Wild Blue Yonder (The Ceruleans: Book 3) (14 page)

‘Oh man. Did you hit your head? Evangeline’ll
kill
me. Here, let me feel…’

But I sat up and brushed his reaching hands away.
‘Seriously, I’m fine.’ I looked behind. A massive branch of the tree lay on the
ground, and on the trunk was a broad scar where it had ripped away. The sight saddened
me.

‘Are you sure? Because you know I can heal you.’

I looked into his fretful eyes and sighed. ‘Jude, I don’t
need your healing. I went on a swing. The swing broke.’

‘But…’

‘The end.’

We sat for a moment, under the remaining branches of the
tree, until a sudden gust of wind sent a shower of blossom down upon us. Like
confetti.

Then we stood up and walked back to the hotel to prepare for
the coming day.

‘Just to be clear, Estelle – this isn’t a wedding?’

‘Well, no.’

‘But I’m getting all dolled up.’

‘Yes.’

‘And there are rings.’

‘Yes.’

‘And a ceremony.’

‘Yes.’

‘And vows.’

‘Yes.’

‘And a congregation.’

‘Yes.’

‘And decorations.’

‘Yes.’

‘And flowers.’

‘Yes.’

‘And a party afterwards.’

‘Yes.’

‘With a cake.’

‘Yes.’

‘But it’s
not
a wedding.’

‘No.’

I raised an eyebrow quizzically and she caught the look in
the mirror. It was late morning and we were in my bedroom: me in my robe,
sitting at my dressing table; she standing behind and doing my hair, which had
grown out enough since I cut it with my mum to be curled with tongs.

‘I mean, a wedding is legal – right?’ she said, combing out
another section of hair and then twisting it expertly. ‘For a wedding, you get
a marriage certificate, and the union is recorded by the registrar. But the ceremony
here is just, well, ceremonial. So it’s not a wedding. But you can think of it
as that, if you want. I guess today has whatever meaning you want it to have.’

None at all then,
I thought silently.

Estelle untwisted the hair and released it from the tongs’
grip. It sprang up instantly into a tight spiral. She grabbed the last straight
section and got to work, humming along to the music blaring out of the iPod
docking station – an indie anthems playlist. Perfect covert expression for all
the negative feelings swirling about inside me. Right now, the Stereophonics’
‘Mr Writer’. Estelle was no doubt loving the writing connection. I was loving
Kelly Jones’s raspy tone and the latent hostility in the song.

‘But why don’t Ceruleans marry properly?’ I asked. ‘I mean,
there’s obviously some religious feeling around here. Why not marry in a
church?’

‘I asked Adam that when it was our time,’ said Estelle.
‘It’s something to do with the fact Ceruleans aren’t registered citizens. Hard
to get a marriage certificate when there’s no record of who you are – your
birth and that.’

‘Well, that makes sense, I guess.’

Estelle freed up the heated hair, and the two of us peered
into the mirror to assess the results.

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘That’s a lot of curls.’

‘It’s a little full-on now, I know. But it’s an hour until
the ceremony, and if I don’t hairspray them and you keep finger-combing, the
curls’ll loosen up. Would’ve been better with rollers in overnight.’

‘Sorry, Estelle. I wasn’t trying to dodge you. Last night
was just a bit…’

‘Hey, it’s fine. You were with Jude, I know. I saw you both
coming back in. I understand, Scarlett. Last moments together before the big
day. I remember Adam and I… oh!’ She put a hand to her bump. Her enormous bump.

I shot up. ‘Are you –’

But she patted me on the shoulder. ‘Chillax, Scarlett! Late
pregnancy is no picnic. And little man here likes a good, long stretch.’ Still,
she looked a little pale.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes! Right, moving on. Bath done. Hair done. Makeup next.’

‘No! You sit down and rest. I prefer doing my own makeup.’

Already I looked like a poodle. But Estelle-style makeup?
Whatever this was today, I wanted to look like
me
.

Estelle was suspiciously quiet, and I turned on the seat to
check I hadn’t offended her.

She had her hands on her lower back, low down, and her jaw
was set.

‘Estelle?’

‘Baby’s wriggly today,’ she said. ‘I’ll just sit down and
rest. You do your own makeup.’

I blinked at her. She didn’t seem aware she was parroting my
words. But then I remembered Mum had told me that the weeks before she’d had
Sienna and me she’d been all over the shop – absent-minded, emotional and
struggling with all kinds of physical discomfort.

