Best Man Page 9

  “Why, look at that one,” said Louisa. “That’s a very handsome shot of you, Michael. You look very distinguished. Katherine, you really ought to make him a proper print of this one–” Louisa’s hand moved to withdraw it from the folder. The ones tucked behind it were older photos, Michael noticed, of the rugged terrain of a western desert.

  “Not those, Aunt Louisa,” Kate intervened between Louisa and the folder, her hand protectively retrieving the image. “These on top are the newest ones, the nicest ones from the estate.” She flipped the folder closed hastily, meeting Michael’s eyes for a brief second before glancing away.

  “Well, they’re all quite nice,” said Louisa. “I’m sure he’s very impressed.

  “Yes,” Michael answered. He wanted to follow the path of the portfolio being tucked away by Kate, his eyes focused with politeness on his conversation partner instead. Kate slipped the folder into her rucksack, her back remaining turned to him for the duration of his visit to the dark room.

  *****

  The British version of the engagement party was more elegant than the American version, partly because of the choice of band–a gift from Sir Andrew, who hired a string quartet engaged for an afternoon public charity concert at the estate to stay on for an additional hour of performance time.

  “Spain was Spain,” said Sean, taking a sip from his drink. The collar of his tuxedo was ill-fitting since he had no time to try it on before the dinner. It had been a mad dash, apparently, for him to be present at all, since he narrowly made it to his train after the film festival.

  “Then there was something about an escaped bull, I don’t know,” he explained. “The conductor’s language was completely unintelligible to me, of course, so all I know is the train left the station on time, then got stalled at the next stop for a half hour...”

  A bull on the train tracks–to Michael, this seemed like a scene from a cartoon, an evil delay tactic orchestrated by Snidely Whiplash or Boris from Rocky and Bullwinkle. He polished off his own drink, his mind losing track of the story of Sean’s journey back to Heathshedge.

  “Smashing orchestra, isn’t it?” said Sir Andrew. “They’re going to waste, with so few people dancing. Come on, Michael, you’re a younger man than I–take the bride-to-be for a bit of a waltz.”

  Kate was standing by in a formal red gown, her hair tucked up in a complicated knot to one side. Until now, she too had been listening to the story, an empty glass in hand. Sir Andrew plucked it away and placed it on a nearby table.

  “I’m not a very good dancer,” said Michael, reaching for the first obvious means of refusal. “I’m afraid the bride doesn’t deserve that punishment.”

  “Nonsense,” said Sir Andrew. “Come, Katherine, show this young man the proper steps you learned with your schoolmates.”

  She did not offer to refuse; instead, she accepted Michael’s hand when he held it out, then faced him on the dance floor as if they were forming a line for the minuet. One hand rested upon his shoulder, the other in his palm as they picked up the slow tempo of the song. Her face was averted from his, watching Sean and the other guests still in conversation.

  “Your aunt was right about your photos,” he said. “They were beautiful.” He said this without thinking of the one taken of himself; the memory of it rushed to the foreground, occupying his mind with a thorough intensity.

  “I only photograph things well if I truly like them,” she said. “I sometimes think it explains why my career is so small.” After this statement, she fell silent again.

  The heat of her hand in his own seemed overwhelming, as if he cupped something independently alive and trembling in his fingers. Beneath his other hand, he felt the silky folds of her dress, the first hint of bare skin from the plunging lines of the garment.

  Swaying to the music, the distance between them a “kiss away” as Michael had heard it described before, it felt as if a boiling point reached its threshold. A barrier within his mind was breaking down, allowing the memories of San Francisco to escape, the breathless run through Portobello Road coming to life with vivid details of color and touch. Every moment of contact between them was startlingly significant, every furtive glance or touch a rush of emotion that propelled him beyond the role of a friend filling the best man’s position.

