by Laura Burton
Love Me, Crazy!
By: Laura Burton
The characters and themes within this book are fictitious and any likeness to actual events are purely coincidental. The author holds all the rights to this work and its contents may not be duplicated without written consent from the owner of these rights.
Copyright © 2013 Laura Burton
For Ross, because you drive me crazy, and I hope you always will.
PROLOGUE
07 January 2033
The newly-washed Mercedes Benz approached the road beside the little church, splattered with streaks of mud up the sides from the road. The tires splashed into a large puddle by the curb and showered two young girls, who -desperate to have the first peak at the bride- were standing too close to the edge. They squealed and ran back into the church, their chiffon dresses dripping as they went. The engine idled as a tall gentleman, dressed in a sharp black tuxedo, eased out of the driving seat and walked around the car, careful to avoid the shiny white ribbons adorning the bonnet and opened the side door.
White satin stilettos stepped out of the car and disappeared beneath the skirt of a long, ivory gown as a bride stepped out. The young woman touched her golden hair with her gloved hands to check it was still swept up in a loose bun at the side of her head. Wispy fly-away hairs cascaded down her defined cheeks to her collarbone.
‘Sophie darling,’ called out her mother, as she walked around the car to her side, holding a bouquet of four dozen roses. Her hair was cut to her jawline into a neat bob and her face wrinkled ever so slightly as she smiled warmly at her daughter. She handed the bouquet to her and said,
‘Now don’t lose this, I was up all night making it for you,’ Sophie’s green eyes shined as she smiled sheepishly back and took the roses into her hands. It was surprisingly heavy and glistened in the daylight, each rose sporting a diamond.
‘It’s beautiful,’ was all Sophie could say. She looked up across the cobbled path, between the cemetery gravestones and eyed the old chapel standing before her. A short, bald man in a suit holding a camera far too large for his stature, hopped around snapping pictures from every angle.
‘That’s it love, look at me now, give us a nice big smile’ he said with energy. After a few minutes of this, the mother flicked her hands at the man and said,
‘That’s enough Freddie, will you go and wait inside please, I want to have a word with my daughter’. The man bowed and walked down the path towards the chapel at a fast pace. Sophie turned to her mother; finding it suddenly difficult to breathe.
‘Mum, this is really happening,’ she said with wide eyes. Her mum held her cheek with her right hand and gripped her arm.
‘My darling, you’re not having second thoughts are you? It’s going to be alright!’
‘No, I’m not having second thoughts!’ cried Sophie, she looked out at the chapel as she bit her lip.
‘I was just wondering… how do you know that everything is going to be alright? I have this feeling like it’s too perfect, you know? Like Something bad is going to happen… I’m sorry -I’m just suddenly freaking out and I don’t know what to do!’ Sophie rambled as she fiddled with her veil.
Her mother gave Sophie a look, her face smiled but her eyes looked concerned. Suddenly, their heart-to-heart was interrupted by a downpour of rain and the driver – who had been standing awkwardly beside the car the whole time – suddenly pulled out an umbrella from the glove box of the car and ushered the women into the chapel. There was a small side room before the main hall. Sophie walked inside, followed by her mother. The room was quite plain, with nothing but a small table and two chairs and a simple vase of artificial flowers sitting on a doily on the table. Organ music could be heard playing in the chapel hall and the light mumbling from the guests told Sophie that she needed to pull herself together quick, people were waiting. Nick was waiting. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought.
‘Sit down,’ Sophie’s mother said gently, as she too, sat down. Sophie placed her bouquet on the table and watched the damp rose petals leave a wet patch on the white linen tablecloth.
‘Sophie, my darling.’ her mum began softly. Before she could continue, the door opened, and an usher came stumbling into the room and looked at the two women with a startled expression.
‘What on Earth are you doing? We’re talking in here!’ snapped Sophie’s mother at the young man.
He gulped and muttered apologies before saying in a very small voice, ‘Everyone is just – err - wondering why you aren’t coming in?’
