Chapter 12
12
I stare down the long driveway leading to my dad’s house like it’s the barrel of a gun – well, ‘house’ is a bit of an understatement (gun, however, is not). This house is a Grade II-listed Georgian manor, always simply referred to as ‘the manor’ by the family. It’s a grand place, rich in history, in a small village just outside York.
It’s beautiful, of course it is, but it’s also intimidatingly big. It’s made of solid stone that looks like it could withstand a siege – so obviously I’ve ruled that out, for when they’re annoying me.
The grounds stretch out on either side of the driveway – formal terracing, perfectly manicured lawns and a walled garden that requires a small army to maintain.
There’s parkland beyond that, with managed woodland framing a wildlife lake. It’s all so meticulously organised, and managed, that the place runs like a well-oiled machine. You would think a big house like this would feel lonely but, honestly, every piece of it feels alive.
I should feel more at home here, I suppose, since this is technically where I would have grown up if I’d stayed with Dad instead of going with Mum (although I don’t have any memories of living here). But every time I come back, I’m reminded how different our worlds are. This place is gorgeous, but it’s also the kind of beautiful that makes you feel small. I guess that’s why they have staff, because who could possibly manage this all on their own? Still, the idea of having people hanging around all the time, doing things for me, makes my skin crawl. I wouldn’t want that.
It’s been a while since I was last here. I never come willingly – usually, I’m summoned, like today, for a pre-wedding gathering ahead of the big day (that’s actually a big week, because why settle for a day when you can drag it out?). And of course it’s going to be a catered lunch, because nothing’s ever as simple as just popping over for a cup of tea and a chat in this family.
The invite – yes, an actual invitation to lunch with my family – said ‘smart casual’, which to me means black skinny jeans, a silk blouse and a leather jacket. But to the people inside this house, it probably means ceremonial robes and their second-fanciest tiaras.
I hate arriving through the front door because you don’t just walk in; you’re greeted by Alec, the house manager, who will lead you through the labyrinth of rooms to wherever you’re supposed to be.
Life hack though, if you’re ever here and something is going on, it’s easy enough to slink in through the side door with the caterers, so that’s what I’m going to do today.
As I turn the corner, I spot a van parked near the side entrance, with a team of people unloading things. There’s a man leaning against the stone wall, smoking a cigarette. He’s got that bad-boy vibe – tall, with dark hair that looks like he just rolled out of bed, a leather jacket slung over his broad shoulders, and the kind of stubble that’s too perfectly maintained to be accidental (honestly, even with stubble, I wouldn’t be surprised if Bea dismissed him on the spot).
‘Are you with the caterers?’ I ask as I approach him, pausing by the door.
He takes a drag of his cigarette and shakes his head.
‘Waitstaff,’ he replies, his voice deep and rough.
‘Have you met any of the family yet?’ I ask, wondering what kind of mood they’re in.
‘Oh, yeah,’ he says, widening his eyes for effect. ‘It’s a special kind of awful in there. They’re a bit Saltburn , honestly. Actually, they make the Saltburn family seem normal.’
‘They’re my family,’ I reply, without missing a beat.
His eyes widen in horror.
‘Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean – not shit, sorry for swearing, I just?—’
‘Don’t worry.’ I cut him off with a smile. ‘I’m sort of the family outcast, and you’re not wrong about them.’
He relaxes, the tension easing from his shoulders.
‘Is it some kind of special occasion?’ he asks curiously.
‘It’s a lunch to talk about my sister’s upcoming wedding,’ I explain, rolling my eyes.
He lets out a low whistle.
‘All this for a lunch? That’s crazy,’ he says.
‘I know,’ I say with a sigh. ‘I’m jealous that you’re here to serve it, instead of having to attend it.’
He flicks his cigarette to the ground and crushes it with his boot.
‘I’m Tyler, by the way,’ he says, his tone vaguely flirtatious.
‘Lana,’ I reply.
