Jumping to Conclusions

by Christina Jones

  'We won't be able to see a thing,' Maddy's mum, in a purple two-piece with a strip of matching fabric round her shiny straw hat, said as they puffed up the stairs of the leading bus. 'It's practically pitch dark.'

  'Part of the treat, Mrs B,' Charlie winked at her. 'All will be revealed.’

  Maddy hoisted Poppy on to her lap at the front, squinting downwards, watching everyone else clamber aboard. She squeezed Drew's arm. 'This is the best day of my entire life.'

  'And mine.'

  The buses with their eclectic cargo, trundled off along the High Street. All rivalries seemed to have been set aside: the League of Light were cheek by jowl with the Rocky Horrors, Kath Seaward, a mass of roses attached to the panama, was laughing loudly with John Hastings, Vincent and Maureen were chatting with Bronwyn and Bernie Pugh, Caroline and Peter bloody Knightley were exchanging business cards with Maddy's Uncle Gordon, and Matt and Tina Maloret were squashed on to the same seat. So where, Drew wondered, was Jemima?

  He laughed. Charlie had placed her next to Lucinda and was leaning over both of them from the seat behind. Ten out of ten, Somerset, he thought as they left the village, but I'll lay evens that you don't get any further.

  The blackness was interspersed with small orange glows and rocked by staccato explosions, and every so often an occasional rocket starburst its way across the sky. The buses cheered and whooped. Maddy held Poppy up to watch. November the fifth was being commemorated across the country in the time-honoured fashion. For Drew the day would never be the same again.

  'Ladies and gentlemen,' Charlie's voice crackled rather dramatically through a microphone as the buses slowed to a crawl, 'before we reach the reception, there are a few things I'd like to say.'

  Loud booing drowned him out. Charlie held up his hands. 'It's not a speech. They'll come later. I know you're all dying for a drink, so I promise to keep it brief. I just need to explain the next part of the celebrations –'

  Drew looked at Maddy. 'Any ideas?'

  'Not a clue. He's played this one very close to his chest. You ^ow Charlie – it could be anything.'

  'That's what I'm afraid of.'

  'You lot on the first bus are privileged. At least you'll have some idea of what to expect. The ones in the cheap seats –' Charlie jerked his thumb towards the following convoy, 'will be left completely in the dark. Which, actually, is fairly appropriate ...'

  Drew put his arms around Maddy. He loved the feel of her warmth beneath his fingers. She snuggled her head on to his shoulder. He kissed her again, and grinned in the semi-darkness as Charlie perched on the edge of Jemima's seat. It was interesting to notice, Drew thought, that she didn't move away from him. Maybe he should lengthen the odds ...

  'When we get to the marquee – so kindly organised by Diana and Gareth –' Charlie paused for a cheer, 'you'll probably think that we've forgotten to provide any power. Don't be alarmed by the blackout. Once inside, you'll discover why ... And then,' he indicated towards Maddy and Drew, 'everything else is our wedding present to you both. From Milton St John. Between you, you've made more friends than is decently acceptable. Everyone loves you so much it's quite sickening. Anyway – you're having a fabulous wedding day – and I have no doubt the rest of your life together will be totally blissful! No one deserves it more.'

  The bus erupted in cheers as he sat down – again, Drew noticed, extremely close to Jemima.

  'Ah,' Maddy sighed, slipping her hand inside Drew's jacket and stroking his chest. 'He'll have me in tears in a moment. Isn't this all too much to take in? Oh, God – I wish we could go to bed right now.'

  'Trollop.' Drew kissed her. 'Christ, so do I.'

  The buses rolled on to the James-Jordans' largest pasture. As Charlie had said, there was nothing but darkness. Intrigued, Drew pulled Maddy closer. 'God Almighty – what has he concocted?'

  She giggled. 'Well, at least it's not going to be This is Your Life. We haven't got any fears of our past skeletons coming rattling out of the cupboard, have we?' She jerked her head towards the back of the bus where Caroline and Peter sat side by side. 'We've brought them with us.'

  Charlie was on his feet and flirting like mad. 'If you'll all follow me – mind the steps, Mrs B – that's the idea. No, it'll be fine. Kit and Rory and Luke will make sure you get into the marquee without any problems. Would you like me to help you with the steps, Jemima? No – okay. I'm sure Gillian would ...'

