‘What? So much information in that one outburst. Let’s park the whole kids party gig to one side. We’re supposed to be dating,’ I whisper, leaning closer. ‘Wouldn’t you have mentioned you’re one of five kids?’
‘Seven actually,’ she whispers back. ‘And they’re all as mad as a bag of cats.’
‘Jesus.’
Heather slides me a disapproving look as she points at the stone-domed roof. ‘Not in his house, blasphemer.’ But she’s smiling. And then she’s turning pink as I press my lips to her cheek. Turning pink and pressing her teeth into the pink flesh of her full bottom lip.
‘What was that for?’
‘Appearances.’ And because I wanted to and because I couldn’t help it. ‘Now, tell me about this mad family of yours.’
‘I’m in the middle. Three older brothers, me, then another brother and a couple of sisters.’
‘Do your parents not have a TV?’
She turns and gives me an impish look. ‘They’re just very fond of christening cake. They’re actually a couple of hippies, though not from the original wave. Not that it stopped them from giving us all terrible hippy-ish names. The girls got off quite lightly; Lavender, Primrose and me. Unfortunately, Leif, Sorrel, Brin, and Orion, who prefers to go by his middle name Daniel, did not.’
‘Brilliant!’ I’m glad they weren’t in charge of naming me. ‘Hippies? So, are your parents down with the whole free love thing.’ It might explain her anti-casual stance. In answer, she glances sideways at me rather disparagingly.
‘Really, Archer? In the house of God?’
‘I’m sure the big fella won’t mind. Not all births are immaculate. And I wish you’d call me Arch. Every time you say my name, I feel like I’m in trouble.’
‘Freud would have a field day with that.’
I become aware of someone hovering at my shoulder. A couple dressed in 1940s style clothing want to squeeze into the pew. I stand, and Heather turns sideways so they can shuffle past.
‘I suppose you’re suggesting I’m the cuckoo in their nest,’ she murmurs once I sit again. I scoff, and as my hand is once more resting along the back of the pew, I lightly pull on a lock of her hair. ‘Ouch.’ Her head turns swiftly, and she gives me a gimlet gaze, but I can see the flush on her chest which tells a whole other tale.
‘You were saying? About your parents.’
‘They’re actually disgustingly in love,’ she murmurs, not looking very happy about it.
‘But that’s great. Seven kids and the fire still strong.’
‘Until you walk in on them and realise just how strong the fire is. You’re in the wrong business. You should’ve been in the police, wrangling all my secrets.’
‘Can’t help that I find you fascinating.’
‘You can’t help flirting, either.’ She inhales, using it as a pause before she barrels on. ‘Do you suppose the woman with the flying saucer on her head is Mrs Fat Controller?’ As well as the pause, something in her tone pokes at my attention.
‘I expect so.’ I doubt he’d have brought Allison along to so public an outing.
‘I wonder if Clara is here?’ she says far too blithely for it not to mean anything.
‘Would it matter if she was?’
‘This is not really a conversation for now,’ she says as the first strains of Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” begin to fill the chapel, feet shuffling against the stone floor as they begin to stand. ‘But it would surely be awkward for her. She might feel cheated. Or even like the other woman.’
‘For the last time,’ I mutter low in her ear, ‘and in the house of God,nothinghappened between Clara and me that night.’
And please let that be the fucking end of it, though by the oblique look she slides me, it’s hard to tell if it will be.
We share the Order of Service during the hymns, and I struggle through a couple of verses of “Love Divine All Loves Excelling” because let’s just say I’d never make the final ofThe Voice.By the time we get to “All Things Bright and Beautiful”,I give up singing in favour of miming the words with such theatrics that Heather can barely sing herself for trying not to laugh.
The ceremony goes on. And on. Readings, a soloist, and a whole lot of what can only be described as Christ calisthenics; up down, up down, and up down again, but we eventually reach the spot where no one objects, if you discount my knees, vows are recited, rings blessed and kisses exchanged, and to the strains of Stevie Wonder’s “Signed, Sealed, Delivered”,the pair make their way down the aisle, congregants desperate to follow. As the couple next to us leave by the other end of the aisle, I wrap my hand around Heather’s shoulder, signalling we should stay put. She seems to understand instinctively; we’re staying to be seen.
With my arm around her shoulder, I distract her from the faces of those leaving with silly anecdotes and idle chitchat. When we eventually stand, I dance my way out of the pew and up the aisle, some of the last people to leave the chapel.
