Seduce Me Page 6

  Nine

  It is 10.00 a.m. and I am in Wardown Towers. Billie and I spent last night here, because in four hours Lana will become Mrs. Blake Law Barrington. I have left them in the room with the make-up artist and the hairdresser while I go down the impressive curving staircase and walk through the many reception rooms and out into the stone courtyard. Stretched out below me is the vista of beautifully manicured gardens and farther away, but still part of the estate, the best and greenest of English countryside.

  I watch workers stream like ants in and out of a large white marquee. They are carrying mostly flowers and plants, but also trays and boxes of all kinds. I go towards it and stand at the entrance.

  Inside, it is bustling with activity.

  A very gay man, presumably the one Lana says is from Beverly Hills, is prancing around giving orders. I gaze around in wonder. The tent is in the process of being turned into a gold, black and cream wonderland. The ceiling of the interior is made with hundreds of yards of crushed black velvet and looks like a giant black scallop. Fairy lights illuminate its whorls. Six enormous, three-tiered chandeliers hang from this sumptuously decadent ceiling.

  The stage at the end of the room is made of hedge and surrounded by magnolia trees that were separated into trunks, branches and flowers so they could be flown in from America. Workers are reassembling them with staple guns. For a moment, the florist in me feels for those beautiful trees that will, after this one occasion lasting no more than a few hours, wither and die. The gratuitous waste of these beautiful trees is shocking. And yet this what I have read about in all the celebrity mags and longed to be part of. They are only trees, I tell myself. Raised solely for this purpose. Their greatest moment is here. When they are part of the fantasy garden a billionaire banker pays to create for his bride. She wanted a spring garden wedding.

  She’s got it.

  I let my gaze wander over to the walls, made of billowing cream drapes, greenery swags and countless—and I mean countless—white flowers. The amount of flowers and leaves on the walls superseded only by the number of flowers on the three long dining tables that edge the room. I reach for one of the roses and lightly squeeze it. You can always tell the difference between the high and low quality ones by doing so. This is a high quality one.

  Dinner is to be a plated meal and all the tables are already set with plates, cutlery and glasses. The centerpieces are tall, elegant candelabras entwined with trailing exotic flowers. They are surrounded by clusters of small, unlit candles.

  Later I will see the real effect.

  The middle of the room, meant to serve as a large dance area, is covered in a cream and gold carpet. There is no gift table because Lana and Blake have requested their guests to pledge donations either to CHILD or to their favorite charities. To the left of me is a long table where there are earplugs in cream boxes for when the music gets too riotous, a phone charging station, comfy slippers for feet tired of high heels on the dance floor, miniature bottles of sunscreen, bug repellent, paper fans, and cozy wraps for the women in case there is a sudden evening chill.

  The attention to detail is astonishing.

  I leave the tent and head back towards the room where the three of us are getting ready. I open the door. Billie is sitting in a toweling robe having her make-up done and Lana, who has already had her make-up done, is now having her hair styled. My hair is already done.

  The videographer is filming and a photographer is clicking away.

  ‘You’re next,’ the make-up artist says to me.

  ‘OK,’ I reply and go sit on a chair beside a window.

  Fat Mary comes into the room and closes the door behind her. She is wearing a peach dress and a matching hat. For a change she actually looks all right.

  ‘Cor blimey…have you girls seen the best man?’ she asks and chortles.

  ‘Vann Wolfe?’ Lana asks with a laugh.

  Mary indulges in a long whistle. ‘Even his name is perfection. One look at him and I know he is going to be a fantastic lover.’

  ‘How can you tell?’ I ask curiously.

  ‘Listen, love, I’ve been to bed with enough men to know who’s going to whip it out, whip it in and wipe it, and who’s got the slooooow hand and dazzling moves.’

  I stare at her without comprehension. What the hell is a sloooow hand? I have only been with three guys and all three times it was a total and complete disaster. I was drunk, they were drunk. First time I was sixteen and he didn’t even use a condom. He promised he would withdraw before he came and he didn’t. He apologized, but what a bastard! What he did afterwards was unforgivable. Fortunately, that didn’t end with an STD or a nine-month bump for me.

