The Wedding Crasher, page 5
‘Bit early to be talking about cocks, isn’t it?’ said Poppy.
The couple exchanged a look.
‘Oh, you’re a breath of fresh air. Who are you here for again? Bride or groom?’
Seeing as she still didn’t know who the bride and groom were, Poppy played it safe.
‘Neither. I’m the photographer. For now, anyway.’
‘Ding dong. Excellent. Not much like the Mountgraves to break from convention. Don’t they use that stuffy chap? With the cravat? Births, deaths, christenings, crisis management press conferences…’
‘Richard, stop it.’
Poppy lifted a finger as though she’d just remembered something important. ‘Ah, I’ve got somewhere I need to be. Would you mind? Thanks, I’ll just…’
She inched back towards the perimeter of the room and looked for a way out. She felt like a laser dot had been trained on her from a distance. Any second, she’d be shot with a dart gun and stashed in the kitchen with everyone else who laid out complicated cutlery but didn’t know how to eat with it.
Poppy headed towards a sign that read ‘To the terrace’, a kaleidoscope of colour passing across her skin as the sun pierced through a stained-glass ceiling. She cradled her bag as it dangled by her hip, her valuables hastily stashed inside – phone, purse, keys, and most importantly, camera. It was a habit she couldn’t seem to shake.
As newlyweds, Poppy and Josh had a routine that complemented each other. The nickname ‘little cricket’ had emerged over time, taken from the noise of her shutter clicking and whirring on hikes, Josh wrapping her close to his chest with his raincoat held wide as she tried to change film in the darkness. It took a couple of years before he started to complain about how long it took them to get anywhere. Poppy always stopped to watch and wait for a creature to crawl into shot. Josh wore trail shoes, entered ultra-marathons, and ran ahead, looping back to meet her by the car once his mileage was complete. They started and ended their journey in the same place, always orbiting each other’s interests, never quite aligning. Poppy saw her life as a pie chart and always allowed him the biggest slice.
What parts of her world had she shrunk to make room for his? With distance, Poppy was starting to notice exactly how much she’d given up.
Chapter Six
To call it a ‘terrace’ would be akin to calling Versailles ‘quaint’. The back of the building had doors that were designed for throwing open during a raucous party; each set off a long dining hall with a parquet floor and chandeliers that tinkled in the breeze. The hotel was Art Deco, a style recreated on DIY programmes with cheap vinyl and dark paint. Here, the English Riviera formed an azure backdrop set against a stone balcony, the cliff dramatically falling away to frame two long dining tables with crisp tablecloths that fluttered in the breeze.
Poppy instinctively reached for her camera, a breath caught in her throat. Strips of hessian sack bound cutlery together, two-foot tall lemon trees forming centrepieces between ruler-straight rows of crystal glasses, fish forks, and place settings. Poppy picked one up. The name ‘Zaffia’ was written in green ink above a printed logo that featured an insignia inside a coat of arms, two swords crossed behind it. ‘The Mountgrave Foundation’. The name rang a bell. Poppy thought back to the photography darkroom at Cricklewood Academy. It had long been used as a store cupboard for collapsible tables in lieu of having actual camera film to develop. Outside, a chrome plate was screwed into the door: ‘Provided thanks to a generous donation from The Mountgrave Foundation’. Poppy was sure of it.
‘I was looking for her.’
Poppy looked up from the place name in her hands. A man with a flop of blonde hair stood at her right shoulder. Poppy could see inside his shirt thanks to the fact he had not one, but three buttons undone. He pushed a pair of aviators onto his head and nodded towards the closest dining chair. ‘All right, you can have Zaffia, but the pay-off is you have to take Daniel or Sanjit.’ He held up two more place names between his first and second finger. Poppy laughed and looked down the table.
‘I’m not here for this. Actually, I suppose I am, in a way. I mean, I’m not here as a guest. I’m helping my friend. I’m a photographer. Sort of.’
‘I’m a part of this,’ said the man. He reached over her to tap the same logo stitched onto each cotton napkin and smirked. He smelt of things that shouldn’t have scents, yet are branded as though they do: sea salt and spiced oak with a hint of brushed leather.
‘Are you working here too?’ said Poppy.