Sophie stood up quickly and attempted to brush out the creases on her dress. Then she picked up her flowers and motioned for her mother to stand too.
‘I just needed a moment, I’m ready now, Patrick-’ she said in a high voice. Sophie’s mother gave the young usher a reproachful look.
‘Listen to me, my daughter will be in there when she’s in there! It is tradition for a bride to be late, and that clock says I’ve got at least thirty minutes with her until we have to go in. Now go and entertain the guests.’ The usher nodded apologetically and disappeared, the door closing behind him. Sophie sat back down and relaxed her shoulders a little. Her mother joined her at the table again and took her hand.
‘Have I ever told you the story about your father and I?’ she asked.
‘You both met each other at a party, fell hopelessly in love and decided to get married three weeks later, yes I remember,’ Sophie replied dully.
Her mother shook her head with a smile.
‘Oh, my dear, it was nowhere near as rosy as that. I think it’s time you know the full story.’
CHAPTER ONE
The ‘Meet Cute’
Bristol: 02 March 2012
I remember the day when I first saw your father as vividly as if it happened only yesterday. I was working as a teaching assistant at one of the private schools in Clifton. Every morning, I would get the bus into town and walk up the huge hill along Park Street to get to work. On the way, I would stop in the same coffee shop. It was quaint and dimly lit, nice and cosy. The ceiling had low wooden beams and there were far too many tables crammed into the small space. It was my favourite place to sit and have one of their calorie-packed hot chocolate, with lashings of whipped cream on top- it really was indulgent.
It was a seemingly dull day; the clouds were thick in the sky and the people were particularly miserable about the lack of sunlight we had that year. I kept to myself and buried my head into a book, Jane Eyre - to be precise - and then something made me look up. A bell rang as the door opened and in stepped a young man wearing a waxy leather jacket and holding an Oakley laptop bag by his side. He strode confidently over to the counter and smiled in a relaxed fashion as he looked up at the menu. I was facing him, but he didn’t see me staring with my mouth hanging open. He had a dimple on his chin and a strong forehead, slightly shielded by his jet-black hair. I watched, transfixed as he ordered a hot chocolate and nestled down into a comfy chair across from me. He opened his bag and pulled out a black chunky laptop and set it down on the table in front of him. Then his face was heavy set in a brooding fashion as he took a sip of the hot chocolate, licked the cream off his upper-lip and started to type. I stared at him so long – trying to build the courage to talk to him - that it made me late for my first class.
The next day, I hurried to the coffee shop, ordered another hot chocolate and sat down in the same seat facing the door. The upbeat tunes coming across the radio seemed to reflect my mood as I waited anxiously to see if this new mystery man would come in again. Long minutes passed and my hot chocolate became cold. I gulped it down quickly and started to read the last chapter of Jane Eyre, keeping a chameleon eye on the front door and jumping whenever the bell jingled as someone walked in. I finished th
e book, checked my watch and with a slight tinge of disappointment, dashed out of the door and headed up the hill towards the school for another day.
I marched through the black gates, along the cobbled driveway leading to the cluster of old houses which were converted into Clifton High, my home away from home. My heels clicked on the marble floor in the grand hall as I walked. It sported a large central staircase and various corridors leading to the classrooms. The bell rang, and a swarm of girls dressed in blue checkered skirts and navy jumpers came from every direction. The sound of excited babble and squeals ricocheted off the high ceiling and snapped me out of my thoughts.
Mrs. Callingham appeared from the top of the stairs and stretched her arms out to the girls below.
‘My dear girls,’ she called out, everyone stopped moving to listen to the shrill voice of their adored Headmistress.