‘I guess I’ll see you in there,’ he says, nodding toward the door.
‘If you see me looking like I need rescuing, make up an excuse for me to step outside,’ I joke. See, this is why my app idea is great, because it could be perfect for situations like this too.
‘Deal,’ he says with a laugh.
With no other ways to put off the inevitable, I finally head inside. The rear hallway is just as I remember – elegant and imposing, with polished floors that reflect the light from the chandeliers overhead. The walls are lined with oil paintings of people I’m probably related to but wouldn’t recognise if I bumped into them in the next room (although the fact they were ghosts might tip me off). The air smells faintly of polish and something floral, like the manor’s trying to convince you it’s a welcoming cosy home and not a stone-cold museum of a place.
I make my way to the drawing room, where everyone usually gathers before moving on to the dining room. If you like rich fabrics and antique furniture, with massive fireplaces and old charm (aka creaking floors and drafts) then you’ll love it here. As mansions go (as if I would ever have a choice) I would much prefer something cool and contemporary.
As I walk in, everyone looks at me like I’ve just crashed their party, which, I suppose, I have in a roundabout way.
The thing you need to remember is that this isn’t my world. I was out of it before I was old enough to understand what it meant to live here. My upbringing was far more typical – in Mum’s tiny house, just us, living a modest life. This place was something I visited from time to time, like a theme park attraction (specifically, the haunted house), not somewhere to live. I never learned the (usually pointless) etiquette they all swear by, or shared their taste, or hobbies.
Naturally, as I grew older, I spent less and less time around Dad and his new family. I really am only summoned here for special occasions or formalities.
‘Here she is!’ Seph exclaims, jumping to her feet and rushing over to give me a hug. Seph is all brunette waves and designer clothes, with a perfect figure (nothing is too big or too small and, if it was, she’s had it quietly tweaked). She’s flanked by her bestie, Eleanor, who stands close by but you can tell she’s trying to keep herself out of hugging distance – as if I would, it would be like hugging a hornet nest.
‘Hello,’ I say, forcing a smile. ‘Sorry I’m a little late.’
It’s only a few minutes, because I was chatting to Tyler, but I’m starting as I mean to go on – polite, enthusiastic and present.
‘That’s okay, we know what you’re like, so we gave you the wrong time,’ Bea says with a tight smile.
‘Hi, Bea,’ I say, offering her a smile.
She leans in and gives me a kiss on both cheeks, managing to radiate her resentment for having to be polite in a way that I can feel. My body stiffens up in response.
Beatrix ‘Bea’ Pemberton is in her fifties, with a face that’s been lifted just enough to look perpetually surprised, and hair that’s always perfectly coiffed – uptight, like her. She’s got that posh ‘horse-girl’ look – probably used to do dressage in some kind of professional capacity. I’ve never been all that into horses myself – unlike Seph, who has been known to get horses for her birthdays.
‘My soon-to-be big sister, bring it in,’ Chester says, bounding over with his usual enthusiasm. He wraps me in a tight hug, squeezing just a little too hard. Chester is tall, with sandy blonde hair and a boyish charm that makes him look younger than he is – and also like Boris Johnson could be his dad. He’s always been a huggy, tactile kind of guy, and this is not a huggy, tactile kind of family beyond the phoney greetings.
Finally, Dad stands up to greet me. Walter, in his sixties now, dresses like an extra from The Crown – probably because Bea tells him to. His suit is tailored to perfection, and his shoes are polished to a mirror-like shine. I have his eyes, which is ironic because we see the world in very different ways. Proudly, though, I didn’t inherit his heart or his brain. Really, the only thing I could imagine wanting to inherit from him is probably his bank balance.
‘Lana,’ he says, kissing me on the cheek. His tone is warm but distant, like he’s trying to connect but doesn’t know how.
‘Hi, Dad,’ I reply, matching his tone.
