Kismet

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  Freddie and Debbie met just two months previous, at a Christmas party. They were engaged within two weeks. Debbie is my dad’s cousin’s daughter. Freddie, before that day, I didn’t know from Adam. All I knew was that to invite distant relations to what appeared to be a shotgun wedding, in effect filling a hall with mostly strangers, screamed desperate to me. Still, they seemed happy, larking about as Freddie rocked Debbie childishly across the floor. Maybe it was real, maybe it wasn’t. As I stared at plain old Freddie, who could have only been a couple of years older than eighteen-year-old Debbie, I recognised they might have been happy just to have someone—but even so, they were very young and it all seemed a bit much. I could’ve easily got out of going, excused myself with an emergency at work I had to attend to, but there was something gross about days like this—such an occasion fascinated my morbid, voyeuristic side. Though no picnic herself, I did wonder how in the hell Debbie had lumbered herself with the ball and chain so early on in life. It baffled me.

  While Dad propped up the bar, drunk-chatting with anyone who passed by, I sat with Mum at one of the circular dining tables. There were ten seats to a table but most people had already gone to join the bride and groom on the floor, now they’d had their first dance and the lights were low. My mother and I, the only duo not dancing, sat amidst the ruins of half-empty plates, depleted wine glasses, discarded favours, streamers and unused disposable cameras. As the DJ set went on, I noticed more and more people sneak out for a fag or to the loo—never to return.

  We quickly grew bored and were ready to leave, as well. The happy couple had plenty of their nearest and dearest left behind to keep the party alive; it was just the likes of us—the strangers who’d been invited for the hell of it—who were ready to go.

  I nudged my mother, dressed smartly in a two-piece cream suit. “Can we go now?”

  Her face showed the strain before she cast a look over her shoulder at where Dad was holding court with a noisy group of middle-aged dickheads.

  “He’s having fun,” she said.

  He hadn’t looked after either of us all day; hadn’t even bought us one drink. Adam was at a football tournament so he had got out of the wedding, but if James Carter’s golden child had joined us at the wedding, my father would’ve corralled everyone about my brother’s academic achievements, not to mention his blossoming football career, or so my dad had himself convinced (Adam played on a Saturday afternoon with a few mates, nothing major). As for my mother, a classically trained violinist and his daughter, an actual businesswoman, he didn’t care to sing our praises.

  Mum and I had been dragged along to make it look like my father was a decent, law-abiding, family man, but all we were really there for was to wait around while he got sloshed. Days like this are the ultimate hall pass for continual, outrageous drinking, after all. So far, I’d shared a couple of bottles of wine with my mother (paid for out of my own purse) and my tolerance for my father’s drunkenness had reached almost zilch, because somehow he was still at it even though I’d have to take out a loan if I wanted more wine from behind the overpriced bar.

  “I’m going to the loo.” I left my chair abruptly, taking my handbag with me.

  If I saw a taxi or something idling outside—maybe even an errant tractor passing by—I’d take my exit route without explanation, leave my mother to deal with that drunken lout and escape… at least until morning.

  After I used the loo, I touched up my lipstick and fluffed my hair, even checked my heels for scuffs and my tights for nicks—anything to get out of going back in there.

  While standing in the entrance hall, wondering how to escape, I noticed a man on his phone. He definitely looked like he didn’t belong here. He was handsome and a Londoner, not like the rest of these country bumpkins here tonight.

  After he got off the phone, I noticed he seemed to be staring at the screen with a look of puzzlement and so, for some reason, I waltzed right up to him. “You’re not trying to get a taxi, are you? I’d quite like to get out of here myself.”

  He looked up at me and seemed to go blank. He started searching my face, as if he feared he was meant to know me, but couldn’t recall from where.

  “Bride or groom?” I asked.

  “Oh, erm, groom. You?”

