The summer wedding, p.16
The Summer Wedding, page 16
‘Leave them all to me.’ She gave the bulge a loving stroke and her fingers closed around the car keys at last. ‘I’ll tackle them tomorrow and remind the lascivious ladies that the position’s filled.’
‘Marvellous. Let’s go to bed so I can fill the only lascivious lady I care about. Face it, Mrs Demon, we mix our gins like we mix our sin, so you’ll be over the limit to drive anyway.’
For a moment, she was tempted. It would be another baby-making opportunity. Mixing gin and sin suddenly felt far more tempting than mixing with leggy under-twenties. But Mia would never forgive her if she baled.
‘I’m fine.’ She headed for the door. ‘Don’t bother staying up.’
‘Not much chance of that at my age,’ Simon said miserably, tucking his pocket back in his trousers, bulge already subsiding. He returned to his computer screen but glanced back as his wife ground to an abrupt halt in the doorway with a cry of horror. ‘Don’t tell me the builders have spilled mastic on the parquet again?’
‘I’ve just remembered it’s fancy dress.’ She turned back imploringly.
A slow smile spread across Simon’s face as he stood up, clicking his knuckles. A lifelong enthusiastic party host and guest, he’d assembled a costume store to rival the National Theatre’s. It was the only one of his many eccentric collections they’d unpacked since moving in, and it was arranged on long rails in the attics. ‘How long have we got?’
‘Ten minutes max.’ She started towards the stairs.
‘Theme?’
‘Something to do with animals, I think. Mia did say. “Fur, feather and fin” rings a bell. Shall I text her?’
‘No time. I have just the thing,’ he was already unzipping her dress as they climbed, ‘but first let’s refresh our minds about the birds and the bees.’ His hand slipped beneath her knickers to squeeze a buttock.
‘I always thought that sounded like a very unnatural relationship.’ She panted her way around a stair-turn. ‘What bird in her right mind would want to shag a bee?’
‘It’s all about the “sting” – nesting and roosting being primary examples,’ he said, as he unclipped her bra. ‘Stick around and I’ll show you some thrusting.’
‘I told you we haven’t time.’ Boobs bouncing as she scaled the narrow back stairs, Laney was feeling far from desirable, secretly resentful that Simon was always horny after a day off work when she was exhausted and currently in a hurry. She knew that she was ovulating and they often had their most fast, furious and wanton sex when they had been scrapping, but her libido was flat-lining.
They battled their way past the plastic sheeting that was currently weatherproofing the second floor. As Simon shouldered the light switch, he looked back at her with his devilish smile, eyes as pale and predatory as a wolf’s. ‘I warn you, resistance is hopeless.’
The attics smelled of theatre dressing rooms, and Laney was reminded of the many times they had stolen naughty minutes when first together in the college prop store. They’d been insatiable then. Trying to get into the mood, she picked a black-feather ball mask from a nearby hook and put it on, then eased off her dress and struck a burlesque pose. Simon’s mouth fell greedily on her naked breasts, gathering first one nipple and then the other against his tongue to coax them into tingling high relief.
Laney closed her eyes and tried to imagine they were back at Old Gate with no responsibilities, just two randy, madly-in-love individuals who’d found out what bliss it was to get naked, slot their bodies together and seek nirvana. But when she opened her eyes, the first thing she looked at was her watch. She glanced guiltily at Simon to make sure he hadn’t noticed and her heart burned in her chest, filled with love and regret. She wished her body would burn with lust and longing instead. They would make love, she decided. They were the forever family now.
Simon pulled a huge red velvet opera cloak from a rack and threw it across the largest prop hamper so that it resembled an altar, on to which he carefully lowered his wife, deftly sliding off her knickers as he did so before kneeling alongside her, his hand taking her ankle and lifting it over his shoulder. Reaching behind, he drew forwards an ostrich boa that he slowly tied around her wrists, its downy fronds whispering against her skin.
‘Does that feel good?’ he breathed.
It tickled and she was almost certain a spider had just scuttled out of it across her stomach, but she nodded. She was still wearing her mask and felt ridiculously like Batman, but she couldn’t rip it off now that her hands were tied and she could tell it was exciting the hell out of Simon.
‘We have to be quick,’ she reminded him, as he curled the ends of the boa around her ankle and lifted it even higher before starting to kiss his way along her thigh, his teeth sinking into the soft skin and making her yelp.
‘Forget the hen party,’ he insisted. ‘All you’re getting tonight is cock, baby.’
Lifting her chin, she peered sceptically at him, relieved to see the glint of amusement in the grey eyes watching her from between her thighs. They stayed locked on hers as his mouth enclosed her clitoris and his tongue began to work its magic, knowing exactly how to flick soft then hard, to circle and swirl and lap in and out of her until she was ready to tumble off the pleasure ledge.
