The Wedding Crasher, page 17
‘Right, that was a warm-up round. A rubber duck for you, lovie,’ he said. ‘Nice if you’ve got a dog. All right, let’s call a five-minute break. I need a sit down and you lot could do with a door open. Next round we’re upping the ante. No cheating. I’ll know about it!’ Mike tapped the side of his nose, stepped off the stage, and shuffled towards the bathroom with a hand on his zipper.
As the room broke into chatter, Ottilie stood up and stretched. From behind, she made a show of draping her arms around Will’s shoulders, but her eyes kept darting towards Lawrence. He watched her, lazily traced the lip of his glass, and went back to his conversation with Josie, ignoring Ottilie as she nestled into Will’s shoulder.
‘I think we can safely say that the bingo has been a success,’ said Poppy, reaching across the table for a crostini. She smiled at Will. It was the first time all week that Poppy had seem him truly at ease.
‘I’d say so! Thanks again,’ he said, squeezing Ottilie’s arm. ‘Such a good surprise.’
Ottilie breezed over his comment and looked at the table behind them. ‘If Mum wins, we’ll never hear the end of it,’ she said.
Will laughed. ‘It’s not like competitiveness is unusual in your family. Every Christmas, Ottilie’s parents run a championship of games and the loser has to wash up after Christmas dinner.’
‘Surely that’s a doddle when your parents sell cleaning products for a living?’ said Lawrence with an undertone of sarcasm. It went unnoticed by Will, but not Ottilie.
‘Actually, they oversaw the business, then sold it off,’ said Ottilie, scowling. She rolled her tongue around her mouth. ‘Don’t you find bingo a bit grabby? Us all sat here like we’re gannets squabbling over chips.’
‘Ottie is only in a sulk because she hates losing,’ said Will, pulling her onto his lap.
‘I do not!’
‘So you hate winning?’ said Lawrence.
‘No, I just mean… never mind. You’re putting words in my mouth.’ She angled her sharp chin over her shoulder.
‘Come on, Ottie,’ said Lawrence, ‘these are your last few nights of freedom. Lighten up.’
Poppy drummed her fingers and hummed, eager to dispel the tension that had crept across the table. Lawrence lowered his forearms and leant forward, a muscle in his neck twitching as Ottilie tried her best to ignore him. Will stroked her upper arm absentmindedly, his attention pulled away as the noise escalated around them.
‘Hello, you gorgeous lot! How are we doing?’ said Lola. Poppy jumped at her arrival, the ice bucket between her knees clattering to the floor. She disappeared beneath the table and scooped the scattered notes back inside, peeling a damp twenty from the leather sole of Josie’s shoe. When she emerged, she was so happy to see Lola, she could have kissed her.
‘What’s all this about?’ asked Lola, pointing to the bucket. ‘That’s not for the stripper, is it?’
‘Don’t spoil the big surprise,’ said Lawrence, unbuttoning the collar of his shirt.
‘No one needs to see that,’ said Josie, amused. The beginning of a laugh twinged in the corner of Ottilie’s mouth, but she still refused to make eye contact.
‘If Ottilie’s dad beats my dad at bingo, I worry that he’ll be shoulder blades up in the bay by morning. Dad has got a weird alpha male thing going on this week – have you noticed?’ asked Will.
‘When does Dad not have a weird alpha male thing going on?’ replied Lawrence.
‘Good point,’ said Josie, far more interested in the conversation now that Lola was here. She tore the crust from a dinner roll and scooped up a dollop of tapenade. ‘It’s why he finds me so intimidating. He doesn’t understand that I have a masculine energy he couldn’t achieve even if he bathed in Old Spice and rode a bison to the boardroom each morning.’
‘I think he doesn’t like you because you snogged the woman he was dating before he married Valerie,’ said Lawrence.
‘That woman has been my girlfriend for seven years now, so he needs to learn when to bow out. Anyway, Paul is swimming in safe waters. My brother isn’t interested in merging with the Spruce business. No offence, Ottilie.’
‘None taken,’ she replied.
‘It’s the board he’s trying to win over. You know they’re planning on holding the vote for who’s going to be the next CEO at the end of the week?’
