Hating Valentine's Day

by Allison Rushby - Hating Valentine's Day

  ‘You ready for it?’ Lindsay smiles a bridal bleached-white-toothed smile.

  ‘As ready as I’ll ever be!’ I try to up my level of enthusiasm to match hers.

  ‘OK. I need you to stand over there to get the right view.’

  I go over to the spot she points out, on the other side of one of the garbage truck’s bonnets.

  And then I watch in horror as the bride positions the groom behind herself, lifts up her skirt, bends down to rest her hands on the front of the garbage truck and forms her mouth into a large ‘O’, acting for all the world as if her new husband is doing unmentionable things in unmentionable ways up her $18,000 snow-white (ha—as if!) dress.

  My mouth hangs open for just a second. But then I snap it shut and regain my composure. ‘How about that!’ I try to sound impressed with Troy’s creativity as I take a few half-hearted shots. ‘Right. All done,’ I say, about fifteen seconds later.

  Lindsay stands up a touch. ‘Oh. Can we have a few more, Liv? Troy really wants these ones in the album.’

  Shudder.

  But, ‘Sure!’ I say brightly, and Lindsay bends down to position herself once more.

  I’ve only taken a few more shots when Molly creeps up behind me and gives my ankle a tap with one of her feet. ‘We’ve got to move on, Liv,’ she says quietly. ‘And not just because I think watching this may make me go blind.’

  ‘OK.’ I stand upright, happy to do exactly what Molly says. ‘Lindsay? Troy?’ I say. ‘We’ve got to move on. How about you in the truck, Lindsay? With Troy looking up at you?’

  ‘Great!’ Lindsay pushes herself up and opens the door to clamber into the garbage truck. As she goes, she catches a string of the plastic roses in her heel. ‘Whoops!’ She sticks her head above the door to look at me and laughs. ‘And don’t you take any up my skirt now! I’ve got to leave some surprises for Troy later.’

  Gag.

  ‘Ha-ha!’ I reply, before I turn and grab Molly. ‘Save me!’ I whisper. I position one hand in the air, making shot-like gestures with my thumb and forefinger as I speak to her, as if I’m talking technical. ‘Right. After this, we’re going to go around the side of the restaurant and you’re going to stab me to death with the tripod, putting me out of my misery. OK?’

  Molly shakes her head, glancing down at the piece of paper in her hand. ‘Sorry, it’s not on the shot list. No can do.’

  Damn. I knew I’d forgotten something. And Molly’s tough. There’s no way she’ll humour me if it’s not on the shot list. I’ll just have to live to shoot another wedding.

  ‘Good luck,’ she says. ‘You finish up here, then nip inside to take a few shots of the table settings. I’ll go round up the rest of the bridal party.’ She pats my back and is gone.

  I watch her go, thinking what a godsend she is. Sally picked Molly the same way she picked me—asked around the photography department at the local art college and trialled a few students here and there, getting them to assist her on smaller shoots where an assistant wasn’t really necessary. Molly stood out from the crowd—just like Sally said I had, which is nice. But even I can see Molly is different from me. She was right from the start.

  Because, like I said, Molly is tough.

  Her specialty is getting people to do as they’re told without having to resort to arm-clinching manoeuvres. The little Rottweiler, Sally and I like to call her. And it’s a gift, what Molly is able to do with a group of people. It may not sound all that hard, but it’s a reasonably demanding job to get a bridal party of ten to stand in some kind of formation when they’ve downed a bottle of champagne each. Molly’s a trouper, and Sally and I both feel that, even though she’s got a year of her three-year photography course to go, she’s going to be a star. She’s got what it takes—nerves of steel, a smile she can keep plastered on her face no matter what, and she isn’t afraid of heights. (We do a lot of climbing in this job—trees, electricity boxes, brick walls, ladders, garbage trucks…You name it, we’ve climbed it to get the shot.)

  I finish up the garbage truck bride and groom shots and head inside to take a few quick snaps of the equally disgusting table decorations (silver and gold? What is it with this pair?). I do the rounds of the numerous tables, my camera winding on and on and on as I go. Finally I get to the head table and spend some extra time there, making sure I capture everything. It’s only when I turn to leave that I spot her.

  Hannah the Horrible.

