Chapter 21 - Winter Wedding #20
GEORGIE
Astonishingly, almost no-one is hurt. Despite the apparentplete devastation, the only serious
damage is to the window itself.
Ryan is already brushing off sympathy. “It’s fine. That’s what insurance is for, isn’t it.”
Larry, radiating bafflement, has a cluster of small children gathered around him, tugging at his trouser
leg, demanding attention.
In fact, the only significant damage seems to be to the silver-blond man. And I’m the practical type. I
always have a small supply of life’s emergency necessities with me. My purse pinned under one elbow,
I delve inside for the tissues and band-aids that I know are lurking somewhere at the bottom.
“Sit down. Let me look at that for you…” His eyes roll as he sees it’s me... “I know you don’t like me, but
I only want to clean up that cut on your cheek.” He’s bleeding freely in the way of injuries to the face,
even small ones. “Do you know what hit you?” Whatever it was caught him hard enough to leave an
impression marked onto his skin running from cheek to temple, rapidly bruising blue.
His expression is neutral “It could have been one of the pegs from a guy rope. Might have been
something from the tree. Or flying ss maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Okay. The cut looks like a clean slice, so I don’t think there’ll be too much dirt in there. Just let me…”
Sparkling water isn’t a ssic surgical agent, but it’s what’s to hand. Working from the outside, I dab
away the blood. “Could have been a lot worse. It’s caught you on the side of the face. I’m sure it’s
making your head ring, but if it had caught you square on, it could have smashed your nose or taken an
eye.”
“Instead, I’m left with the kind of scar duellists used to brag about.” He swallows. “I owe you an
apology.”
I pause in my dabbing… “Do you?” … then toss the red-stained tissue into a dish where it soaks up the
remains of a cream and mustard sauce.
“I think I do...”
He tries to turn to face me, but I snap out a hand, pinning his chin. “Keep still. It’ll sting if I get the wrong
spot.”
He winces, then lets out air. After several seconds, “Yes, I think I do. You saved the day back there. At
the least, I should acknowledge that.”
I rub at a bit of crusting blood. “I yelled.” Then to some random body standing beside me, “Is there any
vodka around here?”
“Yes,” he says. “You yelled. And everyone moved. No-one else had seen what was happening. Another
half a minute and a lot of people would have been in the path of the scaffold and the ss as it came
through. Not to mention the tree. You bought them that half-minute.”
“I suppose I did. But anyone else would have done the same.”
“Of course they would. But it was you…”
“Here…” Something is thrust into my hand: half a bottle of vodka… I check thebel; 40% ABV.
“Thanks.” Upending the bottle over a fresh tissue, I work at the cut… With a better view of the damage,
it’s more of a gash. “I’ll dress it for now, but it might need stitches.”
“Maybe.” His tone is nonmittal. “But it’ll wait for now.” He’s side-on to me as I work into the wound.
The bleeding is slowing but it’s a messy business.
Eyes sliding my way, “I have a confession. It was your drink. The barman set me right. Properly right, I
might add. He gave me the sharp side of his tongue. I tried to find you, but you’d vanished.”
“I went outside,” I whisper.
“Just as well that you did. If you hadn’t a lot of people could have been hurt. As it is, almost no-one
was.”
“Just you.”
“Yes, just me. And here you are again, putting it right.”
His hand snaps out, grabbing my wrist and, quite irresistibly, drawing it down from his face. He turns to
face me. “Borje.” He releases my wrist, extends his hand to shake.
“What?”
“Borje. My name.”
A bit uncertainly, I take the hand, squeeze it, “Georgie.”
ConTEent bel0ngs to N?v(e)lD/rama(.)Org .
“Nice to meet you, Georgie. Perhaps we got off to a bad start?” He smiles, and it’s like the ssh of
sunshine on this face. The ice in his eyes shades to sky.
Something shifts behind me and a palm drops onto my shoulder. “Georgie, here you are. I’ve been
looking for you. Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, Dad. Don’t worry about me.” I talk back over my shoulder, but before me, Borje’s face freezes
then cracks into a broad grin. “No wonder you looked familiar. You’re James’ daughter, aren’t you?”