‘Really?’ said Lawrence.
‘Yup. You know what the market is like. Progressive CEOs are great, but you’ve got to make sure that no surprise skeletons are thumping at the closet door. Trust can tank, just like that,’ she said, clicking her fingers. ‘Apparently I don’t count, since I’m permanently out of said closet. These two though’—she gestured to Ottilie and Will—‘make Will a particularly appealing doe-eyed contender.’
‘Not you too,’ said Will with a groan. ‘I’ve got no idea why Dad thinks I’d be any good. I’m not interested.’
‘You’re right,’ said Josie. ‘An office with an in-house massage therapist does sound pretty shitty.’
‘If Will’s in line for CEO, I might actually be given a division to manage rather than doing my penance as Dad’s chief ball tickler,’ said Lawrence.
‘You tickle your dad’s balls?’ asked Poppy, feigning naivety.
‘No, he tells me which balls to tickle and off I go, metaphorical feather in hand. I’m not a pervert. Most of the time, at least.’
Unmoved by either the news of balls or business, Will tapped the table and pushed everyone’s scorecards towards them. ‘Last game is starting any minute.’
‘So, people are… enjoying themselves?’ said Lola, scepticism underlaying her words.
‘Absolutely,’ replied Lawrence.
‘Really? I didn’t think this would be your thing,’ said Will, as though he couldn’t tell whether his brother was actually telling the truth.
Lawrence nodded. ‘Sure. I haven’t had this much fun sober since I was thirteen and Dad paid for us to have a tour of The Fresh Prince of Bel Air set. Although I do think that the majority of people in this room think your Magic Mike chap is a character actor as opposed to a genuine native of Skegness. I heard someone claim they’d seen him on Live at the Apollo earlier,’ said Lawrence.
Ottilie stretched like a cat and picked up the chunky dabber. ‘I guess I could give it another go.’ Will grinned and kissed her on the cheek.
Poppy leant back to speak covertly with Lola. ‘What’s happening with the quartet?’
‘We picked them up from Brixham, but by the time we got them to the harbour here it was bloody obvious that they were off their tits on some bathtub cider that they’d picked up from a farm shop whilst they waited for us. Five quid for three litres. Objectively, a bargain, but now they haven’t even got the coordination to play “Hot Cross Buns” on a recorder. Between the quartet and pound-shop Magic Mike, I didn’t anticipate that classical musicians would embarrass themselves first.’ Lola jerked her head, indicating that she wanted Poppy to follow her. By an open window at the edge of the room, she turned her back to the table. ‘Why is Ottilie saying she organised the bingo?’
‘No idea. Although I wouldn’t point it out now; it’ll break Will’s heart. He’s having the time of his life.’
The sound of heavy breathing signified Mike’s return to the stage, accompanied by an unnecessary pirouette from Crystal.
‘Here we go, folks! The jackpot prize game. Ooh-er. Whoever wins, just a note that we prefer tips in cash. All right, eyes down!’
‘I’m going to watch from over there,’ said Lawrence, tipping his glass of water into a flower arrangement as he got up. He reached the bar, or more specifically, he reached the waitress behind the bar and gestured to his empty glass with a coy smile. A hush descended in the room.
‘Man alive, fifty-five.’
The soft squish of dabbers sounded around the room. Poppy sat back down and looked at the scorecard Josie had given her. One down.
‘Unlucky for some, thirteen.’
Poppy dabbed again.
‘You’re missing them, Ottie,’ whispered Will, placing two fingers on her card to mark the numbers whilst he kept up with his own.
‘No more fun, thirty-one.’
Three out of three.
‘Okay, okay. I think I’m winning. Am I winning?’ said Ottilie, dabbing two more numbers on her card.
‘I don’t know, Poppy looks pretty sharp.’
Poppy missed a number, but her heart was racing. Three numbers stood between her and more money than she’d ever had in her savings. But even if she did win, she shouldn’t accept it, should she? She wasn’t strictly a guest. She wasn’t strictly working, either. If the booked photographer arrived tomorrow and relieved her from this strange purgatory she found herself in, she couldn’t do it with thousands of pounds stuffed in her hiking boots.
‘Sock on the door, number four.’
