Letters to the Lost (47 page)

A massive stone pillar entirely obscured their view of the bride and groom and pretty much cut them off from the proceedings, which she guessed Will would consider a bonus, but was a bit of a disappointment to her. She hadn’t admitted it, but she’d never been to a wedding before. Where she came from, marriage was about as outdated as bubble perms and giant shoulder pads; generally you showed your commitment as a couple by having a second, planned baby.

Looking around the church she worked out that the first rule of wedding attendance was that you wore a colour that would look insane in ordinary life; head-to-toe lilac, or coral, or yellow. Her dress was all wrong, she could see that, and she wasn’t sure whether to be grateful to Will for not telling her before, or furious. But then remembered the warmth in his voice when he’d said she looked gorgeous and she realized she didn’t care how wrong it was as long as he liked it.

The organ, swelling into the next hymn, drew them back in to the service. They stood up. Will sang deliberately off key, making her splutter with laughter. She elbowed him and sang louder to drown him out. It was a hymn she recognized from those distant Sundays watching
Songs of Praise
with Gran:
Dear Lord and Father of Mankind.
As she raised her voice above his their eyes met, and she watched the laughter in his give way to surprise and admiration.

‘That is one
fine
pair of lungs you’ve got there, Ms Moran,’ he murmured as the last note of the organ died away and the congregation sat down again. His gaze flickered briefly down to her chest, releasing a shower of sparks across her skin.

Afterwards they all spilled out into the bright afternoon, and people greeted each other in loud, nasal voices and tried to kiss beneath the brims of their hideous hats. Jess got her first proper look at the bride and groom as they posed for photographs under a cloud of pink cherry blossom with their gaggle of tiny bridesmaids. Blimey, she thought. I’m at the wedding of Barbie and Ken. The new Mrs Holt was delicate and slender in a narrow dress of ivory silk, her blonde hair held back from her face by a tiny tiara. Beside her Will’s brother looked tall and manly and proud. He was a neater, more finished version of Will: an airbrushed, digitally remastered Disney cartoon to Will’s impressionistic sketch of quick, impulsive lines. When he smiled at the camera Jess half expected to see a glittering star flash on his very white teeth.

A sharp gust of wind released a shower of pink petals onto the happy couple and the watching guests sighed with delight.

‘Did you bring confetti?’ Jess asked.

Will was leaning against a gravestone looking green again. ‘Sadly not, but I find a handful of gravel makes a cheap and ecologically-sound alternative. Oh fuck, stand by for action. Enemy approaching at three o’clock.’

Jess looked round. A small, neat woman in a gold silk suit had broken away from the cluster of guests and was heading towards them, clutching the brim of her hat with one gloved hand. Jess had heard the term ‘steely expression’ but she’d never fully understood its meaning until that moment.

‘Where. Have. You. Been?’ She spoke to Will through a rigid jaw, without moving her glossed lips. ‘Didn’t you get my messages? I’ve been frantic. I was absolutely convinced you were dead in a ditch.’

‘That explains why you look so grief-stricken. Ma, I’d like you to meet Jess Moran. Jess – my mother.’

Jess had no experience of meeting posh people, however some instinct told her that shaking hands was the correct thing to do. She held hers out.

‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Holt.’

Will’s mother nodded at her curtly and ignored her hand, which remained stuck out like a shop dummy’s. ‘Is it too much to ask that for once you would just turn up at the right time, no surprises, no disasters?’ she said, pinioning Will with eyes like sharpened icicles.

He took Jess’s rejected hand, enfolding it in his and drawing her into his body. ‘I’ve been ill. You really wouldn’t have wanted me here last night, I can tell you. I wouldn’t have made it today if it wasn’t for Jess.’

A flicker of disgust passed over Mrs Holt’s fine-boned, immaculately made-up face, though whether it was at the mention of illness or the sight of her son with his arms around a badly-dressed commoner, Jess couldn’t be sure.

‘Well. You’re in luck, as it happens. Great Aunt Winifred cried off at the last minute.’ (She actually pronounced it ‘orf ’ Jess noticed incredulously.) ‘Miss Moran can take her place on the seating plan, though I’m afraid you won’t be together. You’ll be next to Uncle Julius, as I recall, Miss Moran.’ She gave Jess a Cruella De Vil smile. ‘I do hope you enjoy the day.’

