Chapter 2
Rhys was staring at her mouth again. He always stared at her mouth. That was one of the many problems he had with Ginny Weller.
She had a piercing below her bottom lip, a subtle thing, usually with a small silver stud in it.
Her ears protruded distinctively and he’d counted the studs in those: seven in total, three in each lobe and one at the top.
The piercings made her impossible to miss – that and the fact she was usually talking non-stop about something he knew nothing about.
Like weddings – and wedding photography. He might feel most himself with his Nikon in his hand, but he captured images of the natural world, not the confusing jumble of faces and features that formed a wedding party.
‘What are you doing behind the bar?’ Ginny asked, her voice high.
He avoided her gaze. He could tell more about her feelings from her tone anyway.
‘Why didn’t you let on it was you?’ she continued without waiting for an answer.
‘Oh, no, I didn’t mean to—’
‘You knew it was me standing here.’
‘Well, yes—’ He recognised her voice – the way he identified most of his friends. Not that she counted as a friend. More like a colleague he had an uneasy relationship with, perhaps.
‘Then you shouldn’t have let me go on about—Fuck!’
As he already knew, for a chatty wedding planner whose hair was always glossy and neat, she swore a surprising amount. In fact, he knew more about Ginny than he was comfortable with.
‘I thought you realised it was me.’ It was the truth, but it sounded like a poor excuse.
‘I didn’t mean to tell you to your face that you hate me!’
‘I know.’ It was clear she didn’t want to talk to him about anything except his camera skills – and even those wouldn’t be right for her purposes. He knew he’d have to turn down her request and his chest felt heavy.
‘I didn’t think this could get any worse,’ she said through her teeth.
‘It’s all righ—’
‘You think it’s all right?’ The agitation in her voice made him itchy, but there was nothing he could do about it. ‘You let me make a fool of myself, when it’s difficult enough to ask you a favour when you don’t want to help me.’
‘Ginny…’ he began. Even saying her name felt strange, given how much that word had bounced around in his trapped thoughts since the first time he’d met her, in this exact pub, over a year ago.
She was looking at him and he forced himself to return the eye contact.
He could never picture her face as soon as she turned away – that was the same for everyone.
But he’d learned by now that the colour of her eyes struck him every time.
From the work he’d done with an occupational therapist, he knew they must be green, but that spectrum had turned into an indistinct bright silver-grey since his accident.
He knew he liked her face – a lot. Strange, how he could react to what was essentially abstract lines, curves and shadows but as soon as she turned away, he couldn’t picture it.
Taking a deep breath, he leaned on the bar and continued, ‘You don’t need to make everyone like you.’
She drew back suddenly, her chin coming up, and he realised she hadn’t taken his words the way he’d intended. ‘At least I feel vindicated,’ she said through clenched teeth.
‘I didn’t mean me – just people in general. Take up space. Ask your question.’
Her lips opened as she considered her response. ‘Does that mean you’re going to take the wedding job?’
‘No.’ Hesitation and sugar-coating wouldn’t help.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ she said behind her hand. She swallowed heavily. ‘What is your problem?’
He had several, but he didn’t think she’d want to hear about them.
‘Just because you’re some fancy award-winning photographer – who’s mysteriously working behind the bar today, as if just to humiliate me – doesn’t mean you can leave your friends in the lurch!’
‘I work here almost every day and I’m not leaving you in the lurch on purpose—’
‘I meant Sophie and Andreas!’ she interrupted him.
Ah, of course she didn’t count herself as a friend.
‘Don’t you think if there were any other photographers available on our books, I would have hired them?
I mean, you made your point, grumbling about the wedding last winter.
I understand you don’t like crowds, but that’s not an excuse this time.
You’re coming to the wedding anyway. I thought you’d rather have your camera in your hand than stand around and chit-chat, but maybe you were planning to just loiter in the corner and frown at everyone.
In which case, be my guest. I’ll take the fucking pictures myself! ’
The little glimpse of her teeth suggested she wished she’d stopped talking two sentences ago, but she’d hit the intended nerve.
The winter wedding in Tyrol at New Year’s had been his first – and hopefully last – wedding behind the camera.
Capturing people’s precious moments when he couldn’t distinguish the groom from the groomsman in a close-up meant guaranteed failure.