‘An excellent question.’ He plucked the place card from Poppy’s hand, swapped it with another, and continued down the table. ‘Sort of.’ He glanced back at her and smiled, his eyebrow arched.
‘You might know my friend, Lola. She’s the wedding planner.’
‘Eurgh, I don’t envy her. Do you take pictures, or just carry that around for moral support?’ said the man gesturing to the bag bundled in Poppy’s arms. She hadn’t realised she’d been holding it to her chest like a baby since leaving the atrium.
‘Not a huge amount happening, is there?’ said Poppy. ‘I thought I’d let everyone get settled in. It’s a long lead-up to the wedding, isn’t it?’ She didn’t know how honest to be about her credentials, so decided to skirt around the details. Weddings were the last thing she wanted to photograph, and it wasn’t just because they reminded her of the very thing she was trying to avoid thinking about. It was the prospect of portraits, directing sloshed uncles, and attempting to coordinate sixty people to hold sparklers in a ‘tunnel of love’ without the bride’s hairspray going up in flames.
‘I didn’t catch your name,’ said Poppy.
The man reached the furthest corner of the table and turned the place card around. He pointed to it with a little finger. ‘Lawrence. That’s me.’ He shook his head. ‘God, they’ve really scraped the barrel with this end of the table. A brave move – placing me next to the family accountant – but luckily you’ve taken David off my hands so Rachael and Zaffia can tap in,’ he said, placing their cards down on either side of his own. ‘David once excused himself from a Sunday roast because the horseradish “made his nose tickle”. Look out for that one. Absolute nutter.’
‘I’ll have to take your word for it,’ said Poppy, placing David’s card beside a lemon that had been split open to resemble an oyster, the pips rearranged inside like pearls. What was the theme here? Could fruit not be left to look like fruit?
‘I’m more than happy eating a bag of peanuts for dinner,’ said Poppy, her stomach hollow. She had packed a tub of high-calorie fruit and nut bars but they weren’t much help to her now. ‘Besides, I’m not officially on duty. I don’t know what the brief is yet, so probably best not to point a camera at people when they’re trying to eat their…’ Poppy leant in to read a menu card, which had been printed onto a slate tile and propped against a miniature lemon tree. ‘…cider-cured brill with tomato sea foam.’
‘Oh, it’ll be the usual. Don’t take pictures of the over-fifties before 11am, smiling is good, but not too much or it’ll seem out of character, and if you can get more than three family members in the same shot, you’ll take home some John Lewis vouchers as a special bonus.’
Poppy laughed. ‘I think I’ve still got some of those left over from my wedding.’
‘Your wedding? Dammit. You were about to be my third musketeer,’ Lawrence said, gesturing to the reshuffled places beside him. ‘Anyway, you’ll be given an information pack or something,’ he said, scratching the back of his neck. ‘I know that because I was in charge of picking them up from the printer’s before I left London and didn’t manage to fuck it up, so I’ve earned day release until tomorrow. Huzzah.’ Lawrence bit his lip, but it was more awkward than coy. He opened a silver case lined with filters and tobacco, rolled one, and licked along the seal, far slower than Poppy thought necessary.
‘Where are my manners. Want one?’
‘No, thanks. They make me feel sick.’
‘Cor, you and David are going to get on.’
Poppy wasn’t lying. The smell of nicotine reminded her of the house she grew up in, of her parents chain-smoking and the stale cigarette butts that she tipped out of overflowing ashtrays after her mum left. She’d filled her bedside drawer with half-used lighters like a pyrotechnic magpie, having plucked them out of her dad’s pockets before she took herself to bed. As a ten-year-old, Poppy had worried that he would set himself alight from dangling lit roll-ups above a carpet sticky with cider. Nowadays, the smell of cigarettes made her feel oddly nostalgic and slightly anxious.
From behind, a parade of waiters brought bread baskets, silverware, and glasses to the table, inspecting each flute for smears. Lawrence jerked his head towards the balustrade beside him. Poppy followed.
‘Best step out of their way. Fuck, there’s a lot of staff here. I feel like we’ve stamped on an ant’s nest. So much… scurrying.’
He looked at her and grinned. ‘You can laugh, you know. I won’t tell the boss.’ Lawrence tapped his nose and flicked his sunglasses down. He spoke as though he was rolling a fat olive under his tongue. Poppy had to tune in to catch every word.