  Eventually, with much laughing and the occasional shriek as someone stumbled, they were all inside. The marquee, as far as Drew could tell, was about the size of a circus big top. Charlie and the ushers were moving between the guests, handing out filled champagne flutes.

  'Everyone got a drink?' His voice echoed through the dim darkness. 'Then let's have the first toast. To Maddy and Drew! Happy wedding day!'

  Immediately the salute was echoed by hundreds of voices, then there was the sulphur scent of cordite and the marquee was ablaze with millions of bright white stars. The cries of delight spiralled. Drew shook his head in amazement. The ranks of waiting staff had simultaneously lit sparklers along the top table – it seemed like thousands of them – and they fizzed and crackled, leaving rainbow trails in the blackness.

  'Sparklers and champagne. Brilliant. Absolutely bloody brilliant.' He looked down at Maddy. Her eyes were as wide as Poppy's – her smile even wider.

  'Okay, more conventional lighting.' Charlie was in his element as the sparklers died away and the chandeliers glowed into life. 'So that you can all find your seats. No, it's okay, Bronwyn – there's a seating plan to your left.'

  The marquee's tables were dressed in the same autumnal colours as the church, and as everyone clattered nosily into their places, Charlie lifted Poppy from Maddy's arms. 'Gillian will take care of her for a moment. There's one more thing that I want you two to see first. The other part of your wedding present from the village. The entertainment.'

  The grapevine rumours about Fizz Flanagan began a resurgence. Drew hoped they weren't true. He wasn't sure his Aunt Aisling would be able to cope with the dreadlocks and the anarchy.

  Holding Maddy's hand he followed Charlie to the far end of the marquee, and ducked outside. The night was still and black. Like iced velvet.

  'We didn't know what to get you,' Charlie grinned. 'And we wanted your wedding to be remembered as one of the all-time Milton St John greats, so –' Placing his fingers in his mouth he let out a piercing whistle. 'We really hope you'll like it.' Then, kissing Maddy thoroughly and shaking Drew's hand, he darted back into the marquee.

  Nothing happened for a moment, and then lights started appearing all over the field. Dimly at first, gradually gathering brilliance, illuminating – what? Drew strained his eyes against the darkness. Was that a -? No! And -

  'Jesus!' He turned to Maddy in total delight. 'It's a bloody funfair! And – oh, Mad – look!'

  The rides and side-shows were ablaze now – and in the centre of them all was a huge and magnificent set of galloping horses, their colours accentuated by gold-leaf, a thousand light bulbs picking out the gaudy perfection.

  Slowly it started to revolve, the empty horses galloping just for them. Drew read the curlicued inscription as the massive machine turned – The Bradley-Morland Memory Lane Fair.

  Perfect. Absolutely perfect. It couldn't – simply couldn't – get any better.

  And then the organ in the middle of the gallopers split the silence and played 'The Wedding of the Painted Dolls'.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Considering that he hadn't sat on a horse or been to bed with anyone, Charlie reckoned that this had been one of the best days of his life. The reception was still firing on all cylinders, the Memory Lane Fair was going down a storm, and he was sharing the marquee with some of the most gorgeous women in the world.

  The muted organ music from the gallopers floated through the tent-flaps in sporadic bursts as the guests poured to and from the fairground, hardly denting the disco's output. The dance floor was still packed, a
nd the more elderly contingent had taken refuge in a far corner and set up an unofficial crèche for the flagging children.

  It had been a triumph. For once, something he'd planned had actually worked. Charlie was aware that he was not a great planner. It had always seemed an awful waste of energy before; the best things just seemed to happen somehow, without too much input from him. But this, from its inception, had been pure perfection. Could it work equally as well with other areas of his life? He might, he decided, give organisation a whirl. But then again – maybe not. He had always been a great believer in 'If it ain't broke, don't fix it'.

  Drew and Maddy, who had spent hours riding delightedly on the gallopers and the ghost train and the big wheel, were now Jiving in the middle of the floor. Charlie wondered exactly how much more energy it was safe for Maddy to expend. It would he a real bugger if they had to spend their wedding night in the maternity ward of the Royal Berks.

