by Jane Linfoot
‘Fairies don’t wear many clothes.’ More’s the pity. ‘Not the ones dressed by Cate’s suppliers, anyway.’
‘It can get a bit rough out on the streets late at night, are you sure you’ll be okay? Out drinking in wings and not much else?’
‘Safety in numbers, there are thirty four of us, we should be fine.’ It’s never occurred to me that we wouldn’t be. ‘Cate and Immie plan on getting off their faces, but I need to stay sober, because I’ve got a five tier wedding cake to put together tomorrow. But you know Immie, she won’t take any shit.’
‘Well, if you need rescuing, you can always ring me.’ He’s being over protective again.
I’d better humour him. ‘We won’t, but thanks, I appreciate the offer’
Rafe laughs. ‘So how about coming to The Harbourside for a quick drink on the terrace then?’
‘Or I could get you a drink here, then we can run through the figures on my laptop?’ Not that I’d planned to entertain Rafe at my kitchen table, but it might save time. I open the fridge. ‘Light beer? White wine spritzer? Elderflower fizz?’ Out loud the options sound very girly.
‘I didn’t plan to burst in on you. So long as you don’t mind?’ He gives me a searching stare, before he decides. ‘Thanks, in that case I’ll go with the beer.’
But the soft smile he sends me as he puts the bottle to his lips is the last thing I need.
56
In my flat at Brides by the Sea: Sex with the boss
That’s the problem with having sex with the boss. Afterwards it’s impossible to look at them in the same way ever again.
‘So, shall I run you through some numbers?’ I say, as I re-open my laptop, desperate to pull off the meeting without crashing elbows – or anything worse – with Rafe. It might have been easier if we’d sat either side of the table, instead of being rammed together on our stools. The surprise is how comfortably he fits in. I guess we’ve spent so many hours trading insults across the farm office, we’re relaxed with each other wherever we are.
‘Great idea.’ Rafe makes a point of angling his body towards the far end of the table to avoid ramming me up against the cupboard.
The one plus for me is knowing the sex was a one-off mistake for Rafe, in the same way it was for me. Despite my strict embargo on men, I’d find the situation a whole lot harder if Rafe was in the game. At least this way, I know any misplaced fantasies I might accidentally have can’t ever be anything else. And that’s helpful.
As for my figures, I’m damned proud of them. ‘I’ve done a spreadsheet showing what the opposition are charging for venues similar to the farmhouse, at different times of year.’ Whereas spreadsheets might be like falling off a log for some people, to me they’re a whole new level of achievement. ‘Although as an intimate venue, the farmhouse is pretty unique.’
Talking of difficult stuff, I’ve also underestimated how hard it was going to having Rafe’s delicious scent pulsing through my kitchen, and wafting straight up my nose. At least on the terrace of The Harbourside, the sea breeze would have blown it away.
‘Interesting.’ He nods.
I flick onto the next page. ‘This is what I reckon you could charge for the first year, but you could obviously go higher once the venue’s established.’
He nods again, then sits back on his stool. ‘Actually, there’s a new idea I wanted to throw into the mix.’
I raise my eyebrows expectantly. ‘And?’
‘The house is good to use for smaller weddings for now. But in the long term, if we converted the group of old stone barns at the top of the courtyard, we could take all sizes of weddings, all year round.’ His beam is as huge as his idea.
‘Wow.’ As U-turns go, this is more like a full blown tour of spaghetti junction.
‘It obviously needs more investment than mowing a field, but the buildings are sound, and the stripped back, rustic style is what people are looking for right now.’
If I’m gawping in silence, it’s because he’s coming out with all the lines that should be mine.
‘Subject to planning permission, of course.’
‘Obviously.’ There’s one massive question bouncing around my head. ‘Weddings in a barn complex sound totally fabulous. But why such a huge change?’
For a moment, as he deliberates, a flicker passes across his face. By the time he speaks, he’s back in charge again. ‘If we’re going to do weddings at all, we might as well go for it, and do them properly.’ He gives me a sideways glance. ‘As you’re always telling me, it makes good financial sense.’
