The wedding crasher, p.7
The Wedding Crasher, page 7
‘I’ve collected a decent evidence bank over the years. They got married when Mum got pregnant with me and Dad thought it was “the right thing to do” even though it was 1988 and everyone was pretty much cool with cohabitation by then. I would say it’s because he’s old school, but to be honest I think he saw it as a really good deal. He laboured on building sites, Mum worked as a classroom assistant and then did another full shift when she got home keeping us both fed and happy. Basically, she emptied her tank to fill ours. Proposing to Mum is where Dad’s measure of effort came to an end. Cue a decade of talking at cross purposes, growing resentment, and all without ever really bothering to figure out how the other one ticks.’
‘I thought you got on with your dad?’ said Will, cushioning his head with his hands.
‘I do, but it’s not been straightforward. Mum left and moved to Jersey with a landscaper called Rick, or Mick, or some other local-radio-sounding name. Then three years later, she died and Dad lost his job, so, yeah… complicated.’
Will blinked and raised his head an inch higher.
‘What? I never knew that. About your mum.’
Poppy shrugged. She felt her throat spike with the threat of tears. She was seeing a counsellor for the first time who encouraged her not to shut down conversations about her mum, but in reality, it felt like asking someone to stamp on her foot. The pain was inevitable.
Will put his hand on her knee, his touch cautious, his palm soft. Poppy pushed hair out of her face.
‘Don’t hug me because I’ll cry and I never know when it’ll stop. I like to plan for it,’ she said, her voice catching. ‘At least if it coincides with my PMS I can get away with locking myself in my room without being questioned.’
‘I just thought you had a traumatic, you know… monthly girl thing.’
‘Monthly girl thing? You’re a nineteen-year-old man living independently and you can’t say period?’ said Poppy, laughing.
‘You’ve been adding Galaxy Ripples into my Tesco order every month since September. I thought that made me an ally for the female cause.’
‘Yeah, sorry about that. It’s always been dead-mum chocolate. That carries more weight than period chocolate, so kudos to you.’
Will gave Poppy a sad smile and patted her arm. The warmth she felt in the base of her stomach peaked like a shard of ice.
‘You see, this is why I don’t mention it. It brings everyone down,’ she said.
‘You could have told me before.’
‘Nah. Mum likes to surprise me. It’s like pass-the-parcel, but the prize is childhood trauma.’
‘And your dad coped badly, did he?’
‘Oh, it was pretty much as bad as it gets. I kept us both alive for years and he rewarded me by turning my bedroom into an electrical workshop. He buys broken appliances from charity shops to fix up and sell, but he’s blown the fuses in the house more times than I can count and I’m not a hundred per cent sure what he’s doing is legal. We get on a lot better now that I’ve moved out, but I just want him to find a good enough reason to look after himself without having to rely on me all the time.’
‘What are you going to do this summer when we have to leave halls?’
‘I don’t know. Find a job. It’s not like I can’t stay with him, but I don’t really want to go back home for longer than a weekend if I can help it.’
‘Nah, come and hang out with me!’ said Will. ‘My dad has planned a family thing in Italy, but me, Isaac, and Faith are meeting in Croatia afterwards. Haven’t booked anything yet, but y’know. Plans are in the early stages.’ Will sat up, his expression less pinched with worry than before. It must be nice to forget so easily.
‘I can’t. If I don’t earn some money, I’ll be eating potatoes for the rest of the year.’
‘I’ll cover you.’
‘I won’t let you.’
‘It’s not a big deal.’
‘Says the person who won’t go to the cinema unless there’s a two-for-one voucher going,’ said Poppy.
‘Yeah, but this is different. This is you.’
‘Honestly, that’s really sweet, but I’m fine. Summer holidays were always a bit of a dodgy time for me. A lot of hours and not a lot to do except rattle around at home picking up after Dad, which, as appealing as it sounds, loses its shine after a while. If I get a job with Lola, at least we’ll have a laugh. I like working.’
‘You love a routine.’
‘Exactly! And I can do shoots in my downtime, especially if Lola’s with me to interview people. She has the mouth; I have the camera. The other alternative is getting my job back at Shoe Zone, but I’d rather shoot my toes off than fit school plimsoles for ten hours a day.’
‘You sound set on it,’ said Will.
‘Mm-hmm. Anyway, what’s with the parental relationship quizzing?’
