The Best Man

by Dianne Blacklock

  ‘Aiden, would you prefer to switch to wine with dinner?’ she asked on her way to the fridge.

  ‘Why not!’ he declared.

  ‘Henry?’ Madeleine prompted, holding up the bottle.

  He glanced at it, and then back at her. ‘Okay, but just a little.’

  She wondered if that was some kind of veiled hint for her benefit. Henry turned his attention to serving the meal, and Madeleine slipped another bottle from the rack above into the fridge; the one Aiden had already opened wouldn’t last long between the three of them and she had to make sure there was enough chilled wine for their guest. She busied herself fetching glasses and pouring the wine while Henry plated up dinner. It smelt divine: butterflied leg of lamb that had been marinated in one of Henry’s special concoctions, no doubt, and roasted with kipfler potatoes and caramelised vegetables. Madeleine was suddenly aware of her stomach grumbling.

  ‘Man, where did you learn to cook like this?’ Aiden exclaimed, as he tucked into the meal. ‘Have you been giving him lessons, Madeleine?’

  ‘I can’t take any credit,’ she said. ‘It’s all him, and basically the main reason I’m marrying him.’

  Henry smiled at that. ‘I got into cooking during those long stretches up at my house in the Hamptons. In New York I often ate out, but up there I preferred to stay in. So it gave me the chance to experiment – cooking for myself it didn’t matter if something didn’t turn out.’

  ‘So, returning to Henry’s mysterious past,’ Madeleine said, pushing her plate aside when she’d had her fill. ‘You were roommates in college . . . ?’

  Aiden nodded. ‘From day one, freshman year.’

  ‘I was quietly unpacking in my dorm room,’ Henry took up the story, ‘minding my own business, when Aiden barged in, threw his bags down in the middle of the floor and started ordering me around.’

  ‘All I said was that we needed to go out and get our bearings.’

  ‘In other words, find out where the girls were,’ said Henry.

  ‘Well, yeah,’ Aiden said, like that was obvious.

  ‘I died a little on the inside at that moment,’ Henry went on. ‘I realised I was going to have to put up with this loudmouth for at least a whole year – administration didn’t take kindly to dorm changes.’

  Aiden was grinning. ‘It was love at first sight.’

  ‘For you, maybe,’ said Henry, but Madeleine could see the glint in his eye. ‘I just learnt to tolerate you.’

  She had never witnessed this side of Henry’s sense of humour before, the kind of good-natured ribbing that men in particular engaged in. But of course she’d never seen him with a close male friend before.

  ‘Funny,’ said Aiden, ‘the whole time we were at college you never did apply for that dorm change.’

  Henry shrugged. ‘I figured better the devil you know.’

  ‘Admit it, you wouldn’t have survived without me.’ Aiden turned to Madeleine. ‘You see, I made it my mission to pick up girls for Henry. He really couldn’t be left to do it for himself.’

  Henry cleared his throat.

  ‘You going to argue with that, Darrow?’

  He opened his mouth as though to protest, but then all he said was, ‘No.’

  ‘In fact, I’m surprised he managed to snare you all by himself, Madeleine.’

  ‘Let’s just say I played easy to get.’

  ‘Some guys have all the luck.’ Aiden shook his head. ‘Well, I don’t know what he was like when you met him, but back then Henry always had his head in a sketchpad. Friday afternoons after class I’d find him hunched over it and I’d literally have to drag him away to have some fun.’

  ‘I was having fun,’ said Henry.

  ‘Sad but true,’ said Aiden. ‘He was obsessed, and he was brilliant – we all know that now, but I like to think I was the first one to recognise it. I kept telling him he was too talented not to do something with it, but he maintained it was just a hobby. At the same time, he was taking all these random classes with no major because he had no idea what he really wanted to do with his life. So I stole one of his sketchpads and took it to show my uncle next time I went home.’

  ‘Your uncle?’ Madeleine asked. ‘Why?’