  “Neither,” I exclaimed. “I got dragged here. Anyway, are you leaving? Did you just order a taxi? Are there even any taxi firms around here? Otherwise we’ll be waiting until midnight for our designated driver.”

  “No, I was—erm, yeah, no… no taxis.”

  I ignored the strange look in his eyes and held out my hand. “Freya.”

  He took my hand. “Ruben.”

  He did appear to be waiting for me to register the significance of his name, to which I replied in a jovial way, “You in some boyband or something?”

  Was he one of the filthy rich people Freddie apparently knew? (My father had boasted earlier that day his cousin was marrying into a different world.) You see, the three things my dad most covets are wealth, status and access to all the alcohol. I could only imagine this guy in front of me had money… perhaps status… maybe even a wine cellar. I reckon the proof of success is being able to say you have a fully stocked cellar, not that you drank it all in one day. Pity my father hadn’t worked that one out yet.

  Ruben’s eyes widened. “Uh, no… bloody hell, no.”

  “You’re… in… like, finance? Something like that?”

  “Banking, of course,” he blurted, “yeah, banking. Loads of money.” He blew a raspberry and flung his head back as though indifferent to his disgusting, shameful wealth. Okay, so it was a bit Jim Carrey, but he seemed nervous for some reason. I let it slide. I let a lot slide, in fact because I could’ve read a lot into him, if I’d wanted to. I wasn’t out hunting a date in particular, or anything like that. For me, guys like Roman were a regular occurrence. He wasn’t special… yet. Nice to look at, nothing new.

  “Oh, well, I’d better be getting back to my mother.” I looked down into my handbag, wondering if I didn’t have some emergency blow-up vehicle hiding in there or something. Maybe a voucher for a free ride out of hell. I wished…

  All I had about my person was my phone, some cash, lipstick and keys. The card and gift voucher I bought for the happy couple had been offloaded hours ago. At least at weddings you could travel light. Had to be one good thing about these bloody shitshows, right?

  “If you really are in a hurry to get home, I could take you,” he said, and the sudden sureness of his voice caught me off guard. “I only popped in to say hello… show my face.”

  I looked up and found myself staring into two very dark green eyes, suddenly noticing a little more about him, including the seductive length of his lashes and proud, prominent brow. I never dated rich, privately educated men; they nearly always had mummy issues and not enough packed in the trunk, hence the need for money and power. I had already made multiple assumptions about him, none of which were probably true… although, who knew?

  “Thank you for the offer, but I’m not about to jump in the car of a man who could be an axe murderer or serial rapist for all I know.”

  He tried to stop himself laughing, but couldn’t. He let it go, then I joined in.

  After we got it out of our system, he suggested, “Shall we hide out in the old church? It’s just over the road and it’s warm, plus even axe murderers respect the law of sanctuary, at least I think they do anyway.”

  “Okay,” I giggled.

  We quickly crossed the road and he held the ramshackle wooden gate open for me which stood before the path leading down to the church. Walking carefully towards the entrance, I wondered if the church was even still open. Sure, they’d held a wedding today, but most churches locked up early these days due to potential vandalism.

  However, this one was open. Volunteers, it appeared, were preparing for another wedding tomorrow, with a whole new lot of garlands and flower arrangements being set up.

  Ruben and I sat at the back, said noth
ing and tried to look like we were here to find sanctuary. A few of the flower arrangers cast inquisitive looks at us, but said nothing. I wondered how the minister would find time tomorrow to perform another wedding and no doubt a couple of christenings, plus all of his usual Sunday services, too. I guess you couldn’t complain it if brought money into the church, given how old it appeared as I looked up and admired the vaulted stone ceiling. Mildew was everywhere, but the place had charm all the same.

  “Would you like for me to take your confession?” he sniggered.

  “This is a protestant church,” I murmured.

  “I suppose I would have known that had I attended the service.”

  “I suppose you would. Perhaps if you also paid attention to the fact there is no confessional closet to be found, either.”

