Chapter 9
LYRA
The Naisbett Wedding Party
This may be the most distracted I’ve been whilst photographing a wedding. I feel unprofessional. Yet I’ve had my personal camera in my hands multiple times today, capturing the owner of the voice who has truly made the ceremony, the drinks reception and the wedding breakfast remarkable.
It isn’t only the voice, either. Or not alone. There was something in the way he looked when he overheard those idiots slagging his brother earlier. Banter, to them, I’m sure. But Guy looked… hurt. Broken. And the vulnerability I heard in the gentleness of his tone made sense.
No one is infallible.
That even Guy Walker lets people get to him struck such a chord with me and I can’t shake it off.
So I’ve given up for half an hour. I’m taking a break whilst the wedding guests eat dessert, before I’m required back in the room for the speeches.
Sitting outside on a love seat beneath the main steps up to the castle, tucked away from the party but where I still have quite a spectacular view of the Riverside Cricket Ground and surrounding fields down the hill, I take out my phone.
In WhatsApp, I find my chat with Cami and listen to her voice note again.
The highlights of the six minutes are exactly as I remember from this morning.
She’s travelling around South America, filming (alongside a stellar production team) a documentary about drug trafficking.
She’s six weeks into a six-month long trip.
It sounds scary in places, exhilarating in others.
But mostly, it sounds like she’s doing exactly what she always wanted to do – producing documentaries, travelling the world to fulfil a passion that happens to pay her bills. Living her best life.
It’s been three months since our last exchange of voice notes and that feeling of closeness I used to have with her is fading.
It was inevitable, I suppose. Cami was always flighty, free-spirited, hungry for experiences, and I’ve always admired that about her.
Been jealous of it at times. For a fleeting moment, for one night, I thought I could be more like that.
Pushing back against what I’d been told would be good for me because it wasn’t what I wanted.
Saying ‘Yes’ when a guy from a band, of whom my parents would never have approved, asked me to meet him backstage.
I scoff into the warm summer afternoon. One night. The same night that the shock and disappointment of what I’d done led to my dad having a stroke. At least contributed to it.
That’s what happens when I make life decisions for myself.
It’s why my tiny little house is still full of boxed-up belongings.
Because what if I stayed living at Mum and Dad’s?
What if they need me to go back? What if my phone rings and something tragic has happened because I wasn’t there to stop it, I was too busy caring about myself and what I want?
I stare at Cami’s voice note again. I’ll reply later.
There’s a rustle close behind and I look around the edge of the seat to see the culprit.
My heart seems to stutter through its next few beats, surprised, I think, to see Guy appear next to my hideout. A cigarette hangs limply between his lips, nudged to one side of his mouth as he speaks. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know anyone else was out here.’
I snap out of my reverie and grin. It’s a genuine reaction, which is weird, because my smart mind knows to be wary but seemingly the rest of my body thinks it knows best. ‘No need to apologise, I was just taking a load off for a few minutes before the speeches.’ I stand. ‘I can leave.’
A tight vertical line forms between his eyebrows, visible above his sunglasses. ‘You don’t have to leave.’
Oh.
‘You were here first.’
Ohhhh. He’ll go if I don’t. Couldn’t really be less hospitable.
‘I’m sure there’s enough space for two,’ I say.
He nods but doesn’t come to sit. Instead, he leans a shoulder into the side of the arbour’s trellis and looks out across the view, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers.
He isn’t wearing a jacket and, I’m not intentionally noticing, but it’s hard to miss that his tucked-in shirt and grey tailored bottoms leave no room enough for a cigarette lighter.
I’m grateful for the gentle breeze that takes the edge off the still, hot air that seems to have my skin heating beneath my summer dress.
Funnily, the air always seems a little more oppressive when Guy is nearby.
As if the elements are sending me a warning.
Maybe what I’m feeling is awkwardness. But it shouldn’t be.
It’s not like I put myself out there sending him a message to simply check if he was okay after he was hit.
It was polite. Caring. Nothing more. I don’t think I would have even sent a message if Dave hadn’t put in my mind that it might be the right thing to do.
But this afternoon, the air carries with it a heady concoction of smooth vanilla and something deeper, earthy, woody. A scent that could overpower the embarrassment of not receiving a reply to my message.
