by Helen Juliet
“Did you know harpists are really hard to find?”
The guy blinked.
“Okay,” he said smoothly, then turned and began to walk away from the market.
Nicholas’s feet spurred into action before he had a chance to reconsider. “No, wait, I’m sorry,” he cried. He fell into step with the busker, despite the fact that the bustling, narrow street couldn’t really accommodate two people walking side by side without pissing off the other shoppers trying to get by. Especially seeing as one of them had a guitar, and the other a laptop bag. “Can I ask you something?”
The busker gave him a side-eyed glance, that not-really-a-smile tugging at the edge of his lips again. “You may.”
“Right,” said Nicholas hurried. He cleared his throat and pushed his glasses back up his nose where they’d slipped. “Uh, well, I was wondering if you do weddings?”
They reached the end of the street, where the path mercifully opened up into a courtyard under the old clock tower, by the side of the road. They stopped walking as the busker addressed him.
“I’ve been known to attend a few in my time.” Wow, this guy sure wasn’t one for talking much.
Nicholas shook his head, sensing he was being messed with. “No,” he said patiently, aware he was just about to ask this guy a massive favour. It didn’t matter if Nicholas could pay him a lot, he still understood that a week was hardly any time at all to spring something like this on anyone. “Do you play them – with your guitar and your, uh, well singing. Voice. Or do you play anything else?” he asked, the thought occurring to him.
“No, I don’t,” the guy replied, before Nicholas could specifically ask if he played the harp. But then he realised he had asked two questions.
“Oh,” he said, deflated. “You don’t…play another instrument, or you don’t do weddings?”
The guy stared at him a moment, then rubbed the small amount of stubble on his chin. Nicholas didn’t seem to be able to grow much of a beard, even if he felt the inclination. He had a feeling it would just look a bit creepy on him, whereas this guy wore it naturally. It was probably part of what made him seem so confident, older.
“The instrument thing,” he said eventually. “I know a little piano, but not well.”
Nicholas rocked on his heels, anticipation bubbling up in him. “And the wedding thing?”
The guy’s half smile reached something that actually resembled amusement, quirking fully into his cheek and giving him a dimple that did something strange to Nicholas’s chest. Almost like it contracted. He ignored it.
“I’ve not done one before,” the guy admitted. “What do you want exactly – something to walk the happy couple down the aisle?”
Nicholas couldn’t help but let out an excited little exhale. That wasn’t a ‘no’.
“We’ve got that bit covered, actually,” he explained. He’d gone through Danielle’s itinerary thoroughly, so he knew exactly what to ask for when he’d called up all those other musicians before. “This is for the wedding breakfast – the dinner part,” he clarified. “I thought that was so ridiculous when I first heard it – why not call it the wedding lunch, or dinner? That’s the time when you have it, not the morning. It’s after the ceremony, and unless you get married at the crack of dawn, then it’s not really breakfast now, is it…?”
He realised the guy was staring at him, one pierced eyebrow raised.
Nicholas gave a small cough, and tried to rein his gob in.
“The idea would be for you to play as the guests move from the ceremony room into the reception room, then while we eat. So, about an hour, to an hour and a half.” He gave a tentative smile and shoved his hands into his pockets. “It’s paid, well paid.”
The busker rubbed his lower lip with his thumb. Nicholas found that strangely intriguing, but he put the way his stomach flipped down to his hangover. Because, that would be ridiculous to find that attractive on another guy. Right?
“You don’t know what I charge by the hour.”
Despite what he had just told his brain, being only just out of his teenage years meant that his mind immediately went to a sordid profession that also charged by the hour, and he had to mentally chase the thought away, fast. His cheeks still blushed, he knew, and he tried to surreptitiously rub the pinkness away. Thankfully, his acne scars hadn’t left much in the way of a colour blemish, but if he blushed he went horribly blotchy and he hated it.
His kind of scars were called ‘boxcar’ according to the internet. He’d only had bad skin for all of about six months, when he’d got really stressed doing his GCSEs a couple of years ago, but it was enough to leave him with several unsightly dents in his cheeks. He had a particular one that he found strangely comforting to worry at when he felt flustered, on the side of his right cheek, by his ear, and it was this he pawed at now.
“Uh,” he said, sounding awkward to his own ears. “I don’t, I mean, what do you charge?”
The guy seemed to take pity on him, and his shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. “I’m flexible,” he said. “When is this wedding anyway? No sense haggling if I can’t even make it.”
Knowing he was at least open to the idea meant Nicholas could relax a bit as well, and he felt the heat easing from his face. But, he now had to confess to how soon the wedding actually was.
“Right,” he said, nodding. He was aware of all the people going about their business around them, but at the same time it did sort of feel like it was just the two of them standing there, alone in their private conversation. “Right, so the thing is, we had a bit of a crisis, and the harpist I was supposed to book can’t do it now—” He left out the part where that was entirely his fault for not booking her in the first damn place. “And I tried a lot of other people before you came along, so I totally understand if you’re not free, because it is really soon, but if you could!” He shook his head and whistled. “Mate, you’d be saving my arse, I swear, but no pressure—”
The guy held up a hand between them. “Do you have a date?”