  “Oh, I can take confession, anywhere. Try me.”

  I turned my head and eyed him. “I’ve known you for like five minutes, mate.”

  He pursed his lips. “And you’ll probably never see me again.”

  I turned back to look towards the front. “Very true.”

  We became silent, I don’t know why, but we did. As the silence crept over us and took hold, I noticed the floral experts turn to inspect us following our sudden hush. With the church so big and echoey and the workers beavering away silently, it occurred to me our presence was only tolerated because it provided these people with some amusement.

  “Come on,” I said, grabbing his hand and leading him out of there.

  Once outside on the path, he stopped me in my tracks and turned to me. “What was all that about?”

  “Well, if you want my confession, let’s go somewhere a little less intrusive. They were all listening to us talking. The things I’ve got to say shouldn’t be overheard in a house of god.”

  “Ooh, come on, then. Let’s find somewhere.” He grabbed my hand this time and dragged me away. I wanted to question what was happening, but I tossed it off. Whatever happened at weddings, stayed at weddings.

  We found an inviting pub a little way down the road from the village hall where the wedding reception was still taking place.

  Once inside the pub, Ruben asked, “Something to drink?”

  “White wine, please. Best to stick with what I know.”

  “No problem.”

  I found a seat in a quiet corner, tucked my legs underneath a tacky mahogany table and watched through stained glass as snow threatened to fall once more. Miniscule flakes fluttered every now and then, but it seemed too cold outside to actually snow heavily. Trust Freddie and Debbie to organise a wedding on such a cold day, just because they couldn’t wait any longer, and then for their guests to end up snowed in for the night in that bloody hall. For all we knew, it could incite some sick bacchanal orgy or something. God, my mind always went to the darkest of places fast.

  Ruben joined me and soon learnt not to rest his elbows on the table between us. He pulled a face and then sank back with a pint of beer. I supposed he was allowed one, even if he was driving. I drank some of my wine and thought up some small talk.

  “So, how long do you think it’ll last?”

  He looked puzzled as he turned from looking out of the window to eye me instead. “Pardon?”

  “Freddie and Debbie? How long do you think…?”

  “Oh, yeah…” He admonished himself for being so thick. “I don’t know… they seem pretty, what’s the word? Infatuated.”

  My face screwed up. “It’s gross how they slobber all over one another. It’s not right.”

  He snickered and drank more beer. “Glad it’s not just me.” He seemed to be thinking, then he added, “So, how do you know them both?”

  “Oh… Debbie is my dad’s cousin’s daughter. I don’t know what that makes me, maybe her second cousin or third? Once removed or some crap? That’s even if she is dad’s cousin’s biological child, know what I mean? There was a rumour… Anyway, I never spent time with the girl. My dad attended her christening yonks ago and he was only there for the free booze. He had to come today, though didn’t he? Just so he could revel in the fact that one of his relatives has married up.”

  Ruben burst out laughing. “She hasn’t married up.”

  I found a patch of clean table and rested my elbow on it, then plopped my chin in my hand. “Oh, do tell.”

  Ruben grinned as though he knew some dirty, disgusting secret. I couldn’t wait to learn it.

  “It never leaves this table?” he demanded.

  I crossed myself. “Oh, I love knowing dirt on people that nobody else knows. It never leaves this table.”

  His eyebrow flicked up, then he leaned in a little, even despite the sticky table between us. “Freddie’s godfather paid for him to attend Eton, but his actual family doesn’t have a penny. He got rich selling drugs to fellow students at King’s College, Cambridge.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “So… my distant, eighteen-year-old relative has married a drug dealer?”

  “In effect.”

  “Excellent. Cheers.” I clinked my glass to his and drank more wine. “Silly girl. Silly, silly girl.” I shook my head.

  “Aren’t you worried your cousin will end up an addict, lying in a ditch somewhere before she’s twenty?”