‘I’m trying to widen my data pool of happy couples to learn from.’
‘Well, strike mine off for starters. What about yours?’
‘Mum’s boyfriends are always obsessed with the fact she used to be a model. They wear T-shirts that are too small for them. Instant write-off. Dad has been married twice since Mum and the most recent one answers questions at least two minutes after you asked them. She’s on a different planet. Or a lot of Xanax. I can’t figure out which.’
Poppy felt a swathe of tiredness settle across her brow. She rested her head on her knees, yawned, and looked at Will. ‘Don’t change for anyone. You’re too good as you are.’
‘Doesn’t seem like it.’ He sighed. ‘I want to die on a single bed having lost my marbles with a wife I’ve had for sixty years.’
‘We’ve had this discussion before. If you use The Notebook as the gold standard for relationships, you’re going to be disappointed.’
‘He built her a house. I want to build someone a house.’
‘You will. Just not Gabriella. She sounds terrible.’
‘She is terrible,’ said Will, threading his fingers between hers. Poppy’s brain slipped into rapid response mode. They’d held hands before, but then it had been ironic. This time, it felt like they’d closed a circuit of electricity that flowed up her arm, down her spine, and back to Will at the point her toes made contact with his body.
‘Oi, oi!’
Harry walked into the kitchen cradling a polystyrene tray, a strip of grey kebab meat dangling from his mouth. ‘What are you two twats doing here? I had a suspicion you’d slipped out early. Wink wink,’ he said, smirking at Poppy.
‘Yeah, what happened to the Brightside rule?’ said Laura, elbowing him out of the way. ‘Repeat after me: no bailing until “Mr Brightside”. Louder at the back! No bailing until “Mr Brightside”!’ She kicked her heels under the table as someone plugged a portable speaker in. It didn’t take long for the rest of them to join, a menagerie of drunken animals, chips squashed underfoot as they belted the opening lyrics until it sounded like a football chant.
Poppy left her bowl on the side, helped Will up, and slipped out into the corridor, allowing the fire door to close behind them.
‘I better do that essay,’ he said.
‘Right.’ Poppy hovered at the threshold to her bedroom and looked down the corridor at Will. He gripped the door frame, back arched as though he were about to skydive from an open-sided plane.
‘Hey, Will?’
‘Mmm?’
‘I think I left something in your room.’
Chapter Nine
Five Days Before the Wedding
Three chefs sat behind a row of potted olive trees, plates of mixed leftovers balanced on their knees. They both ate with one hand and smoked with the other, tapping ash into a chipped gravy boat propped on an upturned crate. Will nodded to them, parted a chain-link curtain, and stepped aside to let Poppy and Lola into a basement kitchen. Poppy hung back. She wanted to refamiliarize herself with Will’s movements, his sloped shoulders, his hairline, the way he walked with his head slightly bowed, as if conscious of his height. A decade ago, she’d be able to locate him in seconds from the balcony of a heaving club, a WKD in each hand, arm dangling across a friend as he jumped out of time with the music. He’d stopped wearing T-shirts with stretched necklines, but his dopey smile was the same.
Inside, a sous-chef called over to them by the sink, elbow deep in soap suds. ‘Will, mate. There’s a leftover terrine in the fridge. Help yourself. Good with a bit of sourdough. It’s Tamiko’s recipe, so you know it’s shit-hot.’
‘Cheers. I’m starving,’ said Will. He opened the fridge, pulled out a weighty rectangular plate, and set it down on a stainless-steel worktop alongside half a loaf of bread. Lola hovered by the door, clutching her bag in front of her with both hands.
‘You hungry?’ asked Will.
‘No, I’m fine…’ said Lola, angling her wrist to check the time.
‘She isn’t,’ said Poppy. ‘Lola, when was the last time you ate?’
‘I had a Diet Coke earlier,’ she said.
‘When?’
‘This morning. With a boiled egg.’
Will held Lola at arm’s length. ‘Lola, you’ve been amazing today. Let Dad get on with his schmoozing. Chill out for a bit, come on. Free terrine!’ He spoke quickly, but Poppy couldn’t tell if it was awkwardness, excitement, or both. There was an atmosphere between them, but was that because Poppy was looking for one? The last time they spoke, it wasn’t on the best of terms.
