Nice Day For a White Wedding

by A. L. Michael

  ***

  ‘When did they suddenly get interesting?’ Ruby sprawled out on the grass of the common, lying on her stomach, chin in her hands as she peered over her huge, red-rimmed sunglasses at the teenage boys across the green.

  ‘Uh, don’t be gross or I’m leaving,’ Chelsea growled at her friend, watching as Ruby’s gaze flitted across the horizon, the scrawny teenage boys with their T-shirts off, tucked in the back pockets of their baggy jeans.

  ‘You don’t actually find that attractive?’ Evie groaned, for once without her dark make-up and goth style, sacrificing it for the sunshine. She was in a simple crinkled hippie skirt, her tank top rolled up to get the sun on her stomach.

  ‘You can’t see what I’m looking at, smarty pants!’ Ruby said, her gaze focused solely on the teenage boys across the estate.

  ‘I can imagine that they’re scrawny with shaved heads and think they’re really special.’ Evie’s voice dripped with disdain. ‘Bonus points for huge fake diamond earrings and badly done neck tattoos.’

  ‘You’re a proper snob you know,’ Ruby laughed, ‘they’re just people. Maybe they’re interesting.’

  Chelsea looked at them. ‘My boyfriend is not interesting, Ruby, and if you try something I don’t care if you’re my friend, I’ll knock your teeth out.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t.’ Ruby turned her attention to her friend, grinning.

  ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

  Chelsea lay in silence and Evie burst out laughing.

  ‘She’s thinking up all the other horrible things she could do to you, just ask her. Come on, bet you waxing your eyebrows off is on the list.’

  ‘Shaving your head, actually,’ Chelsea grinned, twitching her nose at them.

  ‘Just wait,’ Evie smiled, her eyes still closed, ‘when we’re running our arts centre in London, we’ll be throwing parties full of hot guys. Ones who can actually string full sentences together.’

  ‘And Ruby will still be interested in the ones who belong to other people,’ Chelsea grinned, sticking her tongue out.

  ‘She’s not wrong,’ Ruby laughed, ‘I always want what someone else has. I do respect your dedication to being a complete bitch though, Chels, I really do,’ Ruby laughed, nodding at her, ‘it’s impressive.’

  ‘Had a lifetime to practise.’ Chelsea did a little royal wave, pretending to address her crowd.

  ‘Princess Chelsea, the patron saint of bitches,’ Evie said drowsily, throwing an arm over her face to shield her from the sun.

  ‘Queen Chelsea,’ Ruby said certainly, letting her glasses fall so that Chelsea could see the intensity of her gaze. ‘Queens are important. Everything falls apart without them.’

  ***

  Chelsea did as advised and dressed up that evening, a white maxi dress with little blue flowers that fitted at the waist and fell to the floor in gentle folds, moving with the breeze. The top was a halter neck, the material attached to a huge gold crescent that went around her neck like a piece of Egyptian jewellery. Chelsea felt like an ancient queen in that dress. Her sandals were blue and strappy, her wrist jangled with gold bangles and her skin was kissed by the sun. She felt like somebody, as she walked down those marble steps, out onto the patio, where Kit turned to see her and let out a low whistle.

  ‘My god, you look gorgeous,’ he said quietly, an arm around her waist as he locked eyes with her. She shivered just a little. Kit looked over to the table and pointed out the two new guests. ‘Eric, Claudia, this is Chelsea, my fiancée.’

  Chelsea waved inanely, flickering her fingers in a sad imitation of enthusiasm. She felt like she’d walked into the lion’s den.

  Eric was a sharper, sleeker version of Kit. His jaw line was just as strong and defined, but it was missing the kindness that Kit had, the warmth around his eyes and the plumpness of his bottom lip. Eric seemed relaxed, leaning back in the chair, not bothering to acknowledge her beyond nodding and then turning back to his conversation.

  Claudia on the other hand was something else. She stood up, teetering in her black stilettos and desperately pulling on her bodycon dress as she ran over and threw herself at Chelsea.

  ‘It’s so good to meet you, babe! We’re like sisters already!’

  Chelsea gritted her teeth, the nasal whinge of the woman’s voice already scratching at her ears. But she was being unfair, Claudia was being nice. ‘Oh I just luuuhve that dress. Is it Dolce?’