  The second time it was three years later. I was at a party. He was confident, the way Jack was, but he had a big nose. He put his finger into my knickers and poked me when I wasn’t expecting it. It was painful. I was drunk so he got on top and went for it. He said having sex with a condom on was like sucking a sweet with a wrapper still on it, but he didn’t want no squalling baby. He wanted to spray his semen on my stomach. So he did. It was sticky and messy and I hated it. He tried to ask me out again, but I refused.

  The next guy was at a club. I was very drunk. He was the deejay. He took me around the back and pushed his hard length against me. It was exciting. I had a condom in my purse and we used it, but afterwards I was still ashamed. I felt as if I had betrayed Jack. I know it sounds crazy but that’s how I felt.

  Fat Mary goes to sit on the bed and looks at Lana. ‘So who is he?’

  ‘His…father used to…work for Blake’s family,’ Lana explains, but I did not miss the pause before father and work.

  ‘In what capacity?’

  ‘His father was the butler. But Blake and Vann are very close. They grew up together so they are as close as brothers.’

  ‘What does he do now?’

  ‘I think he’s trying to be an artist. He lives in Paris.’

  All I hear is ‘trying to be’ and I decode that as poor. Church mouse poor.

  ‘Oooo what I wouldn’t do for one night with his steaming flesh,’ purrs Fat Mary.

  Lana laughs. ‘You could be in luck, Mary. Blake tells me he likes the fuller figured woman.’

  ‘That’s sealed Grandview’s fate for tonight, then,’ she says in such a black widow spider voice that we all laugh.

  ‘You are a terrible slut,’ says Billie.

  ‘Slut is so harsh. Dragon on the hunt is more appetizing.’

  There is a knock on the door. Still laughing, Billie goes to open it.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, but her voice is suddenly different. We all turn towards the door.

  ‘Hi,’ a man’s voice says and I feel my heart stop.

  Oh! my God! Oh my God! The man standing at the door is none other than my Jack.

  My stomach does a backflip. I swallow hard and compose my face. Billie opens the door wider and I see him framed in the doorway. I have never seen him in a suit, and, oh boy, he is so incredibly handsome he dazzles my eyes. But on closer examination he is Jack and yet he is not. The African sun has turned him as brown as a berry, but it is his eyes. They are dull and sad. Has he seen what he shouldn’t have in Africa?

  I have never been able to forget that time waiting at the dentist and, having read all the magazines on offer, picking up something on photography. Skimming through it bored me out of my skull, and coming upon that iconic picture of the sickly skeletal child crawling on the dusty, barren landscape towards a help center. Behind the child, a vulture following on foot, waiting for it to die. I researched the photographer on the net later, and it didn’t shock me when I learned that he eventually took his own life.

  Jack’s eyes zero in on Lana. She stands up, her hand clamped on her mouth. For a moment no one moves and then she is flying across the room towards him, but instead of lunging into his arms as I have sometimes seen her do, she stops two feet away from him. There it is, the tension that Lana and Billie were discussing in the restaurant. Di
d they fall out?

  ‘Hello, Lana,’ he says. His voice is the same.

  ‘You came,’ Lana whispers. Her hand is pressed to her stomach.

  ‘Of course. I did promise to give you away,’ he says, and smiles. And for just one moment he seems as he was before.

  ‘Oh!’ Lana’s face falls. She bites her lower lip. ‘I’m sorry, Jack, but you never replied to any of my emails. I thought you weren’t coming. Billie’s father is giving me away,’

  He shakes his head slowly. ‘No he’s not. I am. This is a surprise from Blake.’

  It is only then that I realize that he is dressed in the color scheme chosen for the wedding. A blush-colored square of handkerchief is sticking out of his breast pocket. That little piece of material unifies his attire with mine.

  Lana flings her arms around his neck joyfully. ‘Oh, Jack. You almost ruined my wedding.’

  His arms go around her. She lifts herself up on her toes and kisses his cheek. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. So glad. Thank you, thank you so much for coming.’

  ‘I’ll always be here for you.’

  Lana sniffs.

  ‘Don’t spoil your make-up,’ cries the make-up lady in a panic.