‘Please take care to show your respect for these halls as you walk to assembly,’ she continued in her Queen’s English accent. The girls gave hushed giggles as they filed into the narrow hall towards the assembly hall. Today was when Reverend Hale was due to make his address. He was a stout man, with a snout for a nose and a drawling tone in his voice. His speeches were less to be desired first thing in the morning. Students have been known to fall asleep, one girl even slid off her chair and flopped onto the floor, though the rest of the girls in assembly were only aware of her when she snored loudly- the sound magnified thanks to the excellent acoustics in the hall.
The main hall was large enough for the whole school to be seated in with a stage at the front and a balcony at the rear. The classes of girls were sat in rows and the teachers perched themselves on chairs along the edges of the hall. A panel of ‘important’ people sat on stage where four chairs were seated; these included the Head Girl, Deputy Headmistress and Mrs. Callingham herself. The speaker due at that assembly occupied the fourth chair. As I took my seat near the back exit, I could see a tall, skinny man, sporting a reverend attire and clutching a small book in his nimble hands. Reverend Hale was not on the stand. I wondered what happened to him.
With everyone seated, the organist began playing and the girls started to sing, ‘Here I am, Lord’. It was my favourite song in the hymn book. I couldn’t say I was particularly religious at that time but something about the song resonated with me. Especially the promise included in the final line of the song.
‘I will go Lord; I will keep your people in my heart’.
There is nothing more beautiful, than the ideology of serving others and caring about everyone enough to ‘hold them in your heart’. I suppose that was one of the first occasions of my young adult life that opened me up to the idea of love and what it truly meant to love. I was consumed in my thoughts of the essence of love and how often the word is thrown around in language and not truly felt. Is love a thing? Is it a verb? Or is it a nice idea? If I was ‘in love’, what would make me ‘fall out’? And is love alive? If not, then how can it die?
My thoughts were interrupted again with the sound of Mrs. Callingham’s shrill voice.
‘Good morning my dear girls, as you can see, Reverend Hale is not with us today. Unfortunately, he suffered a severe heart attack last night and will not be delivering his sermon today,’ An air of shock and guilty relief filled the air as the girls turned to each other and started to whisper their own theories of what Reverend Hale must have been doing when he suffered the heart attack and who might have found him. ‘Maybe he was bible bashing,’ sneered one of the girls. A red-headed girl grinned and whispered, ‘Or maybe he was “exercising”,’ she said with a wink and laughed as the girls around her gasped and covered their mouths in surprise. I leaned forward and looked at them with a stern expression and said in my best authoritarian voice,
‘Enough of that girls, listen to Mrs. Callingham.’ I couldn’t help but feel selfishly grateful that we were spared another boring sermon as the headmistress continued.
‘Here we have Reverend Pembleton, he will take over for Reverend Hale for a while and so I am pleased to announce that he will be addressing us today.’ She turned back to give the tall skinny reverend an expectant smile. He cleared his throat and stood up, strode over to the microphone and nodded to Mrs Callingham who took her seat. The hall stayed quiet.
The girls were taking in the appearance of their new speaker; his long pinstripe suit was slightly too big and creased on the legs. His chin was long and pointy like his nose and his straw-like hair was thin on the sides. He wiped his large nose on a dirty handkerchief and placed it back into his trouser pocket.
‘Good morning,’ he began in a low tone. The room remained still, but for a slight cough coming from the balcony. ‘I would like to start with a quote from the good book,’ he continued as he raised the small book clasped in his right hand. I withheld the urge to sigh, readying myself for a long speech about doing good to others and a lot of ‘thee’, ‘thou’ and ‘thine’.
‘To be an exceptional golfer, you must start with the basics…’ Reverend Pembleton began reading. The room exploded in laughter. Shocked, I leaned forward and squinted, trying to make out what the book was. It had a picture of a golf club on the front. I raised my eyebrows and looked over to Mr Chatworth, the biology teacher sitting on my right. He was clapping and said ‘bravo’. Mrs. Callingham pursed her lips and her eyes narrowed, I wondered if she considering whether to have this scoundrel frog marched off the school grounds. The girls and teachers settled down and the room was quiet once more, this time with bated breath as everyone wanted to know what this controversial reverend was going to say next. He gave a slight grin, before setting the book in his suit pocket and leaning into the microphone to continue.