There’s something not a hundred percent convincing about what he’s saying here, but I can’t put my finger on exactly what it is. As for his hesitation, he almost looked guilty.
‘But as you’ve said to me in the past, it’s not only about the finances.’ I scratch my head, because I can’t completely believe this is what Rafe wants.
His grimace is the giveaway. ‘There’ll be an opening for an Events Manager.’ He says, his lips slipping into a smile. ‘But it’ll have to be someone who loves weddings.’
My mind races. It’s true, this could be my dream job. Permanent, full time, secure, satisfying. If this was on offer, life after October would take on a whole new shape, so different to the uncertain blur it is in my head at the moment. ‘I’m sure you’d be able to find yourself one of those,’ I say, not wanting to jump the gun. If I wasn’t so desperate for him to give me the job, I’d find it easier to push myself forward. What’s more, if I’d known this was coming up, I’d have made damned sure I stayed out of Rafe’s bed.
‘As it happens, there is someone I have in mind,’ he grins, as he flips out his phone, to check the time. ‘But right now, I’d better let you get on. Immie will never forgive me if I delay the hen party.’ Easing himself up from the stool, he wriggles out from behind the table. Perfectly executed. Not one elbow clash. ‘Unless you need help getting into your dress?’
‘Haha, nice try.’
At the top of the stairs he hesitates. ‘If for some reason your hens don’t show up, give me a ring. I’ve never been out with a fairy before. If not we’ll do dinner another time.’
‘Great.’ I give a cheery wave.
He’s still hanging on. ‘Take care, have a brilliant evening, and remember … any problems …’ He does the ‘phone me’ hand signal.
‘I’ve told you, we’ll be fine.’
‘I know, but in case you’re not …’
I shake my head at him in despair.
And he’s still waggling his hand doing the ‘phone me’ sign as he disappears from view, and clatters off down the stairs.
57
Out in St Aidan: Hens on tour
If I thought there’d be any chance of running Rafe’s radical new wedding thoughts past Cate and Immie during the evening, I must have been mad. It might have been thrown together at the last minute, but the hen night is typical Cate, in that she’s planned and printed out thirty five copies of the itinerary, and she’s done her research meticulously. We’re hitting Happy Hours around the town like clockwork. It’s also typical that Cate waved away all our offers of help to organise, in order to stay in control. What’s not so typical is the way she’s throwing back the cocktails. At this rate she’s going to lose her handle on the event pretty damn soon. Hopefully by that time she’ll be past caring anyway.
As for the fairy outfits, they’re certainly attracting attention, and not always the right sort.
‘Sheesh, I wish I’d put my granny knickers on under here.’ The fairy in the long yellow wig and purple glitter eye shadow is speaking for all of us, as she reels away from the latest wolf whistles, and tugs in vain at the transparent frills riding up her thighs.
‘Have we met before?’ I shout, as we rub bare shoulders together at the fifth bar we go to, waiting for the trays of cocktails which Cate pre-ordered earlier in the day. I’m hoping for some un-slurred conversation, given she’s shared that her strategy for staying upright is to miss
out every other drink.
‘I know Cate from way back at the council, I’m in human resources.’ She’s yelling at the top of her voice so I can hear her over the noise. ‘Could have done with more resources in this skirt if you ask me.’
‘I thought I recognised you,’ I holler back.
‘Don’t say that, I’ll be dead meat at work if this gets out.’ She gives a thumbs up to the barman as she grabs a tray loaded with lurid pink and green drinks in pint size jam jars. ‘I’m in disguise,’ she yells, as she tosses back a cascade of bleached Barbie hair braids. ‘I’m brunette under here.’
‘Better settle up for this lot,’ I shout, bobbing up and down as I try to catch the barman’s eye, regretting I came out in flats not heels. My hand’s glued to a very un-fairy-like messenger bag full of cash that Cate’s entrusted me with. My important bridesmaid’s job tonight is banker. I’m also in charge of the Goodbye Miss, Hello Mrs comments book, but so far everyone’s been far too busy necking drinks to write anything. Whereas Immie opted to be in charge of first aid in case of collapses. From the way she’s colliding with punters on her way to the loos, she might be the first one in need of her own services. She was supposed to be doing crowd control too, but trying to shepherd thirty odd hens around the streets of St Aidan would be a lost cause sober. Pissed, she’s got no chance.
