Wedding Belles (5 page)

“I was just about to deal with it.” Dave waves his gloved hands in the air. “See? Take it easy, Sylvie. And I’m sorry about your lipstick. I’ll buy you another one, OK?”

“That’s not the point! And take off those gloves. They look ridiculous on you.”

Alex struggles, kicking his legs, and Mum puts him down. He immediately runs under the kitchen table. “Pwison!” he shouts, rattling one of the chairs. “Pwison.”

Mum pulls out the chairs, flips them over, and puts them back on the table so that the seats are resting on the tabletop, to make a “prison.”

Chuckling away to himself, Alex peeps out from between the “prison bars.” “Pwison, pwison. I in pwison.”

Dave and I both laugh at him, but Mum doesn’t even smile.

“Sylvie?” Dave says, his voice low and calm. “Would you like something to eat? It might make you feel a bit better. You didn’t have any breakfast.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not hungry.”

“You have to eat, pet. And Amy’s starving after all that cheerleading.”

Mum looks at me and her eyes soften a little. “Sorry, Amy, I forgot. How did it go? I know you were very nervous about it.”

“OK, I guess. But are you all right? If you’re tired, I can take the rug rats to the park or something this afternoon.”

“Thought you were babysitting Gracie later?” Mum reminds me.

“I’ll join Amy with our two,” Dave says. “Leave you to a bit of peace and quiet, Sylvie.”

“Thanks, Dave.” Mum’s eyes start to glisten and her lower lip wobbles. “And you’re a good girl, Amy. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you both. Things are just getting on top of me at the moment. And this stupid wedding isn’t helping. There’s so much to do still.”

“Sylvie, let’s all sit down and have lunch together and we can talk about it, yes?” Dave looks at her hopefully.

“We can’t,” Mum says, sniffing and rubbing away her tears with her fingers. “Alex is in prison, remember?”

“Time to escape, buddy,” Dave tells Alex. “It’s lunchtime. Lasagna, your favorite.”

We soon get the table and chairs back to normal. Dave straps Evie and Alex into their high chairs and then puts a big plate of steaming hot lasagna in front of me. I help myself to some salad and then test a forkful of the meat — it’s delicious.

“Mum . . .” I say slowly, putting my fork down to wait for everyone else to be served before I start — Mum’s a stickler for table manners. “Clover really does have everything under control. Honestly. The town hall is booked for the ceremony, the Dalkey Island Lodge for the reception, the menu’s all arranged, plus the car and the cake and the flowers. She even found a company at the wedding fair that will do a good deal on the suits for Dave and the ushers. And we got our bridesmaids’ dresses in Paris, of course. The only big thing she hasn’t settled yet is your dress, but you said you wanted to do that yourself, remember?”

Mum looks bewildered. “Did I? Are you sure?”

“Positive — it’s in Clover’s notes in her wedding folder.”

Mum’s eyes well up again. “Oh, I see . . . right. I guess I was waiting for Monique to come home so that we could go dress shopping together. But she’s so busy these days. Maybe I should just get on with it alone.” Monique is Mum’s best friend and one of the bridesmaids, along with me and Clover. She’s an actress and she’s often out of the country.

“You can’t go on your own, Mum. I’d love to help you pick a dress. And I’m sure Clover would too — if you’d like us to, that is.”

She gives me a tiny nod. “Yes, please.”

“Great. That’s all settled, then. I’ll talk to Clover and we’ll arrange everything.”

“And Sylvie,” Dave adds, “we did all that registration stuff last November. You really have nothing to worry about.”

“I’m sorry,” Mum says, wiping away more tears. “Of course we did. I’m such an idiot. I don’t know why you put up with me, Dave.”

“Because I love you, Sylvie, and I always will. Which is why I want to marry you. Now let’s eat before the food gets cold.”

I’m just forking the last piece of lasagna into my mouth when the doorbell rings. “I’ll get it,” I say, jumping to my feet. “It’s probably Dad.”

When I swing open the door, Dad’s on the doorstep, holding baby Gracie in her little Rock-a-Tot chair with one hand.

“Hi, Amy,” Dad says, all smiles.

“Who is it?” Mum calls from the kitchen.

“Dad,” I shout back.