  She’s standing in the middle of the room and I wonder just how long she’s been there—watching me. Hannah is this wedding’s pushy bitch in residence, Lindsay’s older sister and Matron of (Hellish) Honour.

  I’d had my first run-in with her at Lindsay and Troy’s initial meeting at the studio. Hannah came along as she’d been married the year before and was, thus, still the expert on all things wedding. I remember quite distinctly how much trouble she gave me over the quote. The first thing I did after making us all coffee was to explain to Lindsay and Troy the added cost of being married around Valentine’s Day, as I always do with all the customers who are interested in this time of year. But it was Hannah who insisted that the Valentine’s Day weekend was the weekend it had to be, so I brought out the packages they could choose from and explained the limited times I had left—one spot on the Saturday, as it turned out.

  Hannah looked at me as if I was an idiot. ‘This isn’t any good to us. We want Sunday. Valentine’s Day. You know—the fourteenth?’

  I explained through gritted teeth that I couldn’t do the fourteenth as I’d been booked out for that day by other couples a good six months before they’d even enquired.

  ‘We don’t care,’ she said. ‘We want the fourteenth.’ Then she picked up the price list and gave it back to me smugly, without even looking at it. ‘It doesn’t matter about the money. That’s not a problem. Our father—’ she glanced at Lindsay then ‘—owns all the garbage trucks in the city.’ She kept one eye on me as she said all of this.

  I think I was supposed to be impressed.

  I took much pleasure in telling her that it was Saturday morning or nothing.

  She left in a huff, with Lindsay and Troy in tow. And then, a few days later, Lindsay and Troy came back. Alone.

  Now, across the room, Hannah, obviously still pissed off at me, gives me the once-over.

  ‘Hi, Hannah,’ I say, trying to smile.

  ‘This is for you,’ she says, coming over to hand me a small silver box.

  I’m slightly taken aback. A present? But as I put my camera down on one of the guest tables I realise the box is exactly the same as the one placed on each guest’s plate. On opening, I’m met with a T-shirt with a picture of Lindsay and Troy on the front, their names and the date of their wedding spelled out in cursive script below. And not just any picture. My picture. The picture I took as their engagement portrait. The picture I hold the copyright to.

  My eyebrows rise.

  ‘Aren’t they great?’ She looks at me. ‘I arranged them myself.’

  ‘Mmm. Fantastic. Very…original.’

  But nothing gets past Hannah, who gives me a look. ‘Hey, you know what?’ she says innocently. ‘You should put it on.’

  The woman has got to be joking.

  ‘Go on,’ she says, nodding. ‘It’d really make Lindsay’s day.’

  Oh, great. Teeth gritted (as they always seem to be around Hannah), I reach down, pick up the T-shirt and pull it on over my head. Fantastic. But look on the bright side, Liv, I tell myself as Hannah heads for the door, at least you’ll have some concrete evidence to take to court when you sue them for breach of copyright.

  ‘Um…’ Molly says, sticking her head around the door into the reception room. ‘Oh, there you are, Hannah.’ She spots the Matron of Honour. ‘It’s you I was looking for. We need you outside.’ She glances back over at me. ‘You almost done? Now I’ve got Hannah, we’re ready to go.’

  I nod and move towards the door.

  ‘Hey.’ Molly gives me the thumbs-up. ‘Nice T-shirt!’<
br />
  I don’t grace this with a reply.

  Outside, I spend the next half-hour taking the necessary bridal party shots in front of the garbage trucks. Finally Molly moves everyone over to the lawn that leads into the reception area, and I climb up onto one of the truck’s bonnets to take a few shots of all the guests with the bridal party standing at the front.

  It isn’t until I take the last shot, and Molly lets the crowd disperse to descend on the hovering drinks and hors d’oeuvres waiters, that I see him.

  Drew.

  Right up at the back of the crowd. He waves and starts towards me. Surprised, I forget to wave back, simply stand and stare, still on the bonnet. As he makes his way through the crowd I become even more surprised. Because it’s not just Drew that’s coming over. Someone else is following him. Someone tall and blonde and willowy.

  ‘Er, I think you can come down now.’ Drew laughs when he reaches the truck. He offers me his hand and I take it silently, bending down to hop off. It isn’t until I’m back on solid ground, have smoothed down my pants and got myself together a bit, that I remember my manners. ‘Um, hi,’ I say, looking up and feeling my cheeks get hot as I recall our outing yesterday.

