14
‘Why … were you there?’ Cal said, in a strangled way that suggested he’d been desperately trying to find the right formulation of words for what ought to be a banal inquiry.
‘I was the photographer.’
‘You’re a wedding photographer?’
‘Yes.’
‘You told me you were a photographer,’ Cal said.
‘I am. I do a lot of weddings.’
‘You didn’t know this was Harriet from your … from the wedding?’ Sam said, in wonder, and Cal looked at him like he was now suppressing a scream.
‘No. We’ve not met before,’ Cal said, with some effort. ‘We’ve only spoken on the phone, last week, about the spare room.’
There followed a conversational abyss, during which none of them could find a thing to say to make it less excruciating. A dog barked in the distance and an ice cream van chimed, on an otherwise normal summer’s day.
Coincidences were usually casually remarkable things, not cataclysmically awkward. Harriet and Cal were trying not to meet each other’s eyes while they both internally wailed WHAT ARE THE FUCKING CHANCES?!
However, this mess was down to Cal, Harriet told herself, never mind ‘you said you were a photographer’. Harriet would have Cal’s forename on a sodding schedule somewhere on her laptop, but only Kristina’s had felt relevant. A bride who took up a lot of the acreage of a wedding could sometimes cast the groom in the shade. Once the job was cancelled, Harriet had no reason to revisit her notes. The precipitous nature of their arrangement, not to mention his precipitous departure from his own wedding day: one hundred per cent on Cal Clarke.
‘Well. This feels like something we shouldn’t discuss ever again!’ said Sam, eventually.
Harriet forced a pained smile, and Cal, scowling in explicit discomfort, was so preoccupied that he couldn’t even manage that.
As Cal, monosyllabic, showed her around the kitchen and garden, Harriet’s brain whirred. Her first instinct was what Jon would call ‘a field triage manoeuvre’ – say it was an unfortunate mistake, she’d not bother bringing her things through the door, such is life, regretful face-pulling all round. She knew if she were better at difficult conversations, someone like Lorna for example, that’s exactly what she’d do.
Harriet also didn’t much want to be a traitor to her sex by paying rent to the Gone Groom of folklore – if he could treat his bride like that, what chance did anyone else have? She was equally certain he didn’t want a reminder of that day cohabiting his property, judging him in her misandrist silence while they cooked their pasta and pesto of an evening.
Nevertheless, as she worded this merciful no contest, amicable divorce between them in her head, she realised that she wanted to die at the thought of pulling back up in Jon’s driveway, begging his pardon while she searched for a few more weeks. Jon would make a meal of it, and both Lorna and Roxy only had sofas to offer. Harriet was aged thirty-four, with a VW Golf brimful of her possessions. She couldn’t quite bring herself to doss like a student with a bivvy bag.
Unless Cal told her to leave at once – and though he appeared deeply afflicted by the turn of events, it didn’t feel as if he was going to go that far – the better approach was to move in and immediately start looking for an alternative. She had a feeling Cal would gladly waive the contract breach.
‘How about we give you a hand in with your stuff?’ Sam said as the tour ended, and Harriet felt she had to say a graceful thank you even though she cringed at how paltry her belongings were, and the fact they were presented as refuse.
It took barely any time with the three of them all marching up and down the seagrass-matting stairs, Harriet and Sam at one point exchanging Can You Believe It! knowing glances as they passed each other. She was grateful Sam seemed sane and kind. There might be an opportunity for him to explain what went on, at some point – interesting that the friendship had survived. Sam must be an incredibly forbearing person. Though Harriet wasn’t sure she wanted the R-rated version of what happened at the wedding. She’d grasped the essentials.
‘We’re going to have a beer in the garden, if you fancy joining us?’ Cal said, with excessive good manners, given this must be the last thing he wanted.
Harriet pasted on a smile. ‘Thanks, but I’m going to do some unpacking instead.’
Cal nodded tightly, with what Harriet read as equal parts relief and resentment in his eyes.
She shut the door of her spacious room, and sagged. There was a key and she turned it, feeling reassured by the click of the lock snapping, though she wasn’t sure why. Cal would hardly be seeking her company out.
The room had varnished floorboards the colour of honey, walls in a colour that Harriet had learned through weddings was called ‘eau de nil’, and a large paper lightshade like a wasp’s nest. The surfaces had clearly been vigorously fumigated in anticipation of her arrival. Harriet had the childlike homesickness of an unfamiliar-smelling environment. She pulled the jewellery box from her handbag and put it by the bed.
She plunged about in her luggage to find two framed photos and placed them on the windowsill. One was of her grandfather in his dressing gown, water-gunning pigeons from the roof of his house with a luminous water pistol, and the other was one of herself and Lorna as over-sugared young teenagers, mugging in tinsel disco wigs and cheap lipstick. Neither picture had been allowed at Jon’s; he’d quietly moved them out of sight. When she demanded to know why, he’d said: ‘I’m sure they have great sentimental value, Hats, but displayed prominently, they make us look a little batty, don’t you think?’
