The Wedding Crasher, page 12
A summer spent sleeping in a grubby Slovenian youth hostel had given her a harsh lesson in the consequences of leaving her camera unattended, so she swapped it into her worn padded carry-case, accompanied by a collection of lenses that she strapped around her waist like a 90s dad at Disney World. Poppy slipped out of the dress that she only just noticed was streaked with coffee stains, plaited her hair, and looked for a pair of cotton trousers that she hadn’t planned to wear until her cottage break with Lola. When she opened a drawer lined with her tank tops, she paused. A necklace lay on top of the pile, a familiar pendant catching the light. She picked it up, the chain coiling in the palm of her hand, a dried poppy that had once sat in her wedding bouquet trapped inside cast resin. Before their split, Poppy had worn this necklace every day for almost seven years. Ever since, it had been stuffed at the back of her underwear drawer. She hadn’t packed it, which meant that Josh almost certainly had. What was he hoping to achieve? Poppy closed her fingers around the necklace and dropped it back in the drawer, kicking it shut with her foot.
Her rushed arrival at Loxby had ensured she’d avoided the mobile phone amnesty at reception, but if Lola was instructing security to tighten surveillance around the island, she didn’t want to be caught with hers. Taking it out of a zipped pocket, she unlocked the screen and bit her lip. Josh’s name flashed up alongside an email. Poppy didn’t want to open it. It wasn’t so much him, but the effect of him that she didn’t trust. The wall of awkwardness he had built in their own home stung, but without it she was afraid of how easily he could pull her back again. Who was she when she wasn’t with him?
When she initiated the separation, Poppy had thought she would return to the person she had been before she’d met him. Poppy had spent her twenties entangling her life with his, swapping each facet of herself until she couldn’t tell where he ended and she began. Her evenings in the attic with metal cutting scissors and an Edwardian film camera had sprung from a fear of long evenings and attempts to make them pass quickly. Whilst he brazenly continued with the routines they’d wrought together, Poppy realised that they weren’t shared routines at all; she had been pulled into his world. How much of her tapped on the sides of his skull? Josh had thrown her independence back at her like a stack of dirty laundry he no longer wanted to touch and now she didn’t know what to do with it.
After running a cold flannel over her neck and swallowing the pillow chocolate like a shucked oyster, Poppy headed back outside. She walked along the terrace as waves slapped the cliff side and passed through a well-kept rose garden. Spotting a sign for Mermaid’s Cove painted on a stone wall in front of her, she descended a stepped path that bent between palm trees and artfully arranged succulents. At the bottom, she paused. The cove was nestled between high-sided cliffs, the sun pooling on the water as though concentrated through a magnifying glass. In the middle, a woman lay on a wooden platform, propped on her elbows, salt-licked hair falling in waves between her shoulder blades. She looked in Poppy’s direction, pulled up the straps of her bikini, and lifted a finger to indicate that she’d be a minute.
Poppy scuffed the foam of her flip-flops against the decking. This must be her. Ottilie. The woman curled her feet over the edge of the platform and dove into the water, resurfacing an arm’s length away from a metal ladder on the decking nearby.
‘Sorry to intrude,’ said Poppy, fiddling with her bag strap. I’m—’
‘Poppy?’ said Ottilie, dimples appearing on her cheeks as she wrung water from her hair.
‘Yes,’ said Poppy, surprised. ‘I thought I’d introduce myself.’
‘No need. Will told me about you. You’re helping us out, right?’
‘Right.’
Ottilie gave her a side smile.
‘What a peach. Thank you, seriously,’ she said, leaving damp footprints on the boards as she walked over. Before she could react, Ottilie pulled her into a hug, her fingers spread wide against her back. When relinquished, Poppy’s breasts were imprinted with two damp outlines of Ottilie’s own. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve been in and out of the water so often the past couple of days, I hardly know the difference. Are you heading back to the hotel? I’ll walk with you.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Poppy, remembering her instructions from Lola. ‘I was actually… wanting to check in with you. About… light levels.’ She held her camera up as evidence.
