Читать книгу Nice Day For A White Wedding - Jenny Oliver, A. Michael L. - Страница 15
ОглавлениеKit and Chelsea woke up in the same positions they’d fallen asleep in. Which looked adorable, but hurt. A lot.
‘Why, the older I get, do the hangovers stop being those ones that hover gently in the background that can be cured by coffee and pizza?
‘Think you answered your own question there, babe.’ Chelsea laughed, then winced, stretching her arms above her head and twisting her neck. She hadn’t opened her eyes.
When she did, Kit was standing in front of her, holding out a glass of water.
‘Don’t regret saying yes now, do you?’ He stuck his hands in his pockets and bounced on his heels, a cheesy grin on his face. But his words were soft like his eyes.
‘I regret that last bottle of wine,’ she laughed, standing up to wrap her arms around his neck, still holding the glass of water in one hand, ‘and that I think I may have fallen asleep on this massive rock on my finger and indented my face forever.’ She stretched her mouth out and rubbed her cheek, laughing.
She took in the deep blue of his eyes, the light stubble around his chin and the strength of his arms around her. He seemed to glow, even with the sleep in his eyes and the creases from the pillow on his face. ‘Did you think I would regret it?’ she asked quietly, putting the glass of water on the side table, and curling her fingers around the hair at the base of his neck.
Kit looked at her, head tilted as if he wasn’t sure how to answer.
‘No, but…you tend to draw back when I get close. It’s like a dance we do.’ He shrugged, and Chelsea knew exactly what he meant, those parts of her life she didn’t share freely, like he did, those times she changed the conversation or wordlessly shrugged. A small part of her yelled, ‘then why marry me, if I’m so cold and distant?’ but she knew there was no way to get into that. At least not yet. In time she would share her history with him, the real one, not the one she’d sewn together like a shroud made from assumptions and silence.
‘Well, maybe that should be our wedding dance.’ She winked and made a face, watching as his face fluttered through emotions.
‘We’ll meet in the middle, I know we will,’ he shrugged, his arms still encircling her waist, ‘as long as you’re here, I don’t care. As long as you’re here.’
She held him tightly, suddenly afraid and overwhelmed with love at the same time, as if the idea of not being there tore at her chest. This was what it felt like, being vulnerable. Making a promise you intended to keep.
‘Yesterday was the best day of my life,’ she whispered, half to him and half into the dull room, only a shred of sunlight threatening the shutters, ‘and I could never regret it.’
Kit pulled back and stroked her cheek, smiling. ‘You say that now, you haven’t met my family.’
She stepped away to retrieve the glass of water, downing it in one and feeling no more refreshed, although the pounding in her head was receding. ‘Are you nervous?’ She laughed, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you nervous.’
‘I was nervous that first day I asked you out for breakfast,’ he grinned, dimples appearing suddenly, making him look like a naughty child.
‘Only because I’d just asked you out to dinner and you were a cheeky bastard!’ she laughed. ‘You were lucky I didn’t deck you!’
‘Ah,’ he nodded, ‘that’s right. I was scared. Scared was the word I was looking for.’
Chelsea thought back to that night, in the living room of her friend’s new flat, where they all sat round a sad fondue set because it was ‘ironically post-70s revival chic’, listening to a man with pretty eyes and a sharp jaw tell her she looked like someone who had something interesting to say. She’d told him he could stick his smooth chat-up lines up his arse, and if he wanted a real conversation, he knew where to find her. She’d waltzed out to the balcony with a bottle of wine. He’d followed with two glasses and no more stupid lines, and they sat there for the rest of the night talking about everything and nothing.
‘Who are you embarrassed of?’ she said suddenly, pausing at the door of the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. ‘Them or me?’
Kit raised an eyebrow. ‘Them, obviously. They drink too much and they’re loud and obnoxious and seem to care about pointless, trivial shit that doesn’t matter.’
Chelsea rolled her eyes. ‘I promise you, however bad they are, I’ve grown up with worse.’
She started brushing her teeth, eyes on the ring on her finger, a little smile threatening to send toothpaste foam flying everywhere.
‘Oh really? So when do I get to meet your family?’ Kit laughed, carefully straightening the bed sheets before he opened the case up. ‘Not until the wedding, I bet?’
Chelsea sighed, spitting out the toothpaste and rinsing. ‘About that – how do you feel about eloping?’
A few hours later, Chelsea found herself looking at the bluest water she’d ever seen. The train had been much like any other train in any other city, cramped and uncomfortable, filled with driven commuters and confused tourists. Kit seemed like a natural amongst them, his loose-fitting white linen shirt rolled up to the sleeves, his blond hair slicked back, looking out from behind his Ray Bans as he held on with one hand, holding a book in the other. Chelsea had tried to match him, to look like someone who would be right with the perfect man who stood next to her. She had picked her favourite white sundress with the blue floral pattern on it. Her own dark sunglasses covered most of her face, and she tilted her head back like she was Audrey Hepburn or Jackie O. But the truth was, her hair was sticking to her neck, the sun was beating through the window until she was sure her fair skin was crisping and the dress was stuck to the back of her knees, where sweat droplets occasionally rolled down her calf.
