The Wedding Crasher, page 15
‘Don’t wave that around, babe. You’ll get rugby tackled by Big Steve if he catches you with a phone out. He looks like Bear Grylls on steroids. Delicious.’
Poppy saluted her friend, turned her phone off, and tucked it away. Whoever invented the phrase ‘out of sight, out of mind’ hadn’t experienced multi-platform communication. The phone burnt a hole in her pocket. Poppy gestured to Lola’s jostling knee. ‘What’s with the twitch?’
‘Oh, that’s nerves and the half kilo of sugar I’ve consumed in Pepsi form. My teeth ache, but I’ve got to be allowed some sort of vice or I’ll start murdering people.’ Lola interlocked her hands behind her neck and pulled to relieve the tension, her chin tilted back. ‘The quartet I’ve booked to play at the wine tasting should be arriving on the sea tractor soon. Musicians,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘They don’t trust a double bass on a speedboat, apparently.’
‘Sound logic,’ said Poppy. Lola spread a napkin across her lap, pinched a cheese-covered jalapeño, and dropped it into her mouth. ‘Ah, that’s the good stuff,’ she said through a mouthful. As she tore her bread up into small pieces, she gave Poppy a look that made her feel like a spotlight had been switched on above her head.
‘Speaking of logic, have you put your house up for sale yet?’
‘You know, I think these might be the best chips I’ve ever eaten,’ said Poppy, holding her fork at head height. Lola sat back and crossed a leg over her knee, as though this proved her point exactly.
‘Don’t tell me he’s still there.’
‘Can you see any vinegar?’
Lola swiped the chip from Poppy’s fork and bit into it. Her stern expression softened immediately. ‘Shit me, these are good.’
‘Told you.’
Lola swallowed and wiped her fingers on a napkin. ‘Now stop avoiding the question.’
‘It’s not not up for sale,’ said Poppy, mashing the end of her gherkin with the side of her fork. ‘I left my details with a few estate agents a couple of months ago, but they’re all so pushy. I get ten calls a day from different blokes, all called Jack or Dan. It’s too much.’
‘Do you know what I consider too much? Living in a house with your ex-husband when he’s been a toxic bellend for the majority of your time together.’
‘Lola, I don’t want to talk about it right now.’
‘Then when?’
‘I don’t know, next week? Next month? Next millennium?’
‘You avoided my calls for months. I considered driving up when you had half-term but Mum had to borrow the car. Is Josh making things difficult again? Stupid question, but seriously.’
Poppy rubbed her temples. ‘Of course he is. I can’t put my finger on how, but I feel totally paralysed every time I know he’s in the house.’
‘Not in a sex way, I hope,’ said Lola, her eyes narrow.
‘Nope, not anymore. We stopped shagging long after we stopped talking. In hindsight, that is weird, isn’t it?’
‘It served you for a time. We learn, we grow,’ said Lola.
Poppy sat back in the booth and interlocked her fingers in her lap. ‘I play out every possible confrontation before it happens. I’ll go to make a tea, but then think about the comment he’ll make when I leave the spoon on the side. Then I’ll put it in the dishwasher too loudly and he’ll say, “Don’t be petty,” and I’ll get angry, then he’ll call me hysterical and turn the TV up. He’s unfazed. Did you know I’m still paying for Sky Sports? Me. Paying for Sky Sports.’
‘What are you doing, Poppy?’ said Lola, frustration and sorrow softening her voice. Poppy’s throat tightened.
‘I’m tired. I’m really fucking tired. At work, I pretend like everything’s fine because he’s going for a promotion and doesn’t want any “lingering awkwardness” to affect his reputation, which – of course – ensures we have awkwardness by the bucketload. We’re civilised in front of our colleagues, but I feel like the Victorian governess he’s shagging on the sly. I can’t socialise because he’s there trying to be everyone’s pal and constantly chirps the female trainees. I can’t talk to Dad because he always brings it back to money. You’ve been busy with your career – and I love that for you. It’s not a swipe. I keep busy making weird little films in the attic so that the kids at school don’t take pictures of me in the Sainsbury’s Local buying gin and a tub of Cadbury roses every Friday night. He hasn’t changed a thing about his life since we split. So what does that say about me? How can he make out that I was the foundation of his fucking existence, make grand declarations of love in front of total strangers, then shrug me off when it comes to this? Like it was me holding him back for the past decade?’