‘Oh, wedding talk? If we’re going to do that I’ll have to sit down with a drink. My head is swimming with plans. We have this wedding coordinator…’ said Ottilie, pinching her mouth into an ironic grimace. ‘She’s… great. She really is. Lovely person. But a little much, you know?’
Poppy resisted an urge to push Ottilie back in the pool. Sure, Lola had loud clothes, a loud laugh, and an all-round loud personality, but it was what made her so good at her job. She lent her loud to other people when it mattered most.
‘Don’t get me wrong, she’s been working so hard. I’m worried it’s making her a little frantic. I’m trying to be careful about the energy I invite towards me right now, you know?’ Poppy did not know. ‘Will’s father, have you met him? He’s got her doing double time for some corporate this-or-that, poor thing. Wait here, I’ll be back.’
Ottilie pulled on a kaftan and walked towards a staircase that led to a small fisherman’s hut painted in teal tones to match the water. The delicate sound of fizz escaping from a bottle and tinkling ice preceded Ottilie’s return. She gestured to the decking and sat down far closer to Poppy than she was expecting, two cold drinks by her side.
‘It’s matcha lemonade. All natural, don’t worry.’
‘I did wonder why it was so… green.’
‘Cheers,’ said Ottilie, handing Poppy a glass. Poppy took it, clinked glasses, and grimaced as she took a sip. Yum. A delicious glass of mildew. ‘I don’t like the whole contractor–client divide,’ continued Ottilie. ‘This wedding is so important to us and I only wanted to share it with those who have been real pillars in mine and Will’s life. I don’t know you, but Will said you both had a connection at university and that was a really transitional time for him. This must be fate, right?’ Ottilie hooked her straw into her mouth and smiled at Poppy, squinting in the sunshine. ‘Can I be honest with you?’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ve burrowed down here to keep away from all that,’ said Ottilie, nodding up towards the hotel. Poppy could sympathise. She’d planned a retreat of her own to get away from a reality she couldn’t control on a smaller island just visible through a gap in the rocks. ‘I have so much to be grateful for. Will’s family are incredibly generous – always have been – but I sometimes feel like a spare part, like our wedding is good publicity first and the authenticity of it comes second.’
‘Isn’t that what most weddings are like?’
‘Oh, you’re married too?’ said Ottilie, brightening.
‘No. Not anymore. On paper, I technically have a husband. It’s complicated. We still split the cost of milk and bicker about who forgot to cancel the craft beer subscription, but that’s another story.’ Ottilie nodded slowly, unsure how to take Poppy’s candour. ‘I guess what I’m trying to say is that weddings can spiral pretty quickly. They’re not just for you, they’re for your friends, your family – even the ones you don’t like very much. The silver lining is that you can bugger off pretty sharply when it’s all over.’ Poppy crossed her arms. ‘Although, saying that, my husband took us to Greece and trained for an Iron Man competition for six hours a day whilst we were there. I’ve never seen so little of him. Or drank so many margaritas, for that matter.’
‘He sounds very driven,’ said Ottilie.
‘He’d like that assessment.’ Poppy clapped to signify a change of subject. ‘So, with your pictures, are you looking for traditional, or a little more unique?’
Ottilie wrapped her arms around her knees, vulnerable and childlike. ‘I know you and Will didn’t know each other well at university, but if he trusts you, I trust you. As an outsider, I can be honest with you. Would that be fair?’
Poppy blinked to disguise the hurt she felt at hearing Will’s description of her. Sure, ever since they agreed to break off contact, they had been strangers to each other. But before that? It was another story entirely. She understood the need to omit some details, but it had been years. They were both over that, weren’t they?
Poppy sucked on her metal straw and tried to swallow without tasting anything. She’d stick to the instructions Lola gave her. If Will wanted to cherry pick the details of their shared history, that was his prerogative. ‘You can trust me. If it’s honesty we’re doing, I should say that I know my way around a camera – really well, in fact – but if you looked at my CV, it would say “photography teacher”. I don’t want you to feel misled.’
