by Adale Geras
The apartment was on three levels, almost as though these rooms were part of a house. Gray had liked it at once. He walked in through the front door, and there was a small bedroom on his left. Then up the stairs to the bathroom (lovely; newly decorated) and the kitchen; up more stairs to the half-landing and then up again to the big bedroom and the surprisingly large and high-ceilinged living room. Best of all was the small but elegant roof terrace that faced south and which he knew Joss would love better than all the other features of the property. Gray suppressed an impulse to say, ‘I’il take it … Please wrap it up for me,’ to the young estate agent. The golden parquet floor was so smooth he wanted to stroke it.
He went to find the young man. ‘Can we go back to your office? I want to make an offer.’
‘Fantastic,’ he said, practically bouncing with suppressed excitement. ‘That’s great.’
As they left the building and walked out into the spring sunshine, Gray imagined Lydia in that bedroom; that living room. Looking out of that window. What if she hates it? The thought crossed his mind and he dismissed it. She’ll love it, he thought. I know she will. And anyway, she might not even want to cross the threshold. This place is mine. I’m the one who’s got to live here, so I’m the one who has to be happy with it. And I am. More than happy.
*
Isis was thrilled to discover that there was such a thing as magic after all. She didn’t tell anyone about it, but it had to be true. She’d been wishing for her mother and father to get back together again for ages and ages and now they were going to and it was the best thing that had ever happened in her life. It was better than all her birthdays, Christmases, parties and outings rolled up together. And, best of all, there was still going to be a wedding and she was still going to be a bridesmaid. Dad was going to join in. He did a lot of grumbling about it, but he was doing it anyway to please her and Mum. He groaned every time anyone mentioned how funny it would be to see him in a proper suit with tails and a flower in his buttonhole and everything. Even Em had laughed at that, when Mum and Dad told her about the wedding.
Isis couldn’t understand why Dad didn’t come and live in Mum’s flat now but he didn’t want to. They were going to find a house with a garden and, once they were settled in, Isis had made up her mind that she would ask for a kitten. Or maybe two kittens, so that they’d be company for one another. She’d even decided on their names: Holly and Mimi. Now Mum and Em were washing up and Dad was phoning someone called Mattie in New York to see if he would fly over to be the best man.
‘It’s a long way to come,’ Isis said, ‘just to go to a wedding. Don’t you know anyone who lives here?’
‘Lots,’ Dad said, ‘but Mattie and I were at primary school together and he was my best man last time your mother and I went through this process. I think he’d be hurt if I swapped him for someone else, don’t you? Now, just hang on a mo while I try to get him on the phone.’
Isis went to lie down on the sofa and tried to get lost in her book, but there were too many things to think about. Next week they were going to Miss Hayward’s again, to see how she was getting on with the dresses. Gemma was coming too. Then the person Mum and Dad called the Rev. Geoff, who was the vicar at the church, wanted to show everyone what they had to do during the service. Mum and Dad had to talk to the organist as well.
When Dad put the phone down, he was smiling. ‘Want to hear what Mattie said about the best man thing?’
‘Go on, then.’
‘He said he’d be thrilled to bits. He kept going on and on about me coming to my senses at last. Sends you a big hug, Zannah, and says he can’t wait to see you. He’s going to come over a couple of days early, too. Good, eh?’
‘Cool,’ Isis said, and went back to her book.
The doorbell rang then and Em went to see who it was. A man came into the room and she introduced him to everyone. ‘This is Alex Rivera,’ she said. ‘He’s the best photographer. Come and sit down, Alex. This is Zannah and Cal. And that’s Isis, my niece.’
‘And probably a bridesmaid. Right?’
Isis nodded. She liked this man. Em had been telling them about him for days. She’d met him on a fashion shoot and told him about the wedding and she’d gone on and on at Mum, nagging her to choose him to take pictures of everything. He wasn’t handsome but he had a nice face. He was very tall and his clothes were quite messy. His jacket had pockets that were bulging with stuff he’d shoved into them and his socks didn’t match. Mum was looking a bit doubtful. Em and Dad thought he was okay, you could see. Alex took a sip of coffee from his cup, and spilt some on the saucer when he put it down, then took a big album out of a rucksack he’d brought with him.