  ‘I guess I’d better leave and let you finish getting dressed. I’ll come back for you when you’re ready.’

  Lana disengages herself from him. He throws a quick glance at the rest of us in the room. ‘Ladies,’ he says, and then he is gone.

  Lana looks at Billie. ‘Did you know?’

  ‘Of course,’ Billie admits airily.

  Lana goes to her mobile and calls Blake. All she says is, ‘Thank you.’

  I don’t get to hear what he says, but her reply is rather intriguing as she says in a perfectly serious tone, ‘I consider that sexual blackmail.’ Then she turns around and goes back to sit in front of the mirror. She looks like the happiest bunny in the field. When she catches my eyes, she grins like a cat that has got the cream.

  By the time the hairdresser puts the last wave into Lana’s hair I am made up, coiffeured and dressed. Billie and I stand around and watch while the hairdresser carefully attaches Lana’s mother’s tiara in her hair. It is a cheap thing, a little tarnished, but the hairdresser is clever, fills it with tiny babies breath so it looks romantic and dreamy. We help Lana get into the dress. It looks even more gloriously beautiful now that her hair and face have been done up. Carefully the girl fits the veil onto Lana’s head.

  ‘You look good enough to eat,’ says Billie.

  ‘Wish Mum was here.’

  Billie smiles and carefully lifts the veil over her face. The photographer clicks away. It is a beautiful moment.

  Then Jack comes in. ‘Are you ready?’ he asks.

  Lana nods.

  ‘You look amazing. I’m so proud of you. Blake’s one lucky man,’ he says, but, even though he is smiling, his eyes are forlorn.

  I pick up the bride’s bouquet—it is made solely from calla lilies—and put it into Lana’s hands.

  ‘Time I was going,’ I say, my voice all sugar and cinnamon, but nobody looks at me. I exit without Jack having even noticed I was there.

  Later. My time will come later.

  Ten

  The bride is on her way. I didn’t get into the same car as Billie, Lana and Jack. I left earlier, came in another. There are expensive chauffeured cars parked all the way up the road. I run up the steps of the church just to have a quick peek inside at the beautiful people. See if I can recognize any celebrities. The sound of violins playing drifts out of the entrance.

  The church is the fruit that the tree of money bore. Even I, who have voraciously consumed hundreds of images of glamorous weddings, am startled by what big money can buy.

  Overnight, the nave has been transformed into a fantasy garden. All the bays are filled with clusters of magnolia trees and every pew is festooned with greenery swags. The tropical liana vines entwined with flowers and leaves that droop down from the vaulted ceiling give the illusion that the aisle is a garden path. The ground is carpeted with green turf and scattered with flower petals. Hedges surround the altar.

  Ah! That’s where the forty thousand roses flown in from Ecuador and Holland at a cost of £125,000 ended up. The back of the church has become the most astonishing rose wall out of which the crucifix looms. I touch a stone pillar, now a luxuriously thick cylinder of flowers, and think of the symbol of the crucifix: nails pounding flesh and fiber into wood.

  The pews are full of marshmallow-colored hats and morning suits, but since it is impossible to recognize anyone from the back, I go back outside to wait for Lana’s arrival. I am standing on the top step when the cream Rolls-Royce draws up.

  Oh, Lana!

  How lucky you are.

  Jack gets out first then Billie exits out of the far side. Jack comes around and helps Lana out and Billie picks up her train and holds it in her hands. The sun is shining on them and I realize that these are the people I have grown up with. In an unexplainable, funny, not ha ha way I love them all.

  I go down the steps towards them. Lana’s breathing seems wrong, all jerky and light, and Billie tells her, ‘Try not to be a dick. Keep to the plan.’

  Which seems to do the trick and makes Lana smile nervously. My Jack offers her the crook of his arm, and Billie gently spreads the train out on the ground so it is like a white bit of cloud trailing her.

  India Jane beckons with her hands and as rehearsed the nanny comes forth with Sorab.

  I’m not really into babies, but this kid looks edible in a mini tux. The pretty flower girls take their place in front, and Blake’s sister, who seems barely able to contain her excitement, takes her place behind the flower girls. A man in a dark suit speaks into his walkie-talkie and gives the go-ahead signal.