“Next Saturday,” Nicholas blurted. He had to get it over with at some point, he figured.
The guy raised his eyebrow. “As in, a week from today?” Nicholas licked his lips, then nodded, dread sinking into his stomach. The guy frowned, then nodded back. “Yep, I’m free.”
Nicholas almost choked in his haste to reply. “What? Really?” He shook his head quickly, not wanting to talk the guy out of it, but he had to ask. “Is that enough time, do you have enough songs, or whatever?”
The guy fished into his tight jeans, pulling out his wallet from his back pocket to retrieve a card. “I’ve got lots. I have to go now, but why don’t we get together tomorrow and I can play you some stuff, see what you like?”
Nicholas turned the small rectangle that he’d been handed over in his fingers, realising it was a business card. There were several social media links as well as a mobile phone number, and, most importantly, a name.
“Fynn Dumashie,” he read out loud. “Classical guitarist.”
“Dumashie,” the guy, Fynn, corrected, making more of an ‘ahh’ sound in the middle.
“Oh, sorry,” Nicholas apologised. “Wow, you’re such a grown up, with a business card and everything. That’s pretty awesome, how old are you anyway? Twenty-one?” He kept his guess low, for some reason finding it important that he wasn’t too much older than his own twenty years.
Fynn’s half smile made another appearance. “I’m twenty-three,” he said. That wasn’t too much older. Nicholas could live with that, for whatever reason it was so vital to him that they not be that far apart in age. “Tomorrow – are you free?”
Nicholas let out a not-too-dignified “Uuuuh” sound as he wracked his brains for what the itinerary had told him. “Oh, no,” he said in disappointment. “I’ve got a bunch of family stuff tomorrow – it’s my sister that’s getting married.”
Fynn shrugged though. “Okay. Monday?”
Monday? “I think Monday’s good,” he sa
id. He gave in and pulled his cardboard folder from his back to check Danielle’s schedule. He was done making assumptions. From now on, he was double checking everything. “Yes! I can do about two o’clock, if that suits you?”
After establishing that they both lived locally in the city, Fynn took his card back, and scribbled with a pen he’d pulled from nowhere on the blank side.
“Here’s my home address. Are you alright to come over?” Nicholas nodded. “I’ll have access to my computer, so I can look up any songs you might want that I don’t know. In the meantime, maybe get a list together of ideas, if you haven’t already.”
Nicholas read the handwritten address as he took the card back. He didn’t know the road off-hand, but he was confident he could find it online fast enough. “Sure, yeah, sounds great. Um, do you want my number too?”
Fynn jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I really have to go,” he said, starting to walk even as he spoke. “Just drop me a text. And maybe tell me your name?”
“Oh, I’m Nicholas,” he replied a little breathlessly. “Nicholas Herald.”
Fynn waved as he turned and began walking down the hill, in the general direction of the cathedral. “See you on Monday, Nicholas Herald.”
Chapter Three
(Six days to go…)
Nicholas awoke the next day with a tentative sense of hope. His hangover had finally dissipated, and he stretched happily in his bed, grinning towards the sunshine that was streaming through the edges around the curtains.
The more he thought about having Fynn play at the wedding, the more confident he became that it was going to be okay. He’d have to double check Fynn had a suit or something to wear. Even trousers and a shirt would do, and he was bound to have that, so really, that wasn’t a worry at all. And he already had some ideas for songs which he had made a mental list of last night, but judging by what he’d played on the street yesterday, Nicholas was pretty confident that almost anything would be grand.
In twenty-four hours, he’d gone from panicked despair, to feeling quite proud of himself. He had, he hoped, saved the day.
Not that a harp (or a guitar) was the most important part of a wedding. Far from it – he was pretty confident a lot of people managed to get married without any live music at all. But it was the part he had promised to sort it out for his big sister, and he wanted to make sure he got it right.
There was still a very small bit of him that worried if a guitar really had the same impact as a girl in a ball gown, strumming on a harp. But, after hearing even just ten seconds of Fynn playing, he knew everyone else was going to be just as enthralled as him. Or at least he hoped.
He shook his head and rolled out of bed. He was being stupid. Fynn played beautifully, and Clara was going to love him. So was Peter, he was certain. So what if Danielle got a bit snooty about it, she got snooty about everything. She loved giving waiters a dressing down if her food was anything less than perfect, and lecturing checkout girls for going too slowly, and God help anyone in customer service who got in her way when she had a complaint to make. He could very well imagine her taking one look at Fynn and being less than impressed, but he would already be playing by then, so she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. It wasn’t like he was going to show her a photo of him or anything.
His stomach growled. Despite eating his way through yesterday in an attempt to make himself feel better, he was ravenous again. It was probably a good time to get up and venture into the rest of the house.
As he was spending the next few weeks at home and away from uni, he had packed a massive suitcase as well as a couple of other bags full of stuff to see him through. Upon arriving yesterday, and having more pressing things on his mind, he had simply opened the case and rummaged through it all as and when he had needed to find anything. The result was that his room now looked like a bomb had gone off, with clothes and toiletries and chargers and DVDs strewn across the floor, draped over the bed posts, and hanging from his desk chair. He had never been the tidiest person, so it made him feel more at home to see the room in a state.