‘Okay,’ I said over the shriek of the sofa springs as
Estelle sat down.

The ’Phonics handed over to The Strokes and I turned back to
the mirror and began applying just a touch of mascara. The challenge in this
getting-ready session was striking the right balance. On the one hand, I didn’t
want to upset Estelle (hence the curls), who seemed determined to play maid of
honour, and I needed to look like I’d made a decent effort in order to convince
Evangeline I was excited and misty-eyed and living out my dream (hence the
touch of makeup and the smart clothes laid out on the bed). But on the other
hand, this was
not
my dream, and I didn’t want to make myself into a
beautiful bride for Jude. So I was staging my own secret mini-rebellion, and
part of that was minimal makeup.

‘Scarlett,’ said Estelle after a couple of minutes, ‘if you
don’t need me here, I think I’ll go and change now.’ She was engaged in a
girl-versus-sofa battle and the sofa was winning, so I went across and helped
her to stand. ‘Thanks,’ she panted. ‘See you down there?’

‘Sure. Take it easy, hey?’

‘Will do,’ she said cheerfully, and she waddled from the
room.

When the door closed behind her, I let my shoulders slump
down. I eyed the French doors with longing and indulged myself in a brief
fantasy of taking a running jump out of them, but there was a particularly
vicious-looking prickly bush right under my window that didn’t appeal. I closed
my eyes. The music changed again. Oasis, ‘Champagne Supernova’. One of my
favourite songs of all time. I never had fathomed the meaning of the lyrics.
From what I’d read in interviews, Noel Gallagher hadn’t much idea either. But
there was something soothing about that. When there’s no sense to be made of
life, listen to a song that makes no sense but sounds good.

By the time the track ended, I was dressed and standing at the
full-length mirror to take in the overall look.

I’d been so careful in selecting items from Cara’s website;
careful to pick beautiful pieces, of course, but
not
those I’d have
chosen if this were the real thing. I’d lied to Evangeline: the dress I’d
wanted but hadn’t found in her catalogues was mythical. My sole reason for
buying a Cara Cavendish design was to support Cara, and to feel some connection
to her and to Luke today. But of course I was, in Cara’s words, ‘a fashion
virgin’, so putting together an outfit alone had been somewhat challenging.

The dress was vintage and pretty and not my style at all. I
thought by the cut it was 1950s, and it had a halterneck, a tight bodice and a
wide, flaring skirt that ended just on the knee. The fabric was satiny and a
dusky pink, and Cara had added a black net underskirt that poked out a little
at the bottom and a black cinch belt around the waist. My shoes were high-heeled
T-bar sandals in pink to match the dress, with customised black polka-dot fringing.

Overall, I realised now, the pink clashed with the hint of
red in my hair and my green eyes, which was either striking or disastrous,
depending on your viewpoint. I looked – well, okay. But perhaps a little
funkier than was expected. Like I was about to attend a prom rather than a
wedding. In fact… I scrunched up my face and thought. Oh yes, that was it: the
school dance in the movie
Grease
. I’d have slotted right in with all
those jiggling ‘Born to Hand Jive’ teens.

I’d just have to hope that Evangeline thought me more Sandy
Olsson than Cha-Cha DiGregorio.

*

Estelle was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. The
sight of her froze me mid-step.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Colour on me. Shocking.’

She was referring to her blue dress, which was something of
a surprise given that I’d only ever seen her wear black (apparently deemed
unsuitable for today’s occasion). But blue wasn’t the colour that had frozen
me.

‘Estelle!’ I said, hurrying down the last steps to her.
‘Your face is brick-red! What’s going on?’

‘Oh, that. It’s all the excitement,’ she said dismissively.
‘I just love a good… er, not-wedding. Now, are you ready?’ Without waiting for
a response, she linked her arm through mine and began tugging me across the
lounge.

The ceremony was to take place in the conservatory – that
cavernous construction at the back of the hotel where I’d first been welcomed
to Cerulea, and where Evangeline had told me I had to let go of the past and
embrace the future: Jude, the boy who loved me. The folding wooden doors were
pulled across but for small bride-width gap at the edge. The lounge was empty,
but beyond a cacophony of voices indicated that we were far from alone.

By the door, I slid my arm from Estelle’s, stopped and
gripped the back of a wing-back chair for support as my heart and my head waged
war.

I can’t do this.

You have to do this.

I can’t do this.

You HAVE to do this!

I can’t…

Shut up. Just do it.

