Chapter Thirteen #2
Timothy passes me a blini with cream cheese and caviar.
Just as I’m about to pop it in my mouth, he stops me, waiting for a Fork Yeah photographer to jog over and snap me with it.
The flash blinds me. A pearl of caviar slides off the cream cheese and down my fingers.
I force a smile for the camera, then pop the whole thing in my mouth in one go.
As I chew, the tiny pearls of salt popping on my tongue, the camera still flashing, my attention drifts back to the corner of the room.
I watch as the girls scoop caviar onto the back of their hands, before licking it off with their tongues.
One of them mimes snorting it, as if it were a bump of coke, and everyone laughs. I’m desperate to join them.
There’s a lull in the conversation at our table and I look around the room.
Is everyone having a good time? Is it just my girls having fun?
I try to remember the last time I laughed like that.
Properly laughed, tears streaming, stomach cramping, gasping for air. When was the last time I even had fun?
I catch my mum’s eye next to me and give her a quick smile. Then feel a tap on my shoulder. Timothy’s dad, Sam, has appeared behind me.
‘Sam! I wanted to say thank you for the speech you gave. It was so lovely.’
‘My pleasure, Belle. I wanted to say a little thank you tonight, as I’m sure tomorrow will be too busy – but thank you for making our Timothy so happy. You’ve been so good for him.’
‘He’s been good for me, too,’ I say automatically.
‘He has! That’s great.’ It’s a statement, but why does it feel more like a question? It hangs in the air, just a moment too long.
‘We’re great together,’ I say.
He nods, satisfied, happy. ‘That’s all a father can ask for.’
But I’m still thinking about the way he said that. He has? Like he was surprised? Like he knows something I don’t?
‘Hey, did I ever tell you about the summer Timothy realised he wanted to be a chef?’ he continues.
I smile, shaking my head. ‘He said he always knew. That it was never a question.’ I shrug.
He chuckles. ‘That’s the polished version. The truth is, he really was as awful … as I hinted in my speech. When he was thirteen, he tried, but he was useless. Burned everything. Made such a mess. His nanna …’ He nods to Maude. ‘She banned him from her kitchen after the spaghetti incident.’
‘The spaghetti incident?’
‘Don’t ask. The ceiling was never the same.’ He smiles into the distance, lost in the memory. I laugh. I can almost picture it. Thirteen-year-old Timothy, tomato sauce dripping from the lampshade, refusing to admit defeat.
‘That’s the great thing about Tim,’ Sam continues. ‘He kept at it. Willpower of steel. Practised every weekend until it was perfect. Ended up applying for culinary school and never looked back. Wouldn’t let anyone see him fail.’
I smile and gaze at Timothy. Willpower of steel. That’s a good thing. That’s what I need, someone steady, ambitious. Someone who strives for more. Who doesn’t quit.
So why does wouldn’t let anyone see him fail sound like a warning?
I nod to Sam as he stands, squeezing my shoulder as he goes. Timothy hands me another glass of fizz. When I look up, Jules has materialised beside me, having swapped seats with Mum, clearly unwilling to miss anything.
I take a sip, then another. Then I realise I’ve drained the glass without even tasting it.
Jules watches me, an eyebrow raised. ‘Thirsty, are we?’
I smile but it feels wrong on my face. Too tight, too deliberate.
‘The nerves are normal, lovely.’ She rubs my arm. ‘Everyone has them.’ She picks up the bottle of water on our table and pours me a glass. ‘I nearly ran away on the morning of my wedding. Did I ever tell you that?’
My mouth falls open. ‘You did not!’
‘Oh yes …’ She chuckles. ‘Made it halfway to the train station before your great-aunt caught me. Dragged me back by the tail of my lovely veil.’ She laughs loudly. ‘Not leaving, though … It was the best decision I ever made.’
I stare at her. ‘You wanted to run?’
‘Cold feet, poppet. Everyone gets them.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘I’m saying I didn’t run, though. I had fifty-two wonderful years. The trick is knowing when it’s just nerves and when it’s something else.’
I smile weakly, waiting for her to tell me which one this is. She doesn’t.
Four courses in and I’m running out of small talk.
I move a plump scallop around my plate. Six months ago, I would have inhaled these.
They’re something I’d never tried before Timothy – before he first dished one up for me in his restaurant, after he’d closed the place just for us, lit a pan just for me.
Now the smell turns my stomach. When did that happen?
When did the thing I loved become the thing I’m pushing around my plate?
I rest my head on his shoulder and he pecks my forehead.
‘Everything’s running smoothly,’ he says calmly.
I straighten up. ‘Yes, that’s great.’ A flutter of nerves, the suspicious kind, the kind that comes from not having seen my ghost in a while.
‘I forgot to ask … Did you remember to preorder the wedding thank-you cards?’ he says, scooping a scallop into his mouth.
‘Yes, they’re at home, waiting – stamps and all.’
‘Good, good …’ He chews and swallows. ‘And the fireworks team arrived to set up for this evening?’
‘Uh, yes, I think.’
‘This location is pretty remote so hopefully they’ve found it okay.’
‘Yes, I’m sure they have. I gave them the number of the reception in my intro email.’
He nods, satisfied. Another item checked off.
I try to remember the last time we talked about something that wasn’t the wedding. The last time he asked how I was feeling, not whether I’d confirmed the florist. The last time we laughed at nothing.
We’re nearing the end of the meal. Everyone is finishing their lemon sorbets – the final course, which we chose because Timothy said it’s a French tradition.
Usually, a ‘Trou Normand’, as he assures me it’s called, is served as a shot between courses, but having sorbet means the cold iciness will wake everyone up after lots of food, so we can continue to celebrate.
I watch as he straightens his tie next to me. ‘I know you weren’t expecting this … but I wanted to make a little speech this evening.’
My eyes widen. ‘Oh, but the timetable!’
‘Don’t worry, I factored in an extra ten minutes.’
Of course he did.
He stands as one of the hotel staff hands him a microphone. Timothy clears his throat. The room goes quiet.