Lola threw her hands up. ‘Of course that’s what he’s doing! What begins with a ‘j’, ends with ‘u’ and has “Josh-is-gaslighting-you” in the middle?’
Poppy blinked. ‘You can’t just throw that phrase around to take down everyone you don’t like.’
‘Me hating Josh has nothing to do with it. I’m not that insensitive.’
‘I feel like an idiot. Every single day. I wake up in the attic, look at the sky, and see “Poppy is a doormat” written in the clouds. You know the worst thing? I’ve stopped feeling happy about anything, even other people’s good news. My classroom assistant got engaged last week and I wanted to scream “It’s a trap!” like Admiral Ackbar in Star Wars.’
Lola tapped the table with her nails. ‘If you can’t sell the house right now, why doesn’t he rent somewhere?’
‘Because we can’t free up funds until I’ve sold the house. It’s a chicken and egg scenario. There’s no point in us both paying rent and a mortgage.’
‘This split is final, isn’t it?’
‘We’re getting divorced, aren’t we?’
‘It sounds like you’re still doing all the emotional labour in your relationship, so is a divorce a divorce if it looks and smells like a relationship?’
‘It was my decision, so it’s not a surprise that I’m also doing the heavy lifting.’
‘That sounds parroted, straight up. Threaten him with the lawyer card if you need to.’
Poppy pushed her plate to the side and stood up, coordinated almost exactly with the sound of Lola’s watch bleeping.
‘Here we go, love. Man and a woman? They’ve got a chest with them,’ said Greg, leaning so far out of the window that all attempts at covert surveillance were lost. ‘I couldn’t hear the tractor – the wind’s blowing in the other direction.’
‘I love it when things happen on time. There should be four. Are there four?’ said Lola, swinging her bag onto her shoulder.
‘Nope. Unless there’s another fella in the box. They look a bit confused if I’m honest.’
‘I’m on it,’ said Lola, initiating battle mode.
Poppy dragged a chip along her plate to mop up the ketchup and stood up, chewing. ‘I’ll come with you. If you need me to, I can run a message up to the hotel on my way back.’
Lola blew her a kiss. ‘You might get a hug at the end of this,’ she said, grinning. They left the pub and stepped over a sun-bleached rope attached to a dinghy that had seen better days.
‘If that happens, I’ll pop with joy,’ said Poppy, falling into stride beside her.
Chapter Eighteen
‘Hi, how was the trip over? Not too bumpy, I hope?’
‘I’ve travelled in a minibus to the arse end of England with a dicky tummy for company, so that was a breeze, love,’ said the man, gesturing to the sea tractor as it performed a clunky turning circle in the shallows. He stuck his sausage fingers out to greet Lola. ‘You the one who booked us?’
‘Yes…’ said Lola, hesitating. Poppy looked between her friend and the man. Was she? Going by the burst thread veins on his cheeks, Poppy would have guessed he was the sommelier rather than the musician.
‘My wife and colleague, Crystal.’ The man stood to the side, revealing a waif-like woman with hair at once so large and so blonde that Poppy made a mental note to avoid standing near her with a lit match.
‘Crystal? I don’t think I have a Crystal on my list,’ said Lola, scrolling through her iPad.
‘Stage name,’ said the man. ‘My name’s Mike. Not so glamorous, but you can throw “Magic” in front and it works well for children’s parties and hen do’s. Not at the same time, mind. I’ve got a DBS.’
‘Good to know,’ said Poppy, holding a smile as she turned to Lola.
‘I’ll be straight with you ladies, I thought we were doing a charity gala somewhere else, but this ain’t the first time the agency has given us the wrong details, is it?’ said Mike, running a finger round the collar of his shirt as the sun pummelled his back.
Crystal rolled her eyes and pursed her burgundy lips. ‘Oh, not half. It’s why we have a broad repertoire. Give us a crowd and we’ll show them a good time, any age, any gender. Just make sure we’re back on the mainland by midnight so we don’t get charged for the overnight car park.’
‘Where are we heading?’ asked Mike. ‘The wife will need to change.’