‘How’re you doing … I jusss want evvvryone to have a w-w-wonderful time …’
I can tell it’s Cate, even before her arm flops over my shoulder. This has been her mantra for the evening. Her diamanté Bride-to-be glasses are at a jaunty angle as she grins at me. You’d have thought her long Cinderella gown would be a more modest option than the hen’s barely-there dresses, but as the night progresses her plunging neckline is descending rapidly. That’s the trouble with off-the-shoulder numbers – there’s very little to hold them up. Right now she’s got so much boob on show, she’s verging on pornographic. If it wasn’t for her Last Fling Before The Ring sash, she’d probably have lost the whole lot a few bars back.
By the time I’ve distributed the dayglow cocktails, Immie is staggering back from the ladies.
‘Hey, Immie, how’re you … I jusss want evvvryone to have …’ Cate begins.
Immie wriggles away as I reach over to pull her skirt out of her knickers. At least one person thought to wear shorts rather than Brazilians, even if she hasn’t learned the first rule about dresses is to check they’re hanging down at the back before you leave the cubicle.
She nods at her drinks, accusingly. ‘All good, b-b-but I l-lost my dick thing.’
Given she’s got a full jam jar in each hand, I’d say losing her willy shaped straw is the least of her problems. On the up side, she hasn’t hurled herself at any guys yet, so maybe she really has lost her heart to Chas.
‘Come here Mrs …’ Hitching up Cate’s dress, I re-tie the sash around her ribs, re-adjust her veil and straighten her specs.
As she empties her glass, she grins at me. ‘Jusss want evvvryone … to have a w-w-wonderful time …’
‘They will,’ I promise. ‘They are.’ Handing her a balloon to pacify her, I pull the itinerary out of my bag, and squint at my phone. ‘Shit, it’s ten o clock.’ We’re late. As I’m sliding my phone away, bracing myself for the next leg, a text arrives. Why is Rafe texting me in the middle of the hen night?
How’s it going? ;)
Come to think of it he’s probably the only friend I’ve got who’s as sober as I am right now. Although he’s not exactly a friend. Whatever. In a weird way, it’s good to talk.
Crazy as predicted … only four more hours ;) I type, then press send.
Then I raise my voice and yell across the bar. ‘Okay fairies, time to move on.’ I scour the sea of heads hoping to spot Immie, and haul her into action to sweep up the stragglers, but she’s nowhere. I ball at the top of my voice. ‘Next stop is Jaggers.’
Looks like from now on I’m on my own here.
58
Out in St Aidan: Taxis …!
You have to hand it to Cate. She might not be able to stand up after eight hours of solid drinking, but she certainly knows how to plan a great evening. And she’s done us proud tonight, right down to the last detail. As we tumble out of The Beach Hut at two a.m., we find a line of waiting taxis, exactly as promised on my tattered instruction sheet.
‘Why didnn I gerra blow up … hic … dick …’ Cate’s ‘wonderful time’ mantra changed about half an hour ago when we bumped into some hens with a six foot penis in tow. If there’s one thing to be thankful for, it’s that we didn’t have to negotiate tonight and take one of those along for the ride.
I’ve got Immie on one side of me, and Cate on the other and somehow I’m propelling them forwards. As we lurch towards a red Mondeo with lights on top, I’m doing mental high fives because I’m within ten feet of the end of the evening. Then Cate stops moving her legs, digs her heels in, and pulls us to a halt.
‘C’mon, almost there.’ As I turn to encourage Cate, her smile is glassy, and she’s moving her hand to her face. She opens her mouth slowly, and I’m expecting the blow up dick mantra, but instead she swallows a couple of times. I notice her cheeks have gone a weird shade of yellow under the neon lights. Then an arc of vomit flies through the air. I watch, open mouthed and helpless, as the rainbow of sick descends, reaches the pot of gold at the end, and splatters over Immie and me.