‘Can I come and see, too?’ Isis asked, and Dad pulled her on to his lap because all the chairs were taken.
He whispered in her ear. ‘No talking, right? Alex is going to explain what he does.’
‘Well,’ said Alex. ‘I don’t do posed wedding photos, everyone lined up in the traditional way. What I like is to be there the whole day, if that’s okay with you, from the very early morning. Like this.’
He pushed the album towards Mum. Isis peered over to see it too. Lots of the photographs were black and white, or sort of brownish, but there were some in colour as well. Lots of the pictures had no people in them but were of things like bouquets lying on chairs. Veils and tiaras. Dressing-tables with make-up on them. Pretty shoes and big white dresses hanging on the backs of doors or peeping out of cupboards. The bride having her hair done. Lots of photos of couples coming out of church, dancing, eating, being happy. The groom kissing the bride. The bride with her parents. The bride and groom with both sets of parents, but just chatting, not standing in a row. People smiling. Loads of flowers. A few bridesmaids sitting on the grass with baskets on their laps. Or sitting on window-seats. Isis particularly liked the look of those.
‘They’re beautiful, Alex. Em, you were quite right.’ Mum was smiling now. ‘I’d love it if you could take photos at our wedding.’
‘Thanks. That’ll be great. I’ll put the date in my diary. I’ll even come beforehand and take some shots of other stuff, if you’d like that … fittings, rehearsals. Just say the word.’
Mum said, ‘I wouldn’t mind a photograph of Miss Hayward. She’s making my dress. And Maya who does the flowers … the church being decorated.’
‘Okay,’ said Alex. ‘Just give me their details and I’ll sort it with them. I should say that I’m good at being unobtrusive on these occasions. You’ll forget I’m there, honestly. Everyone does.’
Mum, Em and Dad laughed at that, and Dad said, ‘Aren’t you a bit tall to blend in?’
‘I melt into the background, believe me. After the first few minutes, no one gives me a second thought.’
Isis left her father’s lap and went to have another look at the pictures of bridesmaids. Their dresses weren’t as nice as hers was going to be.
*
‘Zannah’s quite determined,’ said Charlotte. ‘No presents on display. I think she’s right about that too. Most of the presents aren’t the kind of thing that goes on tables anyway. Bob and Joss have bought them a beautiful new computer. And Mrs Ford has apparently arranged a trip to Disneyworld at Christmas. That sort of thing. There are, it seems, a great many vouchers coming in and they’ll enjoy spending those once they’ve found a house. It saves us a lot of trouble too, finding a table and a place to put it. It’s also … Well, why would you want people looking at vases and towels and whatever else anyone’s thought to give you?’
‘I suppose so,’ Edie said. ‘Though I do like that scene in High Society where they dance round the gift table singing “Who Wants to be a Millionaire?” But of course, they had silver coffee pots and gold-plated soup tureens and what have you on their table. Celeste Holm. That was her name. The woman who was dancing about with Frank Sinatra.’
Edie smiled at the memory.
‘Do you think,’ Charlotte asked, interrupting her fantasy, ‘we ought to
have named places for everyone, or just set out the tables and allow people to find their own seats when they’ve helped themselves to the buffet? Not counting the top table which seats twelve, there’ll be six tables for eight.’ She thought for a moment and went on, as though she hadn’t asked Edie’s advice, ‘Yes, I think I’ll consult with Zannah and Cal and make a plan … We can have it displayed at the entrance to the marquee. That’ll prevent any scrabbling around and they’ll both know who’d go well with whom. The family of course at the top table: Cal and Zannah, Bob and Joss, Em, Isis and Gemma, Mrs Ford and Mattie, the best man. And, of course, the three of us.’
‘Do you mean me and Val, too? We’re not really family, Charlotte.’