‘Do you know the family?’ she asked.
‘Mmm. Some more than others. By their standards, this counts as a “modest” wedding. I expect you’ve met the happy couple?’
‘No, not yet. Only the bride’s parents.’
‘Lucky you.’
‘I have met some of the other guests.’
‘Sorry, you mispronounced “leeches”,’ said Lawrence. He took a drag of his cigarette. ‘But they have got deep pockets, so it’s all swings and roundabouts really.’
Poppy knew this was a big gig for Lola. She’d started up as a freelance wedding coordinator after her seventh run as maid of honour. When a twice-removed cousin asked Lola to put the shoes on again, it was clear that news of her hyper-organisation and comprehensive knowledge of bunting suppliers had reached far and wide. She started charging and that was that. Goodbye temping as a legal receptionist, hello wedding planner.
Poppy hadn’t made time for Lola as much as she should have in the past year. Between Lola’s demanding job and the demise of Poppy’s own marriage, they’d been too busy. A Friday night cheese platter couldn’t eat itself, could it?
Poppy looked up at the hotel and sighed. ‘It’s a bit much, isn’t it? A week-long wedding?’
‘A six day lead-up to a day that defines the rest of your adult life? Yeah, I can’t think what the fuss is about. Oh, was there an Alan on your side?’ He stubbed his cigarette out in a plant pot. ‘I need to put him on the other side of Rachael. He’s nearly as dull as David, so she’ll have no choice but to talk to me.’
This man was exceptionally difficult to read. Poppy didn’t know whether he was laughing at her or at the people who had hired a whole island to plump up a ceremony that took ten minutes and a signature to complete.
‘Bit ironic, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘A wedding photographer who hates weddings?’
Poppy laughed and shook her head. She didn’t feel like being honest. For one, she wanted to get through the next few days with her head down, which necessitated staying out of the drama for which weddings were a catalyst. Never elaborate on a lie – wasn’t that the golden rule? Although she was covering for Lola, Poppy didn’t want to add detail to her invented biography as the West Country’s most exciting new photographer. Would that class as fraud? Anonymity was the name of the game, not just here, but to be half-decent behind the camera too. She’d said it to her students just last week. She’d also said, ‘Don’t give up on your art for anyone,’ but it was always easier to say than do.
Poppy looked on in disbelief as a heaving silver platter wobbled onto the terrace held by two waiters with pink faces and strained necks. On it, a seafood medley was arranged, complete with a whole octopus, its tentacles wrapped around oysters and clams the size of fists.
‘All right, it’s a bit gauche. But I don’t know these people. Who am I to decide what they spend their money on? Even if it is a monstrosity like that,’ she said, nodding towards the platter. ‘Nothing says true love like slightly warm seafood.’ Poppy was surprised at the cutting sarcasm in her voice.
A woman in a neat suit dress stepped out onto the terrace and spotted Lawrence beside Poppy. ‘Mr Mountgrave?’
Poppy’s gaze snapped towards him. ‘You’re a Mountgrave? Oh, God. I wish you’d said. I wouldn’t have been so rude about the—’
‘Slightly festering by-catch?’
‘Not the words I’d use.’
‘Oh, it was “monstrosity”, wasn’t it?’ Lawrence smirked, but it wasn’t sinister. If anything, his interest was piqued. ‘We can all be duplicitous, Miss Pascoe.’
‘I… don’t think I told you my name.’
Lawrence pointed at Poppy’s bag, where a rectangular sticker sat at an angle, her teaching name scribbled across it in black marker pen.
‘Oh, yep. I should have taken that off. It’s from a school trip. I’m a teacher.’ Poppy bit her lip. So far, her attempts to be enigmatic were not going to plan.
‘I love teachers. And wedding photographers, for that matter.’ Lawrence put on a suit jacket that hung from the back of a chair and slipped his cigarette case into its silk-lined pocket. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell my brother what you said.’
‘Your brother?’
‘The groom.’
‘Oh, shit. That’s even worse. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.’
‘Look sharp. Here comes the sergeant,’ said Lawrence, nodding towards Lola, who strode along the terrace towards them, eyes fixed on her iPad. ‘We’ve fallen out already. If she says anything about the table arrangement, I’m blaming you.’