‘Now I have your attention, I want to speak to you about something important. Golf. Why? For a number of reasons, but firstly because I like to play Golf, I also know a lot about the sport. And they say that it’s always good to talk about what you know.
Golfing is a great skill to have. It is hard to get that elusive hole-in-one. To win at the game, you have to finish with as few points as possible. The more tries it takes to get the ball into the hole, the more points incurred. Like life, we need to indulge in as few sins as possible to win our mansion on high. Sin buries us down with guilt. The more we sin, the more guilt we carry.
Another reason golf is like life, is that there is often more than one path we can choose. Some paths are good or bad, others are less obvious. Sometimes we gamble with a risky path with the promise of a big reward. Other times we are faced with choices that are good, better and best. But how do we determine which path to choose? That’s the fun of the game though, you weigh up the pros and cons for a while, then decide on a path, letting it lead you forward. Sometimes we feel out of control or stuck in a bunker with no hope of getting out. In those times, we have to pick up the ball and try again or take advice from a friend with more wisdom and experience.
Last weekend, I was on the green with a close friend. We enjoyed the first few holes, but I found my ball was stuck in a ditch. There were thick trees ahead of me and I needed to hit the ball hard to get it out. My friend had walked on past the trees, I could not see him, but I heard him call out to me. “Aim for the right,” he said confidently. I knew that the hole was in fact, to the left of my position, so this advice seemed absurd to me. Still, I trusted my friend and though I did not see him nor what he was looking at, I knew that he could see a better path for me than I could. I hit the ball hard out of the ditch and over to the right. It shot through the trees and ended up out on the other side. I rushed over to it and found my friend standing there with a smile. The hole was on the far left and my ball was considerably far on the right. At first, I was a little disgruntled and wondered if I had been fooled. Perhaps my friend had given me bad instructions for his own gain. Then I noticed that to the left of my position was a small fish pond. If I had not followed my friend’s advice, my ball would have surely been lost in the pond.
We are all blessed with so
meone who loves us and wants to guide us in our lives. It may be a parent, uncle, grandparent, or a religious figure. It may seem that their counsel is not with your best interest at heart. It might seem that you think you know better. But our knowledge is limited to what we know and see in our current position. So, take heed on your leaders, humble yourselves enough to listen to the wisdom in their words. You may end up better for it.’
It was the most illuminating speech I had ever heard during assembly. Reverend Pembleton became the favourite teacher at the school. Although his physical appearance was awkward and undesirable, the girls swooned at his charisma and inspired choice of words during assembly.
That afternoon, I approached Reverend Pembleton in the dinner hall; a babble of girls swarmed him with their dinner trays as we lined up by the canteen and took our plates.
‘I very much enjoyed your sermon this morning, Reverend Pembleton,’ I said politely. He smiled down at me – now he was close to me, he towered over me and the girls. ‘Please call me Tom.’ he replied kindly. I blushed like one of the school girls.
‘I’m Audrey, but everyone calls me Dee,’ I replied shyly. We exchanged pleasantries as we chose our hot meal, a dessert and a piece of fruit. I refused my usual chocolate donut and took a grapefruit instead. It was sliced in half and came with a packet of brown sugar. Mrs Callingham called it ‘brain food’ and as I was hoping to impress Tom, I felt this was the most appropriate choice because I was not sure what message it must have sent to pile my plate with chocolate donuts.
Tom and I became friends. We found ourselves talking at great lengths about politics, classical music and Tom liked to talk about golf.
Weeks passed by, and though I continued to sit down in the coffee shop on park street in the mornings, Tom joined me. The mysterious man with the laptop bag didn’t come back in and remained a fantasy. Tom was kind, and he was funny too. We laughed, and after a month of our morning routine, he placed his hand on mine and asked me seriously.