  'Hi.' Lucinda, who had been dancing pneumatically with one of Drew's stable lads, flopped down beside him. 'Are we allowed to talk publicly now? You've been avoiding me all day.'

  'I haven't. Honest.' Charlie took her hand. She was still very brown from the month in Spain. He had a feeling her tan would be all over. 'It's been a real responsibility, this best man business. I didn't realise that there were so many warring factions to placate, or rituals to observe. Anyway, us being seen together depends on what you've told your ma.' He jerked his head in the direction of the kiddies' corner where Bathsheba was holding court. 'Are we allowed to talk at all? Have we even met? I've been various school chums for so long, I've forgotten just what she knows.'

  'Don't be sarcastic. She knows nothing at all,' Lucinda said happily. 'And suspects even less. Have you missed me, then?'

  'Not at all. How's college?'

  'Ace.'

  'And how was Spain?'

  'Even acer, ta.' She hitched up her dark green taffeta frock. 'You should see my tan.'

  'I'd planned to,' Charlie sighed. 'But with Tina here, it could be difficult.'

  'Get real!' The plait, dressed for the occasion with amber ribbons, swung from side to side. 'Difficult and you don't go together. We've always managed before.'

  He must be getting old – or maybe it was just the effect of witnessing Drew and Maddy's profound commitment. Somehow this creeping about being devious and juggling women was losing its appeal. It would be so nice to know, like Drew, that he had everything he wanted in just one woman. A woman who, equally and miraculously, found everything she was looking for in him – Christ! Now he was getting really worried! Only a few weeks earlier that sort of thing would have been a complete anathema.

  He tightened his fingers round Lucinda's hand. 'Come and dance. We can talk on the dance floor – and even your ma won't object to you dancing with best man. It's part of the bridesmaids' duties.'

  The music had slowed. Vincent had apparently requested a smoochy number, and he and Maureen were executing a neat military two-step to the strains of Matt Munro.

  'Total grot,' Lucinda grumbled, nestling anyway in his arms. 'Are you going to win the Hennessey?'

  'Doubt it. Matt should. But Jenny Pitman and Martin Pipe are up for it too – among countless others. Why?'

  'I was going to gamble my student loan.'

  They weren't really dancing, just cuddling to the music. She was lovely. Young, fresh, vibrant. And completely happy with the no-strings relationship. What the hell was the matter with him? This was every man's dream.

  'Do you want to go outside?'

  'Christ, Charlie! I thought boys stopped saying that when they left the youth club!'

  'Sorry.'

  She giggled. 'Yeah, I'd love to. I just adore fairs, don't you?'

  'I wasn't asking you to – oh, hell.'

  Charlie shook his head, watching as Lucinda, her skirts bunched halfway up her tanned thighs, galloped towards the exit. Was she winding him up? And where was Tina anyway? Would she be watching his every move? Somehow he doubted it. They'd spent very little time together all week, Tina disappearing to closet herself at Lancing Grange with Kath and Dragon Slayer, only returning at night to test the Wallbank-Fox to its limits. And today Tina seemed quite happy being with Matt and Jemima.

  'No sweat, sweetie,' she'd purred in his ear during the wedding photographs. 'You're public property today. I'll slap an exclusion zone round you tonight.'

  Matt, disliking her as he did, must be finding her company a bit of a drag, Charlie reckoned. Especially when he could be giving all his attention to Jemima. What Jemima felt about the set-up was anyone's guess. She was so bloody enigmatic that she made Greta Garbo look like Lily Savage.

  He grinned to himself. Anathema and enigmatic – all in the same hour! It must be an early male menopause. He'd have to ask Diana James-Jordan for her advice on HRT.

  Outside, the night was misty, the hanging smoke from a thousand Berkshire bonfires lying low across the Downs. The scent of spent fireworks kindled childhood memories. It wasn't even cold. The marquee was fully equipped with heaters, but even this late at night, they hadn't been needed. Milton St John in full swing could probably outdo the national grid.

  Charlie really wanted a cigarette. It had been months now, but the craving was still there. He didn't even have any tack to hand to allay the urge. He exhaled. He'd been really good today – eating everything without sauces, passing on the gooey puddings, and sticking to only the occasional glass of wine. Three weeks to the Hennessey – and despite his casual disclaimer to Lucinda, he was going to win it if he could.

