The Wedding Crasher, page 16
‘What? Oh, right,’ said Will, winding his arm around her waist.
‘Smile properly,’ said Ottilie. Will grinned, as though he were having a school picture taken. ‘Not like that.’ He stuck his tongue out. ‘Oh, honestly,’ said Ottilie, dropping her pose. She smiled at him, a small dimple in her cheek.
‘Hey, Poppy. How’s your friend? I heard her yelling at the waiting staff earlier,’ said Lawrence, lighting his roll-up.
‘Quite right too,’ said Ottilie. ‘I only just got the smell of fish juice out of my kaftan.’
‘She’s hot when she’s angry,’ said Josie, her consonants soft.
Poppy laughed. ‘Lola’s fine. Busy working behind the scenes, you know.’
‘Hey, you know what tonight is?’ said Will.
‘Wine tasting,’ said Poppy, reaching for her itinerary. ‘With a surprise, as yet unspecified. Bound to be a laugh. Speaking of which, Will, do you think the guests would be okay with something… a little out of the box? For tonight?’
Will nodded as he listened. Ottilie gave a too-quick smile. ‘Sounds intriguing,’ he said. ‘Especially considering that it’s switchover night, which means two things. One, Poppy, you’re joining in. I won’t take no for an answer. And two, this is when the real wedding fun starts.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that. It’s been mighty fun already,’ said Josie sarcastically, crossing her arms over her unbuttoned waistcoat. ‘Wine tasting? Old school, but okay. Although I don’t imagine it appeals to you anymore, Lawrence?’
‘More of a beer man?’ asked Poppy.
‘No, I’m a recovering alcoholic,’ said Lawrence, unabashed. Silence crept into their small circle of chatter. He shrugged. ‘It is what it is. Although if you say, “how admirable”, I might have to push you in the sea.’
‘Lawrence!’ said Ottilie. ‘Don’t put yourself down. You’ve done incredibly well. You’ll make poor Poppy feel awkward. Sorry about him.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ said Poppy, impressed by Lawrence’s honesty. ‘What are you going to do instead?’
‘Watch everyone get drunk and embarrass themselves, I expect. I might try mixing different types of squash to create a little mocktail if I really feel like pushing the boat out.’ Lawrence ran a hand through his hair and put his cigarette in his mouth. ‘Unless that’s too embarrassing for you, Ottilie,’ he said, looking at her as he flicked his lighter on.
Poppy felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to find a woman wearing a scalloped high-neck dress. Her heavily pencilled eyebrows disappeared into her curly hair as she bent towards Poppy with the air of someone who was used to whispering discreetly.
‘Hi, Lindsey Carmichael. Sommelier,’ she said a touch louder. ‘I’m a little confused about arrangements tonight. Would you be able to shed some light on the situation?’ she said in an Australian accent.
‘I’m not actually involved with the organisation,’ said Poppy, ‘so I’m not best placed to—’
‘Only that man seems to think he’s been booked as entertainment, which isn’t what I was expecting, as I’m sure you can appreciate.’
‘Hold on a minute. Will? Could you come with me a second?’ said Poppy, panicking.
A booming voice rang out across the terrace. ‘Ladies and jellyfish! If you’d like to make your way inside, the game is about to begin!’
‘Oh God…’ said Poppy, furiously scanning the crowd for Lola. Mike stood on a cushioned bench, arms wide like a televangelist, the corners of a sequined bowtie peeking out beneath his chin. Crystal stood beside him wearing a glittering minidress that hung from her collarbones, her hair freshly backcombed. She motioned towards the open door, a human disco ball in the face of low-angled sun and enough crystal beading to make Liberace seem modest.
‘What’re the logistics here?’ continued Lindsey, annoyed. ‘How am I supposed to work around them? I have a system, and that doesn’t involve being a sidekick to… whatever he’s been contracted for,’ said the sommelier as the crowd were chivvied inside.
‘Come on, kids! You’ll be last in line for a dabber,’ called Mike, walking towards them. Crystal handed a sheet of paper to a bemused-looking Lord Mountgrave and led him inside, her dress glittering as she sashayed on five-inch heels.
Assessing the situation from afar, Josie threw her arms around Ottilie and Lawrence and steered them away, giving Poppy a chance to talk to Will discreetly.