  ‘Ready?’ Jack asks.

  Unable to speak, Lana nods. Well, I don’t know if she is really unable to speak but I am sort of projecting what I would be feeling if I were her. I see her take a deep breath. Billie gets behind Lana, I get in front of Lana and we are off. As we practiced at the rehearsal.

  I walk down the aisle to the strains of Canon in D, head up, but tense and conscious of all the eyes on me. I’m not cut out to be the center of attraction. I take my place and sigh with relief. That went well. I swivel my head to look at Blake and I catch the eyes of the best man, the one who could not attend the rehearsal because he was attending the wake, the failed artist, and the one who Fat Mary reckons has a sloooooow hand and has nicknamed Grandview. He stands as tall as Blake and his straight shoulder-length sandy hair is in a ponytail. I disapprove of men with long hair. Lazy hippies.

  He winks suddenly. At me!

  For some seconds I am so surprised, I stare back at him. Then the bridal processional, Prince of Denmark’s March (Trumpet Voluntary) by Jeremiah Clarke, fills the church and, without acknowledging him in any way, I tear my gaze away from him and towards the entrance.

  The bride has arrived at the top step. All heads turn. Gasps and murmurs of approval rise from the seated guests. Truth is, every gasp and seal of approval is deserved. Some women are born to be brides. Lana is one of them. She pauses a moment, a vision in white, before slowly walking down the aisle.

  I turn to look at Blake. He has made no concession to any sort of decorum. No surreptitious backward glances, no politely waiting for the bride to arrive by his side—instead he has completely turned his back to the altar and is watching Lana’s progress down the aisle with a rapt expression. Like a rock that has been struck by the sun for such a long time that its skin starts to radiate warmth, his entire being radiates love. There is a soaring innocence in his intensity. And pride. Such pride. He reminds me of a mustang that has not been broken.

  When she reaches him, Jack carefully lifts her veil, kisses her lightly on one cheek and, relinquishing her, moves back. Away from her. He is finally free of her. My heart leaps. One day he will be mine.

  The rest of the ceremony is a blur.

  It all happens, b
ut the events strike me as scraps from a dream. So long awaited and then it slips through your hand like so much sand. Lana whispering, ‘I do.’ Blake possessively slipping a ring onto her third finger because—I read somewhere—of an ancient Greek belief that a vein from that finger goes directly to the heart. The kiss, an extravagant gesture that stretches and exposes the length of Lana’s throat and makes me think of: ownership. Then it is over. The bride and groom are departing hand in hand down the aisle. Outside, we pose for photographs. I try to move closer to Jack.

  My plan is foiled by a posh voice.

  ‘The celebration will continue down the road, six miles from here,’ she announces, a militaristic twinkle in her eyes. I can totally picture her deftly separating someone’s head from their shoulders with a machete, wiping the blood off her hands and calmly sitting down to a round of wedding cake tasting.

  Eleven

  The fine guests have been herded to the lawn where they are sipping vintage pink bubbly, nibbling on canapés on the lawn while waiting to be called into the marquee by the ushers. There is a quartet playing. I put down the classy monogrammed cocktail napkin and my drink at the bar, and go back into the house. I smile to and run past the human wall guarding the staircase. Upstairs, I don’t go to the bedroom I stayed in last night, or the room where we all got ready. Instead I go to the room Lana stayed in. I try the door and, to my surprised delight, it opens.

  I slip in and shut the door. I look around the room. The bed is made. On the bedside table lies what appears to be some sort of journal. Immediately, I go to it. I open it and recognize Lana’s flowing hand and flick through the pages quickly. I open it to a page at random. At the top there is a quotation. I begin to read it:

  We build our temples for tomorrow,

  strong as we know how,

  And we stand on top of the mountain

  free within ourselves.

  —Langston Hughes

  When I came back from the church, Blake was awake. He must have heard the car in the driveway. He was standing in the living room waiting for me. There were bluish shadows under his eyes and my heart went out to him. He smiled faintly, as if he did not know how to react to me. I went up to him and laid my cheek on his chest. He had had a shower and he smelt clean and fresh. He nuzzled my hair.