‘Holy shit!’ These are the first words Immie has uttered for hours. If getting covered in vomit has a plus side, it’s Immie sobering up.
Meanwhile, there’s one more heave from Cate, but this time we’re out of the firing line, and the projectile force has all been used up. She completes the job, and spills puke straight down her Cinderella ruffles.
As I stand, with sick running down my legs, I can’t believe the evening has ended like this.
In a nanosecond the taxi drivers are all out on the pavement, closing ranks, with a unanimous shout. ‘No puke in the cars.’
Dammit that they’ve seen it unfold right in front of their windscreens. Although as I rub my face, trying to get the acid stench away from my nose, I can’t say I blame them. One of them is already on his radio, spreading the word through taxi-world.
‘No-one pick up Cinderella and the two ugly sisters, they’re covered in puke.’
Indignant, I step forward to his open door to intervene. ‘We’re not ugly sisters, we’re fairies,’ I snap, then remember we’re not in the best position. ‘Please, we need to get home.’
‘I don’t care if you’re the Queen of fucking Sheba love, you’re not getting in any of our cars.’ He’s pretty damned decided.
That went well then. Not.
‘Don’t worry, you can stay at mine,’ I say to Cate and Immie, loudly enough for the drivers to hear. Even as it comes out, I’m thinking of the four flights of stairs. Will I be able to get rid of the reek of vom in time for Jess’s ten o’clock bride tomorrow? Or will the smell drift down the stairs and permeate the shop for weeks? It might even cling to the lace and ruin the stock.
As a crowd of lairy guys shout their way down towards us, I try to bodily shove Cate and Immie out of their way. ‘Get ’em off puke pants!’ is the most imaginative insult they can manage as they jostle past, but I still give a sigh of relief when they’ve moved on.
‘Come and sit on this bench, it looks comfy,’ I say to Cate, trying to make the idea of concrete sound soft and appealing as I run through the possibilities in my head. By the time we’ve taken five minutes to reach the sanctuary of the bench, only a few feet away across a flat pavement, I’ve mentally crossed off all thoughts of four flights of stairs, regardless of the other considerations.
Liam’s got the kids. Jules is nearby, but if he doesn’t do childbirth, I doubt he’ll be over the moon about Cinderella covered in sick. We could sit here until morning, go for a swim in the sea to wash off, then they could get the bus home.
Or I could ring Rafe. It’s the last thing I want to do. But c
hild birth, mud, cow dung, vomit – I already know he’ll take this in his stride. I fumble with my phone for a moment of hesitation, and then I press call.
He might be asleep of course. As I listen to the ring tone I wonder how Brett would have reacted to this call, had we still been going out. Somehow I don’t think he’d have been offering up his leather seats to rescue sick-covered hens. When Rafe picks up after only three rings, I want to hug him so hard I’d squeeze all the breath out of him.
‘Rafe …’
‘Red, how’re you doing?’
‘I’ve been better.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Outside The Beach Hut … we’re covered in puke …’
‘Stay where you are, I’ll be there as soon as … twenty minutes max …’
How did I know he’d say that? As I slide my phone away, and sink back against the bench, I turn to Immie and Cate. ‘It’s all good, Rafe’s coming to take us home.’
As Cate’s head lands heavily on my shoulder, her damp veil sticks to my cheek. She mumbles as she takes my hand in hers. ‘Jusss want evvvryone to have a w-w-wonderful time …’
* * *
Rafe’s right about the twenty minutes. By the time the rest of the hens have negotiated their way into the line of taxis across the road, he’s here, shouldering Immie and Cate up into the back of his Landy, making it look easy. Five minutes after, he’s dropping me off at mine.
‘Leave these two to me, I’ll be fine,’ he says, as he pulls up outside Brides by the Sea.
As go to open the car door I hesitate for a minute, staring out at a monster picture of Josie in the shadowy reflections of the display in the shop window. For the first time I feel very lucky that I didn’t get to wear my version of the dress. Marrying Brett would have been a disaster. I’m not sure Rafe quite knows what he’s letting himself in for, handling Cate and Immie solo, although there are deep snores coming from the back seats. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come?’