Crystal waved a garment bag, her sinewy arm strained under the weight of what sounded like a heavily beaded dress. ‘Got a loo I can use?’
‘Uh, yes. I’ve set up a green room behind the ballroom.’
Crystal smacked Mike on the arm, her heavily kohled eyes wide. ‘See, I told you this place looked fancy. Ballroom.’
‘You know, I think I will wear the bowtie, love. Did you pack it?’
‘Yep, underneath your emergency pants.’
‘You beauty. Let’s hop to it. Will one of you grab the other end of this when we reach the stairs?’ he said, gesturing to the wheeled trunk. ‘I don’t suppose there’s an escalator or something?’
‘No, it’s a deep breath, firm thighs sort of situation,’ said Poppy, pointing to the bottom of the cliff-side path that zigzagged up towards the hotel. Lola clutched Poppy’s elbow, allowing a gap to open between them and the couple ahead.
‘Where are their fucking instruments?’ she whispered, a deep line set in her brow.
‘A good question. Perhaps they’ve got collapsible cellos?’ Poppy offered.
‘I was supposed to be getting a quartet! What do these two do? Play with a bow in each hand?’
Lola took out her iPad as they walked, brought up an email, and slowed her strides across the harbour, her heels counting the seconds with each hollow clunk on the wood.
‘Who were you expecting?’ asked Poppy.
‘Michael, Janette, Lauren, and Oliver. Graduates of the Bristol Conservatoire.’
‘Well then, who the hell are these two?’
Mike paused on the bend, a damp sweat patch blooming between his shoulder blades. ‘You coming, girls?’
‘Girls? Ergh,’ said Poppy. ‘I’m twenty-nine years old.’
‘Mike!’ called Lola. ‘Before you go any further, can I ask you both to sign this?’ She opened up a document on her iPad and turned the screen towards him.
‘Wanting autographs already?’ asked Mike, tugging on the lapels of his jacket.
‘It’s an NDA. Sign at the bottom. It means you can’t tell anyone that you were here, or who you saw, and any picture, video, or audio captures could end in a lawsuit.’
‘That’s a bit OTT, isn’t it?’ said Crystal.
‘Not at all,’ replied Lola with authority, scrolling through her phone as she waited for them to sign.
‘Stage name or government name?’ said Mike.
‘Whichever you’d prefer on summons papers in the event that you break the terms listed,’ said Lola.
With that, Mike and Crystal signed with their index fingers.
‘I’ve got to make a quick phone call. Poppy, would you see them up? I’ll follow you in a mo.’ She gave Poppy a look that hinted at delay tactics.
‘Ah, thought you’d left me to lug this up by myself. You grab that handle,’ said Mike.
Poppy swung her camera onto her back and listened in to one side of a faint, but angry phone call further down the stairs. That wasn’t a good sign. When they reached the top, Mike collapsed onto a bench that looked across the sea towards the mainland.
‘Jesus Christ. Have you got my inhaler, Crystal?’
‘Here you are, sweet,’ said Crystal. She unzipped her leather bum bag to remove a blue cannister from beneath a pack of fruit polos and a box of paracetamol. ‘I’ll go and see where we’re setting up.’
‘Would you wait a minute? I think Lola needs to clear you with security—’
‘You’re all right, sweetheart. I’ve experienced it all in my time,’ said the woman, her smile so gummy the diamante on her front tooth glinted in the sun. For Mountgrave-calibre entertainment, something wasn’t adding up. Poppy rushed back to the cliff path, where Lola was finishing her call.
‘I listened to your argument – respectfully, I might add – but there are presidential campaigns more believable than this.’ She paused and held a finger up to Poppy. ‘The deposit? Are you on another planet? You’re not having it until you’re here. That was the deal. Learn to read!’ Lola hung up, her expression balanced on a tightrope somewhere between despair and rage.
‘Lola, I don’t know how to say this, but—’
‘Magic Mike isn’t an ambidextrous musician? No, no he most definitely is not. The fucking sea tractor picked up the wrong people; our quartet got on a boat in the opposite direction and are currently sitting by a lighthouse in Brixham wondering where the hotel is. Meanwhile, Terry ignored my very specific instruction to check for ID and didn’t think to question these two, so we’ve got Mike’s backstreet entertainment, but I’m not entirely sure what he does or whether it involves his penis.’