Another one down. Will looked at her card, eyes wide. Chatter buzzed like sandflies hovering above the bowed heads of the guests. At the other end of the room, the gilded double doors that separated the dining hall and the atrium swung back and forth like a metronome, the back of Lawrence’s head disappearing as he passed through. Ottilie slowly placed the cap on her pen and closed her eyes.
‘Are you okay?’ Poppy asked.
‘I think I’m getting a migraine,’ said Ottilie, pinching her nose.
‘This is so close! Poppy, how many have you got left?’ said Will.
Poppy looked down. ‘One.’ Her heart raced. She felt like someone had punched a shot of adrenaline straight into her chest.
‘I’m going to bed,’ said Ottilie. Poppy and Will caught eyes, confused. On second look, she was quite pale.
‘Not yet, Ottie. You might win. You’re two numbers away,’ said Will, trying to listen and talk at the same time.
‘I’m only going to kill the mood if I stay.’
‘But—’
‘Honestly, I really feel quite ill. I think… air. Some air. You stay. Have fun. Sorry.’
Josie cleared her throat as Ottilie pushed her chair back and took quick, short strides to a service door that led outside.
‘Christ alive! Number five.’
Over on Lord Mountgrave’s table, a slow thud built across the room as a gaggle of middle-aged men hit the table with the sides of their fists, empty wine bottles and crystal glasses tinkling with each pound.
‘Up to tricks, forty-six.’
‘She’s got it,’ said Will.
Poppy’s stomach swooped. Around her, the thudding had mingled with cheers and groans of defeat. She looked at her card, but she still had one gap to fill.
‘It’s Ottilie. Ottilie’s won! She’s won!’ Will stood on his chair to wave his fiancée’s card in the air. When the guests saw that it was him, a handful of whoops transitioned to affectionate coos as a tinny recording of Cliff Richard’s ‘Congratulations’ played from the portable speakers.
‘Someone get champagne down here!’ said Mike, pointing at Will.
Thirty-three. Poppy only needed the number thirty-three. She shivered as a salty breeze made its way into the room and settled on her clammy skin.
‘Hard luck, kid,’ said Josie. ‘Still, who wants to deal with all that loose change?’
‘Where’s our winner? Come on now, I won’t mention nothin’ to the Chancellor!’
Will hovered in a half-stand and pointed to the scorecard. He tried to explain who it belonged to above cheers amplified by free wine, but at this stage, no one cared if his claim was legitimate.
Crystal walked hip first between the tables, grabbed a fistful of notes from the ice bucket left on Lawrence’s empty chair, and threw them in the air.
‘Take a picture!’ shouted Lord Mountgrave, appearing at Poppy’s shoulder.
‘What?’
‘A picture! Take one! Your job, you know?’
Poppy clumsily grappled with the lens cap in her haste to pick up her camera. By the time she lifted the viewfinder to her eye, a month’s worth of wages had fluttered to the table in front of her. Poppy had an acute sense that she was entirely in the wrong place. Worse, she felt downright stupid. Stupid for feeling like she was part of this charade, stupid for smiling, stupid for the times that she’d scanned the pavement for pennies as a child to hide in an old Polly Pocket.
Poppy skirted around Will as he was led to the stage through a tunnel of back slaps and two-fingered whistles. What was she doing here, on Loxby? She had left the claustrophobia of home to give herself space to think, alone. If that was a test, she was surely failing. If she could learn to be comfortable on her own, she might not find the rest of her life so utterly terrifying. What had she proven so far? That after all this, she still didn’t have the power to say no?
Poppy found Lola leaning against a pillar. They looked on as the celebration continued with a pop of champagne and an eruption of froth that saw Will standing in what was likely the most expensive puddle in England.
A jaded barman sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. ‘I guess that leaves me to mop up. My barmaid is missing in action. Again.’
‘Why, where’s she gone?’ said Lola. Her tight dress creaked as she stretched her arms above her head.
‘She wandered off to get a crate of tonic water and took the owner’s son with her. Floppy hair. Half the buttons undone on his shirt. Lawrence, is it? I would tell her not to come back tomorrow, but I can’t afford to be a pair of hands down for good,’ he said, tucking a blue roll under his arm.
