‘Hello, Daniel,’ I say evenly, summoning up every scrap of composure in my body.
He takes off his top hat and smiles crookedly, ‘Fancy seeing you here,’ he retorts, but beneath his confident veneer he seems uncharacteristically self-conscious. I smile back and then, not knowing what to say next, fiddle with my hair, waiting for him to speak.
‘You look great,’ he blurts out.
I feel a ridiculous jolt of pleasure. ‘Thanks,’ I say nonchalantly.
‘And different. Did you do something to your hair?’
‘No.’ I shrug, but inside I feel like yelling, ‘Of course I did something to my hair! I did something to every single part of my body. I got up at six a.m. this morning and spent three whole hours getting ready. I even bought a new cream trouser suit for the occasion, borrowed a Philip Treacy hat from Rosemary, and am wearing my gorgeous pink satin stilettos even though my ankle’s really painful.’
But of course he doesn’t know any of that, and he’s not going to.
‘So, was this your idea?’ Cutting through the pleasantries, I ask him the question that’s been bugging for me for weeks. ‘Brian and I photographing your wedding.’
‘You’re the best wedding photographer I know,’ he answers jokingly.
‘Daniel, I’m the only wedding photographer you know,’ I point out drily.
Immediately his face falls and, like a small boy who’s been reprimanded, he bows his head and stares contritely at his feet. ‘I dunno what I was thinking,’ he says quietly. ‘I thought it would be great for business. I just mentioned it to Charlotte . . .’ His voice trails off as he looks up at me from underneath his brows, his eyes searching for mine, and for a moment I’m sure I see more than just a flicker of regret.
‘It’s good to see you, Heather.’ He sighs heavily. ‘I’ve missed you.’
I stare at him in stunned silence. For months after we first broke up I fantasised about this happening. About him telling me how wonderful I looked, how much he missed me. But now, listening to him actually saying the words, I realise I had confused nostalgia with reality. And the reality is I don’t care any more. I don’t care if Daniel has missed me, and I don’t care that he’s marrying someone else.
The only person I care about is Gabe.
Finally I admit it and, as I do, all the thoughts and feelings I’ve kept hidden burst through my consciousness to the surface. The gratitude I felt when Gabe defended me to Rosemary at the dinner table, the terror when I thought something had happened to him surfing, the wretchedness after we rowed and he moved out. And all the hundreds of fleeting glances, smiles, pauses and moments when I thought something was going to happen, felt something going on between us, but dismissed it. All those tiny fragments are piecing together now and suddenly I feel as if I’m looking at a loved-up jigsaw. Oh, God.
‘I’m really sorry about everything that happened. I was a total idiot . . .’
I zone back in to realise Daniel’s still talking to me.
‘Are you still angry with me?’ he asks.
I stare at him calmly. In the beginning anger was the only thing that kept me going but now, looking inside myself, I can’t find any left. It’s trickled away without me noticing. ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘I’m not angry.’
‘I got your text.’
‘Oh, that!’ I blush with embarrassment. ‘I was drunk.’
‘You were?’ I’m surprised to see he seems disappointed. ‘I can’t remember what I put. Was it anything bad?’
He looks at me for a moment, then shakes his head. ‘No, nothing embarrassing.’
There’s a pause.
‘I should go. I’ve got to finish getting everything ready,’ I say.
‘Actually, there’s been a change . . .’
I look at him sharply.
‘What kind of change?’
‘Charlotte’s had second thoughts about the ceremony.’ He’s rubbing his jaw agitatedly.
This is the first time I’ve ever seen Daniel nervous.
‘She doesn’t want anything conventional,’ he’s saying, ‘so we’ve decided on handfasting in the woods across the river.’
I look at him blankly.
‘It’s a pagan ceremony,’ he adds in explanation.
‘A pagan ceremony?’ I repeat, staring at him as if he’s just grown two heads. ‘You?’
He stiffens.
‘So?’ he says defensively. ‘Why shouldn’t I have a pagan ceremony?’
‘Daniel, you hate anything alternative. You won’t even drink camomile tea,’ I say.
‘It tastes like crap.’
‘That’s not the point.’