‘Will, I think there’s been a, er… slight booking mix-up,’ she said in a low voice.
‘You’re telling me, sweetheart!’ said Mike. ‘I don’t like fuss. I can work around this wine tasting malarkey, if she’ll not be precious about it. I’ll introduce her and all, which is something I charge extra for ordinarily. I’m a highly experienced Master of Ceremonies, if you ever need one,’ he said, producing a business card from his back pocket. ‘Same skills, different uniform. Crystal doesn’t come with me for those ones.’
‘This is not how I work,’ said the sommelier.
‘Well, we’re in a pickle then, aren’t we?’ said Mike.
Will rubbed his chin, quietly entertained by the discussion. ‘What is it you do, Mike?’
‘Sorry, fella,’ said Mike, holding out a hand for Will to shake. ‘Mind my manners. Tonight, I’m Magic Mike and I’ve brought my Big Bingo Balls.’
‘Bingo?’ said Will. ‘Seriously?’
‘Will, I think Lola will be able to fix this,’ said Poppy, her stomach swooping like a seabird.
‘Fix what?’ he said, positively lit from within. ‘This is brilliant! Is Ottilie behind it? She must have been,’ said Will, pumping Mike’s hand with enthusiasm. ‘It’s a pleasure, mate! From one ex-caller to another.’
‘You’re… pleased?’ said Poppy cautiously.
‘Yeah, I used to do the calling down at the old folks’ home in Stoke Gifford. I volunteered for something to do when I was waiting for an exam re-mark after everyone moved away after graduation. I loved it. Great banter, sociable hours, and an endless supply of biscuits. What a buzz.’
‘Wow… okay!’ said Poppy, clapping her hands.
Although Mike looked buoyed by Will’s unexpected passion, Lindsey was slowly turning the colour of claret. Poppy scanned through her usual conflict management strategies. With students, providing two equally unsatisfactory choices usually worked, along with threats to write home to their parents. With Josh, tactical avoidance kept conflict at bay most of the time. She went with a variation of the first option. ‘Could you take it in turns?’ asked Poppy. ‘Bingo, wine, bingo, wine, etcetera?’
‘Fine by me,’ said Mike, his thumbs hooked through his belt loops.
‘Lindsey?’
The sommelier pinched the bridge of her nose and fluttered a smile. ‘I’m sure we’ll manage,’ she said in a monotone.
‘Come on, fella,’ said Mike, putting his arm across Will’s shoulders. ‘If you’re lucky, I’ll let you call the second game.’
Chapter Nineteen
‘I’ve seen a scorecard before, but not one like this. Excuse me. Excuse me!’
Poppy turned, still reluctant to assume any authority over a situation she had somehow helped construct. ‘You all right?’
‘How do you score categories on this?’ said a man to her left. He flicked his card and sat back in his chair, arms crossed.
‘Categories?’
‘Clarity, colour, complexity. Usually, it’s a round score of ten, but this one goes all the way to ninety-nine and all the bloody numbers are out of order,’ he said.
‘They’re not categories,’ said Will, bounding over to her rescue. ‘They’re to score bingo games. When they call a number, you dab it off on your page and if you get a line or a full house, you shout out. Nicola, you’ve played before, haven’t you?’
‘Of course I have. Don’t worry, I’ll set you right if you get muddled,’ said Nicola, who sat across the table. ‘Whenever we put a set of bingo dabbers on the shopping channel, they’re a guaranteed sell-out. Oh, Will, what do we shout for a win?’
He patted his future mother-in-law’s shoulder and gestured to the stage. ‘Magic Mike’s going to let us know in a minute.’
‘Magic Mike?’ she said, brightening. ‘You’ve really pushed the boat out. I would have worn my glasses if I’d known. Can you seat me closer to the front?’
‘Nicola, compose yourself,’ said Ottilie’s father, who joined them from the bar.
‘It’s not quite what you think,’ Poppy interjected. ‘I’d sit further back, if anything.’ Poppy sidestepped, lifted her camera, and took a picture down the long table as guests settled into their seats, their faces a spectrum from wine-softened smiles to looks of profound confusion.