‘I guess more than one person got lucky tonight,’ said Lola through a stifled yawn. ‘Let’s clock off. Walk me to bed, Pops? I can’t feel my toes anymore and don’t trust myself to get up three flights.’ When they reached the marble atrium, Lola paused and took Poppy’s hand. ‘Hey, you did good tonight.’
‘I didn’t do anything. Just, sort of… pretended it was meant to be chaotic on purpose, like an immersive Phoenix Nights dinner experience.’
‘Well, whatever you did, the result was a fucking triumph. You’ve saved my bacon, bish.’
Poppy knew that Lola was being sincere, but today a comment like that bounced off her forehead. She touched the ring that she wore on a long chain beneath her clothes, warm from the heat of her body. She didn’t want to be a person who smarted at other people’s success. She wanted to be pleased for Will. She wanted to experience second-hand excitement for the life he had with Ottilie. He deserved happiness, didn’t he? But if that was the case, why had she not deserved hers?
Chapter Twenty
Two Days Before the Wedding
The open window greeted her with a glorious combination of clouds that painted the sky in broad, watercolour streaks of pastel pink and purple. Her head was heavy from the night before, so she pulled on some leggings, her trainers, and packed her camera into a compact rucksack that she’d swiped from Josh years before when a torn ligament had put an end to his fell-running career. For a moment, Poppy understood why someone would pay over five hundred pounds a night to stay in a sea view room on Loxby, even if the gulls had woken her up at five o’clock in the morning by screaming at each other from the cliff edge.
She took advantage of the quiet to slip outside undisturbed and back into an old routine, darting over the dials and buttons of her camera in a race to capture beetles and birds before they were spooked by the click of her shutter.
Poppy leant against a flint wall at the far end of the lawn and looked back at the hotel. Even though she had left the terrace house she shared with Josh, this felt like coming home. Her camera was as an anchor, thrown down to stop her from drifting further away from the person she had grown unfamiliar with. The scuffed strap that she’d picked up from a flea market sat warm and supple on the curve of her neck. After years spent lingering on the edges of town squares, city parks, and high streets, not having a camera to hand made her feel off-kilter. The further she stepped away from photography, the more she chopped up her passion to distribute amongst her students. Would she have reclaimed the title of photographer if Lola hadn’t done it for her on the sea tractor? Poppy wasn’t so sure.
Sea mist pulled tight around the hotel like someone had tucked it inside a blanket. She took a breath, raised her camera, and clicked. In the dawn light, Loxby was astoundingly beautiful. Poppy crouched. She sharpened her focus on the façade and clicked again. The clouds were perfectly mirrored in the second-floor windows, the rough silhouette of another early morning riser just visible behind the glass. Satisfied, she swung her camera onto her back, jogged down to the cove at the far end of the island, and back up by the avenue of palm trees that split the garden from the golf course. Her breath was sharp, her arms heavy from a burst of genuine exercise after so long spent maintaining her heart rate through constant low-key anxiety.
She paused on a platform framed by a pergola of grapevines and looked out at the sunrise as it burnt through the clouds with the promise of a hot and humid day. Over the last week, she had seen old connections forming again like lay lines after a heatwave. If she had gone to Orwell Island like she had intended, would she be feeling less like an uptight crab? Would she be ready to confront what she’d been through? Be prepared to return to half a home and the broken bits of her relationship? Attending someone else’s wedding made Poppy face up to the legacy of her own. It wasn’t an enviable comparison.
When a flash of white slipped out onto the terrace, Poppy’s attention pulled away from the water. She wobbled on her tiptoes to look down the length of the hotel, where Ottilie skittered down stairs and across the lawn. Poppy brought her camera to her eye and twisted the lens to zoom in, but didn’t click. Through the viewfinder, she saw Ottilie pinch the bridge of her nose and press the heels of her hands to her eyes. Pausing by the grotto, she dropped her head back, face tilted towards the newly broken sun, her chest heaving with jagged breaths. Poppy didn’t move. If Ottilie spotted her, she’d have to explain why she was hidden in a grapevine with one leg wrapped around a pillar and a telescopic lens balanced in her palm.