  ‘When in Rome,’ Chelsea shrugged, knowing she was treading a thin line. ‘Dolce means gorgeous, right?’

  ‘Sweet, darling,’ Eric corrected from across the table, ‘but good try!’

  His tone made her skin crawl, and immediately, Chelsea knew his type. The ones who walked into the board room and started talking to the nearest man, because they never assumed a woman could be the director. The ones who called the project managers ‘girls’, and gave them a hundred quid at Christmas to buy themselves something pretty to wear. She hated his type. And if this had been a business situation, Chelsea would have ripped him apart. But instead, she simply turned to Alistair, hovering by the door. ‘Al, old buddy, don’t suppose you’ve got a Bellini with my name on it?’

  ‘Of course, Miss Chelsea, coming right up.’ She stared at him, raising her eyes briefly at the ‘Miss’ and he winked as he walked out of the room.

  ‘Ah, a Bellini, the favourite of London girls looking for an easy drink,’ Eric snorted. ‘Prosecco should be drunk correctly, not sweetened to make it easier to get drunk.’

  His eyes met Chelsea’s and she noticed the challenge. She sauntered to the edge of the table, pulling out a chair slowly and said, ‘Tell that to Hemingway.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Harry’s Bar, Venice? Where the Bellini was invented. Hemingway may have been your hard liquor man, but if you’re going to compare him to a drunk London socialite, I’m afraid we’re going to have words.’ She smiled sweetly, watching as his eyebrows rose, and then settled slowly, a smirk appearing on his face.

  Alistair came back, holding her drink, ‘Thanks, Al. Darling,’ she grinned at him, watching the older man’s face as he tried to bite back a smile. ‘So Claudia, tell me all about you!’ She adopted a fake, excited voice, ‘I just think we’re going to be the best of friends!’

  The cocktail hour was nothing short of painful, with Claudia exclaiming that absolutely everything was ‘like, uh, Ah-mahzing’ and Eric simply listing the number of expensive things he’d bought with his bonus that quarter. Chelsea was starting to feel a little sick, especially as Claudia seemed to be an oversharer, talking about everything from her dog’s therapists’ sex life, to her latest bikini wax. Jemima loved it, obviously. It was crass and pointless and shallow, but the girl had money and that was what mattered.

  She didn’t like what Eric had to say, though. She didn’t like the way his mouth tilted up in a sneer, or the way he jostled Kit with his elbow. She didn’t like the comments about ‘that girl Kit used to bang, you know the one from Costa Rica with the many talents,’ or the way he raised an eyebrow at her to inform her, ‘you’re very special, you know, Chelsea. There’s a lot of women who wanted my brother back in the day. And he had all of them, didn’t you, Kit?’ snorting with laughter, his mean little eyes on her.

  She refused to respond, smiling and rolling her eyes as Kit looked at her in a sort of panic, shaking his head. Well, that was a conversation for later. Or maybe it wasn’t. The way she was going, Claudia physically grabbing her arm and dragging her back into the conversation about whether a tanning solution could make you skinny, she was going to be drunk and vomiting by midnight.

  She allowed the voices to drown out, her eyes returning to Kit again, standing next to his brother, leaning back from him slightly as the eldest stood to tower over him. Celia stood to the side, arms folded, eyes consistently rolling. She briefly saw them as they were, beautiful and ethereal, but simply siblings. The same kind of siblings who fought and yelled and protected each other. There was something comforting in t
hat. Even if Eric was an almighty arsehole.

  Soon, they got in cabs that drove them down to the town, the women tripping slightly in their heels as they navigated the cobblestones. Claudia clung to her, cackling sharply, and Chelsea felt a brief moment of warmth for the young woman. She was only in her early twenties, a waif of a thing with a big empire and a need to do something that seemed important. Even if that was being on pointless reality TV shows and trying to bag a man who seemed wholly uninterested in her. That felt like any sheltered twenty-year-old’s dream, heiress or not.

  Chelsea relaxed slightly, seated next to Kit at dinner, leaning into him as he topped up her wine, and put his arm around the back of her chair. His fingers skimmed the edge of her shoulder and she relaxed into the touch, feeling it ground her. She was pretty sure she’d already had too much to drink. Suddenly, she heard her phone vibrate from within her bag, and reached for it.

