Wrong Room, Right Guy

by Liam Livings

  'Rings, check. Cushion, check. Yes, I think I am.'

  'Is he already in there?'

  'Who?'

  'The groom. The one who asked you to be his best man. The man who was unemployed at the group.' You didn't think it was our wedding did you? Not just yet, I'd have thought.

  'Pete?'

  'I never could remember his name. Him. Yes, is he ready?'

  Darren looked at his watch. 'He wants to be, we're already running late, and the woman said if we ran over it was just tough; they've got another fifteen to do today after us.'

  'And they say romance is dead?' I rolled my eyes.

  Darren hit me playfully. I took in his grey suit and crisp white shirt I'd lent to him for today. He looked like a completely different person from the one I'd first met.

  A member of staff from the building poked his head around the door and told us they were just about to start.

  I heard the music starting to play from the front of the ceremony room. It was Perfect Moment by Martine McCutcheon. Evidently, Michelle, the bride, had been a long time, massive EastEnders fan.

  We stood in the corridor and met Michelle - a vision in a huge white frothy dress, plunging neckline and veil. Imagine Cinderella from the Disney film and you're there. She lifted her veil and wiped her eyes with a tissue from her well bronzed cleavage.

  Darren kissed her and they exchanged I'm nervous looks before she led us to the ceremony room.

  Darren nodded his head towards the seats at the back of the ceremony room. 'You need to get in before us, 'cause you're not walking down the aisle. Best Man's boyfriend doesn't get a seat up the front, sorry.' He smiled weakly, then nodded again to where I should have been sitting before.

  I squeezed past Michelle's enormous dress and perched at the end of the back row.

  Moments later, Michelle passed, holding her pink and white carnations like her life depended on it, followed by Darren, walking slowly, holding the blue satin pillow with both rings perched on top. He winked and pursed his lips as he passed me, squeezing my shoulder as he went.

  It had been the great success story of the year for the group. I was so pleased when Darren had told me The Unemployed Man - or Pete, as Darren explained- had been clean for a year, which his girlfriend had always said was the point at which she would accept his proposal to marry him. And true to her word, a year clean, she'd accepted on the day Pete came back with a job offer from the factory which printed the Bank of England bank notes. Michelle had thought it was a joke at first, but when Pete showed her the letter from the factory she finally believed him. They had a new contract to print the currency for one of those new countries in Europe with an '&' in its name, so they were taking on extra people. For once in Pete's life, he'd been in the right place at the right time. It had been the talk of the group for the previous few months, as Pete was dragged ring and dress shopping with Michelle. So when Darren told me Pete wanted him to be his best man, I was so happy for Darren that what I'd done to the group hadn't affected his friendships, but worried if I could go to the wedding. Apparently Pete had been so overtaken by the roller-coaster of rings, dresses, flowers and words to say that he said of course Darren could bring me to the wedding. Darren explained, 'He said the best man needs someone to keep him on track, too.'

  At the reception, in a hotel nearby, Pete toasted to the strength of Michelle's support, and friends like Darren. I sipped champagne while Darren drank orange juice, like Pete at the top table, grinning ear to ear.

  Chapter 33

  'How's school?' I watched Lucy as she sat opposite me in a café near the school, carrying our drinks. Her beige pleated skirt fanned out as she sat.

  'Nothing new as far as maths is concerned. I mean, pi, algebra, multiplication, vectors, all that lot are all the same. No changes. I've probably told you this before, but that's what I like about maths. It's a constant, there's no fashions with it, nothing comes in or goes out. It just is. There's no interpretation required, you're either right or wrong. In a world of uncertainty and areas of grey, I like the black and white, right and wrong maths gives me.'

  'I see. I agree. Doesn't it ever get a bit the same, teaching the same stuff year after year?'

  'Not really. The pupils are always different. Different questions, problems, things they understand, things they don't understand.'

  'Yes, that's all the things I used to dislike about it. How're the terminal meetings, still terminal?' I smiled, remembering some choice phrases from them.

