Chapter 5
LYRA
Charlotte’s Wedding Reception
It’s been three weeks since Charlotte’s hen party.
Three weeks since I kissed Guy Walker, rock star and most miserable man alive.
Today is Charlotte’s big day. Though I’m loathe to admit it, the wedding has been so beautiful, even I’m rooting for the passive-aggressive bride and her groom with an attitude.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind if I head off?’ Mandy asks me.
Whilst the vast marquee on the lawn in front of Earl’s Castle is being reset – dining tables being cleared and removed to make space for a buffet, stage and dance floor – the two of us have sneaked off for a ten-minute de-shoe and foot rub.
We’ve been jointly shooting the wedding since 8 a.m., when the bridal party started getting ready – my sister included, not that she’s uttered more than a sentence to me since I embarrassed her in front of her friends by snogging a naked butler.
Add it to the long list of things I do that offend my perfect sibling.
‘Not at all,’ I tell her, digging my thumb into the base of my aching toes. ‘You head off. Have you got any plans?’
‘Just spending a few hours with Ginny. We’ve been like ships in the night since she started her new job working shifts.’
Mandy and I tend to take turns finishing early at weekend weddings during the season.
Given the lighting is dimmed and most people are milling around the bar or the dance floor for the evening reception, it’s much easier for one photographer to capture sufficient moments to keep the newlyweds happy.
But she’d never leave – nor would I – before the leftovers!
I love weddings. Mostly. I love helping my clients document their memories. Mostly. But without caveat, I bloody love getting a posh three-course meal at this time of night, on account of the chefs always over-making, just in case.
Tonight, we have… ‘It’s the chicken liver parfait,’ I tell Mandy, lifting the cloche from one of the plates left out in the staffroom. I stick two fingers into my mouth and fake-gag. ‘That’s definitely yours.’ I lift another cloche. ‘There’s a Jerusalem artichoke. I’ll take that.’
‘Excellent trade in my opinion,’ Mandy says.
We’re sitting in the staffroom, high up in the eastern turret of the castle. Rightly, the waitstaff tending the wedding get first dibs on all spare food, then Nick, the general manager on duty on Saturday nights, will give Mandy and me a nod if there’s enough for us.
Given the rest of the venue is beautiful, the staffroom is something of an anomaly. More like a workman’s canteen, with six metal tables and four awfully uncomfortable chairs around each. There’s a pixilated television attached to one wall.
Since we’re the only two people here, Mandy has kicked back on one painful chair and dragged another opposite to prop up her feet.
I lift another cloche. ‘Chicken main.’ Another. ‘Ooh, the salmon.’ Another. ‘Or the ox cheek.’
‘I’ll continue the meat theme and take the ox,’ Mandy tells me. ‘Just don’t tell Ginny; she’s trying to encourage us to eat more veggie.’
‘My lips are sealed.’ I move on to three stacked cold plates. ‘Now for the best bit. I hope there are profiteroles.’
‘You’re a creature of habit.’
‘If you want to be happy, eliminate choice from your life. I want to be happy bathing in copious amounts of choux pastry filled with Chantilly cream for the entire wedding season.’ I expose a plate of my desired pudding. ‘Oh baby, where have you been all my life.’
Mandy chuckles. ‘Fair enough. But I think you and those profiteroles need to get a room. What else is there?’
‘Lemon posset times two.’
She rolls her eyes but holds out a hand.
With the plates covering our tabletop, we both dig in.
Even though it’s slightly dry and hours old now, the food is still delicious.
Better than the batches of soup, lasagne and chilli that I’ve been making for myself on rotation since moving into my own place for the first time three months ago.
It just seems pointless to make fancy meals for one.
‘I overheard Juliette earlier,’ Mandy says. ‘You know, the really gossipy bridesmaid with hair down to her arse cheeks? She was talking about your little foray with the butler at Charlotte’s hen.’ She switches out her starter plate for her main dish. ‘You’re a hot topic, girlie.’
I roll my eyes. ‘I hope my sister wasn’t in earshot. She’s still pissed with me about it.’
‘Your sister’s always pissed off with you about something.’
‘I agree, though on this occasion, I was reckless and, you know, out of character.’
Mandy raises her eyebrows. ‘You kissed a hot guy at a hen party. Who, unknown to them, happens to be famous.’ She chuckles around a forkful of food. ‘Wait till they realise you kissed Guy Walker.’
‘That’s not why— I didn’t know that at the time. And that only makes it worse. I was like a horny groupie.’
‘I’m sure he’s had plenty of groupie gropes in his time.’
I snort-laugh. ‘Stop.’