Will released Lola with a look of friendly reproach, cut a slice of terrine, and spread it on a thick wedge of bread, finishing it off with a slug of olive oil and a twist of pepper. Was there any recollection in his eyes? Any memory of the last time they spoke?
‘I should probably add a bit of context to this,’ said Lola, waving her hand in Poppy’s direction.
Poppy panicked, unsure how honest she should be about the reason why she and Will were awkwardly fidgeting, hyper-conscious of their body language like extras on a daytime soap. ‘I’m not a stripper,’ said Poppy, warmth flooding her cheeks. ‘In case that’s what you thought.’
‘It’s… not what I thought,’ said Will.
Lola smarted. ‘Steady on, babe.’
‘I just thought… wedding… my surprise appearance, etcetera, etcetera…’ Poppy rubbed the back of her neck, her skin radiating heat. ‘Obviously, why would you think I was a stripper? That was a proper brain fart. I would have prepared a more elaborate entrance if I was a stripper. Jumped out of a cake or something.’ Poppy laughed at herself, wishing she could self-detonate from shame. Will gave her a confused smile. Lola shook her head in disbelief.
‘Glad we cleared that up. Also, quite glad Ottilie wasn’t here to hear it,’ he said, running a hand inside his buttoned collar.
‘Ottilie is Will’s fiancée,’ added Lola. ‘You met her parents on the boat. Is she around?’
‘She’s down at the fisherman’s hut, charging her crystals.’ He shrugged. ‘I can’t pretend to understand it. Still, she always comes back bubbly as anything.’
At this, Lola pursed her lip to the side, recalculating her decision. ‘In that case, I think I can spare fifteen minutes… She’s staying there overnight?’
‘Yeah, I think so.’
Lola hung her bag by a rack of chef’s whites, pulled her heels off, and audibly sighed as her bare feet touched the cold tiles. ‘Oh, good God, that’s nice. The last time I wore these shoes was when I dressed up as Frank-N-Furter at that Rocky Horror party I organised when you guys were at university.’
Will scratched his chin and blinked. ‘My first time in fishnets. I forgot about that. What would that have been, nine years ago?’
‘Ten,’ said Poppy.
‘Ten, wow. Hey, we’ve got some catching up to do, right? I’ve got so many questions. But first of all, can I give you a hug?’
Poppy smiled. He was right. Ten years was a long time – long enough to forget about something that happened so long ago, back when they were highly strung and naïve with youth. She swayed on the spot in faux hesitation, her worry easing. ‘Go on then.’
Will wrapped his arms around her, his chest pressed against her ear. When he spoke, Poppy could hear a murmur through his ribcage. ‘How come you’re on the island? I mean, it’s great, but… unexpected. Lola, is this your doing?’
‘No, no. Not me. Actually, that’s not true. Poppy is here because of me, but she wasn’t intended as a surprise guest. I needed a photographer. Poppy is one. Thus, Poppy is here!’ Lola smiled, skittish with nervous energy. Back when they were baby adults living in each other’s pockets, Lola had been introduced to Will through their mutual friendship with Poppy. Although Lola didn’t go to their university, her frequent visits to Poppy’s campus gave her the experience without the debt, a fact she was incredibly proud of. The three of them would watch films together on Poppy’s single bed, backs against the wall, legs dangling above a faint vomit stain that the previous year’s tenant had left behind. They were close as a trio, but Lola didn’t know everything. When Lola went home, Will was there.
‘Oh, that’s great. What, er… I’m just asking because Ottilie will want to know, but what happened to the original photographer, Christian?’
‘Christian had an unexpected emergency. He called me earlier, head halfway down a bog, going by the echo. Norovirus. He didn’t give details, but the phrase “out both ends” was used.’
‘Say no more. Bad timing. I don’t suppose you took Princess Eugenie’s engagement photos, Pops? You used to be good with portraits. Do you still run that photoblog? What was it called again?’
‘The World’s Eye? No, ’fraid not. Only kingfishers and lapwings of late.’
Will bit into his bread and picked up a napkin, attempting to catch crumbs. Hearing her old nickname alleviated a tension that wound between her ribs and pulled her up short. She reached for the butter knife, her stomach aching with hunger.
‘Poppy, can you cut me a slice?’ asked Lola, waggling her bright-red acrylic nails. ‘I can’t get a grip on the knife with these.’ Poppy cut a doorstep wedge of bread and slid the plate over to Lola. ‘Thanks, you’re a dream.’