Will put an arm around Poppy’s shoulder, and it felt both warm and familiar. He looked comfortable in the face of chaos, like she remembered him being when they first started university. Perhaps it was because Will had been born into the limbo land of privilege that he was able to tune out drama like it was a radio station he wasn’t much interested in. Despite his chameleon tendencies, it seemed neither of them knew how to seamlessly end a friendship hiatus that spanned a decade.
Poppy had never been a fan of rocking the boat. She had experienced enough turbulence growing up to develop an early detection radar that constantly oscillated into adulthood. It was as though her parents had learnt the best methods of aggravation from old episodes of EastEnders: ripped work shirts, salty food, and dinner in the bin having all featured at some point in their relationship. So absorbed in their world of pithy comebacks, Poppy’s adolescence had involved nights spent picking from a bucket of cheap chicken, taking herself to bed, and shouldering her father’s dirty clothes to the laundrette. When she left home, Poppy had made a vow that the only drama she would experience in the future would come vicariously through Lola.
Seeing how happy Will was, Poppy stood a little taller. In that, little had changed. When she left home, Poppy had realised that repetitively watching Amélie on her own wasn’t exactly conducive to making friends. Will had offered a gentle hand in the small of her back, a reassurance that she was interesting enough as she was. Being around him again, she felt exposed, like she was missing a rib and Will was the only one who knew.
The shrill sound of feedback cut through the chatter as Will stepped onto a raised platform in front of four long tables, a microphone in hand. ‘Hi – is this on? It is? Cool, cool. I just wanted to come up here to say a few words.’
‘The wedding’s not till Saturday, William!’ shouted Paul Spruce. Lord Mountgrave erupted with laughter alongside the gaggle of port-flushed faces around him. Will blushed with embarrassment. Poppy had a strong desire to punch them all in the throat.
‘Dad has always found it difficult to separate family from business—’
‘Buckle up, Colin! The boy’s building up to a roast!’ With an obnoxious air of rugby banter, a man leant over the back of his chair to slap Lord Mountgrave on the back, who pretended to bite his nails in an expression of worry.
‘I’ll save that for your retirement party, Dad. I do want to say thank you to the family, friends, associates, and old mates for staying on for our celebrations this week,’ said Will, catching Poppy’s eye. ‘As a family, we’ve had our moments, like all families do. But we always stick a hand out for each other. There’s a reason we come back to Loxby every year, and it’s not just for the annual Mountgrave conference. Some of you have been solid features of my summers since I first started coming here as a teenager.’ Will cleared his throat and looked across to his father, the shadow of a frown still visible. Lord Mountgrave gave him the smallest of nods. ‘The Mountgrave Foundation is the sum of all the people in it. You, here today. Of the many things to celebrate, I’m so happy you’re here to witness my marriage.’
Ottilie’s parents began to clap, intimating that others should join in. ‘Spoken like a true Chief Exec, don’t you think?’ said Nicola, loudly enough for it to be obvious that she wasn’t concerned about being overheard.
‘With that, I’d like to thank my fiancée, my light, my Ottilie.’
Ottilie paused, a glass of wine halfway to her mouth.
‘They say compromise is the key to happiness, which is why I chose wine tasting for her, and she chose bingo for me.’
Poppy glanced at Ottilie, wondering if she would correct his misplaced assumption. She didn’t.
‘Years ago, I told Ottilie about the happy summer I spent with the best geriatrics this side of south Bristol. She remembered,’ Will shook his head, joyfully surprised. ‘I hope you’ve got your glasses full, because I can’t think of a better way to kick off our celebrations. I’ll hand over to Mike. Take it away, mate!’
Crystal hit play on the portable sound deck. A noise that resembled an ice cream truck remix of Tyson Fury’s entrance music boomed into the dining hall. Crystal chandelier drops quivered from the ceiling bracket. Will stepped down from the platform as Mike took to the stage.
‘’Allo, ’allo, ’allo!’ said Mike. He took the microphone out of the stand, flicked it behind his back, and caught it over his shoulder. As he passed her, Will motioned for Poppy to sit next to him near the head of the table. She poured herself a glass of wine from an ice bucket, the glass deliciously cool in her hand. Will planted a kiss on Ottilie’s cheek as he sat down. She took his face in her hands and kissed him back.
‘Oh, would you cop an eyeful of the betrothed! They’ll be printing your faces on a teapot at this rate. Okay, who’s ready to bag a full house!’