When they stepped off the train platform in Desenzano, Chelsea felt herself breathe for the first time in hours.
‘How do you still look so fucking cool?’ she frowned as Kit carried over the bag, taking a deep breath and grinning at her.
‘Because I’m awesome,’ he shrugged, ‘and looking cool when you feel like Satan himself is licking your balls is a talent a lawyer has to have. Come on, the next bit’s the best bit.’
They trundled down the hill from the station, the wide roads and tall trees offering shade, but looking so obviously different from the cobbled streets of Venice.
‘It’s…not what I was expecting.’ She tried to keep the disappointment from her voice. Sure, it was sunny, but these houses could be on a suburban road back home.
‘Just wait,’ Kit shook his head, handing her a bottle of water, then grinning at her as the road became narrower and narrower at the bottom, until the wheels of the suitcase were suddenly bumping along cobbles and the large houses turned into narrow, tall buildings that seemed to loom at unusual angles.
‘Welcome to the Lake,’ Kit grinned, holding out his hand to her as they walked into the town square, where tourists roamed slowly, reaching out to touch leather handbags in bright colours, staring at the latest fashions in glossy shop windows. They walked around a corner and Chelsea suddenly saw a wide expanse of blue, vibrant and brighter than she could ever remember the sea being. Even the way the sun had sparkled from the canals of Venice as she had looked down at her ring couldn’t beat this.
‘I’m not being funny, babe, but that doesn’t look like any lake I’ve ever seen.’
Kit grinned. ‘The question now is, have we made it in time for the boat?’
‘The boat?’
‘Up to my parents. They’re in Malcesine.’ She heard as his voice inflected the ‘ch’ sound in the name.
‘And that’s not where we are?’
He shook his head.
‘And we have to get a boat?’
Kit laughed. ‘I love how you’ve actually let go and trusted me with this. Can you imagine any other situation where you don’t actually know which city you’re in?’
‘Not one that ends well,’ Chelsea huffed, fanning herself.
Kit grabbed her hand and they walked along to the ticket booth, where Chelsea looked on in shock as he suddenly launched into a fairly confident conversation in Italian. He laughed, grinned, handed over the money and all Chelsea could pick up was that he thanked him. She’d picked some Italian up, even if it was only from watching Roman Holiday over and over again as a kid, but she was nowhere near Kit.
Kit nodded and led her back towards the bar on the corner, picking a seat in the shade. He was almost more himself here, more dominant. His hand hovered at the small of her back as they walked, and then he pulled her chair out for her without hesitation. Sometimes he did that stuff back home, but it was different here, like he was suddenly local.
He relaxed back into the chair, surveying the people around him with undisguised interest. Everyone seemed to be sitting out, watching everyone else. The old lady in the red dress with the poodle at her feet. The old men playing cards. The young couple laughing, hands interlaced loosely. Everyone seemed to be dressed up, like they knew they were playing the extras in the glossy version of Chelsea’s life today. The idea made her snort.
Suddenly the waiter appeared, and Kit once again launched into Italian, talking with his hands in a way he never had.
‘Wine?’ he suddenly said to Chelsea, who winced.
‘Aperol,’ he nodded, and the waiter grinned, saying something else that Chelsea had an idea was not pleasant, before disappearing in to retrieve drinks.
‘What was that?’
‘He said you’re beautiful but unhappy,’ Kit snorted, looking at her from behind his tilted sunglasses. ‘He said English women never do well in the Italian sun. It beats them or it converts them.’
‘Meaning?’
‘They get burnt and spend all their time in the shade, or they become obsessed with getting an even tan.’
‘Hmmf,’ was Chelsea’s only response.
Kit waited until the drinks were delivered, two bright orange goblets with ice. Chelsea took a delicate sip and made a face.
‘You get used to it.’
‘That’s what they say about smear tests and London rental prices – doesn’t make them any better.’ She raised an eyebrow but took an extra gulp all the same before resting the cool glass against her neck.
‘You know, I take it back, you’re going to get on with my family just fine.’
They sat in silence, Chelsea closing her eyes as she listened to the sounds of lilting Italian accents, chatting tourists and the slow horn of a boat in the distance.
‘Hey babe?’ she heard Kit say, almost miles away on the edge of sleep. ‘You know what the waiter said about English women? I think you may have burnt your nose.’