“That’s right. I… Oh!” Realisation dawns. “When you asked if we knew each other…”
“Yes… I wasn’t trying for a cheap chat line. I really thought you seemed familiar. And look at you. The
pair of you. Side-by-side…” He waves his hand between me and my dad, still chuckling.
My father’s deep voice is puzzled. “Have I missed something?”
Borjeughs. “James, your daughter and I first met a few days ago, in a different setting entirely. She
thought I was trying for a cheap chat-up line.”
“Do we look so alike?”
“James, knock off twenty or thirty years and have a sex change. That’s what I’m looking at standing
beside you.” His attention shifts back to me. “Look, about that bad start, can I get you a drink or…” His
voice trails off. “Later maybe… somewhere else…”
“I’m dousing your face in alcohol. Right now, a drink is thest thing I need. Let’s get the damage
cleaned up and dressed…” I cast around, half-aware that something’s happening. Michael is at the
head table, calling out over the room, shouting instructions.
“We’re moving on,” says Dad. “Kirstie and Ryan just got married. And we’re not letting a bit of bad
weather stop them from having their day.”
*****
JAMES
The photographer, neck craned up, prods at Michael. Her arms windmilling over the disaster zone, she
babbles something-or-other at him. Michael stoops to listen, looming over the tiny blonde, abruptly
breaks into a smile and nods, then marches across to Kirstie. The pair speak to her for a moment. She
bursts outughing, also nodding.
Michael ps his hands a couple of time. “Can I have your attention everyone. Since the asion has
turned out to be truly unique, Belle, the photographer here, is going to call you up in groups for, what I
think you will all agree, will be a truly different set of wedding photographs.”
Heads turn, voices mutter, then rise into chatter….
Michael continues. “We’d like the bride''s family first. Kirstie, you stand there, beside the cake but with
the tree behind you.
Kirstie poses beside the miraculously undamaged cake, gesturing to her mother, who scuttles into
ce. Michael gathers in other family members, arranging poses while Belle jams lights into position,
battery-powered LEDs, operating them with a hand-controlled panel.
Everyone is abruptlyughing and joking. Phones and cameras whirr and snap.
The photographer catches my eye, shing brows and grinning.
Bless her…
Belle mutters something to Michael and he raises his voice over the crowd. “One now please of the
Lady of the Hour. Georgie, over here please. Come and stand with Kirstie and Ryan.”
Georgie, her head ducking, red points at her cheekbones, moves in from offside to take a ce
between Bride and Groom. Kirstie slips a hand into hers. Ryan kisses her cheek, murmuring
something. An isted hand-p emerges from the crowd, grows to a ripple, then blooms to full-blown
apuse.
For she’s a jolly good fellow…
For she’s a jolly good fellow…
And my daughter, my beautiful daughter, stands with brimming eyes, as cameras sh and every
person in the room apuds her.
The next shot: Belle calls out. “The man who had Paul under the table. Where’s he?”
Larry, lounging by the bar, jolts to attention, shaking his head.
Michael yells out. “You don’t get away that lightly Larry. Take your turn.”
“I wanna be in the picture!” Paulie dashes up, grabs him by the hand, tugging him toward where Kirstie
and Ryan stand waiting.
“Me too.” A small girl skids in from offside. “I wanna photo with Grandad K.”
“And me!”
Klempner holds back, trying to retreat into a handy shadow, but every eye is on him. Wearing an
expression a small thundercloud would envy, a squadron of small children buzzing at his feet, he takes
his stand beside Kirstie and Ryan, rigid as the camera shes.
Belle calls out again. “Bridesmaids now, please…” Charlotte and Beth take their ces…
The unorthodox photoshoot has taken on a life of its own and Michael leaves Belle to handle it, strolling
across with Ryan to join me.
And Ryan is rxing. “Bless that photographer. I''m going to give her a hefty tip for this.”
“She''s going to enter the photos into some magazinepetition,” says Michael, “if you and Kirstie
agree. She’ll have some amazing shots.”
Ryan nods, looking bemused. “Belle did tell me she always wanted to do some newspaper work.
Here''s a story for her.” He looks around, the smashed window, “Doesn''t ask for much, does she?”
“You''re just the groom, Ryan. You''re not quite an optional extra for the wedding, but...”
He gives me a nted grin. “… But it''s Kirstie’s day and she''s smiling again...”