  I stopped myself laughing, biting my lip. “Please, I mean… he’s ugly as shit, Ruben. I’m more worried she’ll never achieve orgasm. The drugs might help.”

  Ruben covered his face with his hands and laughed out loud. I’d said something he definitely agreed with, anyway.

  “Listen,” I explained, “my father’s side of the family are all a bit murky. If they’re not claiming benefits for fake injuries, they’re thinking up their next fake injury. My dad’s the decent one, so they say, but he’s no different to them, beneath. He’s warped in all the same ways, wondering when the world is going to give him his just desserts. I couldn’t care less about that stupid, little girl. More fool her. She’s married in her own league. It’s what happens, right? These people enable one another. They meet and recognise another dodgy git when they meet one. End of. Let them get on with it.”

  For a while Ruben seemed genuinely affected by my little rant, then he turned to me with a different expression. “So, Freya. What is it you do?”

  I looked down at the table and smiled. “Guess.”

  He steepled his hands and searched my face, trying to figure me out. He took a deep breath and blew it out dramatically. “Well, I’d say the jadedness means you’re in some sort of job where you deal with the public.”

  I laughed, throwing my head back. “Oh, you fuck.”

  He nodded wildly. “Yes, I knew it.”

  “You know nothing. We just met.”

  He tapped his fingers on his chin. “You’re made up and your nails are professionally manicured. You have that look of infallibility about you, no chink in your armour. So, you’re not a nurse or a caterer or anything like that, and there’s no point in learning how to contour if you’re only a customer service assistant in a call centre. No. You deal directly with the public, daily. I can tell. You’ve met too many people, so that means it’s new people every day… and that leads me to think… hmm… not the beauty industry, no. You’ve got more brains than that. Hmm… I know, hotel trade!”

  I swore under my breath as he laughed, knowing he’d got me.

  “Another drink?” he asked.

  “Oh hell, yes.”

  He chuckled and left the table to visit the bar again.

  Chapter Eight

  It’s My Birthday

  It’s the morning of my birthday—a Sunday—and I wake to find myself in bed, wearing a robe, with no idea how I got here. I remember it was four a.m. and I was sitting on the window ledge staring at the world outside, thinking back to how I met Ruben…

  He must have found me asleep over there when he got up to pee or something and brought me back to bed. He’s now spooning up close behind me, his arm slung over my body. He’s snoring a little and it’s cute. I almost don�
�t want to wake him. If I could wake up every morning like this, I’d happily stay with him forever.

  Feeling mischievous, I reach for his hand and open my robe, sliding his fingers over my breast and wedging him in tight. For a few minutes there’s no response, then as he stirs, he must feel the heat of my breast against his hand.

  “Uh, baby,” he groans, my caveman roused from slumber.

  His grip on me tightens and I wriggle back against him, reaching for his hair with my hand, my fingers tugging and pulling on the soft, wild strands of his mane.

  “I thought we hated terms of endearment. We discussed it once, remember?” When we were both single, jaded, probably a bit lonely and unable to convey our real feelings.

  “That was before I knew what it was like to have you. Now I just can’t help myself,” he says between ragged breaths, his nose rustling around in my hair. “Happy birthday, gorgeous. Would you like your present now?”

  I burst out laughing. “Oh, let me guess? It’s you.”

  He returns my laugh. “Might be. I mean… yeah… probably.”

  “I could be persuaded.”

  “You’re not sure you want it?” he chuckles.

  “I’m saying, persuade me.”

  “Ah, I know just how to persuade you.”

  He unties the belt at my waist, taking his time. Even slower, he parts the robe and pushes it to the sides of my body, uncovering my nakedness, no hurry whatsoever. I watch the fascination in his eyes, but my fascination is with how much joy he gets from looking at me naked. I don’t have one of those fashionable body shapes. I don’t have a huge arse and a tiny waist. I’m an ordinary woman with a nice rack and long legs and a lot of womanly bits in between. I’m not perfect, but he seems to think I am.