He stares at me for a moment as if prepared to argue, before letting his shoulders slump wearily in surrender. ‘You’re right. I hate it.’
And with those words it’s as if something lifts and I see him in a new light. This is a man I used to be in awe of. A man who seemed so self-assured, and in control, to the point of arrogance. And yet he seems so pathetic so, dare I say it, henpecked.
‘Charlotte’s got very strong opinions,’ he continues.
‘I’ve noticed,’ I mutter.
He flashes me a look. ‘She’s very particular about what she wants.’
‘And what Charlotte wants, Charlotte must have,’ I answer brightly, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. And failing.
Heaving a huge sigh, he looks at me like a drowning man. ‘Something like that.’
I open my mouth to say something, but before anything can come out—
‘Dan-eee-al! Dan-eee-al!’
Like the siren of a police car, a voice echoes through the abbey. Startled, we turn to see a flurry of white silk taffeta hurtling down the aisle. Lady Charlotte.
‘Shit,’ groans Daniel. ‘What’s wrong, Bunnykins?’ he coos, forcing a smile as she arrives at the altar.
Bunnykins? From a man who didn’t believe in PDA and refused to hold my hand? Even when I sprained my ankle.
The muscle in his jaw jumps.
‘Elton John’s got laryngitis and won’t be able to sing at the reception, the delivery of Cristal hasn’t arrived, and I don’t think I like my new titties any more.’ Lady Charlotte appears not to have noticed I’m here. She thrusts out her chest and pouts sulkily. ‘They make me look fat.’
‘Darling, of course you don’t look fat.’ He swallows hard. ‘Shouldn’t you be inside? I thought it was bad luck for me to see the bride before the wedding.’
‘Oh, fuck superstition, Danny! This is a crisis!’ with a tantrum-style howl she scuttles into the vestry.
A stunned silence settles between Daniel and I like dust after an explosion.
‘I should go after her,’ he says, after a pause.
I nod, and for a moment we just stand there, the two of us, until I kiss his cheek. ‘Goodbye, Daniel,’ I whisper.
‘Goodbye, Heather.’ He smiles, but I can’t help feeling I can see real regret in his face, and as I watch his coattails disappearing into the vestry, I feel unexpectedly sorry for him. Yes, he broke my heart. But a lifetime with Lady Charlotte is punishment enough for anyone.
Outside the abbey I find Brian leaning against the Together Forever van, smoking and waiting for me. When he hears my footsteps on the gravel he stubs out his cigarette. ‘How was it?’ he asks gently.
I flop next to him, tilting my hat to shade my face. ‘Good.’ I nod, after a moment, overcome with a strong sense of satisfaction. It’s like the last few weeks have been a mad roller-coaster ride and now it’s all over. Everything’s worked out fine. Perfectly fine, I tell myself, trying not to think about Gabe. ‘I had closure,’ I say decisively.
Brian looks confused.
‘It’s a girl thing,’ I explain.
He peers at me as if I’m from some alien species. ‘I spent the first twenty-five years of my life wishing I was straight,’ he reminisces, ‘and I’m so glad my wish was never granted.’ He’s adjusting his waistcoat as he speaks. ‘Men are much more
straightforward.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ I elbow him in the ribs. ‘I take it this means you and Neil are still straightforwardly in love?’
‘Of course.’ He laughs happily and reaches for his top hat, which he’s balanced on the roof of the van, then presses it firmly on to his head. ‘Shall we?’ he says, with mock formality, holding out his arm.
‘But what about all the stuff in the abbey that I need to move? I’ve left all the lights, reflectors and tripods—’
‘The bride’s changed her mind,’ he says, stopping me in my tracks.
‘Yeah, I know, it’s going to be a pagan ceremony outside—’
‘No, she’s changed it about the style of photography.’
My mouth opens, then closes again.
‘Apparently she saw some of the stuff I did in the sixties. Now she wants edgy, paparazzi-style photographs.’ His face is buzzing with delight.
‘You mean . . .’ We share a euphoric smile. Translated, this means forget putting Vaseline on the lens, using the portable fan and trying to get everyone together for the group photographs. Now all we need is one digital camera to fire off lots of spur-of-the-moment, out-of-focus black and white shots.
