by Wendy Harmer
At the same time he had ruched up Claire’s skirt and slipped his warm hands inside her matching lace knickers to cup her bottom. His knee was pushed hard in between Claire’s legs, pinning her to the door.
So there she hung like a rag doll, her slingbacks dangling from her toes, as he slowly and deliberately began to consume her—inch by inch. Claire moaned and let him get on with it. That was one thing experience had taught her. Don’t think, just give up. The most she could manage was to undo his bow tie and shirt buttons and run her shaking hands over his damp chest.
She could feel that familiar tingle begin to work its way up from the soles of her feet. Her head fell back and his mouth moved to her neck. Her neck, her most sensitive place. He bit her hard. It was just the right amount of hard. Hard enough to make her want to run away. Soft enough to make her want to stay to see if he did it again. She could feel her defences being overrun.
Slam!
Shit! There was someone in the toilets.
Claire held her breath. Connor’s body tensed and he was quiet. For the next minute they stayed like that, the only movement his hot tongue insinuating itself inside her bra and tracing small wet circles on her breasts. It was the circuit-breaker Claire needed to gather her scattered senses. What the hell am I doing here? I’m about to have sex . . . with a stranger . . . in a toilet cubicle . . . at a wedding!
The door slammed again and Connor resumed his feast, more urgently this time.
‘Connor, I can’t do this. Not here, not now,’ Claire gasped, pushing him away.
Her heels clack-clacked onto the floor.
‘Why not? You’re so sexy. I want you. Let me have you,’ he muttered thickly as he grabbed handfuls of her silky hair.
‘I can’t,’ she said again.
‘Please. Why not?’ he whined.
‘Because. I’ve got to get back,’ she sniffed. ‘I’m the Mother of the Bride.’
‘You know, you don’t look old enough to be the Mother of the Bride.’
Claire turned to focus on the young thing standing next to her at the mirror in the ladies’. Her dark brown hair was alternately striped with garish shades of gold and orange. She looked as if she was struggling out of a Hawthorn football jumper. Claire recognised the young woman as one of Dermott’s mates’ girlfriends.
‘Well, I’m not, strictly speaking. I’m the stepmother of the bride,’ said Claire.
‘So how does it feel to be the Wicked Stepmother?’ asked the girl as she resumed resurfacing her lips with a thick layer of what looked like seafood sauce.
‘Pretty good actually. I’d rather be the Evil Stepmother than the Good Fairy,’ Claire replied, thinking that she couldn’t ever recall hearing a tale about the coke-sniffing slut fairy.
The girl was now stabbing at her eyeball with a black pencil as she continued: ‘Why do you think there’s always an evil queen or a witch or something at a fairytale wedding?’
Phew! The hidden mythological meaning of fairytales. Big topic. Still, now the coke had kicked in, Claire was up for a chat.
‘Well, it’s all about sexual jealousy, I suppose. The evil queen has to let go of the idea of herself as a sexual being. She has to give up her sexuality. Make way so the young virgin can become a wife and mother.
‘There’s nothing a fairytale hates more than some old crone still having sex. Now matter how sexy she feels. That’s just evil—and you’ll end up in a dungeon making poisoned toffee apples for the school fete. You have to take your pick—you can either be a saintly godmother or a haggard old witch. That’s the only choice you’ve got.’
‘Jeez, that’s heavy. So you’re choosing . . .?’
‘Oh,’ exclaimed Claire, leaning closer to the mirror, ‘I think that looks like a wart growing on my nose.’
The girl laughed and turned to leave. ‘See you on the dance floor, oh Evil Queen of Darkness. Although in that gorgeous colour I think you look more like the Good Fairy.’
And she was gone.
Claire smiled and sniffed the coke tickling the back of her nose. She checked herself again in the mirror. She waved her mascara wand, reapplied powder and lipstick, and was ready to get back to the reception. There was just one thing; well, two things actually. Her bra and knickers were still damp, and she smelled of sex.
