The Wedding Crasher, page 20
Poppy rubbed her hand across her collarbone, her chest unusually flat and box-like under the tight wetsuit. ‘I’m glad I was able to help you guys out. If you need me to stay, go, whatever, it’s all good.’
‘You’ve already gone above and beyond, Pops,’ said Will. ‘But please think about whether you’d like to come to the wedding.’
‘All right, don’t pressure the poor girl. You’ll have her complaining to Lola and we don’t want to add to that burden.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ said Poppy.
‘She’s getting a little hollow-eyed. I don’t want her to burn out before Saturday. The ceremony is finely tuned, what with the floating pontoon and paddleboards. I don’t want to worry about whether the tide will rush in at the wrong time.’
‘It’s really heart-warming to see you so invested in the wellbeing of my friend,’ said Poppy, her voice level. Ottilie blinked, taken aback. She could cope with being dismissed, but she wouldn’t let Ottilie talk badly about Lola when she’d seen first-hand how much energy she had poured into the whims of a budgetless bride.
‘I’ve got to say, Ottie. I’m with Poppy on this one,’ said Will. ‘You’ve overstepped a line there.’
For a few seconds, they stood in awkward silence. Ottilie ran her tongue across her teeth. ‘You know what, you’re right. I’m being unfair. Actually, I wondered if you’d walk back up to the hotel with me, Poppy? There’s something I’m keen to talk over.’
Poppy nodded. She went to change behind the shack, loosening the Velcro from around her ankle to peel off the wetsuit, which was a far easier task than it had been to get into. She left it draped over a chair and pulled her sundress over her head, which stuck uncomfortably to her tacky, salt-licked skin.
Ottilie sat on the steps that curved away from the beach, a haughty look on her face. Despite the fact that she was younger than Poppy, Ottilie had ‘middle-class mum waiting for a late Waitrose delivery’ energy that seemed at odds with an environment so serene.
When Poppy emerged, Will waved to her from the shallows, his wetsuit pulled down to the waist.
‘I want to discuss shots for Saturday,’ said Ottilie, her eyes fixed on Will.
‘Saturday?’ Poppy was confused. Unless she was mistaken, Ottilie had made it quite clear that she wasn’t keen to have her on the island for much longer.
‘The ceremony?’ said Ottilie. She gripped Poppy’s wrist and pulled her behind a rocky overhang.
‘Woah, what are you doing?’ said Poppy.
‘I need to ask you something.’
‘Okay…’
‘Can I come to your room tonight?’
‘It’s not my room really. When Christian Withers turns up, I’ll have to bunk with Lola but hold on – I’m a bit confused about whether you want me here or not. You said the photographer was on the way? The real one,’ she added, somewhat pettily.
‘No, he is. But that’s not the reason.’ Ottilie’s eyes were glassy, her lips bee-sting full. ‘I don’t want to sound dramatic, but if I don’t speak to you tonight, I may not be here tomorrow. I’ll come to your room. Don’t tell anyone I’m there and make sure you’re alone.’
‘What’s going on? You’re freaking me out.’
‘Shh, just tell me if you can or not. Please. I don’t know who else I can trust.’
A headache pressed at Poppy’s temples. The face slap of water combined with Ottilie’s guilt-inducing doe eyes had caught her off guard. Was this something to do with Will? If Ottilie opened up to her, perhaps she could mediate a conversation between them?
‘Okay, but if you’ve murdered someone, I’m not paddling the body out to sea. It’s terrible for the environment.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
June 14th, 2011
Poppy clenched the pillow as Josh moved beneath the cover, her wedding band digging into her skin as she gripped the sheets. A swallow cheeped and trilled outside their balcony, the sound of a noisy market stall and Greek haggling drifting in through the open doors. Above the open window, a bow of pink flowers softened the sunlight that crept towards them. Heat from their entwined bodies hung in the air, air that Poppy gasped for as Josh pushed her knees towards her chest.
She gulped as though she were submerged in water, drowning in waves of overlapping pleasure until she thought she might burst. Poppy grappled for the back of Josh’s head, pulling him up to her, legs hooked around his back. As her heartbeat dropped to a steady thrum in her chest, Josh slipped his arm under her head and dropped down onto the pillow with a self-satisfied groan.
