Be Careful What You Wish For (42 page)

‘Darling, of course you don’t look fat.’ He swallows hard. ‘Shouldn’t you be inside? I thought it was bad luck for me to see the bride before the wedding.’

‘Oh, fuck superstition, Danny! This is a crisis!’ with a tantrum-style howl she scuttles into the vestry.

A stunned silence settles between Daniel and I like dust after an explosion.

‘I should go after her,’ he says, after a pause.

I nod, and for a moment we just stand there, the two of us, until I kiss his cheek. ‘Goodbye, Daniel,’ I whisper.

‘Goodbye, Heather.’ He smiles, but I can’t help feeling I can see real regret in his face, and as I watch his coattails disappearing into the vestry, I feel unexpectedly sorry for him. Yes, he broke my heart. But a lifetime with Lady Charlotte is punishment enough for anyone.

Outside the abbey I find Brian leaning against the Together Forever van, smoking and waiting for me. When he hears my footsteps on the gravel he stubs out his cigarette. ‘How was it?’ he asks gently.

I flop next to him, tilting my hat to shade my face. ‘Good.’ I nod, after a moment, overcome with a strong sense of satisfaction. It’s like the last few weeks have been a mad roller-coaster ride and now it’s all over. Everything’s worked out fine. Perfectly fine, I tell myself, trying not to think about Gabe. ‘I had closure,’ I say decisively.

Brian looks confused.

‘It’s a girl thing,’ I explain.

He peers at me as if I’m from some alien species. ‘I spent the first twenty-five years of my life wishing I was straight,’ he reminisces, ‘and I’m so glad my wish was never granted.’ He’s adjusting his waistcoat as he speaks. ‘Men are much more straightforward.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ I elbow him in the ribs. ‘I take it this means you and Neil are still straightforwardly in love?’

‘Of course.’ He laughs happily and reaches for his top hat, which he’s balanced on the roof of the van, then presses it firmly on to his head. ‘Shall we?’ he says, with mock formality, holding out his arm.

‘But what about all the stuff in the abbey that I need to move? I’ve left all the lights, reflectors and tripods—’

‘The bride’s changed her mind,’ he says, stopping me in my tracks.

‘Yeah, I know, it’s going to be a pagan ceremony outside—’

‘No, she’s changed it about the style of photography.’

My mouth opens, then closes again.

‘Apparently she saw some of the stuff I did in the sixties. Now she wants edgy,
paparazzi
-style photographs.’ His face is buzzing with delight.

‘You mean . . .’ We share a euphoric smile. Translated, this means forget putting Vaseline on the lens, using the portable fan and trying to get everyone together for the group photographs. Now all we need is one digital camera to fire off lots of spur-of-the-moment, out-of-focus black and white shots.

‘And we still go home early with a big fat cheque.’ He whoops, impetuously seizing me round the waist and trying to twirl me round. I say
trying,
because Brian’s a bit shorter than me, and I’m quite a big girl. We nearly topple over and have to stagger around for a minute to regain our balance, laughing all the while.

And at my ex’s wedding. Who would ever have thought it?

‘Here.’ I giggle, passing him his old faithful Nikon.

He removes his top hat and slings the camera round his neck, just like old times. ‘Ready?’

I finish filling my pockets with film, then adjust the brim of my hat. ‘Ready.’ I link his arm.

Then we psych ourselves up, as always.

Three – two – one.

‘OK. So this is it.’ Turning to me, Brian winks:
‘Showtime.’

 

‘
I
do apologise, Sir Richard, Lady Kenwood, I’m afraid it’s just immediate family in the circle of purification. If you’d like to wait in the marquee . . .’

Behind the abbey, uniformed ushers are trying politely to explain the change of ceremony to five hundred confused guests, many of whom are elderly and a little confused already.

‘Circle? What circle?’ Sir Richard is booming, gripping his ivory-topped cane and looking backwards and forth between the usher and his wife, who’s dressed up like an extra from an Edwardian costume drama, all beaded jet earrings, long silk gloves and bustle.

