Chapter 3 #2
‘We suffered like everyone else during the pandemic, then with the economy that followed, people haven’t been in a position to splurge on weddings the way they did,’ Geoff goes on. ‘The storm over winter did a fair amount of damage to the castle and the owners need money to deal with the repairs.’
‘The problem, in a nutshell,’ Pearl says, pressing a hand to Geoff’s arm, ‘is that we don’t have all our slots booked for this wedding season, let alone the level of advanced bookings we’ve historically seen. And, as you know, weddings are our bread and butter.’
‘So,’ Geoff says, brighter now, ‘what we’re asking of you lovely bunch is to put your best foot forward for us for today. Fill the empty slots we have this year and try your best to sell a wedding experience at Earl’s Castle.’
‘Give us a fighting chance against the big corporates,’ Pearl begs.
‘We need you all more than ever,’ Geoff finishes.
Mandy and I give hugs and words of reassurance that we’ll do our utmost to help.
‘We know you will,’ Pearl says, her signature bright smile in place. ‘And Big Dave tells me he’s bringing along a secret weapon today, whoever that might be. He promises that bookings will come flooding in.’
She calls him Big Dave, though not to his face, because there are two Daves: Little Dave, who makes handcrafted favours for wedding guests, and Big Dave, who runs an entertainment company with two singers, a band, DJs, a string quartet and a concert harpist.
Big Dave has so many tattoos, they can’t be hidden by the shirt and trousers he’s wearing today, not unless he also intends to wear gloves to cover his knuckles. But inside, he’s less grizzly bear and more teddy bear. Gooey, sort of squishy around the middle, familiar and comforting.
I glance over to where he’s still setting up his stand and the small events stage he’ll use to showcase his entertainment company to attendees. Running late, by the looks of things. I’m intrigued to know who or what this secret weapon is.
I don’t have to wait long before a man in a perfectly tailored black suit slips into my line of sight – back to me as he approaches Dave.
‘Decided to show up, did ya?’ Dave asks the man.
The guy checks his watch and, not that I mean to look, but my eyes are drawn to the way his jacket tugs against his firm arm. ‘It’s nine fifty-three,’ he grumbles.
‘The event starts at ten, matey, and I needed help setting up.’
‘Aren’t I just the talent?’ the man responds, receiving a clip around the ear from Dave.
‘Are ya ready to get started?’ Dave asks, nodding in the direction of the stage and the standing microphone he’s set up there.
‘I’m singing? I thought I was just turning up to chat to some brides.’
‘The best way to sell the act is to let them hear yer voice.’
He drags a hand through his thick dark hair. ‘What am I supposed to sing?’
Dave holds his arms out wide and even I know what he’s thinking… ‘Michael Bublé, Ed Sheeran, Lonestar, Aerosmith, John Legend. Wedding songs.’
‘Christ,’ the man says, making me wonder what on earth he thought he was doing here. At Earl’s Castle. A wedding fayre. Working for Dave’s entertainment company.
* * *
Mandy and I look up from our simultaneous sales pitches and smile at each other when we finally hear the familiar ding ding ding ding ding doo dah of the beginning of Michael Bublé’s ‘Everything’.
A wedding classic and the song to hopefully put all the brides-to-be in the room in a good mood. Because happy people book weddings.
‘So, we’re about to hear Dave’s secret weapon?’
‘Sounds like it,’ I tell her, then turn back to my potential client and open a page in one of my wedding albums. ‘These are pictures I took in the rose gardens here in May last year. You can see how beautiful the blooms look that time of year.’
Then I still, my next words lost on my tongue as I hear the opening lyrics from ‘Everything’.
I’ve heard these lyrics hundreds of times and many times in this very room, but they’ve never sounded the way they do now.
Raw, sandpaper-like, gritty. The song I’m so familiar with is still bright, still beautiful, but it feels deeper, as if the man behind this voice isn’t performing for a crowd but for the woman he loves, in their home, in their bedroom.
I love music. Listening to it, moving to it, playing it on my own piano. I’m one of those people who finds music spellbinding, mood shifting and unfortunately in this very moment, like a portal to another time and place.
And as the women in front of my table speak, I don’t hear them, because my brain has capacity for only one thing – to find the source of the voice I’ve heard before, in another time and place.
A voice I’ve fallen for every time I’ve heard it.
Its gravelly rasp. The way his lower register makes my heart thud.
The way it makes everything else happening around me fade into nothingness, leaving only his voice and the effect it has on me.
I step out from the table. ‘Excuse me one second, ladies, I’ll be right back.’
Nervously, jittery, as if I’m a bride walking the aisle to meet my groom at the altar, I head to the stage.
I come to stop, or rather I’m forced to stop by the gathering crowd around the stage.
The suited man, the owner of the voice I hear in my dreams and on playlists in my car, sings.
His hands are braced on the microphone and though he’s wearing sunglasses, I think his eyes will be shut, because I’ve seen this man sing before, watching his eyes close as he lives and breathes the music.
The beard he wore last night has been shaved and he’s wearing substantially more clothes now, but I’m certain that the naked butler from the hen party, the hooker I threw myself at to piss off my sister, is…
Guy Walker.
I slap my hand across my mouth as I gasp. I snogged Guy Walker.
Guy Walker is Dave’s secret weapon.
And he’s working as a wedding singer?
The song ends and somehow, through the gathering women, Guy’s focus feels as if it’s fixed on me. Oh shit! I don’t wait to confirm, ducking as fast as I can, crawling on my knees between the sea of legs and back to my table.
‘Psst, Mandy!’ I say when I’m next to her.
‘Why are you on your hands and knees?’ she asks, understandably perplexed.
‘That’s hard to explain.’ I accept the hand she offers to me and come up to stand. ‘You know the naked butler from last night?’
‘I don’t know him but, yeah?’
‘Well, he’s, he was, he is… Oh God, he’s Guy Walker.’
‘Who’s—? Wait, from The Hand Me Downs?’
‘Shh. Yes,’ I whisper. ‘He’s also Dave’s secret weapon and he’s singing right over there.’
‘No way!’ She hops up to stand on her seat. From her new vantage point, I imagine she can see across all the sales banners to the man who is now singing ‘All of Me’ by John Legend. ‘For real? Are you sure he doesn’t just look— Oh shit, yeah, his name’s all over Dave’s stand.’
She gets down from the seat and looks at me. ‘Well, fuck me gently. You snogged a rock star.’
I get back to my clients but zone in and out of their conversation, still tuning into Guy in the background, feeling… bizarre.
It feels so trippy that he’s here. That he’s a naked butler, a wedding singer. That he’s not performing to packed-out stadiums. I know he hasn’t released music for years, not since his brother died, but this? His talent deserves more than this.
Then again, he rejected me last night – sort of understandable now, given he’s a rock star and all – and really wasn’t all that polite about it. Though I did call him a prostitute. God, imagine all the women he’s slept with who didn’t pay him.
This is… mortifying. Whilst at the same time, I’m kind of tingling all over. Once, I was supposed to meet him and… well, That Night never worked out. Now, seven years later, I’m in the same room as that voice again.