  It was thrilling for a brief second; then it was wrong. He felt a wave of disappointment crushing those thoughts, as if he had betrayed Sean in a covert manner. He drew away from Kate, his hands releasing her even though they were still in the midst of the other dancing couples.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured. Sliding between the moving figures, he made his way towards the guests on the sidelines. He maneuvered his way through the sparse crowd, placing more distance between himself and the dance floor before lifting a random glass of champagne from a nearby table. He swallowed its contents in a mouthful, the bubbles washing against his tongue briefly.

  “Everything okay?” He felt Sean touch his shoulder. “I thought you were dancing out there.” There was a significant tone in Sean’s words, a questioning sound that told Michael he had observed the moment between him and Kate.

  “I’m not much of a dancer,” said Michael. “I guess there was no other way to convince everybody than to try and fail.” He kept his voice lighthearted and casual in order to make a joke out of the moment. To prove to himself, as well as Sean, that there was nothing more to the last few minutes than personal awkwardness.

  Sean was gazing at him with a soft expression. “Do you like her?” he asked.

  For a moment, Michael was too shocked to answer until he realized what Sean meant. “Of course I do,” he answered. “I’m just not the life of the party, as usual.”

  “Sometimes I get the feeling that it’s not right between you and her,” said Sean. “There’s just something ... different when you’re around her. And if you need to tell me something, then go ahead. We’ll deal with it. Some people clash.”

  It was not the opening that Michael needed or wanted; even the temptation to say something truthful could never soften the blow of revealing the reverse of Sean’s fears. In his friend’s eyes, he could see the look of dismay and disappointment, no doubt envisioning years of separation between his wife-to-be and close friend.

  “No,” he answered, gently. “There’s nothing to talk about like that.” He set aside the champagne glass, laying a hand on Sean’s shoulder briefly before slipping past him to avoid further questions.

  Chapter Nine

  Sean’s sister and brother-in-law were last-minute additions to the wedding guest list, added after their planned Himalayan hiking trip was cancelled, compelling them to phone and change their R.S.V.P. status. Michael had never met them before, so he adopted the placard method of the Heathshedge staffer. A white card held against his chest as he stood in the cluster of people waiting for passengers to emerge from the plane’s gate.

  “Linus’s tan looks like a spray job,” Sean volunteered by way of a description. “I haven’t seen Jean since she lived in California, but she told me she’s lost tons of weight.”

  “What about hair color, eye color?” Michael persisted. He checked his watch–the cab bearing him towards London’s airport at a less-than-cheap rate was due to arrive any moment. “Did they say what they were wearing?”

  “Probably the current homeless look,” snorted Sean. The reason his sister preferred to be picked up at the airport was purely financial, he claimed, since most of their money was blown on extravagant items like cruises and home theater systems, a sound system installed in their recreation room for entertainment purposes. Jean was an interior designer, her husband a vague form of “musician/entertainer.”

  As Michael waited at the gate, he pondered the total cost for Sean of having his relatives attend the ceremony. Did he purchase the airline tickets as well? Or just pay for the cab and the lodgings at Heathshedge? Sean claimed that Jean would only stay for two nights at the estate, having already made plans to spend the days before the
wedding camped out at a rock music festival. Michael imagined two hippies bearing bedrolls and tents as they emerged from the plane.

  The expense of the wedding was mostly Kate’s up to this point, since Sean and his fiancé seemed to have a complex agreement with regards to wedding details and post-marital bills. Michael chewed his lip, wondering why Sean was so content to let the cost of food and wine be his fiancé’s, with a promise to make it up through the rent advance on their future apartment? Especially since Sean had taken no steps to find a bigger place in Chicago that would hold whatever Kate possessed.

  A passenger emerged from the plane, a boy in a wheelchair being guided by a flight attendant. An elderly woman emerged next, followed by a trickle of businesspeople and tourists. In their midst, a painfully thin woman in jeans holding hands with a tan figure whose shirt glared white beneath the airport lighting. When they caught sight of the Jean and Linus placard, the woman released a squeal.

  “Oh, good, you’re here,” she said, towing along the tan man with one hand as the other adjusted a leopard-print bag dangling from her shoulder. “I thought we’d have to spend an hour in some awful airport cafe or something.“

  “Are you an employee of the estate?” asked Linus, peering over the rims of his sunglasses at Michael, who attempted a friendly smile in response.

