The Wedding Crasher, page 31
‘Will, I—’
‘Give me a minute.’ He held the heel of each hand against his eyes, his shoulders quivering.
Poppy pinched her thumb, the pain distracting her from the instinct to comfort him. After all, she’d had a head start on the landmine of information that Will was experiencing for the first time.
‘This isn’t happening,’ said Will, his voice quiet. ‘She told me… she said… are you sure? You wouldn’t tell me if you weren’t sure, would you?’ His voice caught in his throat as he brushed his eyes with the heel of his hand.
Poppy nodded. ‘I’m sure.’
He turned to face her, cheeks damp, gaze wandering around the room without settling on anything. ‘Lawrence?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘There’s a photo. I didn’t realise until I saw it on a screen. They were in the window, the other morning, before I bumped into you. You can see them both, but his—’
‘I don’t need the details, please.’ Will rubbed his chin, his eyes wild. ‘I’m going to kill him. Where is he?’
Poppy spoke in a rush as Will stalked the room, one shoe in his hand as he looked for the other. ‘Not here. He left last night. I managed to get him on the phone when I found out, but he wouldn’t tell me where he was going.’ Will dropped the shoe and collapsed onto the end of a stiff chaise longue.
‘I want to punch something.’
‘Understandable.’
‘Is Ottilie coming here? Back up to the hotel?’
‘No, Lola said she’ll be at the fisherman’s hut until the ceremony.’
‘Of course. This makes sense now. Why she’s been down there so much, only seeing me when it’s got something to do with wedding arrangements. I’m an idiot. I bet everyone’s been thinking it. Stupid, wet-behind-the-ears Will.’
‘No, that’s not true.’
‘It’s been so much worse than I’ve let myself believe. Ottie and me. I thought that once we were on our own, it would be different. Less like we’re kids putting on a show for our family to stop them arguing for five minutes. I think, I… I knew it in the back of my head,’ he sighed, rubbing his scalp with his knuckles. ‘That something was wrong. But not this.’
Will wiped his face and pinched his lips, his eyes glassy. ‘I don’t want to end up like my dad.’
‘You’re nothing like him. I know I’ve only been around you both for a few days, but you’re kind and genuine in a way I can’t recognise in him.’
‘Then what’s wrong with me?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with you.’
‘That’s not true. It can’t be true. I wouldn’t have a fiancée who fucks my brother seventy-two hours before our wedding if there wasn’t a sign on my back that says, “total imbecile, treat as you fucking well like”.’
Poppy winced. ‘I think Ottilie’s taken advantage of you, but that’s not your problem. It’s hers.’
‘Really? I feel like this is my problem. An acute, needle of a problem that’s repeatedly stabbing me between the ribs.’ Will sat up straight and tried to breathe, his hands on his knees. ‘I think I’m about to have a heart attack,’ he said. He did look unsteady, his forehead beaded with sweat as he grappled with his top button, the other hand pressed against his chest as he gulped for air. Poppy knelt beside him.
‘Breathe, Will,’ she said. ‘Like this.’ She took his hands and forced him to look at her, rounding her lips to slow her breath. ‘Like you’re blowing through a straw.’ He copied her, his breath ragged, interspersed by sharp gasps. ‘And again, slow, slow, slow. You’re safe. Your body is telling you you’re not, but you are. Flex your hands, get the blood back. That’s it.’ Poppy continued to guide Will through each breath until his shoulders dropped. ‘Stay still. I’ll get you something to drink.’
She went to his palatial en suite and filled a glass with tepid water.
‘Thanks,’ he said, taking the glass. He sipped it, his hand shaking.
‘No problem. I’ve had a few choice moments in the art cupboard at work. Panic attacks are fucking awful.’
A few minutes later, his breathing had slowed. ‘That’s never happened to me before. Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise, please.’
He squeezed her hand and let go. ‘Is there anything else I don’t know?’
‘I don’t want you to pass out, but Lawrence did say he left a note in your suit jacket. Am I right in thinking you haven’t read it?’
Will shook his head and tapped his knee. ‘I haven’t taken it off the hanger yet.’