He’d rather work behind the bar than earn a wad of cash by clicking away indiscriminate photos of na?ve, happy people.
She whirled around, making a belated, dramatic exit, her trendy trainers squeaking on the old floor.
She wore baggy jeans and a cropped sweater and both of those things marked her as far younger than him – so young that he shouldn’t even be wondering whether it was a decade or more between them, and whether that would make any difference.
Since the accident, he was an old man.
Before he could tear his gaze away from the fall of her hair to her shoulder blades, she turned back, tossing her head. ‘What do you mean, you work here every day? You’re a photographer.’
He swallowed a groan. ‘Wedding photographers get regular gigs, but I sometimes have… financial gaps.’
Some colour rose to her cheeks. ‘Oh…’
His stomach sinking, he imagined the upcoming wedding of one of his best friends with even more trepidation now he’d have to avoid Ginny entirely.
But he’d been through a lot with Andreas – including three expeditions in the Himalayas – and although he didn’t understand his friend’s sudden desire to make this grand gesture of commitment, it wasn’t the sort of invitation a real friend could turn down.
‘Wait, you need money, but you still won’t take this assignment? I wasn’t asking you to do it for free. We agreed a rate for the last wedding.’
‘Yes, we agreed I’d take photos at the ice cave and I got roped into the whole shebang,’ he reminded her. ‘I don’t want to be dragged onto the books at I Do by stealth. I don’t photograph people. I’ve told you this more than once.’
His skin was prickling now, the way it did when she looked too long at him. He hated to think what she saw.
She crossed her arms. ‘You’ve grumbled something to that effect at me a few times, yes. Maybe that’s why I didn’t recognise you down there. This is the most you’ve ever said to me in one go.’
He didn’t know how to respond to that and the silence stretched. She clearly expected something, but he had no idea what.
‘You won’t even do it for Andreas?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘For Andreas, I won’t do it.’
She muttered a few curses and her body language was defeated when she turned away.
‘Wait,’ he called after her, ignoring the gut-punch of her eyes on him again. ‘Your drinks.’
Her lips pulled together as she frowned fiercely.
‘Hold the wine,’ she said stiffly. ‘Just give me the beers – and a shot.’
‘Of what?’ he asked warily.
She leaned on the bar, getting up in his face, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. ‘What do you recommend for someone who’s been humiliated, patronised and rejected?’
He wanted to contradict her, but there was no point. Better for her to leave angry, so he simply nodded and reached for a pint glass. After pulling the two lagers, he hesitated for a moment in front of the high shelves of spirits, before grasping a bottle and a thimble and turning back to pour it.
Her exaggerated eye-roll stopped him before he could get the lid off.
‘Peach vodka? Seriously? Do you think I’ve just turned twenty-one?’
‘With your vocabulary? Maybe,’ he mumbled, swiping the bottle off the bar again. Returning it to the shelf, he caught sight of the sambuca and a bad idea took hold of him.
Moving slowly, with purpose, he poured the shot. Next came the coffee beans, floating innocuously on the surface of the clear liquid. Then he lit a match.
Her gulp was audible as he held the match to the coffee beans and little blue flames raced across the surface.
‘There you go,’ he said when she just stared. ‘Blow it out and drink.’
Taking a breath through her nose, she leaned down carefully and blew – but not quickly enough to stop a strand of her hair shrivelling in the flames.
‘Whoa!’
At the same moment as she picked up the shot and brought it to her mouth, he grabbed for her hair, splattering the liquid over her face.
He froze, his fingers tangled in the smooth dark strands.
She drew away with a splutter, coughing and gagging on the alcohol, but cried out when he pulled her hair.
‘Shit,’ he muttered, trying to extricate his hand. ‘Sorry.’ He handed her a serviette.
‘You didn’t have to slap me in the face!’
‘Your hair was… on fire,’ he said through gritted teeth, watching as dark pink stained the skin under her freckles as she scrubbed her face.
‘I’m…’ She didn’t get to the end of that sentence, instead turning on wobbly legs and dismissing him with a wave.
‘I’ll see you at the wedding?’
She responded by raising her middle finger over her shoulder in a gesture that made him smile, while sending remorse through him at the same time. He wished he could reassure her that he did like her, but he’d spent a year denying it to himself.