The boat wasn’t what she was expecting, it was smaller and sleeker than the large ferry she’d been looking at earlier. They stepped down into the air-conditioned seating area, all the seats facing forward in rows, just like a bus. She checked her nose in the mirror in the toilet, massaging the tiniest dot of suncream into it. She was not going to be one of those English tourists. It was bad enough to turn up at Kit’s parents’ home with a burnt nose and a sweaty dress, let alone turning up with a thick block of suncream down the middle of her face. It would be fine, she assured herself, fluffing out her flat blonde hair and flicking cold water from the tap on her neck. The water seemed to be choppier, the boat bouncing up and down more violently as she struggled to turn the tap off in the little water closet. Chelsea suddenly felt very claustrophobic, being swung back and forth in the tiny toilet, and struggled to open the lock with her wet hands. Panic gripped her stomach and squeezed, and she took a deep breath, trying to stay calm as she leaned in against the door. She was flung out suddenly, as she’d heard Kit’s voice saying, ‘Chels, you okay?’ somewhere to the right of her. She couldn’t see him though, only the edge of the boat, her arms out to cling to it as that last rocking movement churned her stomach and she threw up into those vibrant, promising waters of the prettiest lake she’d ever seen.
***
‘And what is it you’re planning to do with yourself when you leave here…Chelsea?’ The careers counsellor was in her mid-twenties, her dark, knotted hair pulled back in a ratty bun. She had a large pimple on her chin that looked angry, like she’d spent the afternoon in front of the mirror trying to pop it. Despite that, Chelsea actually quite liked her outfit; dark, skinny jeans, a dark blue shirt and a black, smooth suit jacket. She had a statement silver necklace and small diamond studs in her ear. Jessica Baker had been the careers counsellor for six months, and she was living proof that you could polish a turd, give it a suit jacket and convince it that it smelled like success. Unfortunately for Jessica, despite her airs, graces and ‘local girl done good’ attitude, everyone still knew that she gave Michael Grimsby a blowjob under the headteacher’s desk in 1995, and it was still the stuff of legend.
Even now, when she tried to tell some of the boys about different apprenticeships or training schemes, she was shut down. She told them they had potential; they asked if she’d bring it out of them in the headteacher’s office.
Which would have been sad, if she wasn’t such a massive bitch.
‘I’m going to university,’ Chelsea said staunchly, leaning back on the itchy blue sofa that Jessica had asked to be crammed into her tiny little stockroom of an office, filled with motivational posters and about five prospectuses, all to local colleges, all out of date by at least two years.
She watched as Jessica wrinkled her nose and raised her eyebrows. She tilted her head, her voice saccharine. ‘Now, Chelsea, do you really think that would be the most sensible option for someone with your…history?’
Chelsea chewed her gum more obnoxiously, taking pleasure as Jessica winced, at the wet sound as she chewed with an open mouth.
‘Yeah,’ she shrugged, ‘whatcha mean?’
Jessica shook off the irritation. ‘I just mean that you don’t seem to have done any of the things people who want to go to university do.’
‘Oh,’ Chelsea shook her head, leaning in as if she was concerned that Jessica was mistaken, ‘I don’t just want to go to any university. I’m going to Oxford.’
Here, Jessica burst out laughing, a short sharp hoot escaping before she clamped her lips together, her eyes still laughing even after she was silent.
‘Chelsea, that’s very easy to say, but…why would you want to go there? What could it possibly offer you?’
A way out of this place and the biggest two fingers up this school has ever seen, Chelsea thought grimly. A way to get the taste of that bastard out of my mouth. To erase this place completely.
‘Miss, I think what you’re really asking is what do I have to offer them,’ Chelsea said shrewdly, leaning in, ‘and I dare you to say it, Miss, I dare you.’
‘Well, I’m being honest, Chelsea, what about you is so special that one of the best universities in the country is going to want to take you? Your grades –’
‘Have jumped from Ds to As in two weeks,’ Chelsea answered.
‘You have no extra-curricular activities,’ Jessica grinned stiffly, her teeth gritted.
‘Except for the drama society, student council, science club, the environmental society and the debate club. I’m also pretty good at playing the accordion.’
Chelsea grinned, arms crossed, taking a delicious victory in seeing the woman’s cheeks redden.
‘Well, even if that were true –’
‘Even if it were true, you would not help me,’ Chelsea said simply, tipping the silver snowglobe on Jessica’s table, watching intently as the glitter flickered around the wording at the base that said, ‘World’s Best Mum’.
‘And the sad thing is, you’ll think that you’re choosing not to help me, you’ll think it’s your own choice,’ Chelsea snorted, ‘but the truth is, you’re just another sad little wannabe who thinks she’s better than everybody else because she went to community college and actually made it further than Northampton before coming back to have kids and settle for a life that’s just as shit as you always knew it would be.’ Chelsea stood up. ‘I gave you a chance, Miss. I gave you the chance not to laugh at me. And now I’m going to prove you wrong.’