‘Zannah insists. She says you’re like fairy god-mothers, so you count. And of course I agree.’
‘I’m very touched, I must say. Val will be thrilled to bits, too. I must thank Zannah for her kindness.’
‘By the way, I’ve spoken to Mr Marquee,’ said Charlotte. That was what they all called Stan Merryweather, whose firm’s motto was: Merry Marquees Whatever the Weather. He was as jovial as his name suggested: a great barrel of a man who’d loomed over them when he came to look at the garden and who threatened the safety of their china by his very presence in the kitchen.
‘He says a slightly smaller tent’s not a problem. And apparently Zannah’s found a caterer who’s willing to do a buffet in time. It’ll cost a little less than Maureen was spending, but of course she’s had to pay the deposit money back. Still, we should manage.’
Edie said, ‘Now, Charlotte, please listen. Val and I have been discussing this. We haven’t given Zannah and Cal a proper wedding present yet. Wouldn’t paying for the buffet be more sensible than another set of cutlery or some towels? That includes, of course, the cake. In fact, I’ve been speaking to someone who’s happy to make one for four hundred pounds. What d’you think?’
‘That’s much too kind of you, Edie. I can’t allow you to spend all that money. Really … perhaps just the cake? How about that?’
‘No, Charlotte, we’ve worked it out. We’ll afford it. Just living here with you saves us each a great deal of money, you know. Please allow us to do it … we really want to. I’ve got the name of the caterer that Maureen was going to use. She’d cancelled of course, so Genevieve was relieved to hear from me, I can tell you. And don’t forget, we’re down to sixty people … Maureen wanted over a hundred I believe. Incidentally, Val said the garden would cope much better with that number. Any more and she reckons her best effects might be overlooked.’
‘She’s only saying so because that’s how many are coming. If we had more, she’d have been perfectly happy with that. You know Val.’
They laughed and Charlotte said, ‘That’s really wonderful of you both. And you can tell Zannah yourselves tomorrow. She’s coming to the church to talk to the vicar. They’ll be going through the order of service and the music.’
‘Excellent,’ said Edie. ‘I’ll let Val know at once. She’ll be so pleased.’
Tuesday
It was astonishing to Joss that winning a prize could make such a difference to the kind of reading you were asked to do. For years she’d been going to back rooms in libraries or chilly church halls, and sometimes to schools, trying to enthuse audiences of twenty people at most, but more often groups of six or eight. Now here she was, in a proper small theatre with what seemed like crowds sitting in rows in front of her. The Madrigal Prize was the draw. Everyone was curious to see who had won, and whether she’d deserved it. Increasingly Joss felt that she probably hadn’t. She’d written nothing for months: not since her last meeting with Gray. She felt as though there were words, thousands of them, banked up behind a wall, but whenever she tried to hammer her way through to reach them, her brain seized up entirely. Her head felt as though it were full of sand.
She’d not said a word to anyone about this occasion. There was enough to worry about without having her family there in force to see her so exposed. She’d accepted the offer of a hotel room from the organizers and already she was wishing she could be there, watching television by herself, enjoying the toiletries and the fluffy white towels in a bathroom that was luxurious mainly because it wasn’t in her own house.
Now her mouth was suddenly dry and she took a sip of the water the organizers had provided. For the last few days, she’d been working out what she was going to read, fretting that anyone who’d already bought The Shipwreck Café would come away disappointed. She’d found some early poems and, of course, Russell Blythe was on the platform with her and he’d amuse everyone. Then, perhaps, they wouldn’t notice her shortcomings.
She’d opted to go first. The chairperson, a plump, jolly woman called Mona, who wore Edna Everage glasses, was doing the introduction. Saying nice things about the collection, the Madrigal, about her. Joss couldn’t see the audience because the spotlight was shining on to the stage. Was she sweating? Would her voice work? She thought of Gray and pretended he was there, sitting in the audience. He’d given her a piece of advice once, when she’d confessed how nervous she became, faced with strangers waiting for her to speak. ‘Find a spot at the back of the hall and pretend I’m there. Talk to me.’