A deep breath later, my heart was shut up in a box and my
head was back in control. I turned to Estelle and went to say, ‘Sorry about
that…’ But the words died on my lips as I realised she too was clinging on to a
chair, and she was breathing oddly – really slowly and deeply.

‘Estelle! That is
not
excitement. Is it the baby? The
baby’s coming? Now? I’ll get –’

‘No!’ she hissed through gritted teeth. ‘Don’t you dare.
This is
your
day,
your
moment. I’m not ruining that.’

I covered her hands with mine. ‘That doesn’t matter. Nothing
matters but you and the baby.’

She released a big breath of air and then said, ‘Phew.
That’s better. Really, Scarlett, it’s not a big deal. Labour takes hours and
hours. I know, remember? I’ve been there. The early stage can last days. Just
the odd little pain here and there. The baby probably won’t even come until
tomorrow.’

I opened my mouth to protest – surely this was cause for
panic – but already she was poking her head around the door and gesturing to
someone beyond.

‘Estelle…’

‘Wait… listen… They’ve stopped talking, see. And there it is
– that’s your music.’

I blinked at her. The air was humming with a classical
violin melody that didn’t sound anything like my music; in fact, it was a shock
after a morning of indie rock.

‘What’s this?’

‘Johann Sebastian Bach. “Air on the G String.”’

‘The what!’

‘Not that kind of G string, Scarlett.’

But it was too late – all the anxiety inside me had found
its outlet in unquashable giggles.

‘Quit it!’ said Estelle, but her lips were trembling at the
corners. Then she groaned.

‘Estelle!’

‘Get in there,’ she growled, and before I could so much as
say ‘Is that another contraction?’ she’d shoved me over the threshold. And as I
surveyed the scene before me, I found myself rather wishing it were me in
labour, so that I could be whisked away right now.

It was a florist’s heaven. There were flowers everywhere,
everywhere
:
woven around the roof supports, attached to the ends of each row of chairs,
cupped in tall holders scattered around the room, intricately laced through an
archway set up before the central doors of the conservatory that were flung
open to let in the warm spring air – and even beyond, a pink petal path leading
across the lawn to where a marquee was set up. Pink chrysanthemums. Pink roses.
Pink tulips. Pink lilies. Pink daisies. All tied up with little black ribbons
with white polka-dots.

The flowers were breathtaking, if a little overwhelming. But
it was the eyes fixed on me that made me want to turn on my heel and run. So
many people in their Sunday best, smiling at me, wishing me well. Every
Cerulean would attend, Evangeline had said. I saw Adam and David and Michael
and Barnabas. All of them here to witness my lies.

Still, it wasn’t the mass of Ceruleans that was bothering me
so much right now. It was just one. Jude, standing alone under the archway in a
simple black suit with a black polka-dot tie and a pink rose buttonhole. (I was
getting the decided impression that Evangeline had peeked at my outfit when it
arrived before passing me the box.) He looked unspeakably handsome, and he was
smiling at me so poignantly that my heart lurched.

‘Smile and walk!’ hissed Estelle, linking her arm with mine
again.

And so I did – awkwardly, given that Estelle’s grip on my
arm was tightening by the second.

‘Estelle…’ I whispered out of the corner of my mouth.

I received a bone-crunching arm-squeeze for my trouble.

At the end of the aisle, Estelle let me go and sank, with a
rather audible grunt, onto a seat in the front row next to Adam, leaving Jude
and I standing alone under the arch, staring at each other with wide eyes.

This close, I saw that Jude was very pale and a little
sweaty. But he managed to smile and whisper, ‘You look lovely,’ before taking
my hand and turning me to face him under the arch. Evangeline moved into the
position of officiant, clasped her hands together and addressed the room at
large:

‘Fellow Ceruleans, I’m delighted that we’ve come together
once more to celebrate a union – that of Jude and Scarlett, two young people
who have a lifetime of happiness ahead, serving God, serving the light.’

I couldn’t breathe: the bodice of this dress was too tight,
the air was stifling from the sunlight streaming through the glass roof, the
scent of the flowers was choking me. Evangeline was still talking, something
about vows and love and heavenly glory.

What was I
doing
?

Panic slid icy fingers around my heart.

I couldn’t do this.

Could I do this?

I shot a look at Jude. He was watching Evangeline, his jaw
clenched.

I shot a look at Estelle. She was watching Evangeline, her
jaw clenched.

Evangeline was reading from an old leather-bound Bible. I
tried to focus.