‘Do you want me to do it?’
‘No. It needs to be me.’ He shook his head, his mouth partly open as he looked towards the mahogany wardrobe.
‘Don’t stand up too quickly,’ said Poppy, helping him to his feet. He pulled open the doors, unhooked his jacket, and laid it on the bed.
‘Did he say which pocket?’ said Will, scrunching creases into the pressed linen lapels as he flipped the jacket over.
‘No, just that he put it there himself.’
Will put his hands on his hips. ‘There’s nothing here.’
Poppy joined him, double checking each stitch and seam with less frantic hands. ‘There’s a serious pocket deficit in women’s clothing. But you’re right. There’s nothing here. He wouldn’t have said it as a joke, would he?’
Will shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. He’s spineless, but he doesn’t have the patience for delayed gratification, even if he was sadistic enough to enjoy it.’
‘Maybe someone took it? A cleaner or something?’ offered Poppy, although it was a weak theory.
Outside, Poppy could see three members of staff moving along the path that led down to the cove, a string of bunting trailing behind them.
Will rubbed his lip. ‘I need to think. You know the ridge that looks out to the bay by the harbour? Not above The Drunken Prawn, but near the surfing hut? There’s a gorse bush that hides an overhang. Can you meet me there in an hour? If I have to stay in this room for a second longer, I’ll lose it. There’s too much of her here.’
‘Not that I want to rush you, but the ceremony is supposed to start in under two hours,’ said Poppy, her heart thrumming.
Will pulled his shoes on, his eyes wide. ‘I know. I’ve got a decision to make.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
An hour later, Poppy leant in the curve of an overhang, tucked out of sight from anyone walking on the coastal path that lapped the island. The small bay that she and Will had surfed in two days before rolled below, the waves frothing as they crashed towards the beach. Will paced in front of her, his curls buffeted by the wind.
‘Are you sure?’ said Poppy.
‘Don’t ask me any more questions. Sorry, my head is a mess as it is. If I spend more than thirty seconds thinking about it, I doubt I’ll answer the same way. I’m not sure. I’m about to walk out on my wedding. There are dozens of people there already.’
‘And a drone.’
‘And a fucking drone!’ Will never swore. He was like a Sunday afternoon stand-up in that sense: harmless and often complaining about the etiquette of queuing. Panic had sunk behind his eyes and made his mouth tight.
‘Look, you don’t have control over any of that. Unless you want to fake your own death and live in Cuba for the next fifty years, you’ve only got two options. One, go and tell Ottilie that you’re not going through with it and stay, or two, go and tell Ottilie you’re not going through with it and leave.’
‘And there’s definitely no situation in which I can punch Lawrence in the face?’
‘In the future, perhaps, but not today. I’m sure he’s on the other side of the world by now.’
‘What’s the time?’
Poppy checked her watch. ‘Just gone twelve.’
‘Shit! I’m supposed to be walking down the aisle in twenty minutes. This is a waking fucking nightmare,’ he said, clenching and flexing his fists. Poppy nodded as Will walked back and forth, his once polished brogues dull from the dust clouds he kicked up.
‘I can’t just leave.’
‘It’s one of the options. I know that most people in your situation wouldn’t think twice before inflicting pain in the other direction, especially after what Ottilie did. Your family too—’
‘Why not chalk them all up, sure,’ said Will, rubbing his throat. ‘My mum is here. I can’t believe I brought her back to somewhere she hates for this.’
‘I’m not trying to make you feel worse, I promise. Even after what you just went through, it’s not in your nature to deadbolt the barn door and set it on fire after. Think about waking up tomorrow. If you leave now and say nothing, you’ll still be in the blast zone. The pain will cling to you, follow you around. Other people will be impacted if you don’t deal with it now.’ Will nodded, his eyes closed. Poppy didn’t think it was appropriate to mention that she’d almost directly lifted this line from a documentary about Chernobyl.
Will kicked a pebble, unclasped his cufflinks, and threw them over the cliff side. Or at least that was the intention. In reality, they tinkled against a nearby rock, the result far less dramatic than Will had no doubt hoped for.