As the evening lengthened, the sun tipped the last of its warmth inside, fuggy and thick. In a move that Poppy couldn’t have predicted, Mike had successfully thawed the crowd. Snobbish scepticism was surpassed by the idea of competition, signified when Lawrence emptied an ice bucket and hustled up and down the tables for fifty-pound notes to use as prize money. Although the sommelier had tried to discuss the merits of astringent grapes during the comfort break, she gave up once the heat of the room rose to the extent that someone asked for ice cubes for their glass. When she stopped talking, no one noticed. Instead, the waiting staff distributed bottles like party bags, which only added to the commotion.
Mike’s voice boomed through the room as he walked between the tables. ‘Now, my usual crowd are sticklers for silence and like things done the traditional way. Oh, yes! It’s not marrying your cousins and shooting pheasant for Boxing Day, but bingo is sacred. The game is pure! And a dickie bird told me that the stakes can be made that little bit higher by throwing a wager into the mix.’
Poppy scrolled through the pictures she’d taken so far that night and smiled, tapping Will on the arm to show him her screen. There were pert cheeks, dropped shoulders, and heads turned in laughter. If you squinted, they looked like a group of people who actually liked each other.
‘Hey, can you take this for a while?’ said Lawrence, clicking to get Poppy’s attention. ‘If you leave it with me, I’ll spend it on one of those ridiculously large bottles of Laurent-Perrier. Taking the bullets out of the gun, etcetera, etcetera,’ said Lawrence, handing her an ice bucket with a self-deprecating smile. When Poppy looked inside, she pushed it back against his chest.
‘How much is in there?!’ she asked.
‘Not sure,’ he said, looking at the notes. ‘Ten grand? Twenty?’
‘Bloody hell, I don’t want it.’
‘Why?’
‘Too much responsibility.’
‘If you don’t take it, I’m going to blame you for the drunken relapse I’m going to have in approximately’—he checked a heavy watch on his wrist—‘sixteen minutes.’
‘I can’t tell if you’re being serious,’ said Poppy.
Lawrence shrugged. ‘Do you want to find out?’
‘Fine. But for the record, I’m doing this for Will.’
‘Oh, we’re all doing this for Will,’ said Lawrence, his voice thick.
Poppy shifted the ice bucket onto her hip. ‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s the prize, chaps and chaparoonies!’ Mike’s voice boomed down the microphone. Lawrence squinted and tilted his head in a melodrama of confusion as everyone swivelled in their seats to stare at Poppy. She lifted the ice bucket above her head like a trophy and tried her best to smile, but Lawrence’s words were knocking together inside her skull. What was he getting at?
‘Next one to call a full house wins the lot. We haven’t got a gambling licence, mind, so if it’s you, note it down as a gifted donation. Preaching to the choir here, ain’t I? When was the last time you filled out your expenses properly?’ he said, offering the microphone to Ottilie’s father. ‘On second thought, don’t answer that. I can’t afford to go to court again.’
Josie leant forward, beckoning Poppy closer. The table corner poked her in the stomach as she looked down at Josie’s messy bingo card.
‘I can’t keep up with this,’ said Josie, leaning back in her chair. ‘You take mine. Stick this in the pot too,’ she said, handing Poppy a neat roll of one hundred dollar bills along with her dabber. ‘It’s my penalty for showing up unannounced.’ Josie sucked on an e-cigarette and blew the vapour over her shoulder. ‘I’m expecting a promotion soon, so y’know, I’m feeling charitable.’
With the ice bucket wedged between her knees, Poppy thought of all the things she could buy with the money that others had cast aside as loose change. A new deposit if Josh made it difficult to get her share out of the house. A DSLR camera and a dozen different lenses. A darkroom for her students.
‘Eyes down. Here we go. Goodness me, number three. Get up and run, thirty-one. Up to tricks, thirty-six.’
The sound of fervour grew like microwave popcorn; initially, nothing, then frequent, overlapping eruptions of gasps and squeals as numbers disappeared and cards filled up.
‘Ah, it’s me!’ squealed Nicola. Ottilie groaned with embarrassment. ‘Bingo? Bingo! Bingo!’
Crystal hit play on ‘Celebrate Good Times’ by Kool & the Gang as Mike started a round of applause.
