Chapter 18
LYRA
The Morning of the Thorp Wedding
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’
I consider my reflection where I’m sitting in the hairdresser’s comfy leather chair, wrapped in one of the salon’s black cloaks.
Beneath the cloak, I’m wearing smart khaki cargo trousers that sit low on my hips and a tight-fitting sleeveless crew neck – both of which I found in one of my boxes of old clothes as I continue to unpack, snail’s pace, into my own home.
Though it’s the same salon that my sister is using for her wedding day, Mum couldn’t get me booked with the same stylist because she’s on location for a wedding today, as it happens, which is perfect, because she can’t talk me out of what I’m about to do.
Am I sure? ‘Yes, let’s do it.’
The hairdresser pulls my hair into a ponytail, ties it in a band, then cuts off about twelve inches, bagging it for a wig charity I’ve chosen to donate to in an attempt to cancel out my bad karma for being a shitty sister.
‘No going back now, Lyra,’ she tells me. And I smile because, as silly as it seems, I feel like I’m reclaiming something that used to belong to me.
Nearly two hours later, I see a younger version of myself in the mirror. A more confident, sexier version of me that I haven’t seen for a long time. I’m not sure where she went or why I want her back now but there’s something that feels a lot like excited anticipation running through my veins.
I take a selfie of my jagged above-shoulder cut and send it to Cami, who, despite the early hour in Brazil, replies with:
Now all you need is a flight and I’ve got my BFF back.
As I’m busy biting down on my lip and wondering if I would dare just up sticks and fly out to Brazil to meet her – knowing that one haircut and a few highlights doesn’t negate all my obligations here – I catch the time on my phone.
‘Sugar! I’m going to be late for the wedding.’
* * *
I’m not late for the wedding, though I’m not as early as I usually am. There’s still plenty of time for Mandy and me to divide and conquer once she gets over her initial shock at my new look.
I photograph the bridal party as they get dressed and make their final preparations. Mandy snaps the groomsmen.
It’s an outdoor ceremony, which is going to be hot in the midday heat because, believe it or not, the north east of England is experiencing a heatwave. It’s practically sub-tropical out here.
By out here, I mean on the perfectly groomed lawn of Earl’s Castle, which has been set with white seats tied with bells – yes, bells – and in place of an altar is a trellis decorated in pink flowers and more bells – yes, bells.
Bells, because the wedding has a theme…
‘Cows?’ Mandy asks when we reconnect right before the ceremony. We’re standing in the aisle to capture the entrance of the hundred or so guests.
In the background to all our pictures are the groom’s prized dairy cows, each adorned with a bell – noisy as hell – and a pink bow around its neck.
‘He’s a cow farmer,’ I explain.
‘Weirdo, if you ask me. Who loves their cows enough to host them as wedding guests?’
I chuckle, trying to mask it behind my camera. ‘The best part is, the bride is terrified of them. The bridesmaids were breaking their necks to tell me.’
‘No! Why on earth has she agreed to this?’
We both hit our shutter buttons.
‘To be fair,’ I say, glancing further across the lawn to the wedding set-up, ‘the barn theme looks good, especially in today’s weather.’
The reception is taking place under an open-sided marquee, with hay bales as seats, set around real wood fire pits to be lit later, when the temperature drops.
Large candles have been dug into the ground and picnic baskets are full of blankets and cushions.
The entertainment for the evening is a country band and two hogs are already roasting on spits.
Thankfully, I won’t need to see Guy. Or pretend to him that I’m not hurt that he kissed me in the heart-stopping way he did, then ghosted me. I won’t need to pretend to myself that there isn’t still a part of me wishing he’d call or message.
Against the cosy theme of the wedding is the backdrop of the magnificent castle, in a way that feels very old England.
It’s sweet, even though something tells me the bride, in her sequin-embellished dress, would have preferred a luxury indoor castle wedding over the cows. One of which is currently taking a dump on the castle lawn, much to the amusement of the guests.
I’m covering my own laughter with my hand, Mandy rocking into my shoulder in absolute hysterics, when the fun is zapped right from me.
Because making their way to a discreet set-up I haven’t even noticed to one side of the ceremony chairs are Dave and Guy.
My internal organs leap into my throat, and my heart starts hammering against my ribcage, begging me to let it go free because I have tried to forget that kiss over the last two weeks of complete radio silence.