‘If you leave now, you’ll give Ottilie time to spin the story and that will double the awkward conversations waiting for you when you come back.’
Will held his hands out in front of him. ‘How is it possible for her to cheat and still come out on top?’
‘I don’t know. Have you heard of the royal family?’
Will resumed pacing. ‘Ottilie doesn’t deserve an explanation. I do. She should have to tell them what’s happened.’
‘Be honest, if she hadn’t been with Lawrence, how would you feel about going through with this today?’ Poppy’s heart raced.
Will paused. His bitter energy was palpable as he stood on an incline in front of her. ‘I don’t know. That’s what’s killing me. Ottilie and I… I can’t trust how I felt then, because the version of her I loved doesn’t exist. I’m not like my dad. I never wanted to be the kind of person who bailed as soon as relationships got difficult. If I’m brutally honest with myself, I felt ripples of… something that wasn’t right. If that was instinct, then why did I ignore it? Why am I standing here with this tiny bouquet pinned to my chest?’ said Will, flicking the taffeta-wound buttonhole pinned to his lapel.
‘Maybe you felt like you owed her something? Maybe it was harder to pull out knowing all the questions you would have been asked?’ Poppy stepped in front of Will, forcing him to stop pacing. When he met her gaze, his brow softened. ‘Consider me a veteran in this game,’ she said.
‘We’ve had a conversation like this before. Do you remember?’
Of course Poppy remembered. Since being on Loxby, she’d assumed she was the only one who did. ‘If it’s the one I’m thinking of, yeah, I do.’
‘I understood why it was too late for me, but I never understood why you thought it was too late for you. I do now.’
Poppy bit her lip and nodded. ‘It’s hard, isn’t it? I’m not trying to turn you on to my way of thinking, not really. I don’t want to draw parallels between our situations, but it’s taken me this long to realise why I held onto Josh. I thought if I was good enough, if I kept bending and caring and putting him first, I’d be rewarded with consistent love in return. That’s not how it works. The only reason I’ve become as bitter and cynical as I am is because I was kidding myself for so long about Josh. I don’t want you to end up like me.’
Poppy’s pulse thumped in her chest. These thoughts had been burrowed in the back of her mind for so long now, she hadn’t realised how freeing it would be to let them fly.
‘Be real,’ said Poppy. ‘We can talk about your relationship until this time next week, but the reality of it is that your dad booked out the family island and turned your wedding into a springboard for his business, not to mention that he’s manipulating you into a job that you don’t want. That’s a huge amount of pressure! At least I only spent nine hundred quid on M&S party food and a DJ that wouldn’t play anything produced after 1986.’
Will laughed, his expression hard. He cleared his throat and traced the corners of his mouth. When he looked at Poppy, his eyes were set with resolve. ‘Right, I’m going to do this.’
‘Okay.’
‘It’s the right thing to do.’
‘It is.’
‘And whatever happens next, it won’t be as bad as being legally bound to a woman who thought I was the second-best option.’
‘You were never the second-best option. Always the first.’ Poppy put her hands on Will’s shoulders and squeezed. He placed a hand over her own and squeezed back, his taut brow easing into a look of heavy fatigue. ‘I’ll be right behind you,’ she said.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The path down to Mermaid Cove had been decorated with prayer flags that zigzagged around each hairpin bend, taking them closer to the burble of chatter that echoed in the natural amphitheatre of the cove. Ottilie’s vision for a new-age, bohemian, spiritual-but-not-religious ceremony had somehow been expertly pieced together by Lola and what Poppy assumed was a small army of assistants borrowed from the hotel. Artfully frayed bunting hung above rows of wooden chairs, each decorated with sprigs of eucalyptus and gypsophila.
The guests were already in their seats, each curved row facing the podium-cum-altar that sat proud on the water. In the front row and wearing a sleek green jumpsuit, Josie stretched her legs. Beside her sat a woman with the self-contained poise of someone who knew her angles, a sharp-shouldered suit jacket accentuating her slender frame. Unmistakably, this had to be Will’s mum, Carmen. Across the aisle, the feathered fascinator of Nicola Spruce quivered in the breeze as she beamed at her daughter. As promised, Ottilie had followed through with her shirking of tradition and was already standing on the podium, reversing the role of a late-arriving bride.