  But Drew doesn’t seem fazed at all. ‘Fancy seeing you here,’ he jokes.

  I smile and nod, then look over at the willowy blonde.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ Drew starts. ‘Liv, this is Tiffany—Tiffany, Liv. Tiff’s Lindsay’s cousin,’ he adds.

  Tiff?

  ‘Pretty funny, hey?’ Drew continues. ‘I tried to call your mobile when I realised it was you who was going to be the photographer, but it must have been turned off already.’

  I nod again and Drew keeps chatting about the wedding.

  But me, I can’t keep my eyes from flicking over to Tiffany every so often. What’s Drew doing with her at Lindsay’s wedding? He’s acting as if she’s just anyone. But who is she? Besides Lindsay’s cousin, I mean.

  Drew keeps right on chatting, and my eyes keep right on flicking from him to his partner. And as he talks I begin to think maybe Tiffany is just ‘anyone’. Drew certainly doesn’t look as if he’s been caught out here.

  ‘Liv?’

  I look up. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I asked if you wanted a drink,’ Drew says.

  ‘Oh, right. Um, a mineral water would be great, thanks.’

  ‘Another champagne for me,’ Tiffany adds.

  ‘I’ll be right back.’ Drew heads for the nearest drinks waiter and Tiffany and I both watch him go.

  ‘So, Tiffany…’ I turn back to face her. ‘Have you, um, known Drew for long?’

  ‘Oh, a while, I guess! I’m his girlfriend.’ She stops for a second and titters. ‘Well, OK, I admit it—ex-girlfriend. This is our last date, I guess. Ha-ha-ha. But really I shouldn’t joke. It’s a shame. He was a real gentleman, you know?’ She keeps prattling on, with ‘I’ve got a few champagnes under my belt already’ girlish confidences, but by this stage I’m not listening.

  Because my eyes have snapped over to watch Drew across the lawn, taking the drinks from the waiter.

  His girlfriend? Ex-girlfriend? Last date?

  Suddenly the excitement and happiness I’ve been feeling over the last few days drain slowly from my head, out of my feet, sink right down into the bitumen and are gone.

  Tiffany follows my gaze over to him and smacks her lips. ‘You know, I have to tell you—’ she nudges her elbow against my ribs ‘—he comes highly recommended, if you’re thinking about it yourself…’

  I look back at her in horror, but she trails off as Drew reaches us and passes the drinks around.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asks. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  My mind flicks back to Mrs Batty-Smith, and then to Tony.

  ‘God, you’re not all right, are you? Are you feeling sick again?’ Drew continues, starting to look worried. He reaches out to touch my arm. Just like yesterday.

  And with this one movement everything falls back into place for me. The world makes sense again. I look up to stare him straight in the eye. ‘Everything’s fine, thanks. I was just chatting to Tiffany. She was telling me you come highly recommended, as a matter of fact…’

  Drew glances over at Tiffany, then at me, looking like he’s the one who wants to be sick now. ‘Er…ah…’ Finally, he turns back to Tiffany. ‘Tiffany, could you, er, excuse us for a moment?’

  ‘Um, sure—sure.’ Tiffany looks flustered. ‘I think I’ll go and congratulate Lindsay. I haven’t had the chance to speak to her yet.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Drew doesn’t take his eyes off me as she speaks.

  I put my drink down on the ground and wait for her to leave.

  Drew reaches up and runs a hand through his hair as he exhales. ‘Shit. Sorry about that. I wanted to explain, but I couldn’t really while Tiff was here. We broke up about three months ago—not that we even dated properly. Only a couple of times, in fact. But she rang this week crying because her date for the wedding had dropped out at the last moment and she needed a partner. I couldn’t say no.’ He pauses then, and runs his hand through his hair once more. ‘Ha ha. You know me. The quintessential nice guy. It’s always getting me into trouble.’

  I watch him, silent. This is where I tell him it’s nothing, my brain says to me. This is where you put it all down to Drew doing a favour for a friend. An ex-girlfriend, yes, but so what? This is where you both have a laugh about how much champagne Tiffany’s had. How if she has just one more she’ll be on the wrong side of tipsy. But I don’t listen to my brain. Instead I remain as silent as Drew was on the phone the other night. After my meeting with Mike.

