The Wedding Shop on Wexley Street. Rachel Dove
She considered this. ‘No, I don’t think so. Maybe from England?’ She was looking him up and down now, obviously trying to remember. Then he realised.
‘It might be my baby pictures.’
The woman looked confused. ‘Baby pictures?’
‘Yes,’ he said, watching the carousel start to turn slowly. ‘I was in an ad campaign, for Burgess Teas?’
‘Oooo!’ she squealed loudly, making half the airport jump. ‘You’re that guy, the wedding guy!’
She looked around him, looking disappointed. ‘Where is she?’
Darcy looked at her in horror as the people around them seemed to come to life, murmuring and pointing. Oh God, he thought to himself, seeing his case finally coming down the carousel towards him, like a life raft in a stormy open sea. He pushed his way through the crowd, nodding at people who were now smiling and waving at him, and frog-dived onto his case. He missed his footing a little and ended up moving along the carousel with his case for a beat till he managed to pull himself and it back upright. The woman was still there, giving him a conspiratorial look.
‘I get it,’ she stage-whispered. ‘You have to be discreet, for the cameras. Is she meeting you later?’
He pulled his case to him, slamming it into his own leg and wincing with pain. He looked down and noticed a thin line of blood seeping through his cream linen trousers. He rubbed at it, which only sent a fresh wave of pain searing through his calf and caused the blood to smear. The woman never noticed, having sped off to collect her own baggage. He pulled up the handle of his case and took his opportunity to leave, pulling his carry-on man-bag onto his shoulder. He was feeling very confused and sweaty. Why would she think he was on his honeymoon? Surely the media machine had got wind of the story? He might not be famous by some modern reality TV standards, but in the North he was photographed a lot, normally because of his former shenanigans in the South with various IT girls and supermodels. Drunken nights out in the right places. Or tumbling out of hotel rooms the morning after. And on one occasion, being papped jumping out of a mansion bedroom window when his date for the night’s footballer husband arrived back early from practice with a pulled hamstring. Lucky for him, because the man was livid. Even with a limp, he had been within a cat’s whisker of catching him.
He pulled his dejected self around the corner and gasped. Held back by several security guards and the barrier was a wall of journalists. He looked behind him momentarily, but there was only a couple with a small boy behind him. He didn’t recognise them. Were they here for him? He turned back round and they started snapping away. It might be me they’re here for, after all, he thought to himself.
‘Darcy, mate – where’s the girl?’
‘Darcy, Darcy – over here, mate – can you flash your ring finger for us?’
Bemused, he looked down at his own hand, which was still sporting the small gold ring Maria had bought him when they got engaged. She had joked that it was to chase away the skanks, but he knew it was just a thoughtful gift. Which he had forgotten to take off when he ditched her. Shit balls of fire. He went to shove his hand in his pocket, and was setting his head and body into battering-ram mode when a hand linked through his. A blonde woman, dressed in white linen trousers and a pink bustier, smiled at him, as though she expected him to just smile back in recognition. She covered his ring with her fingers and, bringing it up to her lips, dropped a kiss on it, winking at the cameras. Darcy was about to object when she leaned in and kissed him full on the lips. She had both hands rammed around his face, and it was all he could do to grip his bags and breathe. She tasted of cinnamon, which reminded him of the cough drops his grandmother sucked. He resisted the urge to gag as she pulled away, linking arms with him again and pulling him to the exit doors. Security held off the paparazzi, but they were still hollering and whooping, shouting questions at him as the pair were ushered through security.
‘What the hell was that?’ he asked her, incredulous. ‘Why did you do that, in front of them?’
He recognised her then. She had done it before, on the beach. He had been walking along, minding his own business, when she had appeared, grasped his hand, said hello and then disappeared. He had seen her loitering around the place, eating dinner near to him, sitting nearby at the pool.
The woman ignored him, gripping him in one hand and her case in the other as they headed to a driver holding a placard saying ‘MR WHITE’. The bracelet she wore on her wrist jangled, annoying him.
‘Here, honey,’ she said, pointing at Darcy. The driver nodded and took both their cases, walking off towards the exit. ‘This is us, let’s go. We need to avoid them.’
She pointed a pink-painted talon back towards the arrivals area, and Darcy shuddered.
‘Okay, okay, but I’m not Mr White. I’m—’
‘I know who you are, Mr Burgess. I’m under orders to take you straight to the office.’
Darcy’s heart sank into his designer shoes.
‘Oh God, did my bloody father send you?’ He clenched his fists in impotent anger. ‘Argh! Will he never leave me be!’ he demanded, shouting up at the white ceiling of the airport. The woman just ignored him and motioned for him to keep walking. He followed behind her, feeling like a man on his way to a firing squad. Then he remembered. The name on the placard. Mr White. Oh God.
‘The driver, that sign? Was it really for me?’ She nodded, raising a brow as if to say ‘of course, dum-dum’.
The colour drained from his face. She bloody loved Reservoir Dogs, and one too many Godfather binges had sent the old dragon over the edge.
‘Bloody hell,’ he exclaimed in his plummy Hugh Grant tones. ‘I’m done for, aren’t I?’
They had arrived at the waiting car now, and the driver opened the door. He looked inside, half-expecting the gates of Hades to be inside, not the plush leather interior he saw.
‘Yep,’ she said, bundling him into the back. ‘Your mother sent me.’
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