Silence descends between us. Birds chirp in the nearby trees.
There’s a faint, distant thrum of traffic as life happens around this spot where time can stand still.
In my mind, I can see us as a photograph.
Two bodies filling the frame. And the motionless moment is oddly calming, soothing after listening to Cami’s message.
‘Thank you.’ His words are unexpected and I wonder if they’re even intended for me, with his eyes still focusing on the horizon.
‘For moving those lads on from my earshot.’ He turns to me now and I wish I could see behind his shades.
‘It’s true, what they said, in case you’re wondering. Scott was high when he crashed.’
My throat tightens, less at his words, more his tone, his downcast gaze, his rounded shoulders. ‘You don’t have to tell me.’
He nods. It’s a subtle move. Barely there. And I know he won’t give me more details. I don’t want them. It would feel… invasive. Unless…
‘But if you want to talk, I’m a pretty good listener.’
His lips seem to twitch up, then settle back to expressionless. ‘I could see that about you. You see good in people.’
‘There’s usually good to be found.’
He shakes his head. ‘Not always.’ I wait for more but he doesn’t offer it. Instead, he comes to sit next to me on the bench, his forearms resting on his knees, that unlit cigarette still dangling between his lips.
His leg brushes mine as he sits, making me flinch. It’s not uncomfortable, just startling. Like someone striking a match down the bare skin of my leg.
‘You don’t smoke, do you?’ I say. More statement than question, I think.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I’ve only seen you with a cigarette hanging between your lips. You aren’t carrying a light. You don’t smell of smoke and you don’t—’ I stop myself short.
‘Go on.’
‘You don’t taste like it, either.’ Enough heat comes to my cheeks with my words that he could use my face to light his cigarette if he wanted.
Because with my words comes the memory of that kiss.
His hand on my hip, his thumb stroking the bone.
His lips soft, yet keen against mine. The urgent press of his body against mine, my back to the car.
He continues to stare and now the silence between us is far from comfortable.
‘About that,’ I blurt. ‘I’m sorry. For kissing you like that.
I mean, I don’t even know if you have a…
someone. And I’m extra sorry for you getting punched over it.
I’m not usually impulsive or… or…’ I can’t find the words to say affected by men, a man, without sounding like I still have that teenage crush on him, visceral but untouchable, unplacatable.
Heat turns to fire rising up my neck as I draw attention to blunder after blunder when it comes to him.
He coughs, as if clearing his throat. Obviously feeling awkward. God, I should just stop talking around this man.
He comes to stand in front of me, looking down over me, and I try desperately not to rake my eyes over his body, to erase from my mind how he looks near naked.
‘You said already. Don’t worry about it.’
Then he starts walking away. As if we had a complete conversation. We didn’t.
He’s as dismissive to my face as his lack of response by phone suggests, and I don’t know why but it stirs a response in me.
‘It might have been polite to reply to my message.’
He about-turns and as he stands to face me, he pinches his unsmoked cigarette and takes it from his mouth. ‘Trust me, Lyra, you don’t need someone like me in your inbox.’
I hate that my name on his lips makes my insides knit.
‘Surely that’s my decision,’ I say, hearing a lack of conviction in my voice.
‘On this occasion, I’m willing to bet I know what’s best for you.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ve spent my life surrounded by people claiming to know what’s best for me, Guy.
’ I don’t know where that comes from or why I confess it right now, though lingering in the back of my mind is Cami’s voice note and I know later, with time, I’ll understand the connection.
But right now, I’m just irritated by the know-it-all in front of me. Who starts walking away, again.
‘Then you don’t need another one,’ he calls back.
* * *
Having brushed off the irritation Guy Walker makes me feel, again, I’m back inside at the Naisbett wedding reception, Mandy and I working different angles on the room to photograph the speeches taking place on the top table (me) and the reactions of the guests (Mandy).
I’ve seen a lot of wedding speeches and tonight’s are fairly standard.
Unremarkable. Funny enough – due to the audience being onside more than the content or timing of the jokes – and not overly long.
The worst thing about the speeches is the drunk uncle I’m unfortunately positioned nearby on Table One.
When I leaned forwards to better position myself for a picture, he told me, ‘Lean over me if ya want, love.’ I just knew he was looking at my bum as he did.