‘Oh, do you mean the dress circle? Are we here for the theatre?’ she’s enquiring shrilly, in the kind of ridiculously posh accent that, like butlers or cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off, you can’t believe still exists. ‘But I thought it was a wedding . . .’

As Brian and I make our way across the manicured lawns we observe the chaos that’s ensuing. Bewildered crowds of people, all dressed in their finest, are being herded into the vast white marquee that was originally erected for the reception, and handed opera glasses so that they can watch the pagan ceremony that is to take place across the river in neighbouring woodland.

I glance at it now as we cross the stepping stones and walk towards a small clearing in which I can see the wedding party and—

‘Gordon Bennett,’ mutters Brian.

As we enter the clearing a woman in flowing purple robes, carrying a wand, wafts towards us. I’m not joking. It has a silver star on the end.

‘I’m the celebrant.’

She appears to be in her seventies, with silvery-white hair down to her waist. If Dumbledore from Harry Potter had a twin sister, this would be her.

‘Oh, um, hi. Pleased to meet you,’ I say, and shake her hand. A large bell on a long silver chain hangs round her neck. ‘It’s to ring out the old and ring in the new,’ she says solemnly, having noticed me staring at it. Then she fixes me with startlingly blue eyes, and adds, ‘In the circle of purification there is no place for superstition or tawdry charms, Heather.’

She knows my name?
Any amusement I might have felt at her attire vanishes.

‘How—’ I begin.

‘Now, if you’d all please form a circle,’ she interrupts me.

What was that bit about superstition and tawdry charms? Was she referring to the lucky heather? Out of habit I stick my hand into my pocket although I know there’s nothing in there, and feel my fingers go through the lining. There’s a hole! In the lining of my Marc Jacobs’ jacket! I feel a rush of indignation. This jacket cost nearly three hundred pounds! Followed by a thump of alarm as I feel something soft and scratchy.
It’s the lucky heather.

I feel a tingle in my fingertips, like a current of electricity. It’s turned up again. I wrap my fingers round it tightly, determined not to lose it again. I’ve got to get rid of it properly, once and for all.

‘That means all of you.’

‘But what about the photographs?’ I whisper to Brian, who’s bemused by it all.

‘Photographs break the sanctity of the circle,’ the celebrant says. ‘Now, if everyone will stand shoulder to shoulder in the circle we can begin.’

I back away. ‘Actually, I think I’ll just wait over there.’

‘Everyone,’ she repeats solemnly.

Obediently I stand next to Brian as the celebrant picks up a broom and begins to sweep the clearing in an anti-clockwise direction.

 

There are a few sniggers from the guests, and expressions of bewilderment, scepticism and anticipation on their faces.

‘What’s she doing?’ asks someone fearfully.

‘Casting a purification circle,’ answers a middle-aged woman, knowledgeably. It comes as no surprise to see she’s wearing Birkenstocks and a pair of elasticated tie-dye trousers.

‘Blessings and merry meet. We are here today to join Daniel and Charlotte together . . .’

The next few minutes are taken up by Daniel and Charlotte saying their vows and exchanging rings and, although I never would’ve believed it, as I watch Daniel kissing his bride I feel . . . nothing. Well, actually, that’s not true. I do feel something, but it’s for Gabe. I can’t stop thinking about him throughout the ceremony.

‘Now, if everyone can hold their neighbour’s hand tightly, we shall all close our eyes and focus on the circle . . . on its special power . . . it’s purity . . .’

Surely she’s not serious? I glance around. Everyone looks horribly self-conscious, except for Ms Tie-Dye, who grasps the hands of the startled people on either side of her. But gradually, one by one, people reach tentatively for their neighbour’s fingers and close their eyes. Until I’m the last one left and, reluctantly retrieving my fingers from the lucky heather in my pocket, I clasp Brian’s hand.

Then something weird happens.