Laney willed her body to leap into sizzling response, but she was barely getting warmed up when he thrust inside her, his pace relentless from the start, pulling both her legs over his shoulders, angling her back and filling her until she felt muscles she’d forgotten about clench in response. It was far from sensual, and it was only a hair’s breadth away from being too rough, but strangely thrilling in its novelty and wantonness, and she fought guilty relief that it would undoubtedly be over quickly. Abandoning herself to it, she let out a long, hedonistic groan, which was enough to make Simon come with such force she felt the rushing flood of heat inside her.
Laney beamed up at him.
He pressed a rueful smile to the little birthmark on her right calf. ‘You didn’t come.’
‘I was thereabouts,’ she lied, unpeeling feathers from her sweaty wrists, thinking happily of the pregnancy test she could treat herself to tomorrow. Shooting into orgasm orbit would have been lovely, but she was going to be horribly late as it was, and now she’d need to take a shower. ‘What am I wearing?’ She sat up, hoping Simon had something flattering and understated.
He was watching her thoughtfully, his face in shadow. Then he turned to his rails and drew forward a costume so large-scale and spectacular it had a wheeled rack all of its own.
‘Jesus!’ She started to laugh. ‘I hope it’s flameproof.’
Chapter 12
As her candlelit punt glided along the Thames, Iris was so engrossed in exchanging messages with Dougie that she hardly noticed when the gondolier at the helm lifted his boater and broke into an aria, accompanied by an accordionist in another punt.
Soon afterwards, her hens confiscated her phone, but she still failed to enter into the spirit of the occasion, drinking barely a sip of champagne and eating only a few chocolate buttons from the top of a cupcake.
‘I’ve had no appetite for weeks,’ she confessed to Chloe later, when they sat down in the private dining room at Morley-on-Thames Rowing Club.
‘I wish you’d told me that before I booked this place at forty quid a head.’ Chloe peered at her friend’s waif-like frame. ‘We could have gone extreme potholing instead.’
‘This is perfect,’ Iris assured her, looking around the familiar faces as if through a sheet of glass. She sometimes felt that being in love had entombed her in an enchanted casket. It felt safe and secure, and the view was wonderful. Her friends had never looked more ravishing, a magical chorus to her ascension.
The hens, meanwhile, were regarding her with mounting anxiety. Few had seen much of her in the past year, for much of which she had been away filming the fifth Ptolemy Finch movie, followed by three months in the UK wrapped up with Dougie. Now that they could see close up what Mia Devonshire privately described to close friends as her daughter’s ‘love lobotomy’, it was obvious how extreme the change in her was.
Even that evening’s fancy-dress theme had failed to ignite Iris’s famous sense of fun. After much deliberating, Chloe had come up with ‘birds of a feather’, resulting in acres of marabou, ostrich and chandelle trim, and plenty of boas. There were also a few comedy penguins, a parrot and a Tweety Pie. Chloe herself was loyally dressed in a hired emu-rider suit, jockey on top and bird from the waist down.
The Iris they knew would have embraced the avian theme with delight, insisting upon the most outrageous, and probably comic, creation of the evening. She’d never been remotely self-conscious, and had the enviable ability to dress down and still look ravishing, in the way that only those born truly beautiful can achieve. She rarely wore make-up or changed out of jeans unless she was in character or on a publicity tour, but when she did pull out all the stops she could silence a room. Tonight her hens had prepared a surprise costume: a ravishing peacock dress with a nipped-in waist that made her look like a Mardi Gras queen. But, far from preening and cooing, she was sprawling in her chair like the dreamy kid at the back of the class, feather-trimmed high heels kicked off below the table as she thought of nothing but her fiancé.
‘I’ve never seen anyone that in love,’ one friend murmured.
Chloe narrowed her eyes and wondered if Dougie had drugged her. She seemed to recall that he had once been linked to a cocaine scandal. She adored Iris, but her friend was suddenly a stranger.
Iris had always been the sort of girl who seemed too good to be true – as fragile as spun glass, as affectionate as a kitten and as loyal as a Labrador. Women of all ages treasured her and men guarded her fiercely. She was a terrific friend, and eternally optimistic. The X key of her smartphone was always worn blank because she added so many kisses to messages. She never forgot birthdays or betrayed a secret, had a huge sense of fun, and was up for any dare. Fame hadn’t changed her, except that she had more numbers stored and less free time, and shopping in Primark or meeting for a coffee meant getting papped.
Inevitably compared to her mother, with whom she shared the wild snakes of hair and vivid green eyes, she maintained that she was of a completely different species. Mia was old-fashioned, passionate and forthright at home, cool and charming in public; Iris was as imaginative, capricious and outspoken in public as in private. Mia looked after her body with a personal trainer, chef and dresser; Iris lived on chocolate, energy drinks and late nights. Her hair was only the same rich burnt-biscuit colour as her mother’s by virtue of the Ptolemy Finch creatives, who’d insisted she dye it darker to contrast with Ptolemy’s near-white locks. The only time Iris ever went near a hairdresser was when she was on set, which was why she was currently sporting a root-line tidemark where her natural pale blond was growing through. As well as poor nutrition and lack of sleep, she had no vanity. To remain so beautiful was a triumph of genetics.