‘Can you get the quartet back in time?’
‘The tractor isn’t running anymore.’
‘Speedboat?’
‘Pfft, this isn’t James Bond. There isn’t one tucked in a lair for emergencies— Oh,’ Lola’s voice trailed off. Poppy gestured around them to emphasise how very likely that unlikely situation seemed to be. ‘Big Steve on security can legally surpass the speed limit because he’s got a special badge.’
‘I assume he doesn’t like it being described as his “special badge”?’
‘No. He gets twitchy, but it’s fun to prod the bear.’
‘How long would it take for him to fetch the quartet and bring them over here?’ asked Poppy.
‘A couple of hours? Bit longer?’
‘That’s cutting it fine. Wine tasting kicks off from seven, right?’ said Poppy, consulting the ring-bound itinerary that Lola had given her.
Lola chewed her lip. ‘Can you sound Mike and Crystal out? See if whatever they do is appropriate to keep the Mountgrave crowd distracted?’ She looked suspiciously at the couple hovering nearby, waiting for instructions. ‘Sign it off with Will if you can find him. I’ll go and see Big Steve. After that, I fully intend to lock you in your bedroom so no one can ask you to do any more favours. And by no one, I mean me.’
‘What would you do if I wasn’t here?’ said Poppy, not entirely as a rhetorical question.
‘I’d be sitting in a corner trying to multiply myself like an amoeba. Basically, anything it takes to make this week a success.’
The late afternoon sun dipped past a swirl of low-hanging clouds. She calculated the light levels and knew the reduced glare meant better photos of puffins diving for herring in the shallows. Poppy sighed. Yet more photos she wouldn’t be able to take.
‘It’s a bit crass, don’t you think?’ said a woman with teeth so large she looked like a caricature. ‘Southern hemisphere wine is what you palm off on colleagues you don’t much like.’
‘Don’t say that to Paul Spruce; he’s got stakes in Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc,’ said her friend, nibbling at an onion pierced on a silver cocktail stick.
‘Oh, not that he’s mentioned it once.’
‘You are bad.’
‘Like his wine. You can tell he’s inexperienced. By the sound of it, he has more fakes in his collection than he knows what to do with and what’s worse, they’re far nicer than the ones he produces. Are you taking the picture or not?’ snapped the woman, looking at Poppy over the rim of her sunglasses.
‘I thought you’d prefer me to wait until you’d stopped talking.’
‘If I worked on that principle, I’d never finish a conversation,’ said the woman, who simultaneously drained her martini and looked over her shoulder for another.
Poppy bit her lip and tried her best not to smirk. ‘All done,’ she said, clicking the shutter.
Of all the nature documentaries she had seen, there was surely nothing quite so fascinating as a room full of people who bonded over conversations about the best yacht skipper for cruising the Aegean. Poppy watched them through the viewfinder of her camera, David Attenborough narrating the scene in her mind’s eye. ‘Here, we see the male Homo sapiens attempting to challenge the alpha status of his peer by associating a knowledge of wine with his own virile attempts to maintain authority.’ Poppy twisted her lens and zoomed in on the path that ran alongside the hotel, but there was no sign of Lola yet.
Behind a line of perfectly spherical shrubs, Will, Ottilie, Lawrence, and Josie stood in a circle, distinct and youthful. They held an air of intentional, styled elegance, their outfits complementing one other like models on adjacent pages of Vogue. If Poppy stumbled across them in her normal life, she would never have assumed Will was with them. At university, he had once attended a costume party dressed as an Amazon package and used the leftover box as his laundry basket for the next six months. To call him ‘unusually groomed’ would be an understatement – a verdict she happily appreciated from afar.
Snap. She took a picture. Josie stood back, her grey hair combed in a heavy side-parting. Poppy squatted, framing the group in a glow of cloud-softened sunshine. Snap. Will spotted her and bent to waist level, gurning down the lens. Poppy laughed. Snap. Ottilie rolled her eyes. Snap. Lawrence slowly licked a tobacco paper. Snap, snap, snap.
Will gestured for her to join them.
‘Photos! Here,’ said Ottilie, interlocking her fingers as she dangled from Will’s shoulder, chin down, mouth like a little duck.