Testament to how hungry I am, we eat our mains in silence. Then it’s time for the plate I really want… pudding.
‘Oh my God, these profiteroles are so, so, soooooooo good.’ I have half a ball of deliciousness in my mouth as I speak.
‘Are you eating that or making love to it?’ Mandy asks, forking her posset. Jealous, I bet.
I decide to rub it in, Meg Ryan style. I lick the Chantilly cream the way I’d eat a Creme Egg, ‘Oh, baby, you’re so good.’ Eying Mandy, I push the other half choux into my mouth, moaning around the pastry. ‘Oh, Profiterole. Yes, just like that. Mmm. Yes, yes, yes!’
Mandy’s eyes widen, shocked at the outburst that’s so very unlike me. But I’m just getting started. I take a second profiterole, lick the chocolate with near incomprehensible sounds of pleasure, then push the whole thing into my mouth.
As I do, Mandy squeezes her eyes shut and points behind me. I follow her gesture, turning on the spot, full ball in mouth, and see… Guy Walker. Oh my God!
I clamp my mouth shut to hide its contents. But as I do, the choux pops and Chantilly cream bursts like semen from my lips. And it squirts right onto… Guy’s face, the lapel of his black suit jacket, and… his crotch. Not the crotch!
I thrust a hand over my mouth, trying desperately to chew what’s inside, whilst at the same time muttering, ‘I. Am. So. Sorry.’
If looks could kill…
I glance around the room, remembering the roll of blue paper holstered to the wall. Rushing to grab some, I tell Guy, ‘I didn’t realise there was anyone else here. I was just—’ What was I doing? How on earth do I explain my fake profiterogasm?
‘Getting yourself off on dessert?’ he offers.
‘Urgh. That sounds so bad.’ Armed with four large squares of blue roll, I rush to him and start frantically rubbing the cream from his suit. As I’m doing so, Big Dave comes into the room.
‘Oh aye? What’s gannin’ on here, like?’ he asks.
‘It’s not what it looks like.’
‘Really? ’Cause it looks like you’re cleanin’ spunk off our lad’s Sergeant Major.’
I guess it does look exactly like that…
I press my lips together tightly, fighting nervous laughter as I feel anger emanate from Guy, like a gasket that’s about to blow.
But when Mandy bursts into a loud cackle behind me, and Dave belly-chuckles along with her, I can’t help myself. I giggle too. ‘Sorry,’ I tell Guy, again. But he remains the only person in the room who is not seeing the funny side of this charade.
‘Well, it looks like I’ve had all the leftover food I need,’ he gripes, his jaw stiff as he speaks directly to me. Then he glances to Dave. ‘I’ll see you in the marquee, once I’ve sorted myself out in the toilets.’
As Guy turns to leave, Dave calls after him, ‘It looks like you’ve already sorted yourself out, matey.’
‘Fuck off,’ Guy mutters, storming out.
The remaining three of us look at each other and I don’t know who instigates it, but we all fall back into hysterics.
‘Is he always that grumpy?’ I ask Dave.
‘He’s a canny lad. Give ’im a chance.’
I nod to Dave but when he follows Guy out of the room, I tell Mandy, ‘It’s true what people say; you should never meet your idol because they can only ever disappoint you.’
* * *
The marquee looks just as beautiful after the reset.
There are fewer tables but the tall vases of white flowers still sit in the middle of each, with spares decorating the buffet.
Emerald-green bows finish off ivory-covered chairs.
Crockery and favour boxes have been replaced by a multitude of candles giving off a vanilla scent.
What’s lovely about a May wedding is that the evening do is set against the backdrop of a dark sky, making everything that shines seem a little more romantic.
Now, at the head of the room, there’s a black stage, a stool and a standing microphone. Sitting on the stool, looking – I can appreciate now that he isn’t covered in my mishap – suave and undeniably handsome, is Guy Walker.
Guests are starting to file back in as he sings a version of Bruno Mars’s ‘Just the Way You Are’ that is wholly recognisable, yet uniquely stunning.
I momentarily forget my job, pausing in taking pictures of the guests’ re-entry to switch from my Canon camera to my personal Pentax.
It’s a film camera, which I love to develop in my own dark room.
It makes me feel artsy. I like the finish of the pictures, as if they’re from another time and place.
I also relish the solitude of being in my dark room – just me, my trays, my images and my nanna’s old radio.
Holding up the camera to my eye, I adjust the focus and take three pictures of Guy, until I feel as if he’s staring right down the lens of my camera, frowning at me.
His expression reminds me of what I should be doing… my job! I switch back to my digital camera and photograph the guests – some new faces and lots of new outfits for the evening bash.