“So you’re not a fan of weddings, and you think this festival is purely a business proposition. Tell me: if you were to get married, what would you, personally, want?” The flush had receded from Sophie’s cheeks, and she was back to cool and collected.
“It’s a hypothetical question I can’t answer because it won’t happen.”
“Humour me.” The grey eyes drilled into her, dissecting her brain into neat slices.
“Okay. Something simple. I’d be dressed pretty much as I am now, my partner would be in something equally comfortable to her. We’d be outdoors. The bare legal minimum from the celebrant: No flowery speeches about love eternal, no personalised vows, certainly no poems. Whoever of our friends wanted to come would come, no formal invitation necessary. No flower-decked arches, no earnest folk singers, no processional music, and certainly no flower kids.”
“And the reception?” Sophie’s eyes lit with curiosity.
Tarryn shrugged. “A few bottles of wine, an ice chest of beers. Snacks. No presents.”
“You’ve given this some thought. Despite saying you don’t want anything to do with the tizz, you’ve actually planned your wedding.” Her lips twitched. “You’re a fraud!”
“You asked me! I answered. Honestly, why would I willingly take on an outdated heterosexual institution?”
“For love?”
“Love doesn’t need a certificate.”
Sophie rose and went over to the table. She pushed the facedown papers further to the side and shuffled through the open file. “We’re getting away from the point.” She returned with a couple of pages and handed them to Tarryn. “These are the minutes from the meeting earlier. I’ve highlighted some things that need follow up. Can you work through these? I’m only here for another three days this time, but you’ve now got my contact details so you can call with questions. My email’s on the minutes.”
Tarryn scrolled through the list. Council permits.Two hours of my life I won’t get back. Check the suppliers for the wedding attire for the fake marriage. She rolled her eyes. Who would want to go through with a real wedding, let alone a fake one? “Sure.”
“And Phyll’s organising models for the wedding attire parade. She thought you’d know young people who fit a standard size.”
Youngpeople? “What about older folk and differently sized people? Not everyone doing the wedding thing is twenty years old with a waist like a twig. Given Australia only legalised same-sex marriage a few years ago, there are plenty of older people who want to marry because they couldn’t before.” She frowned. Why didn’t Sophie think of that? Phyll, she could understand, but Sophie?
“Of course. Good thinking.” A tiny blush crept up Sophie’s cheeks once more. “And that will give us a great pool of potential models. Real people. This isn’t a pro-model catwalk parade. We want smiles and wrinkles as well as teenagers.”
The praise felt good. Let no one say Tarryn Harris couldn’t be professional when needed, despite the lack of smart clothes.
“And finally,” Sophie said, “we need ballot boxes for people to vote for their favourite couple for the fake wedding. I’m thinking three: outside the community hall, in Kirra’s Kafé, and…somewhere else. Any ideas?”
“Outside the library maybe?”
“Can you organise them too?”
“Sure.” A puff of air escaped Tarryn’s lips. This gofer role was already a lot more time-consuming than she’d first thought.
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.” Sophie folded her arms.
Tarryn averted her eyes from Sophie’s chest, thrust into prominence by her posture. “I’m not. This may be your dream job, but it’s not mine.”
Sophie tilted her head. “Then maybe you should step away in favour of someone more enthusiastic. I need someone committed here, not a half-hearted sort of help.”
The dollars that would tumble into her bank account when the festival was over flashed through Tarryn’s mind. Sure, Gay Bells wasn’t anything to get excited about, but it was easy work. Well, apart from dealing with the council. That was never a happy time. “Don’t worry. I’ll never attend a hen party, but that doesn’t mean I’m not professional. I’ll do a good job—you’ll get your money’s worth.” She dredged up a small smile.
Sophie assessed her for a couple of seconds, then gave a quick nod. “No worries, then. We’re good. No doubt I’ll need to contact you when I’m back in Sydney.”
“To organise cake boxes and a wedding playlist?”
“No to the cake boxes. But we’ll need a playlist for the fake wedding.”
“Sure. Everyone likes heavy metal and punk rock, don’t they?”
“Is that your taste?”
“Some of it. If you’re wanting Barry Manilow, you’re out of luck.”