‘And we still go home early with a big fat cheque.’ He whoops, impetuously seizing me round the waist and trying to twirl me round. I say trying, because Brian’s a bit shorter than me, and I’m quite a big girl. We nearly topple over and have to stagger around for a minute to regain our balance, laughing all the while.
And at my ex’s wedding. Who would ever have thought it?
‘Here.’ I giggle, passing him his old faithful Nikon.
He removes his top hat and slings the camera round his neck, just like old times. ‘Ready?’
I finish filling my pockets with film, then adjust the brim of my hat. ‘Ready.’ I link his arm.
Then we psych ourselves up, as always.
Three – two – one.
‘OK. So this is it.’ Turning to me, Brian winks: ‘Showtime.’
Chapter Forty-five
‘I do apologise, Sir Richard, Lady Kenwood, I’m afraid it’s just immediate family in the circle of purification. If you’d like to wait in the marquee . . .’
Behind the abbey, uniformed ushers are trying politely to explain the change of ceremony to five hundred confused guests, many of whom are elderly and a little confused already.
‘Circle? What circle?’ Sir Richard is booming, gripping his ivory-topped cane and looking backwards and forth between the usher and his wife, who’s dressed up like an extra from an Edwardian costume drama, all beaded jet earrings, long silk gloves and bustle.
‘Oh, do you mean the dress circle? Are we here for the theatre?’ she’s enquiring shrilly, in the kind of ridiculously posh accent that, like butlers or cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off, you can’t believe still exists. ‘But I thought it was a wedding . . .’
As Brian and I make our way across the manicured lawns we observe the chaos that’s ensuing. Bewildered crowds of people, all dressed in their finest, are being herded into the vast white marquee that was originally erected for the reception, and handed opera glasses so that they can watch the pagan ceremony that is to take place across the river in neighbouring woodland.
I glance at it now as we cross the stepping stones and walk towards a small clearing in which I can see the wedding party and—
‘Gordon Bennett,’ mutters Brian.
As we enter the clearing a woman in flowing purple robes, carrying a wand, wafts towards us. I’m not joking. It has a silver star on the end.
‘I’m the celebrant.’
She appears to be in her seventies, with silvery-white hair down to her waist. If Dumbledore from Harry Potter had a twin sister, this would be her.
‘Oh, um, hi. Pleased to meet you,’ I say, and shake her hand. A large bell on a long silver chain hangs round her neck. ‘It’s to ring out the old and ring in the new,’ she says solemnly, having noticed me staring at it. Then she fixes me with startlingly blue eyes, and adds, ‘In the circle of purification there is no place for superstition or tawdry charms, Heather.’
She knows my name? Any amusement I might have felt at her attire vanishes.
‘How—’ I begin.
‘Now, if you’d all please form a circle,’ she interrupts me.
What was that bit about superstition and tawdry charms? Was she referring to the lucky heather? Out of habit I stick my hand into my pocket although I know there’s nothing in there, and feel my fingers go through the lining. There’s a hole! In the lining of my Marc Jacobs’ jacket! I feel a rush of indignation. This jacket cost nearly three hundred pounds! Followed by a thump of alarm as I feel something soft and scratchy. It’s the lucky heather.
I feel a tingle in my fingertips, like a current of electricity. It’s turned up again. I wrap my fingers round it tightly, determined not to lose it again. I’ve got to get rid of it properly, once and for all.
‘That means all of you.’
‘But what about the photographs?’ I whisper to Brian, who’s bemused by it all.
‘Photographs break the sanctity of the circle,’ the celebrant says. ‘Now, if everyone will stand shoulder to shoulder in the circle we can begin.’
I back away. ‘Actually, I think I’ll just wait over there.’
‘Everyone,’ she repeats solemnly.
Obediently I stand next to Brian as the celebrant picks up a broom and begins to sweep the clearing in an anti-clockwise direction.
‘Sweep, sweep, sweep this place
By Power of Air, I cleanse this space.’
There are a few sniggers from the guests, and expressions of bewilderment, scepticism and anticipation on their faces.
