Twinned (3 page)

Yes,
that
look says Richard can smell a deal. Unfortunately, when he is so intent on getting the best price, he forgets everything else. Like whether this is the most hideous venue I’ve ever set foot in. I wouldn’t want to be buried here, let alone married.

We leave Edmeade Hall having told Peter thank you for the tour but we are
not
interested. This would put my mind at rest, if it were not for Richard then privately assuring me that we
are
interested. “You have to be willing to walk away, Beth,” he explains. “Then we hold all the cards. He
will
call with a deal, you mark my words.”

I am offered a chaste kiss under the watchful gaze of a crocodile of schoolchildren, for whom Sunday is the only day of rest from their school work. School on Saturdays - what a horrible thought. We get into our respective cars. As soon as we are back on the main road, Richard overtakes me, opening up the throttle of his BMW convertible and disappearing off into the distance.

I put the radio on.

When we get home, the postman has been. Richard is opening an envelope, which he checks the contents of and then passes to me. “Happy Birthday!” he says casually, before loosening his tie.

“It’s not my birthday.”

There are two tickets in the envelope… Two tickets to ‘Acoustic at the Manor, at Lymenton! Oh wow, these tickets are like gold dust right now!

“How did you get these? I heard they were sold out?” I grab his hand.

He’s all smiles now. “Got them for you, gorgeous. I have my sources…” He kisses me on the lips. My pulse is racing, this is a brilliant gift.

“Wow – thank you so much! It’s only two weeks away. I can’t believe we’re going!” I am elated, I feel like doing a little dance. There will be six stonkingly well-known bands playing a ridiculously small and intimate gig, with ‘Acoustic at the Manor’ aired live on Radio Power. There have been radio competitions for a small number of listeners to win tickets for weeks. Best of all, the headline band is one we both love and their songs have always reminded me of when Richard and I started dating. We plan to play their most popular ballad as our first wedding dance together, so it really means a lot to me that he’s gone to all this trouble.

We are going to have such a fantastic time! I give Richard a big hug, then go to put the kettle on while he kicks off his shoes and sits down. Before I’ve asked whether he wants coffee or tea, his mobile rings. I know from the ringtone that it will be from his work, even though it’s Saturday. Well, it’s probably still Friday somewhere in the world.

I don’t want to interrupt him, so I make him a coffee, kiss his cheek and go to put the washing out, humming and smiling with excitement.

I shouldn’t be surprised that, three days before
‘Acoustic at the Manor’, I am phoning round my friends trying to find someone who’s free to come with me. Richard has been called to an urgent meeting about Denver. There is nothing nice that I can say about it. I am
fuming
.

“Of course I’ll come with you!” screams Elisa down the phone, nearly deafening me. Elisa is my very best friend. We met at college. We’ve been through it all together over the last few years. She’s just as crazy about the bands that will be playing as I am and since she moved away we just haven’t seen enough of each other. Perhaps it will be even better than going with Richard? But I’m still annoyed with him.

Elisa tells me, once she’s calmed down, that this is the second piece of good news she’s had today. She’s just been offered a job with a prestigious London publishing company as an assistant editor for women’s fiction. I’ve heard of the company, Rosa Publishing. It was set up in the late 1990s – during a recession - by a woman who was only in her twenties.

“I’ll probably never meet her. It’s really sad,” Elisa explains. “This woman, Anne Rosa, was a top literary agent, quite famous in her own right for discovering some hugely talented new writers. However, within a year of setting up her own publishing business, she got this obscure illness and had to leave work.”

That sounds so sad; to have built something up and be struck down in your prime. Conversely, I am so pleased for Elisa, this is a dream job. “Well done
you
!” I scream back and Elisa tells me all about her interview and how ghastly it was.

*****

The concert is almost rained off due to problems with guests accessing the site. The ground is sodden and cars have churned up the mud so that some are now quite stuck. The car park attendants are all very helpful. It is quickly relayed to us that the start of the concert will be delayed by an hour, while they finalise a change to the parking arrangements and ensure everyone can get into the house. There are 20 or so acres of parkland and some are less waterlogged than others. This is a huge undertaking, which involves moving hundreds of cones and cars in really dreadful conditions. I’m quite pleased though, as we get parked up early and I have always wanted to see inside the Manor.