“Already?”

Dad looks a bit sheepish. “Sorry, I know I’m a bit early. Shelly’s keen to get moving. She’s waiting for me in the car. She said to say hi. We’re going shopping together in the dreaded Dundrum.” Dad gives a dramatic shiver — he detests shopping.

“Lucky you,” I say with a grin. “It’s OK. I’m all set. I’m going to take Gracie to the park with Dave, Alex, and Evie.”

“Perfect.” Dad hands over the Rock-a-Tot and the changing bag. “Thanks again, Amy,” he says, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “Bye, Sylvie,” he calls.

Mum sticks her head around the kitchen door — literally just her head. I don’t think she wants Dad to see her dressed like a bag lady. “Bye. Have a nice afternoon.”

Once Dad is out the door, she joins me in the hall to help me with Gracie’s stuff. She takes the changing bag while I carry Gracie. She’s getting heavy — her Rock-a-Tot is almost pulling my arm out of its socket. Once in the living room, I crouch down and unbuckle Gracie from her little seat. Then I sit on the sofa and pop her onto my knee. Mum sits down beside me and starts to stroke Gracie’s mop of white-blond hair. It was strawberry blond when she was born, but it’s been getting lighter and lighter every month. Dad calls her his little Nordic beauty.

“Gracie looks just like you when you were this age, Amy,” Mum says, her eyes misting up a little. “She’s good-natured like you were too. And she has hair like her step-aunt Clover’s. It’s a killer combination.” She pauses. “Amy, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say. About Clover. Now’s as good a time as any.”

“What?” I ask, curious.

“Clover’s been offered an internship over the summer. At
Vogue
.”

“She hasn’t said anything to me about it,” I say, miffed that Mum knows something about Clover that I don’t. “
Vogue
? Wow, that’s really impressive.” Clover worships the
Vogue
team and has always dreamed of working on their magazine in London. “Is she going to take it?”

“She’s not sure yet. She has to talk it over with Gramps and Brains.”

“You mean she might actually go?” I ask. “To London, I mean.”

“New York, in fact,” Mum says.

I can hardly get the words out. “New York? Hang on, you’re talking about
American Vogue
?” So that’s what Clover was telling those editors at the wedding fair. I haven’t gotten around to asking her about it yet. I probably wouldn’t be having this conversation with Mum if I had.

Mum nods. “Isn’t it incredible?”

“Yes, amazing.” But if it’s so amazing, why am I feeling all flat inside, like Coke that’s lost its fizz? “When was she going to break it to me?” I ask. “At the airport?”

“Don’t be like that, Amy. Nothing’s definite yet. She’s going to tell you when it’s all decided one way or the other. She asked me not to say anything, but I wanted to give you a bit of time to get your head around the idea. I know how much she means to you. And she adores you too, Amy. She thinks you’re the bee’s knees.”

Really? My awesome, supersmart, and Arctic-cool aunt thinks I’m the bee’s knees? I’m overwhelmed and incredibly touched. A lump forms in my throat, and I swallow it back. The truth is, I don’t want her to go. I know it’s selfish — but how will I cope without her? She’s my aunt and my best friend all rolled into one. No one can replace Clover. No one!

“Promise me you won’t say anything to Clover,” Mum says. “And if she does decide to go, try to be happy for her. I know you’ll miss her, pet — I will too — but you can’t tie someone like Clover down. She’s destined for fabulous things.”

“I know. And I won’t say anything, I promise.” I hold Gracie against me and give her a little squeeze. “Guess it might be just you and me soon, kiddo,” I whisper into her hair. I’m really sad. And the one person who always cheers me up when I’m feeling low is Clover.

“Right, you lot, quiet!” Mr. Olen yells once we’ve all stepped off the bus outside a big old building near Saint Stephen’s Green at ten o’clock on Wednesday morning. We’re on a second-year school trip to a big international modern art exhibition called Emotion in Motion. As our year is large, we’ve been split into four groups, each with a different teacher in charge. We’ve got the grumpiest teacher of them all, of course — Mr. Olen. Typical!

I’m actually quite excited about the trip, but obviously I’m trying to look as bored and fed up as everyone else. It’s not cool to like school trips at Saint John’s.