Dad isn’t one for small talk – or talk talk, sometimes – and today is no different.
‘Shall we get comfortable in the dining room?’ he suggests, already heading for the door. ‘Get this show on the road, as they say.’
‘Let’s,’ Bea replies.
I feel a hand on my arm, stopping me in my tracks, holding me back.
‘Lana, can I have a moment?’ Bea says, and it doesn’t sound optional.
‘What’s up?’ I reply.
‘I was just going through the gift registry, for the wedding, and I’ve noticed that we don’t have you down for anything,’ she explains, with the tone of a waiter in a snooty restaurant letting you know that your card has been declined. ‘I did send you this list, well in advance, and as you know we’re quite late in the day now…’
‘Oh, that’s okay, I have a present for them,’ I tell her.
‘But on the registry…’
‘I just bought them something,’ I say simply.
‘What do you mean?’ she replies.
‘Like, I went to a shop, I picked something out, I paid for it, wrapped it – that sort of thing.’
Okay, so I haven’t wrapped it yet, I’m not that organised, but it feels like a needed detail to make her understand.
‘You’re supposed to buy them something that they want,’ she says, horrified. ‘From the registry.’
‘I thought it was supposed to be a gift, so I bought them something I thought they would like, ages ago,’ I explain. ‘I saw, on Seph’s Instagram, that she’d had a new pantry fitted in her kitchen, and I noticed all of the copper in her kitchen, so when I saw these fancy mason jars with copper instead of silver, I thought they would love them.’
Bea looks unwell.
‘Do you really think Persephone uses her kitchen?’ she says in disbelief.
‘She does on Instagram,’ I point out.
‘Perhaps she pretends to,’ she corrects me.
‘Then she can pretend to use these – what’s the big deal?’
Bea must hit her limit with me because it’s at this point she abandons the conversation.
We all filter through to the dining room, where the large, round table is perfectly set.
I take my seat, feeling like I’ve just walked on to the set of The Traitors , except here, you know everyone’s a traitor, and I’m the faithful they probably all want to murder. I’m glad I’m not staying here tonight.
Tyler enters the room to take drinks orders. We exchange secret smiles, but it’s the kind of smile that makes Bea, who never misses a thing, look between us with a slight narrowing of his eyes. When her gaze finally locks on Tyler she clicks her tongue. It’s the stubble, I’m telling you.
‘Whisky on the rocks,’ Dad orders, his voice firm.
‘Alcohol this early? You’ll be tight before we hit the golf course, Walt,’ Chester teases, his grin wide enough to fit the table in.
‘Well, you know what they say…’ Dad starts.
‘That it’s 5p.m. somewhere?’ Chester interrupts with a smirk.
‘No, that it’s my bloody house,’ Dad corrects him.
‘Daddy, don’t be beastly,’ Seph playfully ticks him off.
‘Bit early for me. I’ll stick with wine,’ Chester says, and I genuinely don’t think he’s joking.
‘Wine for me too,’ Seph adds, and Eleanor quickly echoes, ‘And me,’ because of course they’re having the same thing.
‘Yes, wine for me,’ Bea says.
I glance at Tyler, who’s standing nearby, jotting all this down.
‘Tyler, do you reckon you could make me a cocktail?’ I ask him. ‘I don’t mind what kind, you can surprise me.’
He smiles.
‘I’ll see what I can whip up for you.’
‘Tyler?’ Bea repeats, looking and sounding like the name tastes bad in her mouth.
‘You know that boy?’ Dad asks, and I have to suppress a laugh at him calling a man who’s clearly in his thirties ‘boy’.
‘I met him outside,’ I explain. ‘He seems nice.’
‘Oh, Lana banana, flirting with the staff,’ Seph snorts, as though I’ve just committed the ultimate faux pas.
Before I can respond, Bea jumps in.
‘Shall we get down to business? After all, that’s why we’re all here, to get ready for the biggest society wedding since Wills and Kate.’