Joss stood up and smiled. That was another trick. You had to look as though you were enjoying yourself, even if you felt like dying of embarrassment. She opened her mouth, and for the next fifteen minutes lost all sense of everything except the words on the page; getting them out coherently; addressing the spot at the back of the theatre where the imaginary Gray was sitting. The next thing she was aware of was applause. She sank back into her chair, relieved and suddenly exhausted.
After the reading, the house lights went on and Joss and Russell took their places behind the table. Astonishingly, quite a few people were clutching books, waiting to have them signed. She bent her head and wrote her name in each copy that was put in front of her. After a while, Joss realized that the words Lydia Quentin had become meaningless to her and she had to concentrate hard to remember that that was what she had to write, over and over again.
‘Lydia?’
‘Gray … ’ It couldn’t be! What was he doing here? What could she say? Her heart lurched and thumped and she felt hot and cold, and had no idea what she might do next. Should she get up and run away? No, how would that look to Russell and Mona?
‘I was wondering if you had time for a coffee? It’s been so long … ’
‘Well … ’ No. She didn’t want coffee. She wanted to be somewhere else altogether. Somewhere far away. ‘Okay. Just a quick one.’
‘There’s a café just opposite. We could go there.’
‘I … I’ll be finished in a moment. I’ll come over and find you.’
‘Right.’
She watched him leave the auditorium. I don’t have to go, she thought. I could slip out of the back and disappear. She stood up and said to the others: ‘I’m going now, if that’s all right. I’ve promised to have coffee with … an old friend. You remember Graham Ashton, don’t you, Russell? From our course in September?’
‘Of course. I was going to tell you he was here. Quite forgot. I had a drink with him before we came in … nice chap.’
She went through the goodbyes and thank-yous and promises to keep in touch and congratulations on selling so many books, and felt as though she were watching herself from somewhere near the ceiling. Most of her attention was on Gray. She’d forgotten what his physical self was like. She’d made him into a sort of benevolent ghost, a visitor to her imagination and her dreams, but there he had been, in front of her, his hands on the table. His smile. Had she imagined it or had she really smelt him? No, that was impossible. He’d been too far away. All she knew was that her feelings for him hadn’t grown weaker with the passage of time. She’d been telling herself she was over him. She’d almost convinced herself that forgetting about him was an option and now here they were again. She sighed and left the theatre. The road in front of the café felt like a
dangerous border she was crossing.
He was sitting at a table near the back. As she approached, he stood up.
‘Hello,’ he said, clearly not knowing what to do: should he hug her, shake her hand? In the end, he said, ‘I expect you’re hungry. I’ll go and get us some food. What would you like?’
‘Anything. Really. You choose. A panini sandwich or something … and coffee.’
She watched as he chose the food from the display on the counter and brought it over to their table. Then he put the tray back on the stack, and came to sit down again. He said, ‘Lydia, before I say anything else, I just want you to know how sorry I am about the wedding being cancelled. I know Zannah was set on the occasion, and even though she’s the one who broke it off, I really do sympathise with how she must be feeling.’
‘How’s Adrian taking it? Is he okay?’
‘He’s sore, but he’ll be all right, I’m sure. Maureen’s going to Barbados with him on the honeymoon tickets.’
‘That’s a good idea. But you’re out of date, Gray. The wedding’s going ahead as planned.’
‘Really? That’s impossible, surely?’
‘Cal’s asked Zannah to marry him again. It’s like something in a movie.’
‘Did Adrian know about that when they split up?’
Joss smiled. As long as they were talking about Zannah and Adrian she was okay. She wouldn’t say anything wrong. ‘No, he didn’t. I think she must have told him now, though. She had no idea that was in Cal’s mind when she and Adrian broke up. None at all. She’d simply decided she didn’t love Adrian enough to marry him. I reckon it was brave of her to admit she’d made a mistake.’