Ottilie placed her hand gently over Poppy’s, the band from her engagement ring clinking against Poppy’s mood ring that she had worn since she was thirteen years old. ‘I value honesty above everything else. Thank you.’ Poppy smirked, but Ottilie’s tone was sincere, which made it worse. Poppy rearranged her expression and nodded.
Ottilie interlocked her fingers in her lap. ‘If it’s universal truthdom we’re seeking, I’ll share something too. My yoga degree is fake. It got signed by a bohemian guy at Burning Man a few years ago – beautiful soul, but overfamiliar with women. Not in a #MeToo way, but he carried a lot of sun cream and would always be the first offer in when it came to putting it on. A public service, if you will. You can’t protect people from skin damage and be a creep, can you?’
‘I think you can, actually. No, wait, you definitely can.’
Ottilie ignored her and flashed a Colgate smile. ‘Tell me more about you. Good, bad, indifferent.’
‘Wow, where to start. I have the authority of a wet flannel. The kids cheer when they know I’m taking their lessons, not because they like me, but because I’m a total pushover. I love the little gits. Our school is consistently bottom of the league tables, but I wouldn’t be anywhere else. I will take bloody good photos for you because thanks to my newly acquired singledom, I’ve developed an intimate relationship with this camera,’ said Poppy, pointing to her bag. ‘Not like that,’ she added quickly, keen to correct herself, ‘but I care about my work and for the next couple of days, everything revolves around you and Will. And the booklet of corporate shots I have to take for The Mountgrave Foundation, but other than that you’re my top priority.’
‘You’re not photographing the wedding?’
‘Lola is ninety-nine per cent sure that your first choice will be here by then, so you don’t need to worry,’ Poppy lied. She didn’t want to consider that she’d have to get through a wedding when she was trying so hard to forget her own. ‘I’m entering a photography competition and my subjects are regurgitating fish guts somewhere over there,’ said Poppy, pointing to the distant puffins as they dive-bombed the water.
‘So that’s where you’re heading after Loxby?’
‘Yep. Nothing like puffin growling to drown out the internal noise of an existential crisis.’
‘God, the way you speak is so refreshing.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yeah. If you’ve spent more than five minutes in their company, you’ll know what I mean,’ said Ottilie.
‘I couldn’t say. I’ve met a few now. Lawrence as a brother-in-law, eh? That’ll keep Christmas lively.’
Ottilie sat up and retied the strings on her bikini top. ‘Oh, you have to ignore most of what he says. He and Will grew up in different homes and it isn’t half obvious. He has a bad rep, but as long as you keep him at arm’s length, you’ll be fine. Don’t tell anyone I said that. I won’t win any points by spreading gossip.’
‘Your secret is safe with me.’
Ottilie went to take Poppy’s half-drunk glass from her. ‘Oh, sorry, I thought you’d finished.’
‘Mmm. Yes. Let me just…’ Poppy slurped the last of the liquid and tried not to grimace as carbonated sludge slid down her throat. Ottilie took both glasses back to the fisherman’s hut, locked the door, and returned wearing a straw hat with a brim so wide it flopped down to rest on her shoulders. She slipped the key into her bikini top and offered a hand to help Poppy up, her engagement ring glittering like a disco ball.
‘Oh my God. Sorry, I just— How are you not sinking every time you get in the water wearing that? Is this the rock that killed the dinosaurs?’ said Poppy, turning Ottilie’s hand over to stare at the gargantuan gem balanced on her ring finger.
‘It’s a bit gauche, isn’t it? I know you can resize wedding rings, but apparently not the diamond,’ she shrugged. Poppy made a mental calculation about how much it had cost and hated herself for it.
Ottilie walked to the base of the stone steps and spoke to Poppy over her shoulder.
‘You know how Will and I met?’ Poppy shook her head. ‘Teaching. Something all three of us have in common.’
‘Ah, you have a propensity for masochism too?’