You know Bea is going to be the kind of woman who acts like she knows them personally and obviously overlooks Harry and Meghan’s nuptials.
Seph clears her throat, drawing everyone’s attention back to her.
‘Right, yes, so,’ she begins, each word gathering speed. ‘The wedding will be here before we know it, and we’ll be jetting off to Oz even sooner, so this is really just about making sure everyone is up to speed with details.’
I feel like I’m in a school assembly, fighting to concentrate, my brain trying to check out when I know I’m supposed to be singing ‘Give Me Oil in My Lamp’.
‘So, the dress code,’ Seph continues. ‘This is a black-tie event, very exclusive, so a very strict dress code. Tuxedos for the gents – no button-down collars, please. This is a wedding, not a high-school prom, I want to see wingtip only. And for the ladies, it’s black silk gowns. Gowns should be to the floor, please, and we kindly request that anyone above a C cup thinks carefully about their neckline.’
I blink as my ears prick up.
‘What?’ I ask, just to make sure I didn’t imagine that.
‘Anyone above a C cup needs to consider their neckline,’ Seph repeats, her tone as matter-of-fact as if she’s announcing the weather. ‘A plunge looks great, on the right body, but the more a lady has up top, the less ladylike she looks in a lower neckline.’
Wow, that’s offensive generally but especially seeing as though I have ‘more up top’.
I catch Bea’s eye as she looks at me pointedly.
‘I assume you’re buying a dress that is appropriate?’ she asks, her tone layered with the kind of condescension that makes me want to throw my swan-shaped napkin at her.
‘I’ve bought a dress,’ I reply simply. I don’t mention that it’s one I’ve had for ages, but it’s perfect for a wedding, so why waste money on a new one?
‘Do you need help?’ Bea says, her voice dripping with faux concern. ‘I know you’re not used to events like these, and that it might be difficult for you to find a suitable dress…’
Bea is the kind of woman who can always home in on your insecurities and, if you don’t have any, she can easily point some out for you.
‘Events like these? Weddings?’ I ask, sarcasm oozing from every word. ‘I’ve been to weddings before.’
‘Of course you have,’ Seph says, as if she’s trying to calm a feral cat. ‘I think Mummy just means that this is a nice wedding.’
Oh, boy.
‘The next point of order is wedding companions,’ Seph continues, clearly oblivious to how irked I am right now. ‘Everyone has, of course, received an invitation that also accommodates a wedding companion. I think it’s important that we discuss this, as we only want a certain calibre of person at the wedding, so…’
Why is everyone looking at me? I make a big point of turning to Eleanor.
‘Are you bringing a plus-one?’ I ask her.
Eleanor stiffens like I’ve asked her to take her top off to prove she isn’t trying to smuggle an unsavoury C cup into the wedding.
‘I will be attending the wedding alone,’ she says primly. ‘My sole focus is to be on the bride and groom, and celebrating their special day.’ She glances at Seph and smiles. ‘It’s all part of my role as principal bridesmaid.’
Of course. I’ve long since realised that Eleanor’s role in this wedding is less about helping Seph and more about making sure I know that she didn’t pick me, which is crazy, because I really don’t care. Being a bridesmaid sounds like a nightmare – having all eyes on you, wearing what you’re told, and having jobs to do. Who wants to do jobs at a wedding? Weddings are for getting drunk and flirting with hot groomsmen.
‘Lana,’ Bea prompts me, dragging me back to reality.
‘Yeah?’ I reply.
‘Are you bringing a companion to the wedding?’ she asks.
Chester smirks.
‘She’s bringing the waiter,’ he says just as Tyler returns with our drinks.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Seph jumps in, but by the end of her sentence, she actually sounds worried. ‘She isn’t – are you, Lana?’
Does she really expect me to dignify that with a response?