He’d lived in this house for most of his life. His room had been updated many times over the years, but there were still hints of his childhood lurking about, like the troll stickers on the inside of his wardrobe and the roller skates gathering dust under his bed. The walls were pretty plain and grown up. He had taken down all his film posters before he’d gone travelling on his gap year, deeming them too childish to leave in place, should he happen to meet someone special and bring them home with him. Not that that had happened, or looked like it would anytime soon. He could remain optimistic though, and if that day came, he didn’t want to explain to a future girlfriend about his previous X-Men obsession.
The idea of a girlfriend always seemed so abstract. As he hauled himself out of bed, he sort of wished he’d left his room as it was, rather than concerning himself with impressing someone who didn’t even exist. Maybe he could put some new posters up while he was here for Easter?
He pulled some clothes over the boxers he had slept in, and ran a brush through his hair, before chucking his glasses on. He could put in contacts after he’d had a shower; his family were used to seeing him bespeckled.
Except, he had forgotten it wasn’t just his family staying with them at the moment, and as he entered the kitchen with a yawn, he was greeted by a chorus of ‘hellos’ and ‘good mornings’. A quick glance told him it was almost the same group as yesterday morning, except his dad had now joined them. He was sat with Clara, sharing sheets of the Sunday paper like they’d done for years.
“Ah, there’s my boy,” he cried jovially, pushing over the entertainment section. “We saved you your favourite bit. Coffee? Kinny’s very kindly making us breakfast.”
Robert Herald was in his late fifties, and peered at his only son over gold rimmed spectacles. He smiled as he passed the coffee pot from where Peter had been hording it, and Nicholas gratefully sunk into one of the chairs around the island. As usual, no matter what the weather was, his dad was wearing his standard casualwear of polo shirt, shorts and flip-flops. It could be the dead of winter, and Mr Herald would insist on cranking the heating up rather than wearing full length trousers outside of the office.
“No golf today, Dad?” Nicholas asked as he poured himself a mug. It smelled like one of the Colombian brews he loved, but only his mum seemed to know where to buy, and he inhaled the aroma deeply before adding sugar and milk.
“Nope,” his dad said proudly, wrapping his arm around a pyjama-clad Clara. She blushed. “There are more important things going on.”
“There certainly are,” chirped Danielle. She looked up from behind her laptop like a meerkat standing on its hind legs. Of course she was already dressed with a full face of makeup. “I hope you’re ready for a busy day Nicky?”
Nicholas thought about correcting her, but it hadn’t worked in twenty years, so why bother now? “Sure,” he said neutrally instead. “Wow, Kinny,” he carried on, turning to where his sister’s best friend was working by the hob. “That smells fantastic.”
Kinny and Ash were both in pyjamas too, attending to a couple of pans on the cooker. “Oh, thank you darling,” said Kinny with a sunny smile over the shoulder.
There were already a number of plates and bowls on the table, holding olives, sticks of cucumber, a white, crumbly cheese, and sesame seed-topped bagels. Ash had been put in charge of some spicy smelling sausages, and Kinny was fussing of a large frying pan of something interesting looking. It was a tomato based sauce, with four eggs cracked into evenly spaced pockets, cooking merrily away. Nicholas could detect garlic and cumin in amongst all the other scents, and his mouth watered.
It wasn’t a fry up, but it still looked absolutely delicious, and he was anticipating it infinitely more than yesterday’s sludgy kale.
“I had to improvise a bit,” Kinny explained as she beat what looked like a glass jug filled with yogurt. “Sainsbury’s doesn’t carry everything my mum uses,�
� she added with a laugh. Her faded t-shirt and bottoms were covered with Care Bears, and her long, thick hair was being held up with a shiny purple scrunchie. “Danielle was so thoughtful looking after everyone yesterday, I thought I’d take a turn.”
“I’m helping,” Ash announced.
She held up a spatula to prove her point, then poked one of the eggs as if it might explode. She was only wearing a pair of Soffe shorts and a vest top, but she didn’t seem to care that she was half naked. Neither did Nicholas, he realised, and he sighed inwardly. Surely he should find that at least a little bit hot? What was wrong with him? She was pretty and sporty and kind of odd in an interesting way. Why didn’t that give him even a small flutter in his groin?
He had wondered many a time before now if there was something wrong with him, especially during his later school years, when all of his mates were losing their minds over as many pictures and videos of naked women they could get their hands on. He just didn’t seem to care the way they had.
Bradley Cooper with his shirt off however…
Nope. He was not thinking about that now. Not when there was food to be had and weddings to be planned and whatever else he could think of to distract him from that line of thought.
Because, really, he couldn’t be gay. That seemed like the sort of thing that happened to other people, not someone so wholly ordinary as he was. He was of average height, average intelligence, average looks; even his sports abilities, his hobbies and interests, and his family’s socio-economic status were all painfully run of the mill. There was nothing remarkable about him at all.
He wasn’t particularly troubled by this, but being gay seemed rather sensational in comparison. That would make him Different, Unusual, Strange. If it were true.