‘Oh, it’s not the horrible kind of teaching. We were in an orphanage in Vietnam, three years ago now. Bless him, he loved it there. My Will. Heart of solid gold. I wanted to bring them all home with me. The children, I mean. The locals called us Brad and Angelina. Funny, isn’t it?’ said Ottilie in a tone that implied she was secretly very proud of herself. Poppy didn’t agree. Using neglected children as a prop for goodness left a bad taste in her mouth. ‘I’d show you some pictures but I’m not on social media at the moment. That was a good idea Lola had, this blanket ban of posting online. When our engagement was announced, there was so much noise, I felt like I didn’t have control over how people saw me. Do you know what I mean?’
‘I do,’ said Poppy, and she meant it.
‘Will dotes on me. Really treats me like I’m the most important woman in the world.’
‘Oh, I thought he’d grown out of that,’ said Poppy, laughing.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The whole “treating like a princess” thing. He did have a bit of a reputation for it.’
‘I’m not sure I follow.’ Ottilie paused on the steps, her thin cotton dress almost see-through in the sunshine.
Poppy felt hot. She had overstepped a mark. Last night in the kitchens, she and Will had oscillated between awkwardness and the comfortable familiarity she remembered from their university halls. For a moment, a decade’s worth of distance had disappeared. Ottilie hadn’t known him then, but she knew him best now.
‘I just mean that he knows how to treat people properly. He’s what my dad calls a proper gent.’
‘Mmm.’ Ottilie twisted her hair into a lock and looked out across the cove. ‘This is such a magical time of day. I’ve got a beautician coming over to do a vampire facial and I don’t want the evidence on camera. Do you think you could focus your shots on The Mountgrave Foundation side of things until the wedding?’
‘No problem.’
As they reached a hairpin bend on the path, sticky and hot, Ottilie fell into step with Poppy and hooked an arm through her elbow. It felt strange. Lola wasn’t keen on physical contact and before that, the last person she’d touched was Josh, weeks ago when they were still kidding themselves about having emotionally redundant sex. Poppy’s back was slick with sweat by the time they reached the grotto. Ottilie, on the other hand, looked like she was glowing from the inside. If someone could bottle it for mass consumption, there’d be riots outside Superdrug.
‘Can I ask you a favour?’ said Ottilie. ‘I would ask a friend, but they’re not arriving for days.’
‘Sure, what is it?’
‘Will you have a chat with Will? Make sure he’s okay?’
Poppy hesitated. This felt a lot like being a messenger, which was a role she wasn’t keen to take on. ‘I can, but—’
‘I know you’re not hugely close, but I’m just not sure he can handle all that back-slapping, ball-and-chain banter that his father’s friends are so keen on. It’s so old-fashioned and I don’t want him to feel bullied. He’s too nice for his own good, isn’t he? I notice when these things take their toll before he does.’
Poppy nodded. How many more favours would she tangle herself in before her time on Loxby was finished? ‘I can do that. No problem.’
‘You being here is fate. I know it,’ said Ottilie. Poppy stopped. She tilted her head to listen to a screeching noise in the distance, her fingers poised over her camera bag.
Ottilie stiffened, eyes wide. ‘Is there a bug on my shoulder? Getitoffgetitoffgetitoff!’
Up on the terrace, shrieks and swear words carried on the breeze as gulls swooped beneath the awning. The sound of shattered glasses broke the calm serenity of the gardens. Waiters and guests jostled to retreat inside, shoulders bumping, trays clattering on the floor. Lord Mountgrave stumbled, a spattering of bird poo dripping down his left shoulder. He either didn’t care or was too drunk to notice.
Poppy and Ottilie skirted round the edge of the hotel, where a flock of gulls with sharp bills and indelicate wings crash-landed on the table, each grappling at a different leg of the fetid octopus as though competing in an avian tug-of-war.
With her shoulder to the wall, Poppy tried to find a clear path back inside without colliding with a gull. Ottilie burrowed into Poppy’s back and clutched her wrists from behind, using her as a human shield.
‘Cover your ears!’ said Lola, appearing at the French doors with a dinner gong. She clanged it with a ladle. The noise was so loud that the birds took off in a flurry of wings and squawking, leaving a mess of feathers and octopus innards strewn across the table.
‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ said Ottilie, ducking beneath Poppy’s arm to disappear inside.