  ‘He was a literary agent,’ Aiden explained. ‘I thought he might be able to point me in the right direction, give me some leads. Anyway, he said the drawings were impressive, and more importantly, they were unique. He hadn’t seen anything quite like them. He said if Henry could come up with stories to go with the pictures he might be able to do something with them himself, which would be way more marketable than trying to sell his pictures as straight art. So when I got back to college I eventually talked Henry into it, and we started writing the words.’

  Madeleine glanced from Aiden to Henry and back again. ‘You two? Together? You and Henry wrote his books together?’

  ‘Only the first two or three,’ said Aiden.

  ‘And only the first drafts,’ Henry added. ‘I didn’t really learn how to write until I had an editor.’

  Madeleine had always known that Henry’s books began with the pictures, but she didn’t realise that was how he got started in the first place. Or that Aiden had been so closely involved. ‘I hope you got a share of the royalties,’ she said.

  Aiden sighed and shook his head. ‘You know, not a red cent.’

  ‘Aid,’ Henry protested.

  ‘Henry did offer –’

  ‘Tried to insist,’ Henry interrupted.

  ‘He did,’ Aiden grinned. ‘But I didn’t do that much, seriously. I was more of a motivating force, an inspiration. His muse, you might even say.’

  Henry snorted. ‘If by “muse” you mean you sat in the corner making paper airplanes and flying them at me while you whined about being late for some party or other.’

  ‘But it did make you work faster, if only to get me off your back.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘It’s really Uncle Gene who deserves the credit.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Henry.

  Aiden raised his glass, and Henry followed. ‘To Uncle Gene.’

  Madeleine suddenly put it all together. ‘Oh God, you’re talking about Gene Wallace, your agent?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Henry. ‘He was more than an agent, he was my mentor. He helped me develop my work to the point where it could be submitted to publishers.’

  ‘And before they knew it, they had a bidding war on their hands,’ said Aiden.

  ‘That’s amazing,’ said Madeleine. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Didn’t he tell you any of this?’ Aiden frowned.

  ‘Most of it. I didn’t know Gene Wallace was your uncle, or how much you were involved.’

  ‘Trying to keep all the glory for yourself, Darrow?’

  ‘Well, maybe you can motivate Henry to write his vows, Aiden. He seems to be having so much trouble with them.’

  Henry stood abruptly and started to clear the table. ‘I can write them myself.’

  ‘And yet you haven’t.’ She could hear the nasty tone in her own voice but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

  ‘What’s this, Darrow, you haven’t written your vows?’ said Aiden. ‘Is this one of my best man duties, to see you get it done?’

  ‘There’s plenty of time,’ Henry said dismissively.

  He went to take the bottle of wine, and Madeleine said, ‘Leave that, thanks.’

  Was that a glare? He picked up their plates and walked around to the kitchen. While his back was turned, Madeleine quickly refilled her glass, draining the bottle.

  ‘That’s Henry’s excuse whenever I bring it up, Aiden,’ she went on. ‘“There’s plenty of time”, and I predict he’ll still be saying it the night before the wedding. And then he’ll get his own way.’

  Henry didn’t respond, pretending to be preoccupied stacking the dishwasher. But Madeleine couldn’t stop herself now. They rarely had an audience – perhaps that was why Henry had brought up the apartment as well. There was so
meone to bear witness.

  ‘You see,’ she continued, ‘Henry thinks writing your own vows is naff.’

  He looked across at her then. ‘I never said that.’

  ‘But it’s what you think.’

  Henry sighed. ‘I just don’t see what’s wrong with using the traditional vows. They’ve served their purpose for hundreds of years –’

  ‘Oh Henry.’ Aiden gave him the look a parent would give a misbehaving child. ‘How could you be struggling to come up with words to describe this woman?’

  ‘I’m not struggling,’ Henry said tightly. ‘I just don’t think it’s anyone else’s business how I feel about Madeleine.’

  Aiden raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re talking about the people at your wedding? The friends and family gathered there to witness you committing yourselves to each other? You don’t think they have some idea how you feel?’

  ‘So why do they need me to spell it out?’

  ‘They don’t, Madeleine does.’

  She nodded. ‘See, Aiden gets it.’