That week, Chelsea had signed up for all the societies she thought sounded impressive, she’d sent off for prospectuses, she’d started playing an accordion she found in a charity shop for seven quid and had signed up for every sort of university grant going at the youth advice centre in town. That was also the week that Robbie Larson was found dazed and confused around the back of Tesco, with both his legs broken. Everyone said he’d been in so much pain he’d bitten off the tip of his tongue in shock.
***
Chelsea had to admit, it was beautiful. As much as she felt like pouting, still slightly green as they stepped from the boat out onto the dock at Malcesine, she couldn’t stop herself from admiring it. Her trick was to always seem slightly less awestruck than she felt. That was how they saw you as a fraud, when you were really enthused. But she couldn’t help it, the sun hit the water, the bright pink flowers and vibrant greens of the trees sang as the mountains hovered in the background and she actually gasped when she saw the castle.
Kit just grinned, grabbing the case and taking her hand to help her down from the ramp. They walked over to the shade, Kit getting his phone out as Chelsea simply stared at the brightly coloured shops and restaurants, taking in the relaxed atmosphere of the place. Sure, the tourists were looking through iPads and desperately taking photos, but Chelsea stood in the cool breeze and just took in the moment. She paused the future, the next few days of pretending to be impressive and in control, clever and unruffled and just breathed, closing her eyes as the strain of music came from the square, feeling the strange heaviness of her left hand with that diamond promise sitting upon it.
‘Hey, we’re here,’ she heard Kit say, pacing back and forth. ‘Did Al bring the car down or shall we get a cab?’
He nodded. ‘Vinnie? Okay. We’ll be there soon.’ He paused, smiling. ‘Yes, she did. Okay, ciao.’
‘Onto the next leg of the journey?’ Chelsea asked. ‘And what did I do?’
‘You said yes.’ He wrapped an arm around her, kissing her cheek. ‘My sister has been desperately bugging me about it since she found out I was going to ask. Anyway, Alistair brought the car down for us this morning. He left the keys with his friend in the bar, we’ll just get them and then we can get going.’
‘And Alistair is… ?’ Chelsea asked, following him along the cobbled streets, taking his hand.
‘Al…helps around the house. Drives places. Makes a cracking Martini,’ Kit said faintly, looking straight ahead.
‘Are you telling me your family has a butler?’
‘He’s more like family.’
‘A family member who gets paid to do things for you?’
Kit stopped, turning around and taking off his sunglasses. ‘Babe, you’ve got to remember, this is their life, not mine.’
‘But it was yours, once.’
Kit smiled, shaking his head. ‘And there’s a reason I didn’t choose it for myself. But, to be honest, I prefer Alistair to most members of my family. You’ll love him, he’s a cheeky bastard. When I was a kid I used to pretend he was my dad.’
Chelsea laughed and Kit stroked her arm. ‘Just…reserve judgement, okay?’
They picked up the keys from the bar, where Kit was embraced by an older, white-haired man. They spoke quickly, with Kit pointing over to her a few times. The older man smiled, clapped his hands together and brought over a bottle of wine to give to her, congratulating her on her engagement.
‘So many weddings!’ He clasped her hands, awkwardly holding the bottle.
They found the car around the back in a small side street, and Chelsea breathed a sigh of relief as Kit turned on the air conditioning. She pulled down the mirror in the visor, and checked her burnt nose.
‘What did he mean about so many weddings?’ she asked, reaching for her make-up bag and trying to hide the angry, pink skin.
‘There’s weddings at the castle all the time. In the summer there’s a couple a week, probably more.’
‘Can we go see the castle at some point?’ She applied some mascara and tried to make her eyes look less red. ‘I hate –’
‘– to go somewhere and never actually see any of it. I know.’ He patted her knee. ‘You’re not nervous, are you?’
‘About going to your parents’ Italian villa now that I know they have servants?’ she snorted. ‘Nah, why would I be nervous?’
‘I meant about telling them we’re getting married.’
Chelsea looked at him. ‘They don’t know?’
‘How would they know?’
‘Well, I thought maybe when you said we were coming up here, you might have said why.’ She frowned. ‘You didn’t tell them you were going to propose?’
‘Didn’t come up,’ he shrugged, ‘plus I always find it’s better to tell them things after I do them, so they can’t have an opinion.’
‘You’re really helping me feel confident about all this.’ She sighed, resigned to it all now.
‘Celia knows, though. I told her ages ago.’ He nudged her leg. ‘She’s really excited to meet you.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘She’s sweet and kind, quiet. They’re constantly telling her to be louder, paying for elocution lessons and drama classes, but that’s just how she is. I think you’ll like her.’