Over the years she had come to like her smell. It was comforting and reminded her she was still womanly. Would Charlie notice? It wasn’t likely in all the commotion. She reached for her bottle of Calypso Vanille and then decided against it. She would leave her scent as it was. To remind her.
As she caught a last glimpse of herself over her shoulder, she wondered if that was one of the reasons evil queens weren’t welcome at fairytale weddings. They smelled of sex. What if all the young men in the room caught the scent and ran off, leaving the virgins to count the glassware?
‘Darling, you’re back! Where have you been?’ Charlie shouted over the deafening noise of ‘Zorba’ in full swing. He clutched at Claire like a drowning man grabbing at a life ring.
‘We’ve got to get you up on stage. We’ve got to stop this fucking awful music!’ he panted.
Claire laughed at the sight of him. He looked utterly shagged. Big wet patches showed through his white dress shirt, his bow tie was missing and his hair was plastered down over his forehead. This was certainly no Mr Darcy wading out of a baronial duck pond with his chambray shirt clinging seductively to his manly chest. Charlie looked like he’d just crawled over the finish line of a bog-snorkelling competition.
‘Oh, I don’t know, sweetheart . . . everyone looks like they’re having such a fantastic time. If I get up it will just stop everything dead,’ Claire shouted back.
‘No, no, no. If we don’t get a breather everyone will die! Please, get up there and show that blonde tart on the microphone how it’s done. Anyway, everyone wants the bride to say a few words, so I’ll introduce her and then you—OK?’
Charlie took both her hands in his clammy paws and bent down to her. ‘You look so radiant tonight, Mother of the Bride. I love you,’ he yelled. His hot breath blasting her left ear.
‘And I love you too, Father of the Bride,’ she yelled in his right.
She did love him very much. She thought of her earlier encounter with a jolt of—what was it? Shame or a charge of unearthed erotic electricity?
Claire dragged her thoughts back to the present and watched Charlie plough through the tumult on the dance floor. Her more immediate concern was whether she was straight enough to sing. The coke was still giving her a hit. She could tell because all the colours in the room were intensely bright. The dancers swirling by reminded her of a necklace of sparkling precious stones.
She reached for another champagne as a tray floated past and tried to settle herself. All her nerve endings were jangling like a charm bracelet. She reminded herself that tonight she really had to be the Good Queen and Fairy Godmother to a beautiful young bride.
Across the room she could see Rose surrounded by her devoted handmaidens, who were busy reattaching all the accoutrements sucked off her by the centrifugal force of the Zorba dance. Rose looked stricken with nervousness. I wonder what the collective noun is for bridesmaids? mused Claire. A flurry . . . no, a flutter of bridesmaids. That’s what they looked like hovering around sweet Rose, a swarm of amethyst butterflies.
The music stopped and Claire snapped to attention. Christ, what was she going to sing? No, why was she going to sing? This was not a good idea. But then Charlie banged the microphone into life and it was all too late.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends, freeloaders one and all . . .’ Charlie paused for the laughter, which dutifully swept the room.
‘Now we heard earlier from the groom and the best man and we thank them for that, but now the time has come to hear from the women. You don’t usually hear much from the women at weddings but, as we all know, the Wallace women are not ones to suffer in silence.’
There were a few whoo-hoos from the fans
of the Wallace gals. Charlie drew some notes from his pocket and even from the back of the room Claire could see his hands were trembling.
‘There are four significant females in my life here tonight. And they represent the four ages of women which I, as a father, husband and son, honour and treasure dearly.’
There was no giggling now. Everyone sensed that this was a big moment for Charlie and the room fell to attentive silence.
‘Firstly, there is my dear mother Catherine, who takes the place at the head of our table as the revered matriarch of our family.’
The heads in the room all turned to look at a place that Claire could not quite see, but she guessed that Charlie’s mother was still sitting at the vantage spot she had chosen next to the dance floor.
‘Catherine is the wise woman whom we treasure and adore for the wealth of experience she brings. I admire her for the care, intelligence and kindness she has shown in everything she does, and for the steadying hand she has used to guide me and my sisters throughout our lives.’