Harriet loved these photos, they instantly transported her back to when they were taken. She could hear her grandad cackling delightedly when he got a direct hit, could taste the cherryade she and Lorna were drinking. Roxy had arrived later, in sixth form college, when the cherryade became WKD Blue.
She pulled her Doc Martens off and laid down on the double bed, under the window. From Jon’s spare bed to Cal’s. (Callum? Calumny? Calamity?)
It was extremely comfortable, pillows like clouds: Cal’s ex couldn’t be faulted. Jesus Christ – his ex, as in Kristina. She pictured the diminutive woman with the oil-slick black hair wafting around that bridal suite, brandishing a coupé of Pol Roger, with no idea of what was in store for her next. She’d left this beautiful home too? Did Cal chase her out at the end of a pointy stick, held by a lawyer?
Harriet felt treacherous. Imagine if Kristina could see her here. It would look as if she’d used her failed wedding as an opportunity to network.
‘What the fuck just happened?!’ Cal Clarke said, at low yet perfectly audible volume, somewhere beyond the room. ‘Tell me that didn’t happen.’
‘Only you could achieve this,’ Sam replied. ‘It’s like you’ve decided to turn your life into a sitcom.’
‘Sitcom? Horror movie.’
Harriet sat up, vibrating with self-consciousness. The tenor of a conversation not intended for her ears was unmistakeable. She could now hear squeaks of mirth that clearly weren’t coming from Cal.
‘This isn’t funny! This is hell.’
‘How the fuck have you moved your wedding photographer in without knowing that’s who she was?!’
‘I didn’t meet her, did I? Kit booked her.’
‘OK, how did she not know who you were?’
‘Like I said, we didn’t meet before today. I was so traumatised by Ned The Frequently Naked that I thought oh fuck it, might as well pick names from a tombola. She rang me as soon as the room was advertised and I thought, well, Ned proves I don’t have a functioning radar for wild eccentrics with Prince Alberts and tattooed arsecheeks anyway. Might as well take a punt.’
Harriet momentarily wondered if perhaps she was supposed to overhear this, some brutal bullying move to provoke her to go? But more likely: Cal had never slept in his own back bedroom, and had made the erroneous calculation that she was upstairs and indoors and he was outdoors and at ground level. In reality, they were a few feet and one single glazed window apart.
‘She’s probably nice. She was really sweet to me actually, she calmed me down and walked me to the car,’ Sam said.
‘OH GREAT,’ Cal hissed, with forceful sarcasm.
‘What?’
‘She’ll be even more Team Kit then, won’t she.’
‘Everyone who attended that day is Team Kit. There aren’t two teams. That’s like saying, I hope she’s not one of the people who came away from Star Wars with a poor opinion of Darth Vader.’
‘I could really do with you enjoying this a bit less!’
‘Mate, I got punched in the face for you. I still see her dad calling me “Sideshow Bob Twat” in my nightmares. So, I will enjoy this exactly as much as I want.’ Pause. ‘Harriet’s nice, and also, fit …?’
‘No! Absolutely not!’ Cal said, which Harriet, cringing, chose to take as blunt denial of Sam’s right to approve of her. She briefly imagined appearing at the window, a reverse Cathy in Wuthering Heights, and causing them a fright.
‘Don’t rile me even more,’ Cal continued.
‘You know the cute librarian thing is my wheelhouse.’
‘You are not to make any approaches! The one thing – the only thing – that could make this even bloody worse is having to listen to you in the act. Then you’d settle down with her, to keep her in my life and spite me.’
‘If you’re this bothered, why not ask her to leave?’
‘I can’t, the contract says six months. Fuck. I’m going to feel every second of it.’ Cal dropped to a whisper, a whisper that Harriet could still hear. ‘Also, why’s she got so few things? Isn’t that quite weird? She’s thirty-four.’
‘Is there some rule on how much you should own by thirty-four?’
‘No but … thirty-four. We’re not kids. My mum had me and was pregnant with Erin by then.’
‘Are you saying thirty-something women without husbands and kids are aberrant?’
‘Obviously not, I’m saying it’s unusual to have four bin liners of clothes, a massive pile of photography kit and a box of shoes to your name. Makes me think she’s running from something. Or someone.’
Harriet started, like she’d been slapped. She’d not asked them to pick her bags up and here she was, being judged and mocked. It was also a devastatingly perceptive snap judgement. That’s why she’d had so few things at Jon’s. Ease of fleeing. Of course.
They got distracted by something on Sam’s phone, from what Harriet could make out, and conversation moved on.
She folded up one of her towels to protect the pillowcase from mascara, took her glasses off, pushed her face into it and wept, silently.
As she blearily wiped away the tears later and her eyes settled on the patch of wall just in front of her, four small words, written in soft pencil, became legible.
I hate Cal Clarke
She was tempted to co-sign.