  “No, I’m Michael–the best man,” he said. “A friend of Sean’s from Chicago.”

  “You’re the one he talks about sometimes,” said Jean. This was said with sudden realization, a vague statement he realized was supposed to be a compliment. “Linus, you should have been best man if we’d only known we were coming after all.” The sunglass-shielded figure smiled inscrutably.

  The large sleeping bags Michael envisioned were nothing more than two tiny rolls which resembled pillows, Velcroed somehow to their carryon bags. Jean marched ahead with hers, but Linus made no attempt to collect his own, directing a pointed if invisible stare in Michael’s direction.

  “The car’s this way,” said Michael, refusing the hint. He followed Jean in the direction of the airport doors, wondering how much time had passed on the cab’s meter during this pointless period of meeting.

  Crammed in beside Sean’s family, Michael scooted towards the passenger door, wishing he’d persuaded the cabbie to let him ride up front. Beside him, Jean had produced a similar pair of sunglasses from her bag and slipped them on.

  “So, you haven’t talked Sean out of the wedding yet?” she said, turning towards Michael.

  “I’m sorry?” said Michael, confused by this abrupt statement.

  Jean popped open a small jar of cherry lip gloss. “My brother the idiot,” she said. “Here he is, halfway around the world, marrying some total stranger. That’s just like him, you know. Just like mom, all snap decisions, only with him, everything’s big. So soppy and over-the-top on the surface.”

  “He could be more like your dad,” pointed out Linus.

  “We don’t even know our father, genius,” answered Jean with a snort, as if this wasn’t the point her husband was making. Her snort was identical to her brother’s, Michael noticed.

  “You’ll love Kate,” said Michael. “She’s very ... she’s an incredible person.” He knew this sounded lame, even to his own ears it seemed like a vague statement made by mere acquaintances. Hardly a sentence that would impress Jean with Kate’s finer qualities.

  “I’m sure she is,” answered Jean. Her voice was nonchalant as she pocketed the lip gloss again. Beside her, Linus stirred from his slumbering pose, arms crossed over his chest like a mummy.

  “What’s the food like at this place?” he asked. “It’s not porridge or anything is it?”

  “No,” answered Michael. “It’s not.” His tone brusque as he settled against one side of the cab.

  *****

  “Jeannie! Linus-o!” Sean gripped their hands with a pleasant smile. “Awesome you guys can come. Come on, meet Kate and the rest of the fam.” He pulled them along in the direction of Kate at a muslin-covered tea table, Sir Andrew and his relatives playing Bocce on the smooth lawn.

  Michael stuffed his hands in his pockets, glancing back to watch the estate’s maintenance man lift the bags out of the car, minus the large leopard-print tote still tucked high on Jean’s shoulder.

  The outdoor luncheon had been Sir Andrew’s suggestion, a local sandwich shop supplying ready-made trays for guests to sample. Helen had made lemonade, a surprisingly tart variety with lemon halves still bobbing along the surface of the crystal pitchers.

  He recognized the estate’s gardener wrestling to align a project screen with a multimedia center plugged into a trail of outdoor power cords. Sean’s laptop was perched on top of the projector, hooked into the system so the lens cast the image of a bouncing ball screen saver onto the white surface.

  “That’s for the movie,” explained Sean, approaching him from behind. “It’s a little montage of extra footage, like a documentary of the film’s making. Featuring me and Kate, of course,” he said. “Since that’s how we met, it seemed like a good idea.” He took a sip from the lemonade glass in his hand, then grimaced. “I don’t think Helen has the gift of kitchen skills.”

  “Maybe it was the mix,” said Michael. “The packet. Whatever they call it.” His desire to smile or be pleasant had vanished in the long cab ride. He felt the pungent stench of Jean’s bubblegum lotion clinging to his clothes like a cheap cosmetic odor.

