The Lover's Children novel Chapter 22

GEORGIE

Michael raises cupped hands to his mouth, bawling out over the milling masses. “Right, listen to me everyone. This wedding is not off…”

Guests move and murmur and shuffle…

“…I repeat. The reception is going ahead. The bride and groom have been safely married... “He grins… “… That’s the important part as I’m sure you’ll all agree. For the rest, the timetable’s moving along a bit, that’s all…”

The murmuring grows, puzzled glances exchanged.

“… For now, can you all please keep to the back of the room and wrap up warm. Kyle and the ladies will be coming round with hot punch while we make arrangements to move everyone…”

… then I spot Charlotte at the bar, gaily glugging bottles of martini and rum into an enormous pan. Next to her Beth is slicing leftover lemons and tipping them into the devil’s brew.

A white-coated caterer appears, dumping a crate on a nearby table, red wine by the look of it. Another sets out a gas-ring, a large scale version of the kind a camper might use. One more shuffles through the door backward with a butane-bottle on a sack-truck.

The scents of cloves and cinnamon are already spiking through the air…

Gonna be a few hangovers tomorrow…

Can’t be helped…

Collateral damage…

The crowd makes a general surge towards Charlotte’s thrown-together booze stand.

Michael appears at my side, Mitch and Georgie following. “James, you’re with me.”

“Doing what?”

“Rescuing what we can from here, then getting it back to the hotel. We’re opening up again. We have wedding guests to feed and party. James, you take charge of the kitchen.”

“Party? Where? You said the restaurant is booked up.”

“The gym. Rescue whatever’s useable, then get yourself up there. Take Mitch with you. Georgie, I need you to organise getting the tables from here to there. Mitch, you’re in charge of setting out the dining. Get the tables laid out, then find some way of decorating them. The gym itself too if possible. Make it look like we’re having a party.”

“What are you doing?” I ask.

Michael flashes eyebrows. “First off, I have a coach driver to bribe. There’s at least three of them up at the hotel that have been ferrying in the big office Christmas outings. There’s bound to be someone who’ll turn out if we pay him enough.”

Georgie’s eyes scour the hall. “How do I get the tables there?”

“Use the truck.”

“I can’t drive a truck.”

Klempner pushes forward, a small boy in his wake. “I can. Georgie, see if you can round up half a dozen men to take the tables down and pack them into the van.”

Borje drifts in from left-of-field, hand raised. “One volunteer reporting for duty. I’ll pull in some of the other guys too.”

Michael slaps a hand on his shoulder. “Good man. Now, all we have to do is find a way of getting Kirstie and Ryan up to the hotel in style.”

“I’m here.” Richard tugs his waistcoat straight. “Leave that one to me…” He turns, scanning. “Where’s Ross?”

Richard’s driver appears as though by magic. “Here, Mr Haswell.”

“Ah, yes, Ross. Get hold of whoever’s manning the offices today. Tell them to raid the hospitality suites for drinks. Wine, spirits and especially champagne. Anything else that’s there too. Snacks, nuts, chips. Whatever’s to hand.”

“Yes, Mr Haswell… Um... The roads…”

“Find out who I have to… um… incentivise… to keep that snowplough moving up and down the mountain for the next couple of hours. You can let them know I’ll be very appreciative of their help in keeping that road open.”

*****

KLEMPNER

In the background, the photographer keeps snapping away, coming up with ever more inventive combinations of guests, family, kids…

Keeping them entertained…

Extracting tables from the mess of splintered wood, smashed glass and broken metal isn’t easy. Sawing at a fir branch, I’m hot. I took my jacket off twenty minutes ago, banging a nail into some woodwork to hang it and protect it from the worst. But still, despite the cold blast from the gaping window, I’m overheating with the exercise and my forehead and cheeks are flushed. Perversely, chill sweat trickles down my back. And everything I touch is stuck over with fucking resin.

I could have kept this up for hours once. My months of imprisonment took their toll. Lack of exercise apart, without doubt, I survived starvation as long as I did by consuming my own muscle tissue…

My saw breaks through, the branch drops in two, and the mess of lights it was tangled into falls away.

… It could have been worse. A least my vital organs didn’t take too bad a hit.

Not recovered fully yet…

Need to rebuild some muscle.

Perhaps I should use a gym?

Michael would be happy to let me use his.