Lymenton Manor is Jacobean in design, a Grade II listed building on the outskirts of Ashford in Kent. It’s renowned for having the most wonderfully ornate state rooms. The moment we walk in it feels warm and welcoming and has already been decorated with simple red, gold and crystal Christmas decorations. The smell of mulled wine, cinnamon and orange tempts us to make for the famously ornate tea rooms, for a hot drink and a slice of cake. It’s quite the opposite of Edmeade Hall, I think, as I tell Elisa about my experience of the wedding tour there. As we sit at a table for two, next to a huge fireplace, we see a sign which says that this room is where King William IV and Queen Adelaide dined in 1834 and that the Jacobean mantlepiece ‘includes a biblical scene showing the Angel stopping Abraham from sacrificing Isaac.’ “This is the kind of place I should have been born to live in,” chuckles Elisa. “Oh, it’s good to be in the warm.”

“This would be a wonderful place for a wedding – in better weather of course! I wonder whether they do weddings here.”

“They must do!” Says Elisa, “But I reckon it would be pretty expensive.”

I ask the waitress as she clears our tea plates. She explains that the Manor’s function hall is being refurbished in readiness for opening for weddings next summer. Interestingly, it has already been granted a license for civil ceremonies in this very room. I start to feel excited. If Richard were here, he would be sensing a deal to be made right about now. I decide to take a brochure and show it to Richard tomorrow.

After our tea and cake, we are called into the Ballroom to take our seats. The room’s ceiling is double height, with large ornate windows on one side of the room and a gallery opposite within which I presume is the VIP seating. I can see people seated in the gallery, they have plenty of room between their chairs and it looks like they are being served drinks. Probably champagne, I think.

The seats – around 200 of them – are laid out theatre-style. Elisa and I make for seats as near to the front as possible. We manage to grab two together in the third row, so have a really good view of the stage area. There is a microphone, a drum kit and some speakers and monitors set up.

A few minutes later, when everyone has taken their seats, the lights are dimmed and on walks Radio Power DJ Paul Wood. He welcomes the audience, warms us up with a few jokes about the weather and then introduces the first act. It’s Lewis Sheehan, a singer songwriter who I’ve always admired. He appears on stage and the sound mix is perfect. His voice is haunting. The audience becomes engrossed from the first few chords he strikes. You could hear a pin drop.

I see a flash of light up and to one side. My eyes are drawn to the gallery. There it is again, a flash of light. Oh, it’s just the reflection of a spotlight hitting the waitress’s silver tray as she walks. She’s making her way along the line of VIPs, handing out canapés. There is a man stood on his own at the end of the line of chairs, his face half-hidden in the shadows. He is the only one not holding a drink. I can’t place where I recognise him from.

The waitress walks towards him with the tray and then I get the shock of my life as she walks -
straight
through
him.
Like he’s not even there…

“He’s brilliant, isn’t he!” whispers Elisa, nodding her head towards Lewis Sheehan. “Thank you so much for inviting me!”

“Yeah, brilliant,” I answer, my attention still drawn to the gallery rather than the stage. I can clearly make out the face of the man now and I can see that he is perhaps a little, well, less ‘there’ than the people to his left. He looks so familiar…

I quietly ask Elisa if she can see the man in the gallery, over on the far left. She looks but, despite me re-explaining where he’s stood, she says she can’t see anyone of the description. Her eyes go straight back to the stage, she is engrossed in the music.

I can still see him though, right up to the point when he looks at me, then just vanishes.

*****

We’re on the floor together at my family home, my little sister Katie and I, while Mum cooks up her famous Sunday roast. Between us are three piles of discarded wedding magazines with post-it notes colourfully bookmarking dozens of pages, a jug of Ribena and half a bottle of Cava.

Richard left for Denver fourteen days ago and I am counting the days until he is back. It was so quiet and lonely at home last night that I decided to drive to Mum and Dad’s and stay over for the weekend. Mum was really excited to hear about the visit that Richard and I had made to Lymenton Manor after I told him about how great it was. As a venue it was far less expensive than we had thought it would be. Richard found out that the Manor’s events coordinator had done a deal with the local Council who were obliged to provide a cost effective alternative to the local register office, which it had just sold off to be turned into a care home. It seemed that we were eligible for a Council subsidy.

So the date is set: March the 4
th
. I am just so pleased I found Lymenton Manor in time and that we aren’t booking that horrible school.