  ‘I’m, er, sorry about whatever she said. Tiff’s a bit…talkative—a bit, er, open…I guess you could say. And she’s had more than a few drinks.’

  Still I say nothing. And the truth is I don’t want to. Because, like I said before, the world suddenly makes sense again. Suddenly it falls into a pattern. A pattern I know all too well. God, I can’t believe I let myself say all that…all that drivel to Drew yesterday. That I let myself open up like I did to someone I hardly know. I shake my head, furious. Furious with Drew for letting me believe he was for real. But most of all furious with myself, for falling for it. For falling for it all over again.

  One more time, Liv…you’re an idiot.

  I mean, how could I have been so stupid? What I’m hearing now—the situation I’m in—it’s exactly why I made a conscious choice to stay single. To avoid this kind of shit in my life. I spot Lindsay then, entering the reception area, and even though my work at this wedding is practically done, I remember where I am and my role.

  I hold up my hand and Drew’s voice halts. ‘You know what?’ I look up at him with a dismissive wave. ‘I think I’ve heard enough.’

  Drew looks surprised. ‘Sorry?’

  I shrug. ‘So you’re here with Tiffany, who thinks you’re on some kind of a farewell date, some last hurrah, and goes around telling everyone that you’re fantastic in bed. Frankly, you don’t have to explain anything to me, and I don’t want to hear it anyway. I’m—how did you phrase it the other night? Yes, that’s it. I’m busy.’ I turn then and start to walk off towards Molly, who’s chatting to one of the bridesmaids as she packs away some of the camera equipment.

  Drew grabs my arm, stops me and swivels me around. ‘Liv, wait. You’re blowing this all out of proportion.’

  I pause for only a second. ‘Sure, that’s fine. Maybe I am.’ I brush his arm off. ‘But this is just the tip of the iceberg. You know, I was starting to think that maybe we…Oh, I don’t know. Really I should just shut up. Cut my losses. I’ll tell you something, though. What I do know is that I’ve had it with shitty men. I put myself on the line for you. I told you I wasn’t sure if I was ready for a relationship again and you blew it. You blew it! You call this a fresh start? This doesn’t look like a fresh start to me. You’re dicking me around just like the rest of them, Drew. Except this time I’m going to be smarter. I’m
stopping at the tip of the iceberg. I’m sick of all that he said/she said rubbish. As you can see—’ I swipe my arm in a wide arc, indicating the two garbage trucks ‘—I’ve got enough of it in my life already, without the kind the male of the species can dole out.’

  Drew looks at me for a moment in silence before he starts up again. ‘I should have told you, I know. But this isn’t anything. It’s nothing. Tiff’s just a friend. God, not even a friend…’

  ‘Don’t you get it?’ I shake my head at him. ‘You can stop with the excuses now. With your tulips and your irises and your lunches and your “should we share a cab home?” and “I’m the quintessential nice guy” lines.’

  Drew continues to look at me, dumbfounded.

  I check the time on my watch. ‘Like I said, I’m busy. And now I’m also late. So if you could just let me get on with my job, that’d be fantastic.’ I turn and start off again.

  I only take a few steps before Drew laughs.

  ‘So that’s it, is it?’

  I stop in my tracks, but don’t turn back. ‘Yes. That’s it. Thanks. Goodbye.’

  Behind me, there’s a pause. When he speaks again, the tone of his voice changes completely. ‘God, you really mean it, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I really mean it.’

  ‘Wow. You can really fool yourself when you want to, can’t you, Liv?’

  Now I turn.

  Drew is shaking his head. ‘Listen to yourself. That is if you can hear me through that scaffolding we were talking about yesterday.’

  Scaffolding? I roll my eyes.

  Drew walks up to me. Right up. So close I can feel his breath on my face. ‘It’d be really easy to believe I had a girlfriend, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t that make things simple for you? So convenient. So…risk-free.’

  I don’t look at him.

  ‘Yes. That would be perfect. Because then you could just discount me, couldn’t you? You could just cross me out of your life like I never existed and get on with it. Live your life on the surface like you were before. Not feeling…well, not feeling very much at all…’ He moves in even closer then, and is about to whisper something in my ear when there’s a tap on my shoulder.