  The Memory Lane Fair blazed and blared across the field. The lights were luminescent, and all the rides were full, with crowds still waiting their turn. The organ was playing something stirring – a march of some sort – and Gareth James-Jordan and Barty Small were conducting with wildly exaggerated arm movements. He couldn't see Lucinda.

  He could, however, hear vaguely orgasmic groaning.

  Sod it. Someone was getting very passionate merely feet away. Probably in the shadows of the marquee's miles of canvas. Not wanting to hang around – he'd never found voyeurism in the least enticing – he started to move quietly, hardly daring to breathe in case he interrupted the proceedings. Stupid really. There were dozens of people around. And judging by the growing ecstatic cries, the entire band of the Household Cavalry wouldn't disturb them. Lucky bastards. Feeling very turned-on, he looked again for Lucinda.

  The breathing was quicker; the groans even more exultant. Then one quiet but joyous panting cry. One word. One name. Matt.

  Charlie stopped dead. He felt sick. No matter that he had seduced half the village in the open air, he'd thought Jemima was above that sort of thing. It didn't go at all with the image he'd built of her. Stupid bastard that he was. And she'd been with Matt for ages – no doubt they did this sort of thing all the time – He'd never thought about it. Never wanted to.

  He turned his back on the fair and ducked into the marquee. He wanted a drink. Quickly. Barging through the dancers, he headed for the bar. Of course, it could have been some other Matt, couldn't it? There must have been dozens of Matthews on the guest-list. This ray of hope didn't last long. Having drawn up the seating plan, he knew there hadn't been.

  Gillian, carrying two glasses of wine, and looking gloriously ethereal, nearly cannoned into him. They both said sorry at the same time. She smiled vaguely. 'You've organised this so well. It's been lovely, hasn't it? I love weddings.'

  'Yeah, so do I.' For a moment he was almost compelled to tell Gillian. Only for a moment. Gillian was the biggest gossip in the world – and anyway, what was he going to say? Matt and Jemima are bonking each other stupid outside? And what can I do about it because I'm suddenly insanely jealous? Just the sort of opening gambit you should use with a vicar's wife. And Gillian would probably say, So what? Or, How lovely.

  He tried smiling at her instead. 'I've been neglecting my duties. Drew says the best man must dance with every beautiful woman at the reception. Can I bo
ok you now?'

  'Yes, please. Actually, I always think it's a shame that we can't have those little programmes the women had at balls years ago, where the men actually bagged a dance at the beginning of the evening and wrote their name down against it. So civilised, don't you think?'

  'Yeah. Brilliant idea.' Christ – beautiful she may be, but definitely a psalm short of a psalter. 'Gillian, could you do me an immense favour? Could I have a cigarette?'

  The manoeuvre was slightly tricky owing to the wineglasses, but eventually they managed it, and Gillian waggled the drinks at him as she drifted away. Charlie inhaled deeply, immediately giddy from the unaccustomed nicotine rush. God, what on earth was wrong with him? Maybe he'd feel better when he'd had a drink.

  Having managed to get served with a double whisky, he looked found for a quiet corner. Some hope. His original seat had been taken by Caroline who seemed to be holding some sort of sales conference with Maddy's mum and dad. And now that Matt Munro had been ousted by Fat Les, everyone over the age of twenty had left the dance floor.

  'If I was a gambler – which of course I'm not – I'd bet you a tenner it'll be the Birdy Song next.'

  He blinked. The cigarette had made him feel sick. The slug of whisky hadn't helped. Jemima, standing beside him laughing, shocked him rigid. He looked over her shoulder, almost expecting to see Matt rearranging his clothing. Hell – but she was cool. She looked totally unruffled. It hadn't taken her very long to shrug off the afterglow, had it?

  'Er – yes. Probably. That or Agadoo. Um – Matt – er – not with you?'

  'I haven't seen him for ages. I got buttonholed by one of Drew's Irish aunties. We've been raving about Maeve Binchy for hours.'

  'Hours?'

  'Well, the last half hour at least. And before that I was with Dad and Maureen, who,' she laughed again, 'were pretending not to be holding hands. Matt probably got tired of waiting for me. Why? Are you looking for him? Shall I tell him you want to talk to him?'