It’s like an energy. A force. A power buzzing through me like nothing I have ever felt before. A hot blast of euphoria surging through my body. My breath catches at the back of my throat. Yet at the same time I feel the peace and calm of a lullaby. Birds fall silent and an eerie stillness descends. And for what feels like both a moment and an eternity, nothing and no one makes even the slightest movement or sound. Until the voice of the celebrant strikes up again:

 

From out of nowhere a breeze whips up, and as everyone breaks apart I open my eyes to see a dove circling overhead. Gosh, I feel as if I’m coming out of a trance.

I glance at other people, see their self-conscious glances and embarrassed smiles, as if they’re not sure what happened, and know instinctively something’s changed. Not around me, but inside me. Wiggling my shoulders, I tilt my head to the sky and watching the scudding flecks of white clouds, take a deep breath of fresh air. It’s hard to describe it without sounding like the woman in the elasticated tie-dye trousers and Birkenstocks, but I feel different. Lighter. Freer.

Immediately I put my hand back into my pocket. I’m going to get rid of the heather by throwing it into the river . . . Except – I feel a pang of alarm. My pocket’s empty. Where’s the heather? I scrabble around, feeling into the corners. It’s not in the lining any more. Puzzled, I turn out my pockets. It must be somewhere. Out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of the celebrant. She’s smiling at me. In my head her voice echoes solemnly: ‘In the circle of purification there is no place for superstition or tawdry charms, Heather.’

It can’t have just disappeared.
Can it?

‘Lost something?’ Brian is dabbing his red eyes with a handkerchief.

‘Er, no . . . nothing,’ I say. I glance back at the celebrant but she’s not looking my way at all. Maybe I imagined it.

‘What did you think of the ceremony?’

‘I’m not sure.’ It was only a few moments ago, but it’s already fading fast, like writing in the sand. ‘What about you?’

‘Load of old hocus-pocus,’ he says derisively, blowing his nose. ‘But this pagan wedding malarkey is going to be great for pictures,’ he adds. ‘I’m going to take some incredible shots, especially of that wizard character.’ He stuffs his handkerchief up his sleeve and bounds towards the happy couple, snapping away like a
paparazzo.

‘I have to say, I didn’t know you were such a good dancer,’ I tease later, when we’re loading all the equipment into the van.

‘I wasn’t dancing, I was being kidnapped,’ grumbles Brian, his head reappearing from behind the doors. He slams them, then turns the handle. ‘Right, that’s everything.’ He wipes dust off his sleeve. ‘Now, can we change the subject?’

‘To what?’

‘To you.’

‘What about me?’ I say absently, digging my mobile phone out of my little clutch bag and turning it on to check my messages. I know Lionel’s in safe hands but I just want to make sure.

‘It’s the American, isn’t it?’

Startled, I glance up. ‘What is?’

‘He’s the reason you’ve had that look on your face all day.’

‘I don’t have a look,’ I say hotly, watching the little Vodafone hands appear on the screen. Gosh, it’s taking ages. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Brian staring at me. ‘Honestly, you get a boyfriend and suddenly you’re the expert on relationships,’ I mutter. Finally the little Vodafone symbol appears and I dial 121.

‘I don’t need to be an expert on relationships to know when someone’s in love,’ he replies.

Is it that obvious?

‘You have one new message.’

‘Hello, this is a message for Heather Hamilton.’

Prepared to hear Rosemary’s polite vowels, I jump as a loud, no-nonsense voice barks down the phone. It sounds like—

My heart thuds. What does he want?

My breath catches in the back of my throat. Gabe isn’t why I got that job? I’m a Bloody Talented Photographer? My stomach rushes upwards as if I’m on a swing, then plummets down again. And I’ve been a Bloody Stupid Idiot.

‘Gabriel might be my favourite nephew but the
Sunday Herald
is an award-winning newspaper and I’m not about to give you a job because the idiot’s in love with you.’

What?

After everything, this curveball hits me in the stomach. Did he just say what I thought he said? But that’s ludicrous! Gabe? In love with me?

But . . . Victor Maxfield is still talking and I struggle to listen.