snuggling against him as a wild shiver traveled through him. She drew back after a moment, her body teetering precariously as he supported her.

  “Thank you,” she said. His eyes were locked with hers, his train of thought no longer traveling swiftly enough to wonder why she said those words.

  A car horn beeped as a pair of headlights flashed across them. Kate drew back, shielding her eyes as Michael turned towards the estate car pulling alongside the opposite curb.

  “Our ride’s here,” he said, softly. Taking her arm, he helped her towards the car. She swayed slightly as they walked slowly side by side, neither of them giving a second glance towards the pub containing Vicki and her friends.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Here you are, Mr. Herriman.” The clerk produced the velvet box with a flourish. “One ring, inscribed with the requested words. To the customer’s satisfaction, we hope.”

  Michael popped open the box, lifting the thin gold band from the cushion inside. A small square-cut diamond winked from between its prongs as he tilted the ring forwards to read the markings inside. To my beloved. Not original, but thoughtful. He placed it inside the box and closed it.

  “Very nice,” he said. He signed the receipt where indicated, noting the price for the ring with a sense of guilt for doing so.

  “Best wishes for the happy day,” said the clerk in farewell. The electronic shop bell toned as Michael exited onto the sidewalk. The cool air washed over him with a splatter of rain as he buttoned his coat more snugly.

  The bus shelter was ahead, as well as a coffee shop which promised some much-needed warmth. Several passengers exiting the bus were already moving towards its doors, a few lingering at the stop as they waited for the next one to arrive.

  Michael joined the sidewalk traffic moving towards the stop, glancing ahead at the backs of coats and sweaters, arms carrying briefcases and shopping bags. He glimpsed a flash of blue emerging from the florist’s, a woman’s hat tucked low, a white fitted coat below. She was carrying a bouquet of bright pink flowers tucked in her arm.

  Kate hadn’t mentioned she was visiting London today, nor had Sean. He watched as she maneuvered her way through foot traffic to reach the bus shelter, where she paused as if waiting.

  He hesitated to approach, remembering the time before when he spied on her after exiting the jeweler’s. She hadn’t seen him, of course–but didn’t that make it all the more shameful if he approached her innocently now? He wavered between the angle of the coffee shop and the bus stop ahead, his eyes trying to find a polite gazing point that was directed away from Kate.

  When she saw him, she seemed surprised; clearly, she had no idea that he, too, was planning to be in London today. He gave up his pretense of wandering by and approached, hands jammed in his pockets for warmth.

  “Hi,” he said. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “I had an engagement for tea today,” she said. “I didn’t know you had an appointment as well. Perhaps we could have taken the train together again.” She smiled, but he detected something vaguely uncomfortable beneath its surface.

  “A friend?” he said. “Are they here in London?” It struck him as surprising, although he could picture her as attracting others into friendship. “If they are, perhaps I could meet them–before your tea, that is.” He could not invite himself along, yet he was curious to see another facet of her life.

  “She’s not in London, I’m afraid,” said Kate. “She lives in a village on the outskirts.”

  “Well, then, you don’t need me tagging along,” said Michael. “I’ll leave you to it.” He stepped towards the cafe with these words, Kate’s response apparently silence.

  “You can come if you wish,” she said, after a moment’s time. “Come with me if you have no other plans.” She looked at him, her eyes meeting his with these words.

  The bus was approaching, its slightly early arrival like a sign he should climb aboard. Kate rose, shifting the bouquet in her arms, her steps slow enough to ensure that he boarded behind her. The flowers waved close to his face, the scent of some unfamiliar perfume from the petals or the plastic sheet wrapped around them.

  Marsten’s Pond was the village’s name; the friend, Kate explained, was named Saundra. She volunteered no other information on this subject as they rode, the conversation between them a series of short remarks upon the rain, the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night.

  “I suppose we shall finally taste Uncle Charlie’s selections,” said Michael. “I helped him choose them, you know. He said he couldn’t have done it without me.”

  She hid a smile at this joke. “He wanted us to save them for the reception,” she answered. “We’ll have to honor that promise. Tomorrow night will be champagne.”

  “My favorite,” said Michael. The rush to joke, to be lighthearted, must be a reflex; a w
ay to minimize solitude between them as they traveled alongside each other. Creating a sense of companionship by deflecting discomfort–the concept sounded like psychobabble to him the moment he thought the words.

  Outside the window, the scenery passed by more swiftly than the minutes within its walls. The first signs of the village emerged: a petrol station, then a row of quiet houses with crumbled stone barriers.

  Michael climbed off the bus first, taking Kate’s hand to help her down as she held the bouquet protectively against her shoulder. A post office was visible just ahead, its walls covered in a series of brown climbing vines.

  “Her cottage isn’t far,” said Kate. “I intended to walk there, no need for a cab.”

  “Walking is fine,” he answered. “I brought one of these–” he produced a travel umbrella from his pocket, “–for the afternoon showers. Shall we?” He held out his arm.

  She accepted it. “We shall,” she answered. He let her lead them in the direction of a road continuing through the village, a sign like a painted wooden board still posted in one of the last vestiges of a former generation.

  The lane was short, populated by a few houses with tangled gardens and expansive beds of bulbs and shrubbery. Stone chimneys and arched doorways, ordinary homes with painted shutters. Kate pushed open a metal gate, her boots crunching across a gravel walk to the door of a brown stone cottage.

  Michael climbed the steps behind her, watching as she knocked on the door. A long period of time passed before it opened, revealing a woman on the other side. Her skin was pale, a maroon scarf wound around her head.

  At the sight of Kate, her features were alight with happiness. “Kit kat,” she said.

  “Sandy, love.” The door opened and Kate stepped into the arms of her friend.

  *****