Surprisingly, she did.

Maybe it was the champagne, which she’d never so much as tasted before and now discovered was completely delicious. Maybe it was the fact that she was a stranger, her history unknown, even if her less than top-drawer background was probably obvious. Maybe it was the table she found herself on at lunch, which was the dumping ground for those guests who might spoil the pastel-flower, white-voile-bunting aesthetic of the wedding. ‘Crocks corner,’ Uncle Julius cheerfully declared it, since everyone apart from Jess was over seventy. As the only ‘youngster’ they all made a huge fuss of her and, thanks to her visits to the lunch club and the years she’d spent with Gran, she felt completely at ease amongst them. Uncle Julius’s laugh rang loudly and frequently beneath the creamy canvas, until it became quite obvious that there was more fun being had on their table than any other.

But mostly it was Will. He was seated two tables away, next to a stunning girl in a lime green dress that showed off her expensive tan and blonde hair to perfection. She had one of those haughty, well-bred faces that looked permanently miserable, and although she talked a lot, she never got as far as breaking into a smile. Somehow Will managed to maintain a pretence of courteous attention while gazing at Jess across the space that divided them. At one point, while Lime Green girl was pushing her food around with her fork and talking he also mimed putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger. Jess felt a great balloon of happiness rising inside her and took a swig of champagne to swallow it down again.

The only bad moment came just after lunch, before the speeches began. Jess’s table was right by the door, on the path to the toilets, and Will had come over to talk to her when a tall man with silvery hair approached. ‘Oh God, my father,’ Will said with a grimace. ‘I suppose I’d better introduce you.’

Fergus Holt shook her hand with elaborate courtesy, but Jess could feel his eyes sweeping over her like searchlights, exposing every cheap stitch and working-class atom of her. ‘How nice to meet you, Jess. And what do you do for a living?’

She blinked, taken by surprise. ‘I work in a dry cleaner’s,’ she said, and felt a beat of profound relief that she didn’t have to say ‘nothing’. Fergus Holt, however, did not seem impressed. His eyebrows shot up and the slick smile faltered, as if he wasn’t sure if she was joking or not.

‘A dry cleaner’s? How . . .
useful
.’

He produced the word with a flourish, as if congratulating himself on managing to combine accuracy with disparagement. But Jess was temporarily distracted by the growing realization that he looked familiar. ‘Actually, perhaps you know it,’ she said, trying to work out where she’d seen him before. ‘Wahim Clean, in Church End? I’ve only been there a week, but I’m sure I recognize you from somewhere . . .’

Fergus Holt’s face hardened like concrete, his mouth setting into a small, frigid smile. ‘BBC Two, Wednesday evenings at nine o’clock. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there are people I must speak to—’

As soon as he was out of earshot Jess turned to Will in horror. ‘Oh God – he’s some kind of TV celebrity? You should have told me! I’ve completely put my foot in it now. I knew I should never have come!’

Will was struggling to suppress his laughter, but his eyes were warm and deep and serious. ‘I’m bloody glad you did.’

In the lapse between the afternoon reception and the evening one the guests drifted through the opulent reception rooms of the Holts’ spectacular mansion and Will led Jess up the back stairs (back stairs!) to his bedroom. It was an oasis of clutter in the personality-desert of the rest of the house. She lay on his bed and tried to look at the photographs that crowded the walls, but they kept going round and round.

‘Far be it for me to judge, but are you the tiniest bit tipsy, Ms Moran?’ he said, smiling down on her.

There was an oar attached to the wall above his head that seemed to be rowing all by itself. ‘I think I might be. Just the tiniest bit,’ she said happily, wriggling over to make space on the bed. ‘I’m also dead tired. I don’t suppose you fancy a lie down, Mr Holt?’

He laughed, to disguise the fact that he’d just been impaled on a white-hot spear of lust. Her cheeks were flushed with the champagne and her lips were rosy and plump. Suddenly his suit trousers were too tight again.

‘Better not, or I wouldn’t wake up until ten o’clock tomorrow and my mother would pulverize me. You have a rest. I’ll go down to the car and get the bags.’

