Chapter 13
LYRA
Congratulations
Mr the corset in her dress looks like it’s stealing the life from her torso, let alone making an extra space for what I’m told is lemon sponge with raspberry cream filling.
Sadly, despite getting to the staff room slightly earlier than planned, there aren’t many spare meals today and the waitstaff have already commandeered most of the dishes. I settle for a watermelon and feta starter plate and a couple of chocolate dipped strawberry canapés.
Tonight, the new Mr and Mrs Bailey have requested that both Mandy and I stick around because they want as many shots as possible of the party.
Apparently, their first date was at a concert of The Hand Me Downs, so they’re especially giddy that the wedding singer they booked two years in advance has turned out to be the band’s singer-songwriter.
I didn’t have the heart to tell them at their pre-wedding picture day that the man they’re swooning over is highly unlikely to play anything he’s written himself.
When Mandy and I make our way back to the function room, the castle’s staff are already making quick work of the room transformation, whilst the guests mill around in the separate bar area, spilling out into the corridors, where I can guarantee at least one middle-aged dad will pretend to fondle the todger of an armour-clad statue of a knight.
I’m standing to one side of what will become the dance floor as two porters roll up a portion of the carpet. With one hand under my chin to catch any drips, I delve into my final, big, fat, juicy, chocolate-dipped berry.
A groan of sheer indulgence escapes me as strawberry juice wets my lips. I lick my skin clean before taking the final delicious mouthful. God, it’s good.
My moment of bliss is interrupted by the clatter of metal hitting the now-exposed wood floor. Glancing to the source of the sound, I find Dave laughing hard and Guy telling him, con expletive, to… ah… get lost.
‘Coming through,’ one of the staff says as he and a colleague carry a round table top out of the room.
I’m wondering where Mandy got to when Pearl appears, sweating and panting as if she’s been partaking in the reshuffle of the room. She’s fit as a fiddle, for her age, but she doesn’t need to be lugging tables around.
Taking my camera from around my neck and setting it aside, I ask, ‘What can I do to help?’
‘Oh, Lyra,’ Pearl says, catching her breath with a hand on her hip. ‘Would you mind? We’re short-staffed tonight. There are two more table bases down in the dungeon that need to come up.’
‘I’m on it,’ I tell her.
‘It’s a two-person job, love.’ Then she turns towards Dave and Guy, who are now back in professional mode and setting up their stage and speakers for the night. ‘Dave, you couldn’t spare that young man to help Lyra with a quick job, could you?’
Guy looks our way, pointing to himself – Me?
Pearl nods. ‘Thanks, love.’
Dave pats Guy on the shoulder, confirming he’s free to help, which I’m sure he’s thrilled about.
I don’t know what he’s thinking but I can make an educated guess.
I’m not sure what to say, beyond, ‘It’s this way,’ to which he replies, ‘Following you.’
We traverse the secret staff passages of the castle and make our way down the awkward turning stone steps to the dungeon in silence.
It doesn’t work out terribly well for me, because I think about the last time we walked the staff passages together, the way he’d nuzzled into my hair and whispered into my ear, breath hot on the skin of my neck as he slipped my hand into his.
But as we reach the heavy wood door of the dungeon and I hold it open for him to walk in ahead of me, I remember how he quickly dropped my hand again once we were out of the view of that drunk uncle. He couldn’t wait to be clear of me.
‘After you,’ I tell him, trying not to inhale the deep smell of pine and cinnamon as he passes by me.
Cold emanates from the dark depths of the dungeon, chilling my legs beneath my summer button-down dress. He hesitates on the threshold of the abyss.
‘Is there a light?’ he asks.
Big. Baby.
Reaching inside, I flick the switch and dull lighting illuminates the space. The dungeon acts as an overflow for the wine cellar, so along the walls are two rows of dusty bottles of red wine, port and mead. Deeper into the void, there are table bottoms stacked against both sides of the space.
‘We need two square bases,’ I say, following Guy deeper into the dungeon. An involuntary shiver escapes me. Even Casper would be a little spooked in here.
Guy doesn’t reply, or maybe he does and I don’t hear over the boom of the heavy door closing.
‘Shit! What was that?’ Guy asks, both of us turning to the entrance of the dungeon.
‘I guess the door shut.’ I’m sure my thoughts are a match for his expression – I don’t like it either – but I won’t appear like some kind of damsel in distress.
Instead, I go ahead of him and start manoeuvring the two frames we need from the stack. ‘Here, you take this one.’
As he reaches to take it from me, his fingers graze mine and whilst I don’t believe in those silly descriptions in love stories about bolts of electricity and lightning striking when the girl and the boy meet, there is something about his touch that feels as if it penetrates my skin, travels my bloodstream and makes the hairs on my arms stand up.
For a split second, no more, I think his tense expression means he caught whatever I did, too. Then he casts his eyes back to the closed door, our only exit, and I remember, his tense expression has nothing to do with our contact and everything to do with his claustrophobia.
‘Don’t worry, it has to be physically locked by someone, I’m sure.’ I start lugging the surprisingly heavy table stand towards the exit. ‘It’s one of those metal bar locks, from memory.’
Only… when I push against the old timber, the door doesn’t budge. I nudge harder, giving it a rattle, trying not to panic because I can only imagine how Guy is feeling right now, but… yeah, kind of panicking.
‘Is it jammed?’ Guy frets. ‘Let me try.’
I’m mildly offended that he thinks I’m incapable of opening a door but honestly, willing to let him try. I’m not claustrophobic but the thought of spiders, rodents, bats, ghosts, poltergeists… Those things I’m not keen on.
‘It’s not budging.’ He turns to me, fear widening his pupils, obvious even in the dim light. ‘It’s locked.’
‘It can’t be locked.’
But we both push again together. Again and again, banging into the door and watching it barely move a millimetre.
‘I think it’s locked,’ I say eventually.
‘You don’t say,’ he retorts sarcastically.
‘Hey! I didn’t lock it!’
He takes a deep breath in through his nose, eyes closed. ‘Sorry,’ he says, all heartfelt and special. Not.
We try banging on the door and calling out, to no avail.
‘Someone will come. They know where we are and they need the tables. Any second, someone will come down, you’ll see.’
And I believe it. Of course they will… won’t they?