Poppy’s neck flushed with heat, but before she could think of anything to say, Lola was at her side, eyes wide. She clapped a hand to her waist, swooping towards Lawrence as he quick-stepped inside. ‘What in the shitting hell is this?’
Chapter Seven
‘I asked for sea-themed, not dregs from the arse end of a Japanese trawler. How long has it been sitting here?’
‘Only a few minutes, although it’s clearly been sitting somewhere else for longer…’
A fat bluebottle landed on a waxy tentacle as it sank further into its rapidly melting ice bath.
‘I was so clear with the caterer; I may as well have written it in permanent marker across his forehead. If it’s above twenty-three degrees in the day, we put the seafood on ice for the evening.’ Lola consulted a mini-thermometer that she’d looped through the handle of her bag. ‘Twenty-five and climbing. Brilliant. How’s my lipstick?’
Poppy leant in to check, angling around Lola’s face like a dentist inspecting hard-to-reach molars. ‘Flawless.’
‘Good. I can’t shout at someone with a smudge; it loses impact.’ Lola dumped her bag by Poppy’s feet and headed inside with a purposeful stride. Poppy had seen it employed many times before, most often in bars. Lola’s hips could divide a crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea.
They had spent their early adulthood in neighbouring cities, Lola working in Bristol, Poppy at university in Bath. Weekends had involved pinballing between train stations with discount tickets and Evian bottles full of pre-mixed vodka cranberry juice, their collective friends pulled into a constantly metamorphosing group through Lola’s efforts as self-appointed social secretary and Poppy’s reluctance to organise anything herself. It was why they worked. It was also what made Poppy feel so guilty about hiding from Lola for the past six months. She had burrowed herself like a mole, digging deeper the closer anyone came.
Poppy avoided confrontation by pretending it wasn’t happening, but she was sure Lola thrived on a healthy dose of chaos. Even now, Poppy felt a sharp ache in her stomach as though she’d distilled her discomfort, drank it, and allowed it to harden into emotional gallstones. Given the chance, Lola would pull a surgical light overhead and pluck them out for closer inspection. Knowing this, Poppy had slipped into a habit of rejecting calls and leaving messages unread. After six months, the energy it took to pretend she was fine had run dry.
Lola didn’t need any additional strain, so Poppy didn’t mention the sabotaged seating arrangement. She still couldn’t fathom how week-long wedding celebrations necessitated stuffy lunches with company-monogrammed napkins. Was this a conference, a party, or some strange amalgamation of both? The guests she’d met so far were a mixture of Cluedo characters and a corporate accounts team. She couldn’t begin to picture what the couple getting married might be like.
Lola returned, followed by the same waiters who had brought out the seafood platter. They hovered by the table, throwing nervous glances in Lola’s direction.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Where do you want us to dump it?’
Lola blinked slowly. ‘It’s not like you can release them back into the sea, is it? Take it home in some Tupperware, feed it to a basking shark, I don’t know, just get it off the terrace before people come through.’
The two waiters nodded and gingerly walked the platter back towards the kitchen. One of them staggered, water sloshing down the front of his waistcoat. As he gagged with the melodrama of a child trying broccoli for the first time, Lola took a slow, deliberate breath. ‘Breathe in love, breathe out love… breathe in love, breathe out love,’ she whispered.
‘Have you ever considered becoming a teacher? The quality of your sarcasm has the power to wither a teenager’s self-esteem in seconds.’
‘Nah, one big career change is enough for me. Oh! I need to give you something. It’ll get pretty busy round here in about… ninety seconds, so unless you want to schmooze with the guests about the quality of Burgundy grapes this year, duck out now. I’ll meet you by the grotto.’
Poppy headed down a set of wide stone steps and walked around a lawn that was hidden from view by a huge rhododendron, the branches heavy with pink and purple flowers. She kicked her flip-flops off and tentatively stepped onto the grass, ignoring the ‘lawn games only’ sign staked into the shingle beside her. The ground was spongy and damp underfoot. It reminded her of long shoeless summers, of the days spent playing rounders in the road, of clambering down coves, and getting fed by whichever neighbour offered to make jam sandwiches for the kids at their end of the estate. She had avoided her own home as a child. She avoided it now.
