Chapter 9 #2
Then when I bent to my hunkers to change the angle of my shots, he said, ‘Save yer feet and sit down on Uncle Steve’s lap, love.’
All the while, he was laughing as others around the table went with the joke, visibly uncomfortable but smiling anyway.
Truly, I know he doesn’t mean anything by it.
He’s had a few beers, everyone’s in good spirits, and this is simply his way of being part of the fun.
I don’t feel threatened at any point – I think he ought to feel more threatened by the way his wife is boring holes in him with every wisecrack he makes – it’s just that I shouldn’t have to put up with him.
In just the same way he ought to tone down his heckling of the men and women brave enough to be giving speeches today.
As Mandy works the room, she hears a bit of his banter and I flick her an eye roll across the space with the next uncouth remark.
When I find her and she asks me about the uncle, she’s standing by Guy, who is quietly packing away from where he was singing through the wedding breakfast at the back of the room.
He’s scowling, eyes narrow, jaw tight. At me? Jesus, what have I said or done now?
Thankfully, the two best men wrap up their joint speech and the wedding party is relocated for the reset – some people filtering off to their hotel rooms, some outside for air, others to the bar.
I’m snapping a few more images in the bar because that’s where the bride and groom are mingling when Mandy sidles up to me.
‘You can head off now, Lyra. I’ll do this evening.’
‘Are you sure? I’m really not doing anything anyway.’
Mum is home with Dad. There’s nothing I have a burning desire to stream. I’m mid-way through a roll of film that I can’t develop from my personal camera.
‘Absolutely. They had profiteroles today and it’s my turn to taste the goodness.’
I chuckle. I can always make up an article about a drunk uncle at a wedding. Or… ‘I suppose I could unbox some of my things.’ It probably is about time I accepted that I moved out of my parents’ home and into my own.
‘Settled then,’ Mandy says.
‘Hey, love, clocking off early, are ya? I’ll take ya home.’ Uncle Steve. Again. What a delight this man is.
I’m about to politely decline the offer from the pervert drunken uncle when I feel a hand on my back.
The touch warm, and despite the circumstances, I know instinctively that it isn’t another drunken uncle making a pass at me.
I know from the firmness of the palm, from the scent that envelopes me and from my body’s willingness to lean into it.
‘Are you ready to go?’
I turn into the voice, my shoulder moving against Guy’s firm chest. I open my mouth to speak but words seem to have escaped me as my heart hammers against my ribcage.
He leans into my ear, so close his breath caresses my skin. ‘One good turn deserves another,’ he whispers.
I think I nod, breathless when his lips gently press to my temple, his hand still holding on to my lower back, which is probably the only thing keeping my legs upright.
A message makes it from somewhere in my nervous system to tell my lips to turn up, my voice box to kick into gear.
‘Yes,’ I barely manage to tease out of my suddenly parched throat. ‘I’m ready.’
He holds out his hand and I look from it to his deadpan expression, wondering why he’s helping me out, again.
The thought occurs to me now, of all times, that he doesn’t have a someone, not only because he’s a naked butler and all that could imply, but because he’s holding on to me, leaning into me, in a way I would not be thrilled about if he was my boyfriend.
Of course, he isn’t. Except for the purpose of getting me away from Uncle Pervert. Which is great on two counts. The first, obvious. The second being, it saves me from the backlash of his mood swings.
I slip my hand into his and for the briefest moment, as my next breath comes sharply and my heart collides with my full lungs, I see a shift in his expression, a widening of his pupils. Or maybe I imagine it to make my own reaction to our connection feel less ridiculous.
He curls his fingers through mine and as he leads me out of the bar, I catch Mandy raising one eyebrow in my direction. All I can do is shrug. I have no idea what Mr Misery Walker is playing at.
We head out of the function area and into the secret staff passage, where Guy almost walks right into Nick, the general manager, who smells like he bathed in aftershave before coming on shift. Who also runs his gaze greedily over Guy, then scowls on seeing our hands locked together.
I drop Guy’s hand – maybe he drops mine – as if we’ve been caught in the act of something.
‘Are you coming or going?’ Nick asks.
‘Leaving,’ Guy says. Then, grabbing his backpack from a benchtop in the passageway – already packed and ready to go – he slings it across one shoulder and, without so much as a cursory glance backwards, he calls, ‘Have a good one.’
Nick folds his arms across his chest, moving to my side as we both watch the unfathomable man stride out of view. ‘He’s not gay, then?’ Nick asks.
‘I don’t think so?’ I sort of confirm, or question, because nothing about Guy is obvious or expected.
‘Bi?’ Nick ventures.
‘Who knows what he is or isn’t, Nick.’
‘Which I interpret to mean, there’s potential.’
I look his way, amused. ‘Did you forget to take your medication again?’
‘I took it right before I left for work,’ Nick replies. ‘It’s the little blue one, isn’t it?’