There was a thunderous round of applause and a cheer for Grandma Wallace. Claire stood on tiptoes, and could see Catherine’s wrinkled hands frantically waving away the attention as if she was swatting a swarm of bees.
‘Next is my darling child Madeline, sitting by her grandmother’s knee.’
‘Oh Maddy,’ mouthed Claire. ‘My darling girl.’ She had looked so divine tonight in her puff of creamy tulle. When they placed the garland of pink peonies on her snowy curls she had looked almost edible. Just like an iced petit four from a French patisserie.
‘Madeline is six years old and represents all we love about the innocence of girlhood. She is our dearest dancing princess. We are loving watching this perfect bud unfolding into a lovely flower. We adore you, Mads.’
Claire was crying now, scrabbling in her evening bag for a tissue.
‘And then there is my wife Claire. Was there ever a woman so fair and full of life as my Claire? She is my helpmate. My rock. Tonight she takes a fateful step as she moves from being Mother to Mother of the Bride. I know she will fulfil this new role with all the grace and elegance she has shown in every endeavour she has undertaken in her life. She cannot fail. She is a remarkable woman and I owe her my happiness.’
‘And, finally, there is my dearest daughter Rose, who tonight has also completed another part of life’s sacred journey and gone from being a maiden to a wife. I can’t describe the emotions I feel as I prepare to let her go and step onto her separate path with Dermott, her new husband.
‘You have been such a source of joy to me, Rose. Through being a father to you I have become . . . THE KING OF THE WORLD!’ Charlie threw his arms wide in exultation. The crowd went wild—had they been able to storm the stage and carry him aloft around the room they would have. He shooshed the cheers and went on.
‘I love you, Pinky. I will . . . miss you . . . so . . .’ And here Charlie broke down in tears and was instead carted off the stage by the drummer.
Claire excused her way to the front of the room and sought out Charlie. He lurched towards her and fell into her arms sobbing.
‘Oh darling,’ she cooed. ‘That was the most wonderful speech in the world. I’m so proud of you. Thank you.’
Charlie took her face in his hands and kissed her fiercely. They stood and hugged each other, and then turned to watch Rose stumble towards the front of the stage with her dress gathered into a frothy organza bundle.
‘Wow . . . gee, Dad, you make it pretty hard. I really think you should try to connect with your emotions a bit more.’
There was an outpouring of relieved laughter. Folk dabbed their eyes and looked up at Rose, willing her on.
‘Firstly, I want to say you have been the best father a girl could ever have. I’m so lucky to be your daughter. And, Claire, thank you for coming into our family after we lost Mum. You have become really special to me. Thank you, Nanna, for all your advice. And, yes, I do have clean underpants on tonight. And dear little Maddy . . . I will miss you, bubster. But I promise to come back home and play Barbies whenever I can.’
There were more sighs and laughter and shouts of ‘Hear! Hear!’. A tidal wave of happiness.
‘I can feel Mum watching over me tonight,’ Rose said, looking to the heavens. ‘I wish you were here, Mum. What do you think of Dermott?’
Rose held two thumbs up as the tears welled in her eyes.
‘She says I’ve made a good choice. I know we will be a good team. Dermott is my best friend in the world. I know he will make me happy.’
And, Claire thought sadly as the emotion erupted, I know he won’t. Dermott was sweet, kind, loyal and dependable but he was a plodder. Ultimately he would never match Rose. He reminded her of her first husband Ben.
‘Your problem is that you think too much, Claire,’ Ben had said. ‘When are you going to accept that this is our life? It’s good, we’re happy. When are you going to settle down? When are you going to be a proper wife?’
Never, she had said. The next day she left on a plane for London and didn’t come back for two years.
She wondered how long it would take Rose to realise all the things she was capable of and find a man who truly challenged her. It had taken Claire twenty years.
Charlie was back at the microphone and boomed in his familiar professional bass: ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, mums and dads, boys and girls. Here she is to put more power in your tower, more wattage in your cottage—’
There was a collective groan, followed by a hearty laugh at this.