‘You look pleased with yourself,’ said Poppy.
‘As do you,’ Josh replied. He kissed her shoulder and kicked the duvet to the floor, his leg settling between her knees. After three days on the island of Kefalonia, Poppy and Josh had slipped into a routine that ping-ponged between cooling swims in the Ionian Sea, eating copious amounts of hummus, and frequently tangled bedsheets.
Josh pushed himself up and reached for the bedside table, where Poppy had left a paper bag of fresh fruit from the market earlier that day. His stomach muscles tensed as he fished inside with one hand and picked out a fig. After shuffling close to her, Josh pushed his thumbs into the flesh, and split it in two, handing half to Poppy before biting into his own. She grinned at her husband.
Although now entirely at ease, Poppy had been nervous about leaving for their honeymoon after a wedding that wasn’t short of drama. Her aunt had been bullish, her drunk father had been put in a taxi by nine o’clock, and Lola had spent an hour in the toilets with Josh’s mum, who was bawling over the bridesmaids’ hemlines not matching. It had taken nearly ten days for the lingering anxiety to recede. Through it all, Josh had been steadfast and attentive, smoothing out her worries with inexhaustive reassurances that nothing else would fall apart when they left for their honeymoon. He even drove to her father’s house with a boot full of batch-cooked dinners after Poppy worried that Tony Pascoe would forget to cook for himself, having slipped into a reclusive period as he so often did after big family events.
Josh pulled Poppy onto his chest and slowly ran a finger up the back of her neck as they listened to the burble filter in from outside. When a knock at the door fractured their stupor, Josh groaned.
‘Did you order room service?’ asked Poppy.
‘Nope,’ said Josh, shrugging.
‘Will you get it?’ she said.
‘You get it.’
‘I’m very naked.’
‘So am I.’
‘I have two bits to cover up. You have one,’ said Poppy.
‘Free the nipple,’ he said, rolling Poppy over. He kissed a line from her thigh to her throat, his breath forming goosebumps on her skin.
‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘But not my nipples and not today. Go on.’
A look that verged on irritation flashed across Josh’s face. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and pulled on a pair of boxers, the elastic snapping as he unlatched the door. Poppy dragged the sheet back onto the mattress and tucked it under her armpits.
A man spoke, his voice gentle and warm. ‘This arrived via email for you at reception. Enjoy, Mr and Mrs Lattimer.’
‘Thanks, mate,’ said Josh, taking an envelope from the concierge. He closed the door and lifted the flap as he walked back towards the bed, turning the card over as he reached Poppy. She pushed her hair to one side and leant over to read.
To the new Mr and Mrs Lattimer,
If my timing is correct, I’d make an assumption that right about now you’ll be needing a break from the shag fest of your hotel room, so here’s something to get you outside. Poppy, if you can take a photo of Josh on said donkey, I’ll die happy.
Yours, from a predictably rainy England,
Lola
‘Lola?’ said Josh. He smirked and walked to the bathroom.
‘What’s she saying about a donkey?’ said Poppy, unfolding the sheet of paper underneath. She read the page and laughed. ‘You’ll never guess.’
‘What? Lola’s chosen the menu for our next meal out? Booked herself a flight to join us?’ Josh loaded his toothbrush and started brushing, his bicep flexing as he leant against the doorframe. Poppy rolled her eyes and threw him a playful smile.
‘It’s our wedding present from her. Ha! She’s organised a donkey trek across the mountains. Oh, cool. We’re going to do palm reading. Apparently, this woman’s a ninth-generation mystic. Ninth!’
Josh turned, spat in the sink, and splashed water on his face. ‘So Lola paid for our wine on the first night we were here, had pastries ordered to our room yesterday, and now she’s hijacked another day of our honeymoon? Not sure how I feel about that.’
Josh and Lola didn’t have the smoothest of friendships, but recently he had been particularly vocal about what he called Lola’s ‘overinvolvement in their lives’. Poppy tucked her hair behind her ears. Whatever puncture had burst the bubble they had been in moments before, Poppy was keen to repair it.