‘What’s she doing?’ asks someone fearfully.
‘Casting a purification circle,’ answers a middle-aged woman, knowledgeably. It comes as no surprise to see she’s wearing Birkenstocks and a pair of elasticated tie-dye trousers.
‘Blessings and merry meet. We are here today to join Daniel and Charlotte together . . .’
The next few minutes are taken up by Daniel and Charlotte saying their vows and exchanging rings and, although I never would’ve believed it, as I watch Daniel kissing his bride I feel . . . nothing. Well, actually, that’s not true. I do feel something, but it’s for Gabe. I can’t stop thinking about him throughout the ceremony.
‘Now, if everyone can hold their neighbour’s hand tightly, we shall all close our eyes and focus on the circle . . . on its special power . . . it’s purity . . .’
Surely she’s not serious? I glance around. Everyone looks horribly self-conscious, except for Ms Tie-Dye, who grasps the hands of the startled people on either side of her. But gradually, one by one, people reach tentatively for their neighbour’s fingers and close their eyes. Until I’m the last one left and, reluctantly retrieving my fingers from the lucky heather in my pocket, I clasp Brian’s hand.
Then something weird happens.
It’s like an energy. A force. A power buzzing through me like nothing I have ever felt before. A hot blast of euphoria surging through my body. My breath catches at the back of my throat. Yet at the same time I feel the peace and calm of a lullaby. Birds fall silent and an eerie stillness descends. And for what feels like both a moment and an eternity, nothing and no one makes even the slightest movement or sound. Until the voice of the celebrant strikes up again:
‘The web of life is an endless circle never to die only to change from
What was begun is now complete
Welcome home these energies borne
The circle is open, never broken
So Mote It Be!’
From out of nowhere a breeze whips up, and as everyone breaks apart I open my eyes to see a dove circling overhead. Gosh, I feel as if I’m coming out of a trance.
I glance at other people, see their self-conscious glances and embarrassed smiles, as if they’re not sure what happened, and know instinctively something’s chan
ged. Not around me, but inside me. Wiggling my shoulders, I tilt my head to the sky and watching the scudding flecks of white clouds, take a deep breath of fresh air. It’s hard to describe it without sounding like the woman in the elasticated tie-dye trousers and Birkenstocks, but I feel different. Lighter. Freer.
Immediately I put my hand back into my pocket. I’m going to get rid of the heather by throwing it into the river . . . Except – I feel a pang of alarm. My pocket’s empty. Where’s the heather? I scrabble around, feeling into the corners. It’s not in the lining any more. Puzzled, I turn out my pockets. It must be somewhere. Out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of the celebrant. She’s smiling at me. In my head her voice echoes solemnly: ‘In the circle of purification there is no place for superstition or tawdry charms, Heather.’
It can’t have just disappeared. Can it?
‘Lost something?’ Brian is dabbing his red eyes with a handkerchief.
‘Er, no . . . nothing,’ I say. I glance back at the celebrant but she’s not looking my way at all. Maybe I imagined it.
‘What did you think of the ceremony?’
‘I’m not sure.’ It was only a few moments ago, but it’s already fading fast, like writing in the sand. ‘What about you?’
‘Load of old hocus-pocus,’ he says derisively, blowing his nose. ‘But this pagan wedding malarkey is going to be great for pictures,’ he adds. ‘I’m going to take some incredible shots, especially of that wizard character.’ He stuffs his handkerchief up his sleeve and bounds towards the happy couple, snapping away like a paparazzo.
‘I have to say, I didn’t know you were such a good dancer,’ I tease later, when we’re loading all the equipment into the van.
‘I wasn’t dancing, I was being kidnapped,’ grumbles Brian, his head reappearing from behind the doors. He slams them, then turns the handle. ‘Right, that’s everything.’ He wipes dust off his sleeve. ‘Now, can we change the subject?’
‘To what?’
‘To you.’
‘What about me?’ I say absently, digging my mobile phone out of my little clutch bag and turning it on to check my messages. I know Lionel’s in safe hands but I just want to make sure.
Be Careful What You Wish For Page 32