“If I was getting married, I’d have a bright blue dress,” sighs Katie, “and white roses.”

She pretends to blow a kiss, Marilyn Monroe style. “Loads of people have white dresses, I’d want to be different.”

“Big Fat Gypsy Wedding different?”

She laughs. I like making Katie laugh. I’ve been so lonely since Richard went and although she’s only fifteen, she’s kept me company and helped me to plan my big day.

I consider what she’s said, “I know what you mean. But I always dreamed of a white dress.”

“Hmm. Traditional equals boring.”

“Well boring is fine with me. Anyway, wearing anything else would cast doubts on my virginity!”

We lock eyes, my eyebrow raised in challenge. She can’t raise her eyebrow and it drives her mad that I can. I feel a giggle play across my lips. I hold her gaze. She breaks first, laughing so suddenly that she forces Ribena out of her nostrils and nearly tips over the bottle of Cava while she chokes.

“Mind the magazines!” I yell, sliding them out of her way.

Katie is the nutty one. I’m the sensible one, you see.

It’s Monday evening. I left mum’s this morning and drove straight to work. The
work day flew by and now it’s time to go home. Between leaving my desk and getting into my car it’s got really dark. The trees, which drooped heavy with blossom all summer then painted the pavements with crunching yellow and red leaves through autumn, are now almost skeletal, hunched over the road as if they’re ready to pounce.

Winter is not just a change of season; it’s a change of lifestyle. All I want to do is to get home and into my warm bed.

And now I am waiting in a seemingly never-ending queue of cars that marks home-time in my neck of the woods. I watch a cyclist weaving between the cars before pushing effortlessly up onto the pavement when he reaches the red lights. I can’t blame him, who would want to cycle on an evening like this? I turn up the blowers, revving the engine a little to hurry it to warm up.

I can see the supermarket ahead, just across the next roundabout. I need milk, bread and cheese. Oh and cat food. And wine… The queue moves achingly slowly. The longer I wait, the greater my desire is to go home and put the fire on. Another five minutes and the scales tip in favour of home, my discomfort outweighing the need for groceries. I signal left, pulling out of the queue for Tesco’s, towards home. The superstore lights diminish in my rear view mirror as the rain starts to fall across them.

I put the stereo on. I got this album recently and it’s so good that it’s all I listen to at the moment. It’s called “Truth” by Town Full of Heroes, an American band that I’ve just got in to. I tap the wheel in time with the drums and I think of how warm the house will be when I get home and light the fire.

That was the right decision, sod the groceries. I’m on a fast A-road now, the A25. It links two villages, Seal and Ightham. It slashes through half a mile or so of dense, unoccupied woodland. There are no streetlights here. Fat raindrops fall towards my headlights, shining silver in their beams.

BAM! A stranger’s lips are on mine, though I can clearly still see the road ahead of me. An unseen tongue forces its way into my mouth. Oh my God. I feel hands on my shoulders. My head goes back against the seat, my brain is spinning and I’m in shock. But I’m still driving.

I have to resist falling into this feeling and concentrate on the road ahead. There is no one there.
There is no one there!

And I realise that this is somehow the most amazing kiss, stirring feelings in me that only a real kiss could. Wow - if only I could close my eyes I could throw myself into this vision.

The sound of my car engine and the rhythmic ‘thwack’ of the wipers merge with the noise of a duvet crumpling against my ear. The sound of our kissing mixes with the tick-tock of a clock on a night table. There’s a heartbeat that I feel against my chest and the drumming of the rain upon my windscreen. When my eyes are open, I can hear both my reality and somewhere else entirely… its very distracting.

I try to force the vision away, I need to be careful. Well obviously I have Richard to think of. Plus, I am travelling at 60mph on a wet road. The last thing I need is to crash.

But the kisses continue. Down my neck and back up to behind my ear. Soft, sweet kisses. They are haunting, sensual and slow, unpredictable. A hand is on my shirt, pulling at the buttons. This is so wrong. I try to blink whoever it is away, staring straight ahead and refusing to believe what is happening.
There is no one there,
I tell myself.

The experience stops as suddenly as it began. I feel quite breathless and, despite the shock I have a massive grin on my face.

I have always had strange experiences. Paranormal, or whatever you would call them. Bullshit is what Richard would call them. But this kissing thing – this is something new. I wonder who it is, this ghost.

For a dead guy, he kisses great.