Chapter 15
LYRA
The Moment My Crush Graduates
I’m all set to apologise to Guy when I see him come back through the rear exit of the function room.
He was clearly unhappy about me taking a personal picture of him signing the girl’s notebook.
It felt kind and sort of pivotal. As if a snippet of Guy Walker from The Hand Me Downs was in the room.
But the way he glared at me when my flash went off told me an entirely different story.
I’ve been hovering by the stage, taking pictures of the party, but mostly waiting for his return.
I felt like we crossed some kind of invisible line in the dungeon – when Pearl locked us in the dungeon.
I’m not sure what game she was playing but I’ll admit, as unexpected as it was, Guy and I shared a moment down there.
Though I’m no expert when it comes to men, I think, if we hadn’t been interrupted…
I stop dead in my approach to Guy when I see he’s holding the hand of a woman I think is the missing Nanna that the groom’s family have been frantically searching for.
Nanna looks anything but perturbed, though, as she lets the wedding singer lead her into the room.
Guy gestures to the dance floor and Nanna walks into the middle of the empty space, holding out her arms as if to say, I’m here, stop your needless worrying.
Meanwhile, Guy says something to Dave, pointing to his ear.
Then Dave is fitting a sound pack and an ear microphone to Guy, who slips out of his suit jacket.
This leaves him standing in black trousers that hug his thighs and bum deliciously and though they need no holding up, black braces are clipped to the trousers, drawing my attention to the very firm torso beneath his white shirt.
‘Jaw up, hunny,’ Mandy says, appearing at my side.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ I tell her, unable to hide my amusement.
When I turn back to the dance floor, I recognise the backing track that begins to play. Guy makes his way to Nanna, who is patiently waiting in the middle of the space.
As he sings the opening lyrics to the Stereophonics’ ‘Step on My Old Size Nines’, he takes hold of Nanna.
With one hand on her back and the other holding her hand, he lifts her until she places her feet on top of his, and he moves them both around the floor, singing to her with the kind of gravelly voice Kelly Jones would be proud of.
Step by step, Nanna’s smile grows. Little by little, every woman in the room seems to melt, every man wishes he’d had the same idea, and I… feel like an ice-cream in a fish and chip shop. He’s more than a rock star, more than a miserable singer with a mesmerising voice. He’s human. A good human.
As he twirls Nanna into the second chorus, the bride and groom lead their guests to dance, and when the track stops, I don’t hear what Nanna whispers into Guy’s ear before she presses her lips to his cheek, but I do hear the most unexpected and bellowing laugh. Guy folds over his knees.
I have no idea why I’m chuckling with him, a lump in my throat. Why, when he glances my way and that laughter turns into a beaming smile, I’m grinning right back at him.
* * *
From the moment Guy turned Nanna around the dance floor, the wedding party cranked up another gear. Guy sang with more energy than he has since the start of the season. Every wedding guest has partied like tomorrow will never come.
Even Dave was swinging his bum and bumping hips with Mandy and me. The whole evening has been electric and now, whilst the reception rages on courtesy of one of Dave’s DJs, Mandy, Guy, Pearl, Geoff and Dave are heading to the much quieter residents’ bar for a night cap.
I’m packing up my cameras as they pass by me in the staff corridor.
‘Come on, girlie,’ Mandy calls, breaking her animated conversation with Dave momentarily.
I’m going to tell her that I can’t follow but she’s back to giving Dave grief about something, both of them bantering hard. I zip my cases and jump when I feel the presence of someone behind me.
‘You’re coming, aren’t you?’ Guy asks.
I spin to face him, a little too quickly. He’s so close to me, I lose my balance and he steadies me, grabbing hold of my elbows.
He’s still wearing his shirt and braces, though the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up now and his black tie has been discarded.
His hair is mussed up, like he’s been performing for hours because, well, he has.
And I watched all of it, eyes glued to him, ears unable to focus on anything other than the voice I love.
Now, on top of it all, that woody, peppery scent that’s becoming a drug to me is mixed with something incredibly masculine, and it’s all-consuming. He’s all-consuming.
Because of that, I want desperately to go for a drink with the group, to learn more about this man, to cling on to the buzz of the night for just half an hour more. But…
‘I can’t.’
‘Why? Sorry, don’t answer that.’
I give a short laugh at his awkwardness. The man who had an entire room eating out of the palm of his hand not long ago. ‘It’s okay. I have to get home. Or, home to my parents’ house.’
‘Your dad?’