‘What do you mean? This sounds like a laugh,’ said Poppy. ‘To be fair, we haven’t really travelled very far since we’ve been here. Let’s go to Eleanor’s fortune-telling farm.’
‘Why would anyone want to spend half a day with a mountain woman who scams people with woo-woo bullshit?’
Poppy bristled. ‘Is it because you’re worried the poor donkey won’t be able to houff you up the mountain path? I’ll see if there’s a disclaimer in the small print that protects the donkeys from carrying anyone prone to an excessive consumption of protein shakes,’ said Poppy, unfolding the printout.
‘Really funny, Poppy,’ said Josh, his ears red.
Poppy held her hands out. ‘I’m joking, obviously. This woman sounds like a legend. To be honest, I don’t care if she makes it all up on the spot. I bet she’s got some stories to tell. I wonder if she’d be up for having her photo taken? You know, I’ve been thinking about restarting The World’s Eye,’ said Poppy. She reached for her camera bag, unzipped the side pocket, and checked to see if she’d packed spare memory cards. ‘If I rebooted the page, I could start uploading portraits and interviews from abroad. The World’s Eye, with a real global scope. Think of all the stories I could showcase from different countries.’
Josh flicked a towel over his shoulder and sprayed deodorant under each arm. ‘Do you think your obsession with collecting people could maybe take a break whilst we’re on honeymoon?’ he said.
Just like that, Poppy’s excitement rolled to the base of her stomach like a marble in a bath. ‘What do you mean?’
‘This is what you used to do. When you were out doing your street photography three times a week and stuck in your room the rest of the time, editing and typing up interviews. That page dominated your life. I never got to see you.’
Poppy pushed her camera bag away. ‘There’s a reason that page did so well. I poured everything into it.’
‘Exactly. Everything.’ Josh knelt on the bed and slipped a hand around her waist, his chin propped on her shoulder. She resisted when he tugged her towards him. ‘Come on. Would you rather I didn’t give a shit about spending time with you?’
‘That’s not the problem. I feel like we were talking about a donkey trek one minute and now I’m choosing between photography and you.’
Josh grinned and gave her a quick kiss. ‘You already chose me.’
Poppy kissed back, but by the time she realised what he’d said, her throat felt tight with the threat of tears. Was that how he saw it? She twisted the wedding band on her finger as Josh went back to the bathroom. He couldn’t have meant it like that, not when he knew the scale of what she had turned down to start a life with him in England just a year before. Poppy took a few measured breaths. By the time Josh came back, Poppy had tidied her swell of frustration into a recessed pocket of her mind. She’d come back to it later when she wasn’t at risk of ruining their honeymoon.
‘So… what are we doing? Is the donkey trek a goer or are we going to have to pass on hearing about our unwritten future? Come on, don’t tell me you’re not curious,’ she said, not meeting his eye.
Josh emerged from the bathroom, his chest still bare. He pulled a pair of running shorts out of their suitcase and wriggled his fingers through fluorescent yellow sweat bands, glancing up at Poppy as she sat on the bed, still wrapped in the sheet that had covered them both. ‘Go on ahead,’ he said. ‘If you want to stink like a donkey all afternoon in thirty-two-degree heat, be my guest. I’ll catch you at dinner. I could do with the extra training. I haven’t been for a run in five days. I feel like a blob,’ said Josh, pinching a non-existent roll of fat. He opened his running app and filled up a bottle of water from a jug in their mini-fridge.
‘Oh,’ said Poppy, fiddling with a button on the duvet cover. ‘Because when you said you wanted to spend time together, I thought you meant… never mind.’
‘You take things so literally. See you later, wife.’ Josh bent down, kissed Poppy on the forehead, and left.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Two Days Before the Wedding
Poppy smiled at a waiter who placed a jar on the table, a tealight flickering inside. It was early evening, the darkness accelerated by thick clouds that hugged the coastline. Between 6 and 8pm, little happened on Loxby Island. Business was finished, mid-afternoon hangovers were slept off, and the staff were setting up for dinner service, laying out strangely specific cutlery, like lobster crackers and silver prongs that looked as though they could double up as surgical tools should the need arise.