  'Still terminal. Still twenty four items to go through. Still going on until too late. But he's only trying to do his best, old Farnham. He really thinks that it will make it a better school for everyone.'

  'I know. I never thought anything else. He's a lovely man. I can really see that now. Watching him learn more about social media has been like having my own GCSE class with just him as my wide-eyed pupil.'

  'You're not one of his staff now. It's different.'

  'Suppose so. Anything else about the staff? Has old Farnham replaced me yet?'

  'Course he has. It's been a year. You are not irreplaceable you know - sorry to break it to you, sweetheart. They got an NQT to cover your English lessons. Can't remember his name. I don't see him much. I'm normally up to my neck in marking in the staff room. How's Darren?'

  'He's good, things going really well with us.' I paused. 'A year today since he had cocaine. So he's well. It's amazing what you can do if you take it one step at a time, one day at a time.'

  'How else can you take it? You can't really go three days at once, can you? That's just the way they come.'

  'I know that, but it's one of the rules of the group. You only think about one day of sobriety at a time, you don't think about being sober for a year, a month or even a week. For most people, that thought alone is enough for them to jump back into a big line of coke.'

  'My, my, you are very knowledgeable about all this aren't you? Lots of material for your writing. How's that going?'

  'The magazine's letters keep me busy - researching the replies, picking the interesting ones so I don't reply to similar ones within a few months, thinking about the monthly columns. It all just rolls on every week.'

  'Did they give you a byline with your real name?'

  'Jenny was with me on that, but said the publisher wasn't keen to have the problems pages in a women's magazine being done, publicly, by a man. So we kept it as the same name of agony aunt as it has always been, Mary Martyn, even when the previous woman did it. Clara-Bell said they could use a photo of her in her thirties.'

  'The lies!'

  I touched her arm. 'Sorry to break this to you, darling, but not everything you see in magazines is quite as it seems. One week my monthly column was bumped to two weeks later. All because they had some contra deal with a big health spa where Shining Brighter Media had held its editorial brainstorming away day, and had promised to write an article about how marvellously rejuvenating it was for the stressed modern woman. Poor little me with my article on finding love in the autumn of your years was bumped.'

  'Two weeks?'

  'Oh yes. The next week the President, New Business, had lined up something with Range Rover, or Lexus, I forget, and a luxury holiday company. She said she was looking at two weeks in the south of France with whichever car it was, and could her husband be the driver required for the shoot rather than paying for one from the usual company?'

  'How the other half lives.'

  'In fairness, it was a beautiful spread. Sixteen pages of models in clothes from Max Mara, or Pucci, draped over the bonnet of the car, with the French chateau in the background - which one of the board directors had bagged for her New Year's Eve party the following year.'

  'Well, we got a new photocopier in the office. And the notebook supplier must have changed because I can't get a Black n' Red spiral bound one for love or money.'

  I smiled. 'So you see, my little article didn't stand a chance.' I paused. 'It's been all go at Brighter Media, as you can te
ll.'

  'All this, you simply must put it into a book. Has Farnham given you any more schools work?'

  'A few. I seem to be looking after the blogs and Facebook pages of most of the secondary schools in Epping Forest and starting to branch out into Harlow.'

  'Glamorous. There must be plenty in Harlow to choose from.'

  'It's just into double figures, Farnham said. He's friends with the Head of Latton Bush comprehensive, so he's put in a good word for me. We'll see.' I folded my hands on my lap, feeling a bit embarrassed to be boasting about my success.

  'Don't apologise for it. It's all you. It could have all gone so differently. You could have been living with me, not able to afford your mortgage. It was a risk, but you've made it work.'

  'And it's all good experience, life experience which I might be able to put into a story one day. It definitely beats doing internet research about it. All from the writers group and going into the wrong room.'

  'That little village hall's got a lot to answer for.' She smiled.

  My phone beeped, it was a message from Darren.

  'Is that him?'

  I nodded, smiling.

  'That's what I like to see, a smile.'