I nod. ‘My mum is on call; she’s a cardiologist. I usually stay over in case she gets called out and Dad needs anything.’
He’s expressionless, deadpan. Yet I feel as if he’s searching into the depths of me. I want to know what’s going through his mind.
‘Plus, the bar doesn’t have hot chocolate,’ I say, to plug the silence.
‘Then I guess I’ll see you next week?’
‘Unless you want to hang out in my parents’ house with me and drink a thousand-calories-a-mug hot chocolate?’ I think I mean it as an invitation. God, no, of course I don’t.
Come to my parents’ house for hot chocolate? Am I sixteen?
Guy opens his mouth to respond but I cut him off, not needing to hear an excuse. ‘See you next week,’ I tell him, hoping the heat of embarrassment hasn’t made it to my cheeks.
I’ve given him the out.
So why isn’t he moving?
He’s still so close to me that his scent is coating me like velvet – warm, smooth, luxurious.
I’m not an impulsive person, generally. I’ve trained myself not to be as an adult.
And I never have the kind of urge I do now, to take hold of Guy’s braces, pull his body to mine and beg him to utterly ravage me.
His face shifts ever so slightly closer to mine and there isn’t a muscle in my body not twisted and tightened with expectation. Want.
‘Goodnight, Lyra.’
‘Goodnight,’ I barely manage, watching him follow the others in the direction of the bar.
‘Guy?’
He turns to face me but continues walking backwards, away from me. ‘Lyra.’
‘I’m sorry about taking your picture earlier, when the bridesmaid?—’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ He shrugs. ‘I guess it reminded me that I used to be able to sing once.’
‘I never saw you strut moves the way you did with Nanna tonight, though,’ I tease, grateful that he’s not angry about the picture I’m actually looking forward to seeing developed.
‘What can I say? If I could’ve chosen myself a grandmother, she would’ve been just like Nanna Winnie.’
* * *
I wanted to stay so badly. I waved goodbye to the group in the residents’ bar as they were being served a tray of drinks.
I couldn’t help noticing that Guy was drinking a pint of squash, which seemed odd because he’d had pints of beer lined up on the stage all night, which party guests had bought for him following his adorable moment with Nanna Winnie.
Worse than the feeling of FOMO I had driving home is that I’ve pulled onto the driveway of my parents’ house and the lights are out.
Not even the blue flickering light of the TV is dancing around their bedroom curtains.
Mum and Dad are sleeping. I know Mum is home because she would have messaged me if she’d been called to the hospital already.
So I’m missing out on all fronts, and my mind keeps drifting to that brain fuzz I get whenever Guy is in my remote vicinity.
He is moody, still. Yo-yos make fewer one-eighties than his personalities.
But the more time I spend with him, the more there seems to be about him that I want to discover.
He intrigues me, sparks something in me, and for my sins, he turns me on like no man has ever. Those braces.
The distraction of having Mum around tonight would have been good.
Instead, I pad quietly upstairs to my old room and switch into bed shorts and a lazy t-shirt that slops off one shoulder.
Comfy clothes to match the cosy hot chocolate I decide to make.
I bought Dad a velvetiser last Christmas and we joke that I bought a present for myself, though drinking hot chocolate with my dad in the evenings, snuggling up against his side, is one of my favourite things to do.
I set myself up at the bench seat table in the kitchen and open my laptop. As I plug my camera into the computer, I plan to work on edits, but I find myself skipping to the pictures of Guy twirling a very happy lady around on his large feet.
I know before I start typing that the story I write tonight will be about Nanna Winnie. Or a version of her I invent to indulge my hobby.
Less than a paragraph in to the article that will never be published, my mobile vibrates with the name of a caller I don’t expect.
‘Guy?’ I ask, despite answering a call from his saved number.
‘Are you awake?’ His voice is quiet and I don’t hear the background noise of the bar at the castle, or any noise, in fact.
‘Ah, yeah, why?’
‘I really fancied that hot chocolate.’
Everything beneath my ribcage starts thumping to be let out. I mean, technically, I invited him. But I didn’t invite him.
‘Lyra? Are you there?’
I swallow a feeling that could be excitement, or nervousness, or Norovirus. ‘Ah, yeah. I’m here.’
‘Let me in?’
I’m so discombobulated that I practically fall from the bench seat at the table, shushing myself as I come to stand, and tiptoeing across the creaky floorboards to the front door.
Is this for real? Am I living in one of my fictitious articles right now?