  “So you’re a photographer, Kate,” said Jean. “Isn’t that nice. That’s handy for Sean, having a photographer full time for the film company without an extra salary.” Her lips parted in a wide smile, revealing cherry gloss stains on the surface.

  Kate’s face changed subtly with these words, although she made no reply. Michael watched as her hand folded her napkin smaller within her palm.

  “Didn’t you just land a new contract, Kate?” asked Michael, innocently. “With an agency in Chicago, Sean told me.” He received a grateful smile in response.

  “I did,” she answered. “The day before I left the city.” She took a sip from her lemonade glass, glancing over its rim at Jean’s expressionless face.

  “Kate takes a great photo,” said Sean, sliding in beside her. “Worth a million bucks–if I could only afford to pay her that much.” His smile was genuine as he took Kate’s hand. “Show them those photos on your phone of the farewell party in Mexico.”

  “Is that where you got engaged?” asked Jean. She directed a knowing wink in Michael’s direction. He averted his eyes, watching as the projector screen snapped into place a few yards away.

  Kate’s finger flipped through a photo menu, past images of a Mexican village, an assembly of people who might be the cast or a crowd of strangers in a foreign cantina. The pictures were arranged randomly, interspersed with some that exhibited Chicago landmarks. Then Michael’s face appeared, his surprised profile surrounded by the hazy streets of San Francisco.

  “When was that taken?” said Sean. “I don’t remember that one.”

  “Oh, it was... it was...” Kate fumbled for words as her finger hit a menu button on the phone. Michael felt his own face grow hot, his skin prickled with a dread anticipation.

  “It was just a couple of days ago,” said Michael. “Wasn’t it? Somewhere towards the rose gardens, I think.” His tone was casual, his eyes avoiding Sean’s face. The image on Kate’s phone disappeared, dissolving into a photo of Sir Andrew trimming the hedges.

  “Where was that taken?” Jean propped her sunglasses on her head, studying the ornamental garden surrounding the knight. Kate angled the phone closer, glancing briefly at Michael before turning her attention to Jean’s question.

  The rush of relief he felt when the image vanished was tempered with a sense of regret, seeing the San Francisco image of himself vanish from Kate’s phone. A little piece of their past had been erased in an instant, simply because neither of them had spoken up the moment they re-met in Sean’s apartment.

  “Hey, everyb
ody, the projector’s up,” Sean announced. He beckoned everyone towards the projector screen, where a movie numeric countdown flashed in black and white before giving way to the film’s beginning. A Mexican sunset dissolved into blackness, the superimposed title of “The Making of Tequilas for Two Nights–and Kate and Sean.” Footage from Sean’s movie appeared unmastered, a time count at the bottom as the actress Serena strode across the shores of a Mexican beach with a battered carpetbag dangling at her side.

  The image transitioned to a photo of Serena looking sultry as she posed on a rock, a bathrobe wrapped around her as she gazed provocatively at the lens. The startling bareness of the black and white photo, the look in Serena’s eyes–as if Kate had captured something profound in an ordinary glam shot.

  “I like that one,” said Sean. He was beside Michael, a beer in his hand this time instead of lemonade. “Actually, I liked all of them she took. She was awesome there, Mick. Nobody better ever worked on one my movies. It’s like ... she found something inside them that I never saw before.” He took a sip from the bottle.

  The admiration in his voice stirred Michael; not just the appreciation of someone in love, but a profound respect for her skill. Even as he gazed at the next picture appearing, the lead actor in a Mexican prison uniform, he could see Sean’s face flicker with pride at the haunted look in Sergei’s eyes, a madness in the twisted features and hollow cheeks.

  It transitioned to Sergei gambling in a Mexican hole in the wall, then an outtake which featured an accidental walk-on by one of the crew. Kate was visible in the background, laughing along with a handful of observers who walked onset after the shot was spoiled.

  She looked happy, the same smile as the casual moments in San Francisco. A frozen image of her and Sean appeared onscreen, the two of them squeezed into a booth, two open smiles for the camera.