  ‘Babe, come on, we’re on holiday!’ Kit wheedled, knowing full well she was going to take the call.

  ‘I’ll be five minutes!’ she grinned, kissing him on the cheek as she retrieved the phone.

  ‘Come on now, Chelsea, put down the phone like a good girl,’ Eric mocked, his mother squawking with laughter at the comment. Chelsea rolled her eyes.

  ‘Good girls don’t make history,’ she said, walking off to the corner of the restaurant, holding up the telephone to her ear and saying loudly, ‘Chelsea Donovan.’

  This was unnecessary, Ty’s name had flashed up on the screen. She’d been expecting a call, to do with his apprenticeship, about the test or the money or how something had gone wrong. She didn’t want to think that way, but that was often how it went.

  ‘Ty?’ she said again, checking the bars on her screen. Full signal. ‘These are international rates, you’d be better off messaging me.’

  The voice at the other end stayed quiet, and suddenly Chelsea realised it wasn’t Ty. Maybe his phone had been stolen, maybe it was a prank call, or a mistake. And then a gravelly voice spoke.

  ‘All right, darling? How are you, my angel?’

  A voice that hadn’t changed since the last time she’d heard it, as a teenager. Sure, he’d been in and out of prison again since then. She’d had her chances, but she’d never wanted to take them. When Chelsea was gone from Badgeley, that life was gone too.

  ‘All right, Kieran?’ Her voice was suddenly hers again, the one she’d left behind. It always came back a little too easy. ‘So you’re out, then.’

  ‘I am, free at last.’

  ‘And you’re with Ty?’ she asked softly, scared of what that could mean. ‘Mum hasn’t –’

  ‘No, no, don’t you worry, my angel. Your mum is way too smart for all that rubbish these days. Got herself a nice fella and those kids. But you’ll always be my kids, won’t you. You and my boy Tyler.’

  ‘Can I speak to him?’ she said calmly, waiting to yell and scream and tell her brother to get the hell out of there, because it was her fault that he always forgave their dad. She’d told him to be kind, told him one day it would get better, that Kieran would be a real dad. She’d just never thought he’d believe her.

  ‘He’s out getting us some dinner and some bevvies, darlin’. I saw his phone here and thought, I better call my gal.’

  ‘Then you should have called someone else,’ Chelsea said shortly, and hung up. She clung to the railing on the edge of the restaurant, her hands resting on the stone walls that protected them from the dark water. She felt her heart pound away at her chest, feeling like the desperate rhythm was going to break her collarbone. Breathe, she told herself, all you have to do is breathe.

  There were a hundred other things she could have said. She should have told him to stay away from Tyler, that he was on a good path, that things could finally go right for him. She should have told Kieran Donnolly that if he loved his son at all, he should leave him alone, let him create a life free of his bullshit. It wasn’t even that Kieran was a bad guy, necessarily. He certainly didn’t have the power that Jez had, to make people do bad things on his behalf.

  He was, quite simply, a fuck-up. A man that had made the same mistakes, over and over again, for the last twenty or so years. And he was going to keep going in that cycle, ad infinitum.

  By the time they were teens, she and Tyler used to take bets on how long he’d last before he went back to prison. Each stint outside was shorter than the last. The last time he’d lasted seventeen days before he tried to rob a bookies with an old handgun some guy on the estate had sold him. He didn’t think the thing was loaded, or so he said, and it went off by accident. No one was hurt, but it was armed robbery this time, and that meant real time.

  Chelsea had been relieved the last time he’d gone in. It had been nearly eight years, and she had to wonder what kind of judge would let him out for good behaviour. The man was so far beyond reform it was ridiculous.

  Ty had talked to him on the phone. Maybe he’d replied to those letters they used to get. She’d burned hers. And then she moved and her name changed, and there was no need any more.

  The laughter of her party’s table drew her attention, and she looked at them all from afar, these flamingos, beautiful sleek creatures that somehow captured the attention of everyone in there. Some, the traditional Italians who had been frequenting the restaurant all year round, were irritated, put off by the noise and the extravagance of the English family. The others seemed to look at them through side glances, intrigued as to who those beautiful people with the constant flow of expensive wine and delicious food were. Why they didn’t feel the need to quiet themselves, letting their laughter ring out like it was a gift to everyone else. Perhaps they were famous, or important, perhaps they were special.