  Henry held up his hands in surrender. ‘I will write the vows,’ he said. ‘But right now, I think it’s time to call it a night.’ He looked pointedly at Madeleine. ‘You’ve got an early start tomorrow.’

  ‘We can’t leave our guest sitting up on his own,’ she protested.

  ‘Now hold on right there,’ said Aiden. ‘This isn’t going to work if you guys treat me like a guest. So thank you, Madeleine, but you don’t have to sit up with me.’

  ‘But I want to,’ she said. ‘And I’m not even tired.’

  ‘You’ll pay for it tomorrow,’ Henry warned, coming back around to the table.

  ‘Tomorrow is another day,’ she reminded him. ‘And I’m not over this one yet.’

  ‘Whatever you think.’ He leant over to kiss her on the top of her head, but Madeleine threw her head back, presenting her lips instead. He gave her a quick peck and straightened again, walking backwards away from them. ‘Goodnight then.’

  ‘See you in the morning, buddy,’ Aiden called after him.

  Once Henry had disappeared up the hall, Madeleine leapt up out of her chair and headed straight for the fridge. ‘Now the old man has gone to bed, we can really get this party going.’ She grabbed the other bottle of wine and twirled around to face Aiden again, a glint in her eye as she nudged the fridge door shut behind her and waved the bottle in the air, dancing a kind of cha-cha back to the table.

  Aiden was smiling, watching her. ‘You know, you’re not at all what I expected,’ he said as she filled his glass.

  ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘Well, you’re about ten times more gorgeous.’

  He was such a smooth talker. ‘Well, thank you, but why wouldn’t you expect that? Henry’s pretty gorgeous too.’

  ‘He’s not bad, but he’s punching way above his weight with you.’

  ‘Okay, enough with the flattery, Carmichael,’ said Madeleine. ‘Seriously, how am I not what you expected?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . I suppose I expected someone quieter, for starters.’

  She pressed her lips together. Damn, she tended to get a little loud when she drank. ‘Sorry, I know I can be obnoxiously loud.’

  ‘You’re not obnoxious or loud. Far from it,’ said Aiden. ‘You’re bubbly and . . . effervescent.’

  ‘Don’t they mean the same thing?’

  ‘You really are a pedant.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Madeleine smiled, topping up her own glass again. ‘Do go on.’

  ‘Well, you know Henry better than me. I haven’t seen him in years, though he doesn’t seem to have changed much. I always thought he’d end up with somebody a little more . . . his speed, I suppose. More conservative.’

  ‘Henry’s not conservative!’ she exclaimed as she plonked back down on her chair.

  ‘I don’t mean politically,’ said Aiden. ‘I mean . . . Never mind, what do I know?’

  ‘Look, I understand what you’re saying, and yeah, we get that a lot, that we’re so different,’ said Madeleine. ‘But look at you and Henry, you’re just as different, and you’re old friends. Opposites attract.’

  ‘So what attracted you to Henry?’

  ‘His eyes,’ she said without hesitation. Then she smiled. ‘Seriously, he was just so centred, so self-contained. I mean that in a good way.’

  Aiden looked dubious. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘No, really, there was something about him, I was drawn to him. He came along at the right time for me. I was going off the rails a little, and I needed someone like him, someone solid and stable. He saved me.’

  ‘I’m losing track of the chronology here,’ Aiden said, frowning. ‘You guys have been together, what, two, three years?’

  Madeleine nodded. ‘We first met at the Sydney Writers’ Festival, two and a half years ago.’

  ‘So how old were you then?’

  ‘Two and a half years younger than I am now,’ she demurred, smiling. ‘Don’t you know you’re not supposed to ask a lady her age?’

  He grinned. ‘I’m just saying, I assume you were out of your teens at least. Isn’t that a little old to be going off the rails?’

  ‘Well, I lost a few years after university,’ she explained, ‘so I guess I was making up for it.’

  ‘What do you mean, lost?’

  ‘My dad was very sick, for a long time.’

  ‘How is he now?’

  Madeleine hesitated. It never got any easier. ‘Um, he died.’