When Will reached the point where he’d become visible to those gathered below, he paused and took a breath as though he were about to step out onto an Olympic diving platform. Poppy didn’t want to follow straight away. Instead, she squatted behind a tuft of pampas grass to watch.
A cheer built momentum as the guests spotted Will. Whilst they were distracted, Poppy slunk down the last few steps and traced the bottom of the cliff until she reached Lola, having spotted her voluminous beehive by the fisherman’s hut. With a Britney Spears-style radio mic taped to her cheek, Lola clapped overenthusiastically as she glanced between her watch, Will’s colourless face, and Ottilie.
Will’s bride had perfectly captured a look partway between a Vanity Fair centrefold and a quirky adaptation of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Her dress hung from her shoulders on spaghetti straps, heavy lace draped below a plunging backline and enough fresh flowers to tempt a swarm of bees. She tapped her bare foot, readjusting herself when the harpist plucked the opening notes of Bruno Mars’s ‘Marry You’. Across the water, Ottilie turned to face them, her expression doleful and demure.
Poppy skimmed behind a stack of folded deck chairs until she reached Lola, who bent her microphone out of range.
‘What’s going on?’ she said, speaking through a fixed smile. ‘I didn’t know what to do, so I made an announcement that the groom was running late. We’ve run out of ice and if we don’t shift things along soon, the nun is going to get sunstroke and keel over.’
‘The nun? What nun?’
‘There.’ Lola pointed to the podium, where an elderly woman stood in a fuchsia-pink habit. ‘Well, she’s not a proper nun. Not anymore. Ex-communicated. She’s freelance now.’
‘She’s ancient.’
‘I know.’
‘How did you get her onto the podium?’
‘We rowed her over.’
‘Oh God.’
‘What?’
‘Will is doing it now.’
‘Seriously?!’ said Lola, peeking from behind her hand. Will picked up an oar and stepped onto the paddleboard, his face scrunched with concentration. He looked at the podium and tentatively pushed off the side. ‘And he couldn’t have managed this earlier, before I gathered everyone for the ceremony?’
‘It’s been a complicated morning.’
‘You’re telling me!’ said Lola. ‘This lot… they’re going to know I had something to do with it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of you!’ she hissed, tilting her head to smile in mock affection as a nearby couple craned backwards to look at them.
‘I’ve only been paid half my fee,’ said Lola. Poppy smarted, ready to launch into a manifesto on the importance of doing what was right. Before she opened her mouth, Lola put a finger on Poppy’s lips. ‘I know, I know.’
‘What do you know?’ she said, her voice muffled.
‘You haven’t said it, but I know what you’re thinking and you’re right. Will doesn’t deserve to be punished for something his twatty brother did. I can’t force him. It would be Victorian levels of marital coercion. Eurgh, can you just give me a minute,’ said Lola.
‘We really need to—’
‘Thirty seconds.’ Lola closed her eyes, the highlighter on her cheekbones radiating in the sunshine.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Mentally spending all the money I would have earnt off the back of this wedding. Bali. Mojitos. A silk kimono. It’s mindfulness, Poppy.’
‘Can we do the mindfulness later? When Will isn’t about to break up with his fiancée? We’re squatting over a grenade here.’
A splash drew their attention to the pool, where Will had dropped to his knees on the paddleboard, an oar tickling the water as he missed the podium where Ottilie stood. A gasp leapt from the guests as the paddleboard spun and bumped against a boulder in the cove, causing Will to wobble. Ottilie waited for him like an earth-bound angel, her boho waves dancing in the breeze as the affectionate burble of chatter crept towards awkward silence. The whole incident made Poppy want to deep-throat her own fist.
‘Oh, he’s doing it now, now,’ said Lola.
The photographer who Poppy assumed was Christian lay on the floor, his camera angled on the waterline.