  It was easy to see, that sort of special magic, that glow that existed around these people, their golden tans and perfect hair, their lack of worry about being too loud or taking up too much space. People should be grateful they were there. Or maybe they just didn’t think about other people at all.

  Chelsea watched Kit, his face browned by the sun, his hair more golden than usual. He sat back in his seat, laughing at something Bartie was saying. Celia was curled into her chair, her long fair hair falling down her back as she laughed too, shaking her head. Eric had an arm around Claudia, who looked at him with such desperate affection that Chelsea pitied her a little. Then, there was Jemima. She was not laughing. She was simply staring back at Chelsea with a satisfied look in her eyes, like she should have known all along that she would always be on the outside, looking in, that she was not one of them at all.

  And standing there, watching those beautiful people live their beautiful lives, Chelsea realised she might be right.

  ***

  ‘Chels! Chelsea!’

  Chelsea woke up with a groan, her heart racing at the sound of the frantic pounding at the front door.

  ‘Chelsea! Chelsea get up!’

  It was Ruby. Her voice was desperate, and as she thundered her fists on the door, Chelsea raced downstairs. She flung the door open, irritated.

  ‘What? Jesus, it’s Saturday morning!’ Chelsea yawned, wiping her eyes. ‘Shouldn’t you be in bed with a hangover?’

  She opened her eyes to see Ruby staring at her, her kohl-rimmed eyes smudged and dark, her hair tangled and crowning her wildly, like a lion’s mane. Chelsea simply held the door open and watched as Ruby stormed through to the kitchen.

  ‘Your mum’s at work, right?’

  Chelsea nodded, pouring a glass of water for her friend, who downed it in one. Her erratic behaviour was alarming. Ruby was never anything less than controlled.

  ‘He did it again.’

  The words hit her in the stomach and she didn’t have to ask what she meant.

  ‘And he managed it, properly this time?’ She poured herself a glass of water, feeling her throat close up.

  Ruby nodded silently.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Kate Thompson,’ Ruby sighed, ‘you know, that sweet one that works
in the cafe? He hung around whilst she was closing up.’

  Chelsea briefly thought she might be sick. ‘But…they broke his legs. You’d think…’

  ‘Half a year goes by and the man thinks he wants to try his luck, I guess.’

  ‘Who’s that stupid?’ Chelsea slammed her hand on the kitchen counter, relieved by the pain, because the rest of her felt numb, standing there talking about how a girl had been raped by the man who had tried to do the same thing to her.

  ‘It’s about power,’ Ruby sighed, shaking her head.

  ‘So…I mean, I get why you wanted to tell me, but that’s not why you’re here, is it?’ Chelsea watched as her friend’s eyes widened. ‘How did you find out, anyway?’

  ‘I was down there last night, meeting some guy at the pub, we saw the police outside the cafe.’

  Chelsea wasn’t sure whether to be relieved that the police were involved, at least this time he could be held to justice. Robbie Larson. The bastard. Ruby’s eyes traced her, as if she was trying to assess her mental health.

  ‘Stop it,’ Chelsea growled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stop looking at me like I’m a bomb that’s about to go off.’

  ‘I’m not!’ Ruby rolled her eyes, trying to seem normal, but her pale, shaky demeanour was throwing Chelsea off. ‘I need to ask you something.’

  Chelsea blinked and said nothing, waiting.

  ‘I think you should go to the police and tell them what happened with you.’

  The suggestion hung in the air like a brief possibility, and then it dropped, suddenly.

  ‘You think the police won’t notice that the week I’m assaulted, a guy gets his legs broken? You don’t think they know who Jez is? That they’re not constantly waiting for his activities to catch up with him? I can’t!’

  ‘You need to! It shows what he’s like, makes sure he’s locked up for good! She needs you to do this!’ Ruby’s voice was insistent and Chelsea took a step back, frowning at her friend.

  ‘How do you know Kate? Why is this so important to you?’

  Ruby stood, silent, staring at her fingernails tapping the kitchen counter. When she looked up at Chelsea, she looked miserable.