“And try not to get run down, any of you,” Mr. Olen adds. “Getting off the road might help in that regard, Stone.”

“Sorry, sir.” Seth steps onto the footpath.

Annabelle and Nina giggle loudly. Oh, yes. We’ve also had the misfortune of being landed with the pair of them. Mills and Bailey are in another group, but hopefully we’ll catch up with them later. I was looking forward to spending some time with Seth on my own, but he’s in a funny mood today. He’s barely said a word since we left school. I’ve asked him if he is OK, but he just shrugs and says, “Yeah, fine. Just a bit tired.”

“I want you all back in this exact spot at twelve thirty on the dot, get it?” Mr. Olen continues. “And don’t think you can just bunk off and sit in the coffee shop for the next two hours. I want you to team up in twos, and I’ll give each pair a work sheet to fill in. Anyone who does not hand it in later will automatically get detention, understand?”

Everyone groans.

“But, sir, what if we’re, like, not interested in modern art?” Annabelle says, tossing her hair back. “I don’t think we should be forced to look at, like, broken bits of toilets and stuff if we don’t even do art. It’s really unfair. And my parents agree, you know. They think modern art is, like, rubbish.”

“Do they now?” Mr. Olen says. “So visual literacy means nothing in your household, then, no?”

Annabelle looks at him blankly.

He just sighs. “It’s good for you, Annabelle. Think of it as cultural broccoli, OK? And for your information, I’ve seen the exhibition already and there are no broken toilets. But it’s probably best to keep well away from the barbed-wire installation, and don’t jump off the giant bed. I don’t want any accidents.”

“Sounds thrilling.” Annabelle rolls her eyes. For certain teachers she turns on the charm, but Mr. Olen is not one of them. He’s not important enough to bother with, in her opinion.

“Back here at twelve thirty, people, or else,” he says, ignoring her. “And for God’s sake, behave. You’re representing the school, remember? No high jinks and no sneaking off for any reason, either alone or in couples. And that includes you, Annabelle and Hugo.”

Annabelle goes bright red, then scowls at Hugo. “As if I’d go near him.”

“You’d be lucky, babes,” Hugo says. “So over you.”

“No, so over
you
,” Annabelle snaps back.

“Annabelle, enough, OK?” Mr. Olen says. “We’ve only just arrived and you’re already giving me a headache. Right, everyone, collect your work sheets, please, and follow me.”

Once we’re inside the building, Seth grabs a map. We quickly peel away from the rest of the group and head for the huge white-marble staircase.

“Where first?” I ask him. “Creatures, Fear Factor, or Emotion in Motion?”

“Creatures,” he says firmly. “Thataway.” He starts powering up the stairs and I follow him. His legs are much longer than mine and I struggle to keep up.

“Seth! Slow down.”

“Sorry.” He waits for me on a small landing halfway up to the first floor and sticks out his hand. “Come on, slowpoke.”

I take his hand and he pulls me up the rest of the stairs. At the top we stop to catch our breath. He drops my hand, which is a shame, but then, holding hands on a school trip is probably a bit sad.

The air up here is different. It makes my teeth feel funny, like when you accidentally bite down on tinfoil. It also stinks. “What is that smell?”

“Plaster dust?” Seth suggests.

“No, it’s like chemicals or something.”

Seth shrugs. “No idea. But this building was a hospital, I guess. Could be anything — bleach, antiseptic, formaldehyde . . .”

“Isn’t that what they use to pickle dead bodies? I saw it on the telly once.”

“Yeah, something like that. OK, we’d better start filling this in.” He reads from the first page of the work sheet. “‘Creatures. Question one: How does the Song Room make you feel?’”

“What’s the Song Room?” I ask.

“I guess we’re about to find out.” He glances at the map, then points down a long white corridor. We start walking. To our right is a row of large windows, and to the left, a string of open doorways. You can walk right through some of them into the rooms beyond, but others have a red rope tied across the opening. Inside each room is a different artist’s work — from colorful photos of mad-looking exotic fish to my favorite, a Ferris wheel the size of a bicycle wheel made out of Coke cans, with tiny models of endangered animals sitting in the swinging chairs. We walk into another room and the chemical smell hits us at full blast.