Her penchant for old cardigans, checked shirts and boyfriend jeans was a running joke among her friends. She looked like a scruffball, often smelled of horse and had never willingly worn heels in her life, although she was barely five feet four. This delighted five-feet-seven Dougie, who could be chippy about his height, although he was less impressed by her choice of bridesmaids, who were both nearly six feet tall. He’d insisted on no high tiaras, heels or big hair for the ceremony. Not that Iris had any intention of sporting them.
‘What’s the dress like?’ asked a friend now.
‘I haven’t found one yet,’ she admitted. ‘I tried bidding for a couple of vintage frocks on eBay, but I was sniped at the last minute. I’ll have to go shopping this week. I’ve got to be able to sit astride a saddle in it.’
‘Are you really going to ride up the aisle? Won’t the dress get all hitched up?’
‘Nothing’s getting hitched that day apart from me and Dougie. I guess I should take Scully into the fitting rooms with me but Mum would insist on driving the horsebox, and I definitely don’t want her opinion, so I’ll chance it. There’s always side-saddle.’
Another change her friends had noticed in her was a vehement antipathy towards her mother. To hear Iris speak of bubbly, kind-hearted Mia in such disparaging tones was startling. The two had always adored each other, but their current rift seemed dangerously deep.
She looked up at the old wall clock above two crossed oars, calculating the time in LA. Dougie would be with her father, she realised. They’d arranged to meet for lunch at the studio. Her fingers twitched. She longed to have her phone back to wish him good luck, but the hens had locked it in the rowing club’s safe.
Chloe was harrying everybody into their seats, having arranged entertainment between courses. They were already running terribly late.
Each inter-course show was to be preceded by a round of tequila shots, served by bare-chested waiters in leather chaps and shot-glass bandolier belts, with a Cuervo bottle in each hip holster. This was a last-minute addition that several schoolfriend hens had come up with, thinking Chloe’s plans very staid.
‘Please tell me there’s not going to be a kissogram?’ griped one of Iris’s LA acting cronies, who clearly disapproved of a lowly rowing club and thought Chloe a very pedestrian friend.
‘Definitely not.’ She checked her watch, not caring what the pecking hens thought as long as tonight made Iris happy. ‘A fire-eater after the starter, Bruno Mars lookalike performing “Just the Way You Are” after the mains and a fortune teller after dessert.’
The actress looked alarmed. ‘Isn’t that a bit hocus-pocus?’
‘It was the only thing Iris asked for. You know how much she loves all that stuff.’
‘So you’ve arranged for the tarot pack to be made up entirely of the Lovers card, like in the James Bond movie, yeah?’
‘Of course not.’ Chloe had no belief in the occult, but cheating was definitely off limits. ‘I just Googled local availability and liked the name – Psychic Phoenix. It seemed to fit with the theme. I’ve done it all by email. It’s probably a parrot in a gold Liberace cloak.’
Matters were delayed further by the arrival of Iris’s beloved Spanish grandmother Jacinta, whizzing along in a new electric wheelchair with a carer in her wake.
‘Dad bought it for her birthday.’ Iris watched her fondly. ‘She refuses to read the instruction manual. So far she’s run over three of Mum’s dogs and trashed the best Tabriz rug.’
Lito was sporting a tweed twinset, matched with a pheasant-feather hat. She looked better equipped to shoot birds than tequila.
‘Where are the hombres de cuero?’ she demanded excitedly, speeding up to the dining table and almost disappearing beneath it as she failed to brake in time. All that could be seen of her was a pheasant hat on the place setting.
Chloe pulled her out just as the carer raced up and flicked off the chair’s power switch, panting. ‘Señora, we agreed that you must let me steer the chair in here.’ She eyed the big open doors leading straight out on to a decked riverside terrace as she pushed down firmly on the brake.
Now Jacinta cast her eyes along the table and took in the hens in all their plumed glory, her dark eyes gleaming. It was no secret that the family matriarch had advised her granddaughter against the marriage, but she was clearly under strict instructions to behave herself. ‘Iris’s fiancé is in America tonight,’ she confessed to Chloe in a rasping Hispanic undertone. ‘Leo will take him in hand. Mas vale tarde que nunca. Better late than never.’ She reached for a glass and raised it at the party organiser. ‘A beber y a tragar, que el mundo se va a acabar.’
‘Eat and drink, for tomorrow the world will end,’ Chloe translated, knowing it was one of the Devonshires’ catchphrases. She only hoped the Psychic Phoenix was a bit more upbeat.