  'Did you ever start up a maths group. You talked about it before, and said there might be interest in something after school.'

  'I tried, and the students who need the help aren't interested in staying after school, and the ones who want to stay don't need the help.' She shrugged and then sipped her drink.

  'Maybe you should still give it a go. See where it leads to?'

  Chapter 34

  I was in the WHSmith's on Loughton High Road, stocking up on notepads and Post-It notes when I noticed a familiar outline, hovering around the baking books. I walked behind her and tapped her shoulder.

  Clara-Bell turned, her eyes widened and she hugged me to her stout frame, kissing my cheeks. 'How marvellous to see you, Simon, or should I say Michael? I'm just looking at these.' She replaced the baking book on the shelf. 'I've got enough already to start my own bakery book shop. Actually, maybe that's not a bad idea. Anyway, how are you, keeping busy I hope?'

  'Sorry I missed the last few meetings, I've been rushed off my feet with the book launch. I meant to let you know.'

  She waved her hands in front of her face. 'Don't worry about all that. I'm so pleased, I did hear from someone that you had been published. The secretary of the Romantic Writers Guild said you'd applied for full membership now you had a book out there. It's such a feeling. I still remember my first. Of course, now it's my tenth it's not quite the same feeling, but it's marvellous when I get the box of them delivered home and I can smell the pages. There's nothing quite like the smell of a new book is there? It's not the same with all these electronic books, never will be.'

  'When's your next one out?'

  She told me about her latest in the Glitzy Saga series to be published, and that she was already getting on with the next in the series, a spin-off about a woman whose father left her the entire estate, but only if she divorced her beloved husband, whom he'd never really taken to.

  'That's a romance, is it?'

  'It's a very broad church, darling, a very broad church. There'll be plenty of romance in it once it's finished. And what's yours about?'

  'A romance. A love story.'

  'Marvellous. I shall look forward to reading it. Darling, I must go, I've still got to pick up some gardening implements, one of the spades broke, utter rubbish, I'm taking it back, only had it a year or so, and one of the dogs is due at the vets this afternoon, so I'll see you anon. I want to have you and your man friend, is that the right term?'

  I shrugged. 'It'll do.'

  'You and himself, around for supper. After all I do feel party responsible for your getting together, since it was me who picked that village hall for the group. We almost went for the pub on the other side of the road, but I understand Darren and his group aren't known to frequent pubs.'

  I shook my head.

  'No, so if it had been there, you would never have bumped into him. Marvellous. I'll send you some dates, darling. Do keep in touch.' She waved as she walked to the till with a pile of cookery books under one arm and a walking stick under the other, her green wax cape flapping as she strode off into the distance.

  I remembered her pages of feedback she'd gone through with me, bullet point by bullet point, explaining what show don't tell meant, using examples because I hadn't understood it the first three times she'd explained. 'Listen to these two examples, darling: She was anxious for the phone to ring. Or how about: She lay in her apartment, waiting for the phone to ring. She checked if there was a dialling tone every quarter of an hour. The slightest noise from outside her apartment made her jump at the phone, swearing to herself it had rung. She called her best friend, and abandoned the conversation part way in, swearing she'd heard the call waiting beeps. She refused to leave the apartment for two days, calling in sick to work with a sudden head ache, staring at the phone, willing him to call as he had promised he would.

  Now, which is more interesting, darling?'

  I would never forget her mantra that, 'Story must always be king, darling' over plates of rib sticking food. I had asked her if she really thought my characters 'jump off the page' like she'd written in bullet point fourteen.

  'Darling, I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it.' Came the reply, with a smile, before resuming the list. Her little pointers about things I didn't even think were, a thing, had helped wonders too, like my over-use of he said, she said, and lack of action next to dialogue. 'Add in some action, the reader will know who's saying it. Tell us what they're doing, when they say it. It makes the sentence work much harder than just another he said, she said.'