‘This could be fate,’ said Will. ‘I know you spent months trying to book Christian and my dad is a fan, but… I don’t know, Christian’s pretty old school. Takes pictures from a stepladder, teeth too big for his mouth, you know?’ Will scooped at the terrine with a dessert spoon.
Lola nibbled her crust, careful not to displace her lipstick. ‘He does have a good track record of getting six-page spreads in Hello magazine…’ said Lola.
‘Exactly. Dodged a bullet there,’ said Will, grimacing. ‘Although I don’t want to be the one to break it to Ottie.’
‘I’ll give him a couple of days and check in to see how he’s doing,’ said Lola. ‘There’s no need to mention it to Ottilie now.’
‘You know what this needs?’ said Will, his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek. ‘Maldon salt.’
Poppy watched Will as he navigated the kitchen as though it were his own, plucking condiments and cutlery from the drawers until they had a Tudor feast before them. She struggled to assimilate this Will with the one she’d known from halls, back when he’d worn T-shirts featuring Che Guevara and thought Ultimate Frisbee was cool. His hair was buzzed at the sides, curls sleek and springy on top. From this, Poppy inferred that he now paid money to a barber rather than allowed a drunk friend to wield a shaver with no instructions. Another change. Once shy, he now took up space without apologising for it. It suited him.
‘So, you’re a Mountgrave?’ said Poppy.
‘Mmm.’
‘And this is all for you? Married, eh? Big deal,’ said Poppy, trying her best to maintain a neutral interaction.
Will swallowed a clod of ballotine and thumped his chest. ‘I’m trying to be cool and composed about everything. Lola keeps saying I’ll burn out before Saturday if I keep buzzing around the island like an excited bee. Married.’ Will shook his head as though he couldn’t believe his own luck. ‘Mad, right? Still feel weird saying it. Weird, but amazing. Got any advice?’ He looked at Poppy, his eye contact unwavering for the first time.
‘Huh?’
‘About marriage. Last thing I heard, you and Josh got hitched sometime after graduation. Any advice? You must be a veteran by now.’
Poppy presented her hand in mock imitation of the many engagement announcements she’d seen on social media over the past couple of years, except this time her ring finger was bare.
Will leant forward. She still had a slight indentation where her wedding band had once been. The day after they had decided to separate, Josh had had the audacity to ask if she was planning to give her engagement ring back. Of course she wasn’t. Her dad advised her to put it towards a good divorce solicitor, but that cycle of expenditure was too depressing to contemplate.
‘Oh… Pops. I didn’t realise. I shouldn’t have said anything,’ said Will.
‘Hey, why would you know? It would be worse if you assumed I’d be divorced by now.’ Poppy laughed. Will didn’t reciprocate. ‘Anyway, you were always too cool to have social media and I wasn’t keen on announcing my new relationship status. But, back to your question. In short, I’m the last person you want to ask for marriage advice, because I’d say don’t do it.’
Will’s smile faltered as he looked from Poppy to Lola. ‘Oh. You’re serious,’ he said. ‘Shit. Was it messy?’
Lola pulled her chair in, sat tall, and pointed at Will with a lacquered nail. ‘Hey. Your marriage is going to be a bloody triumph. It’ll last your whole life. People will write screenplays inspired by the Will and Ottilie origin story,’ said Lola, nodding. ‘Stop laughing, it’s true. Richard Curtis will be banging down your door for the rights to it. Who do you want to be played by?’ Lola gave Poppy’s hand a warning squeeze under the countertop.
Poppy had spent months thinking about how she’d let people know that she and Josh were separated. She couldn’t say ‘single’, not when they still co-owned furniture and a National Trust membership. She’d entertained ideas of wearing bright lipstick, doing a pottery course, and buying a dachshund. Her fantasy single life was suave, straightforward, and full of purpose; the kind that her friends in long-term relationships would mute her on Instagram for. In reality, would anyone covet the hours she spent creating surreal stop-motion animations in the attic? Envy her for sleeping on a wicker couch beneath a skylight smeared by greasy pigeon wings? Her throat prickled with tightly coiled anger. A stranger had slipped beneath her skin, a meaner, pithier, withered version of Poppy. Right now, she didn’t like herself at all.