  ‘I’m so sorry . . . You mentioned him before, I didn’t realise.’ The look on Aiden’s face was quite disconcerting. He seemed genuinely affected, and Madeleine felt a lump rise in her throat. ‘What happened? Sorry,’ he added quickly, ‘that’s if you’re okay talking about it.’

  She should have been okay, after all this time, but Madeleine still found it difficult. Maybe that was the problem, she needed to talk about it more. Normalise it. It was the reality of her life now – her father had died, and he wouldn’t be giving her away at her wedding. It was one of the times when a father figured large in a girl’s life. No matter how antiquated the tradition, no matter how feminist the daughter – even if she had been living independently for some time, most likely with the groom in question – most brides still had their fathers give them away. Give them away. It was quite astonishing when you thought about it. But Madeleine still wished her dad was here to do just that.

  Aiden was watching her, his blue eyes intent.

  ‘It was leukaemia,’ she said finally. ‘A particularly nasty strain. He didn’t respond to treatment, so the only hope he had was a bone marrow transplant.’ She paused. ‘But we never found a match.’

  Both Madeleine and Genevieve had been tested, but the chances were slim with offspring, as they only shared half his genes. Although it was no surprise, they were nonetheless shattered when neither of them was a match. Their mother insisted on being tested too, on the narrowest of off-chances. She didn’t share any DNA with her husband, of course, but she argued she had the same odds as anyone on the public register. She would have gladly given her life to save him, but it didn’t matter, she wasn’t a match either. Their best hope was his only sister, who had married a Canadian and moved there more than twenty years ago. She had the preliminary tests in Canada, and the whole family waited with bated breath for the results, in vain, as it turned out.

  It just seemed particularly unjust that this should happen to someone like her dad, a good, kind, decent man, a loving husband and devoted father, a wonderful teacher. But he took the news with the kind of equanimity with which he’d lived his life. When everyone else was ranting, ‘Why you?’ he would say, ‘Why not me?’ So with all other avenues exhausted, he was placed on the donor list, but his age, and the progress of the disease, meant that the likelihood of finding a donor while he was strong enough to endure the transplant was minimal at best.

  The hardest thing Madeleine had ever done was watch her beloved dad slowly deteriorate. The disease didn’t just rob
them of a husband and a father, it robbed them of their entire happy family life. It was like living in a prisoner-of-war camp, with the cloud of imminent death hanging over them the whole time. And no matter how he tried, he could no longer be the dad he’d always been, the rock, the one they all depended on. So they were robbed of that as well.

  ‘He was the centre of our family, of our lives,’ said Madeleine. ‘You know, he was just one of those people.’

  Aiden had been listening intently. ‘How old were you . . . when he . . .’

  ‘I was twenty-five, still living at home, because I was there when it all started, when he was first diagnosed, so I couldn’t leave. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to have as much time with him as he had left. Then afterwards my mum didn’t do so well, so I stayed for her. By the time I got out into the real world and started a career, I guess I had a lot of catching up to do.’

  ‘And that’s when you went “off the rails”?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Well, it’s not surprising,’ said Aiden, ‘after what you’d been through. But I’m sure you couldn’t have done anything too terrible.’

  Terrible enough. Madeleine couldn’t bring herself to talk about it out loud, to anyone. Twice she slept with authors while on tour; one of them was married, and that was so incredibly unprofessional, not to mention of such dubious morality that she hadn’t even been able to confide in Liv. Of course she was drunk at the time, but that was no excuse, it just made her actions even more unprofessional. It remained a dark, dirty secret, until she’d eventually confessed to Henry, who encouraged her to stop beating herself up about it, to put it behind her and move on.

  ‘By the time I met Henry, I felt like I was coming apart at the edges,’ said Madeleine. ‘He was this rock I could anchor myself to.’

  ‘What do you mean, coming apart?’ said Aiden. ‘That sounds serious.’

  She shrugged. ‘I was just working hard, partying hard.’ She didn’t want to go into details.

  Aiden frowned. ‘Does that mean the same thing here as it does in the States?’