‘This place must be worth millions, right?’ said Poppy, lifting the jar to eye level. ‘And you’re telling me they’re running jam jars through the dishwasher to make rustic centrepieces?’
‘No,’ said Lola, reaching over to tap the glass with a long acrylic nail. It tinkled sweetly. ‘It’s crystal. There’s a whole offshoot of homeware you can buy that replicates crap objects in expensive materials. Yesterday I was talking to a stockbroker who told me he’d paid someone to give his kitchen a “stripped-back French château aesthetic”. The decorator literally threw acid at his cupboard doors. And got paid for it.’
‘I’m in the wrong business,’ said Poppy.
‘You are in the wrong business,’ said Lola, giving her a knowing look. ‘Take teaching. It was never your dream – it was Josh’s.’
‘You told me that years ago.’
‘Yeah, and you didn’t listen to me. Before you say anything, I know you don’t like dwelling on the whole what-could-have-been narrative, but your photography is fucking good. After that exhibition, I fully thought we were going to make so much money together,’ said Lola, her index finger trailing a figure of eight in the thick linen tablecloth. ‘New York. Milan. Tokyo. I even bookmarked the luggage set I was planning to buy. No knock-offs in sight.’
‘Speaking of knock-offs, did I tell you I found an online shop selling inkjet prints of my photos from The World’s Eye? I reported it for plagiarism, obviously, but I still see those pictures popping up all over the internet, so it’s basically impossible to prove I’m the original artist.’
Lola grinned. ‘See. An artist. That’s what you should be calling yourself.’
‘Maybe I was. Not anymore.’
‘You sound like an actor who can’t get an invite to the Met Gala anymore. You’re only twenty-nine.’
‘I’ve lived a life, all right?’ said Poppy, smiling as she swigged her gin and tonic. She fished out a wedge of cucumber and bit into it. It’s not that she didn’t want to talk about how directionless she felt, but it felt like diving into a canyon so deep she couldn’t see the bottom.
‘Nelson Mandela lived a life. Virginia Woolf lived a life. Anne Lister lived a life. You married your first boyfriend. So have most women throughout history. The difference is, you chose to leave, which was the right thing to do. Don’t tell me you’re regretting it,’ said Lola with genuine reproach.
‘No, it’s not that. I hate being a divorce statistic. It makes me feel haggard and old.’
‘Are you serious? Getting divorced young is the coolest thing ever. It gives you an air of intrigue. You can make casual references to your ex-husband at dinner parties. It helps if you touch your clavicle at the same time, like this,’ said Lola, demonstrating with a faraway look in her eye. ‘And then you never elaborate or give context. Instant cool points.’
Poppy laughed and shook her head, her thoughts cloudy.
‘Trust me, when half the people our age are going through the same thing in ten years’ time, they’ll all wish they were you.’
Poppy batted a moth away as it dipped too close to the flame. ‘What about Will and Ottilie?’
‘I cannot pass judgment on my clients until they’re safely past the altar,’ said Lola, a knowing quirk in her eyebrow. ‘Mainly because that’s when the second half of my payment comes through. Now, onto other matters. Please let me plan a divorce party for you.’
‘No way. What the hell would that involve? Tearing up my wedding dress and performing a sad macarena?’
‘Well, you have to do something to celebrate this rebirth. Poppy 2.0. Go on a pilgrimage. Re-ignite The World’s Eye. Get a fringe.’
‘I just left one commitment. I don’t need another, especially not a fringe.’
‘Girl, you have talent. You had a window of opportunity when Columbia offered you a scholarship, but that shit is in the past. You have to find a new way to get your work out there.’
‘I have. Nature photography. I like being tied to an animal’s schedule. It’s outdoors, it’s straightforward, and I don’t have to spend hours transcribing the interviews. Take puffins. Who doesn’t like puffins?’
Lola tipped an ice cube into her mouth and crunched it. ‘Puffins are safe. Puffins are the pandas of the bird world. No one knows if they contribute anything to the ecosystem other than looking cute. Don’t be a puffin.’