I clip the wiring apart, disentangle it from the table legs, and the table’s free. As I lift and heave, another pair of hands appears, taking one end: the blond man whose injury Georgie dressed. Half his face is covered with a napkin, band-aided into place. “Got it,” he says. “We’re nearly done now. Why don’t you take a break?”

Kirstie, in her ramshackle wedding dress, picks her way through to me, tugging at her skirts where they snag on a branch. “Larry, I wanted to say thank you for looking after Paulie like that. I don’t know how I’d ever have faced his mother if…” She stalls. “You are okay? You weren’t hurt?”

“I’m fine. Never better.” Close up, I scan the rips in her trashed wedding gown. “I take it the dress took most of the damage?”

“Yes, who’d have thought of a boned corset for body armour?”

“Who indeed?” She’s a little sallow, her face sheened. “I thought you were going up to James’ and Michael’s place with Ryan?”

“We are. We’re just waiting for Richard. He’s going to drive us, but he’s making some phone calls first.”

“You’re really alright? You’re not hurt?”

“No, not hurt, but…” She hugs herself. “… Um… I’m a bit shaky if I'm honest. I’m… er… I’m trying not to let Ryan see it. It upsets him.”

I jerk my thumb at the wreckage of tree and tables. “You've seen worse than this. I know you have.”

“Ben you mean...” She jolts a glance across at Michael, but his attention is elsewhere as he drags tables out from under the debris, passing them back along the line. A small chain has formed, ferrying out to the truck. Georgie is directing kids of all sizes to the small stuff: undamaged chairs, crockery, floral arrangements, and anything else conceivably usable for a wedding celebration.

“Just so. Michael’s brother made everything personal. This isn't personal. It's just bad weather. And bad luck.”

She snorts, rubbing at her bare upper arms. “Mother Nature at her best.”

“And now you know why they call her a mother.” A small smile limps over her lips. “Here…” I snag my jacket from its nail, draping it over her shoulders, then… “’Scuse me…” I reach past her laced bosom to the inside pocket, fishing out my hipflask and unscrewing the top. “Have some of this.”

She blinks at the flask, not accepting it. “You carry a hipflask at a wedding?”

“Yes. Sorry, but sweet sherry's not my thing. Have a couple of swigs.” She extends fingers to the flask, pulls back, her eyes flicking one way and another, then takes it. A small swallow: she gulps and blows air. “God, that’s warm…”

“Which will do you good right now.”

“Dutch courage.”

“That was James’ comment once. However, unlike his case, Dutch courage is all you need here.”

“James?”

“Actually, the brandy's his…” I wrinkle my nose, rolling my eyes sidelong. The man himself, I notice, one tier of the wedding cake in his arms, is watching the pair of us from across the hall. “…but you don't need to tell him that.”

Her face finally twitches to a real smile and she takes a longer gulp, then waves across the devastation that was meant to be her wedding day. “It’s got a funny side, hasn’t it.”

“It has. I’m glad you see it. And you’ll have the wedding story of all stories to tell afterwards.”

She breaks into a grin. “You’re right.” She takes another swallow, her throat rippling. James, still watching, widens his eyes.

Kirstie huffs, then blows. “God, that feels better. Thanks. Just what I needed.” She wipes the neck with a grubby palm and offers back the flask.

“Thanks. So…” I take a sip and pass it back… She tilts her head back, throat glugging... “How are you finding married life so far?”

She coughs out enough brandy to be a fire hazard if we were any closer to the hearth, then cracks out laughing. “Eventful. And exciting in ways they don’t mention in the glossy magazines.” She takes another mouthful of brandy, getting it down her throat this time. “How about you?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. How are you finding married life?”

“Ahh… Less eventful that I’m accustomed to.”

She gives me a long look and passes back the flask. “Having trouble adjusting?”

I like Kirstie. James introduced me to her, with a side warning that she’s apt to shoot off her mouth without engaging her brain first. The flip side of the coin is that she tells it like it is. I can see why he considers her a friend. She’s good to talk to. All the friendship without any emotional complications.

“It's what I wanted. What I wished for. When I was trapped in that hole in the ground, most of what I thought about was Mitch and getting back to her.”

“You were there a long time. Months. Surely you were ready for some peace and quiet when James and Michael rescued you?”

I’m saved from having to answer. The photographer calls out. “Kirstie, could I have you back, please. I’d like some shots of you and Ryan against the window while we still have some daylight.”