  And her list of publishers she thought would be interested in it, had been such a god-send. I had tried trawling the internet for their websites, and the sort of book they published, but Clara-Bell handed me a piece of paper with some page numbers written on it, stuck into the Writers' and Artists' Year Book. 'A gift. You'll need one, so you can have that one. Lists all the publishers, agents, how to write a query letter, synopsis, everything. With examples too. Give it a read, and call with questions. I do think it's fairly self-explanatory darling, but you know where I am if you need me. More stew?'

  Chapter 35

  Lucy dunked her biscotti into her coffee. 'When are you going to see whatshername? The writing mother ship?'

  'Clara-Bell Clements?'

  'That's the one. When's the grand invite for?'

  'Next Saturday. We've been ordered to stay over. She wants us all to get drunk and silly and eat until we can't move. Strict instructions.'

  She leant forward to check Darren couldn't hear. 'How's he been, nervous?'

  'If he is, he's not told me. Can't be any scarier than Christmas with his lot.' I smiled.

  There was a bang from the hallway followed by a shout of 'I'm fine, don't bother about me. Nothing to see 'ere.'

  Lucy put her hand to her mouth and started to stand.

  'He'll be fine. He's always doing it. He'll have just trodden in his bucket, or something.'

  Darren appeared in the kitchen, dirty grey tracksuit bottoms and no T-shirt. His right leg and foot were covered in white plaster powder. His chest had a few speckled of white across, clinging to the little bits of dark hair over his pectoral muscles. 'I'm fine. Don't mind me, you two just carry on with your little coffee morning, while I graft. No, that's fine.' He sat at the table and I made him a tea. 'What you two gassing on about? You've been at it all morning, while some of us have been working.'

  I looked at Lucy as I handed Darren his tea. 'A bit later, he's gonna sing about all he wants is a room somewhere, to keep him out of the cold night air, with one enormous chair. At the chorus, of wouldn't it be loverly, he does a little twirl!' I caught Lucy smiling at me.

  'That's one of your musicals, eh?' Darren wiped his forehead, I caught a glimpse of armpit and I suppressed my reaction as I ha
d company.

  'My Fair Lady.' I looked at Lucy. 'You wait, I'll have him word perfect by summer. I am paying him today you know, so don't take any notice of all this 'poor me' act. He's got so much work on at the moment that it had to be either today or next month - so I picked today.'

  'Yeah, I've got a few fifteen hundred quid weeks coming up. Dunno why, but everyone wants their walls done in spring. Same every year.' He shrugged then sipped from his mug.

  Lucy looked at me. 'Fifteen hundred pounds a week. I don't earn that. The Head teacher earns more than that, but he's, you know, the head. And you, a plasterer earns that?'

  'Not every week, mind. Just some weeks.'

  'I saw this programme on Channel 4, and it was about a plumbing company which served central London. Some of the plumbers were on sixty, seventy thousand a year. For unblocking drains and plumbing in washing machines.'

  'It's a skilled trade is that, like this.' Darren brushed his hands against his tracksuit bottom.

  'I didn't think it was that skilled!' Lucy exclaimed. 'Simon, could I tempt you to come back for a bit of supply? They asked me to ask you. Just pop you on the list of teachers they call on when needed. No guarantee of work. I said I would, but didn't hold out much hope of anything. So?'

  I smiled weakly at her. 'I don't have the time, I'm afraid. I've started online creative writing courses for people who want to improve their writing skills - basic grammar, sentence structure, story structure, that sort of thing. Jenny keeps throwing more letters my way, and expecting me to reply to them, and now she's got me writing stuff for the Ladies' Weekly website - all as Mary Martyn the agony aunt still, but I won't get the byline, and I've had that argument with them a hundred times, and I haven't the energy to do it again.'

  'Get him with his byline.' Lucy laughed and looked at Darren.

  'I haven't got the byline, that's the whole problem.' I quietly seethed at the table. 'Mr Farnham seems intent in getting me to run the social media accounts for most of the secondary schools in west Essex, but with the Romantic Writers Guild work to help Clara-Bell with the local writers group, and my own writing, it's all quite a squeeze.'