‘Look, Lana is a big girl, let’s not beat about the bush,’ Dad interrupts, clearly at the end of his patience. ‘Lana, some people are worried about how you might behave at the wedding, and so this lunch is just to make sure that you’re up to speed on the dress code, that you don’t bring a companion who may make things unpleasant or embarrass you, and that you behave in a way that is befitting of this family. Obviously, we would all love for you to be there, and we’re looking forward to spending time with you.’
Yikes. That’s not just a shit sandwich; it’s a shit buffet. I don’t know if I’m in a state of pure disbelief or furious anger. Did they really invite me here just to make sure I don’t embarrass them at the wedding?
‘Sorry, what?’ I say, keeping my cool. ‘This whole thing is to tell me to behave?’
‘Somewhat,’ Seph says carefully.
‘Yes,’ Bea says at the same time, without flinching.
I can’t decide what’s worse: that they think so little of me, that they’re so comfortable saying it to my face, or the fact that this entire thing is an intervention for me – a fucking catered one. What do they think I’m going to do? What have I ever done that was so wrong, other than be what they consider common?
‘What makes you think I’m not just going to, you know, turn up, be a guest, and have a nice time?’ I ask.
‘I’ll take this one,’ Chester says with a smirk. ‘We all know what you’re like, and we love you for it, but you’re known for your antics. Remember when there was that spot of something, out on the lawn, and you went on a dating website to find us a greenkeeper?’
I frown. ‘It was a dating app, not a website, and I didn’t go on there to find him, he just happened to be someone I was talking to when you were talking to Dad about the grass problem – I was trying to help,’ I remind him.
‘Did he see to your turf?’ Chester jokes.
‘Don’t be an ass,’ Dad ticks him off.
‘Sorry, Walt,’ Chester replies before turning back to me. ‘There was also that time we caught you in flagrante delicto at the New Year’s Eve party…’
‘With the pianist,’ Bea adds – again, horrified I would fraternise with the help.
‘I was hugging him because he was crying,’ I reply. ‘Someone had upset him.’
And that someone was Bea, because she was incredibly rude to him – I know, that may be hard to believe. Not.
Wow, is this really what everyone thinks of me? That I don’t know how to behave at a wedding, how to dress, and that I would probably bring a plus-one who would lower the tone? Is that really, really what they think? Honestly, I know what this lot can be like, but this is just the worst. They really think so, so little of me. I’m in two minds not to go to the stupid thing.
‘Look, this is getting a little messy,’ Seph says, her voice the epitome of faux diplomacy. ‘Dad is being silly, and so is Chester. That isn’t the issue. You are… you’re fine. This is just about making sure that you feel like you fit in. And, yes, okay, that the first of February is the best day of my life.’
For a second it feels like my breath gets caught in my neck somewhere.
The first of February? As in, my birthday? My thirtieth fucking birthday?
‘It’s on the Saturday?’ I check, my voice unnaturally calm.
‘I know, a Saturday, how tacky, right?’ Seph says with a laugh. ‘We wanted to have the wedding on the Sunday, but Chester’s grandmother is incredibly superstitious, and it’s their family tradition that a couple’s… consummation is not on a Sunday.’
‘Nanny is religious,’ Chester says, like it’s a reasonable request. ‘Thankfully, we were able to shift the day, relatively last minute.’
They’re getting married on my thirtieth fucking birthday because Chester’s gran doesn’t want them shagging on a Sunday? And it’s so dumb, because most weddings go on until at least midnight, so it will probably be a Sunday when they ‘consummate’ (even thinking it gives me the ick) regardless.
I can’t believe they’re taking over my birthday like this. They really do think so, so little of me. My God, my blood is really boiling now.
You know what? Fine. If that’s the kind of girl they think I am then maybe that’s the kind of girl I should be. I should go out and buy a new dress (one that breaks the C cup rule), I should still go to the wedding and have an absolute blast of a time (they’re paying for everything, after all), and I should take a plus-one with me… the absolute worst plus-one I can find.