He escaped with relief, his heart throbbing. Amongst other organs. Talk about emotional roller-coaster. This time yesterday he’d been in a trough of despair and now he was hurtling towards the stars with such speed he felt breathless. And terrified. What if he’d got it wrong? What if he was misreading the signs and what he thought was attraction was just her being friendly? But surely there was no mistaking chemistry like that? Every time they’d looked at each other over that interminable lunch the marquee had practically gone up in flames.

That was
lust,
he yelled silently at himself. Miraculous though it might seem, it appeared she actually found him attractive, but that didn’t mean anything beyond a quick shag.

Outside it was raining, Will noticed with surprise. Dirty clouds had crowded into the blue sky and a stiff wind was making the marquee strain at its guy ropes like a hot air balloon. Unlocking the car he slid into the driver’s seat and dropped his head into his hands. Of course, the truth was that he wanted more than casual sex. She was perfect: funny, beautiful and brave – brave enough to stand up to his father, even, who Will had never seen flounder like that – and he was in big danger of falling pathetically in love with her.

That was why he was terrified. The upwards swoop was exhilarating, but he wasn’t sure that he could survive another downwards plunge right now. He had to be careful.

Gathering himself together, he got out of the car and collected the bags. Carrying them into the house through the back door he stood aside to let a procession of waiting staff pass with laden trays of smeared glasses, and heard the sound of tense voices coming from the boot room. He recognized Simon’s, because when he was angry he spoke with the same withering impatience as their father. The other voice was a woman’s; low and clearly tearful. He couldn’t imagine Marina doing anything as messy as crying. Intrigued, he went to the door and pushed it open.

The happy couple were standing amid the jumble of coats and boots and shooting sticks, looking distinctly unhappy, while Wellington the Labrador cowered in his basket in the corner. He hated arguments, and parties. Marina’s bridal make-up was in ruins, though she hastily tried to swipe away the rivers of black mascara streaming down her cheeks when Will appeared.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to intrude. Don’t suppose there’s anything I can do to help?’

Simon’s lip curled. ‘I doubt it, unless you can stop the rain. Or bring Billie Holiday back to life.’

‘Oh fucking shut up, Simon,’ Marina hissed, with unbridal venom. ‘The whole day is ruined and all you can do is make fucking sarcastic comments.’

‘It’s not ruined.’ Simon sounded so exasperated Will found himself in the unprecedented position of almost feeling sorry for him. ‘It’s
April –
we knew there was a chance it might rain, but the singer getting stranded in Dublin is just bad luck. There’s no way we could have seen that coming, and there’s not much we can do about it now. No one’s going to mind dancing to a disco instead of a live band.’

‘
I mind
. It’s supposed to be a vintage-themed wedding. For fuck’s sake, Simon, a year’s worth of planning,
six months
of dancing lessons and we end up doing our first dance to a
disco
in the
pouring rain
—?’

Will was in the process of making a surreptitious exit, but the bit about the singer stopped him.

‘Tell me it’s none of my business if you like, but am I right in thinking you have a band but no singer? Because if that’s the case I might just be able to help.’

38

As the light faded outside the marquee was transformed.

Little candles flickered in glasses on the tables and strings of fairy lights made the canvas glow warmly, even if the actual temperature was arctic. Standing on the stage above the square dance floor Jess shivered with nerves and the icy wind that found its way through the gaps in the sides.

But as soon as the band started up the nerves vanished, as they always did. The song Simon and Marina had chosen for their first dance was
The Way You Look Tonight
. It wasn’t one she knew very well, but when she’d run through the song list with the band in Mrs Holt’s Wembley-sized bedroom earlier they’d had time for a little rehearsal. Most of the songs were familiar, from Gran’s collection of Sinatra and Elvis and Rod Stewart, and thanks to her Lunch Club ladies she was used to singing them. She sent out a silent prayer of gratitude to Vera, for keeping her voice from rusting away with lack of use in the past few weeks.

Simon and Marina circled the floor slowly, their movements perfectly synchronized. He held her expertly, his hand looking very big and tanned in the centre of her narrow back and probably the people standing around the dance floor and seated at the tables wouldn’t notice the coldness in his eyes as he looked at her, or hear the instructions she muttered at him through a rigid jaw.