‘The star of stage and screen. Our own singing sensation. The nation’s sweetheart—’
‘Aaargh, stop, Charlie, stop . . .’ Claire was already bolting for the stage with her hands over her ears.
‘Give it up one and all for—Claire Sellwyn-Wallace!’
Claire tottered up the stairs as Charlie stood back and applauded. She hadn’t fallen over the top step, which was a good sign. She felt relief as her body was taken over by her welcome alter ego. All the emotional confusion of the evening, the alcohol and drugs, were swept away and she was inhabited by the persona which had found her when she was just twenty-five years old. She stepped into the spotlight and was utterly sure of herself. Sultry, sexy, playful, in-command Claire. The Claire who sang like a fallen angel.
She walked to the piano and whispered in Ellery’s ear. He nodded and the familiar chords chimed through the ballroom. She was steady and calm as she moved towards the microphone.
‘Embrace me, my sweet embraceable you . . .’
From her place above the dance floor Claire watched as the wedding guests melted back into the shadows. They were glad of a chance to recover from the emotion of the speeches. Couples reconnected and headed to the bar or took their seats under cover of darkness. Claire felt as if she was floating somewhere up there near the sparkling chandelier. Soon the parquet floor below was empty. Empty . . . except for one lone figure.
It couldn’t be. Shading her eyes from the glare of the spotlight with what she hoped looked like an elegant, bangled gesture, Claire saw that it was indeed—Connor.
He stood completely still. He was looking straight at her.
‘Embrace me . . . my sweet . . .’
Shit! She’d sung that line already. Where was she? She looked wildly around at Ellery, who had faltered. Should he start over, fake it and keep going—what?
‘Oh’, said Claire as the tinkling died away. ‘I think I . . . I think I’m . . . I don’t think I feel very well . . .’
And the last sound the two hundred guests at the O’Hanrahan–Wallace wedding heard from Claire that night was the rapid clickety-clack of a pair of lilac slingbacks sprinting across a parquet floor.
There was a brief silence as the guests looked at each other. Well, they all thought as one, at least the champagne hasn’t run out.
The digital clock by the bed read 2:00 am when Charlie returned from the bathroom with another icy face washer for Claire’s forehead. She was
still whimpering.
‘You’ve got to stop this. Look at the time.’ Charlie was crabby and already hungover.
‘It’s just something you said in your speech,’ Claire sobbed.
‘What? You said you loved my speech.’
‘You said I’m not the mother anymore, you said I’m the Mother of the Bride. You know what that spells? MOTH. I’m not a butterfly anymore. I’m just a plain old brown moth,’ and with this she howled again.
‘It doesn’t spell “MOTH”. It spells “MOTB”, you fucking nutcase,’ Charlie shouted. ‘You are a motb. And a pathetic pissed motb at that. You think too much, Claire. For once, this is not about you, OK? For fuck’s sake go to sleep.’
And with that, Charlie switched the room to black.
Sunday Morning
The Post-Mortem
‘You did what?’ Meg spluttered. ‘You did not. Did you? You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t. Oh my God. You did, didn’t you?’ Meg’s coffee cup clattered in its saucer.
Of course Claire hadn’t meant to tell Meg, but all it took was one quizzical arched eyebrow and there was no place left to hide.
‘So when did all this happen? No, why did all this happen? No, no . . . how did it happen? Look, just go back to the beginning—and don’t leave anything out!’ Meg’s topknot of curly black hair was bobbing around like some sort of crazy exclamation mark.
‘Well, it just sort of—’ Claire began.
‘No, stop. I need another coffee.’ The metal legs of Meg’s chair scraped on the terrazzo floor making a horrible noise which went right through Claire’s head. People turned and Claire figured she wasn’t the only one in the café who felt like crap.
Her small hand mirror confirmed that she looked like it too. Her face was puffed up. A hot doughy scone with two small raisins for eyes. She had a headache and her sinuses throbbed. Thinking back, she realised that from 7 am until midnight yesterday her entire food intake had consisted of one prawn. It had been marinated, grilled and perched on a bed of shredded lettuce atop a fried crouton, so she supposed that sort of counted as a three-course meal.