Yet here I am, watching him take up a seat and a microphone, rocked by his presence, irate with myself for even giving a damn about him when he clearly couldn’t care less about me.
The problem is, I can’t get him out of my head.
I realise I’m staring when Dave clocks me, holding up a hand in greeting.
He leans down to Guy’s ear and whispers something that makes him jerk his head in my direction, and I guess he’s shocked to be face to face with the girl he kissed like that and never messaged.
He’s probably used to walking away and never seeing us again, girls like me.
I wait for him to seem ashamed, remorseful even, but all he does is watch me from behind his sunglasses, mouth softly open.
Damn him for looking as good in his trousers, shirt and braces as he did two weeks ago.
I tear my focus from him and back to my job because he doesn’t deserve my attention when he gives me none of his.
If only my treasonous body would agree.
Thankfully, guests move between us, getting in the way of the view, reminding me why I’m here. But they don’t stop the sound of Guy’s voice reaching me as he begins to sing ‘I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing’ by Aerosmith.
Kill me. Kill. Me. Now.
Any kind of death would be easier than this slow and beautiful form of torture.
Once the guests are seated, Mandy and I are standing next to each other, waiting for the bride to make her entrance.
The groom, his best man and the ring-bearing dairy cow with the biggest pink bow are standing in position by the registrar.
The groom is mopping his brow, again. A hangover, a three-piece suit and a bundle of nerves in near thirty-degree heat are not a good look on him.
‘If he keeps sweating like that, he’s going to smell worse than those cows before the wedding breakfast,’ Mandy says.
‘Stop,’ I whisper, though I’m entertained by her sheer abhorrence of the cows and the cow farmer.
‘I was drunk on his whisky breath taking his picture earlier,’ she adds.
‘I bet he’s regretting that now,’ I tell her, watching him dab his forehead again, looking decidedly pale next to his red face of a few moments ago.
‘God, speaking of regrets,’ Mandy says, leaning in to my ear again. ‘D’you feel naked? Because that lad hasn’t stopped undressing you with his eyes since he arrived.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I ask, raising my camera as the bride’s choice of music begins to play.
It’s Christina Perry’s ‘A Thousand Years’. The one from Twilight. It’s a gorgeous song but how Guy is going to fare with it, I don’t know.
‘Guy Walker is what I’m talking about. Caged animals have drooled less over their breakfast steaks.’
Her words aren’t the reason I shift the focus of my lens to him.
The sound of his gritty voice singing ‘A Thousand Years’ as if he’d written it for himself is why I turn to him and capture the moment.
Through my lens, I watch him watching me as he sings, and I see the phones of numerous guests being held up to video him, too.
The bride is making her entrance and I’m fixating on the wedding singer, as are half the guests.
Mandy digs her elbow into my side. ‘Earth to Lyra.’
‘Sugar, sorry. I’ll get the groom,’ I tell her.
I reposition myself to get a better view of the farmer. It’s a happy coincidence that I have Guy on my horizon, too. But I manage to snap the moment the groom sees his bride for the first time. That first look.
And it’s… not good. The little colour left is rapidly draining from the groom’s face. He wipes sweat from his temples again, this time using the sleeve of his jacket in haste.
By the time the bride reaches him, he barely manages to raise his lips.
The guests are seated and the registrar begins to speak but I’m glued to the groom like a new episode of Nobody Wants This as he stands opposite his bride.
I take their picture again and through my Canon lens, I watch him sway.
It’s subtle but there, an unsteady movement. He’s disoriented.
I whip my camera over my neck and set it aside, running and sliding down to the grass just in time to catch the groom as his legs give out and he passes out in my lap, knocking me back against the ground as he does, his head slamming into my chest.
The bride screams and the guests are rowdy. ‘It’s okay, he’s just passed out,’ I tell his wife-to-be, already shifting out from under him, peeling his jacket off and balling it to use as a pillow under his head.
‘What can I do?’ Guy is by my side, crouched down.
I glance up to him, forced to set aside my irritation because someone needs me. ‘Raise his legs in the air.’
He nods and takes the instruction.
‘Can we get a cold flannel and some water?’ I calmly ask one of the staff.
Ten minutes later, the groom gives the crowd an even bigger surprise. As he sits on a chair, beneath the shade of the castle, he tells his bride, ‘I can’t do this.’
She strokes his hair, then his face. ‘’Course ya can, babe. You’ll feel better once you’ve had some more water.’
‘I mean, I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to get married.’
There’s a first time for everything.