Sam’s dad walks over from the dancefloor, his weaker leg dragging a little, visible if you know which one to notice. He puffs down into the bench, a hot air balloon losing its gas.
“Your turn next, my boy!” he says gleefully. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, I have to say it. Tradition! Especially after your speech earlier. You can really turn on the romance when you want to, eh.”
Then quieter, leaning in, “And while your mother’s out of earshot, tell me, anyone you’ve noticed? Your sister’s got quite the friendship group, eh?”
Sam groans at his dad’s caricature-wiggling eyebrows and sinks backwards. “Alright da, leave Tilly’s girlfriends alone. What is it about weddings and turning you into a right letch?”
“Ach, well, when there’s no uncle to fill the role…”
“I think Auntie Susy is doing enough creeping for all the family.”
They both look across to the other side of the dancefloor just in time to see Susy, the best friend of Sam’s grandmother, slapping the arses of both the groomsmen with a glorious, “Whoopah”.
“Ah, let her have her fun. She’s just excited to be overseas and far from the nursing home.”
“Oh my god, you didn’t actually tell her this wedding was in France, did you?” Sam rolls his eyes shut.
“What difference is it to her? We got on a ferry, she went for a nap, quite the adventure. She’s very happy to believe that northern France’s road signs are in English in honour of the war effort.” He does a drum roll flourish on the wine and gravy-stained tablecloth and the half-empty flutes of champagne jiggle.
Sam’s dad has been playing with his Auntie Susy his whole life, and she’s teased him right back; he the stand-in son when her own never stayed long enough to be born. Most likely neither will let on for the whole trip that both know they’re in England, and will giggle to Sam about it throughout.
His dad wiggles his left fingers at him, then clenches them, mock stern, “Never doubt the power of the Forgery Fist!”
The wobbly script of his left hand is more known to some than his normal right-hand scrawl. This time it produced the handwritten wedding invite (paired with, “I know, can you believe Tilly wrote all the invites out by hand?!”). Auntie Susy’s company was requested at their upcoming nuptials in Le Havre, a short boat ride from Portsmouth, chosen for its beautiful, romantic beach.
Why Tilly actually chose the Isle of Wight for her wedding remains a mystery to Sam. He decided early on in the planning to stay well out of it all. Tilly is scrappy at the best of times. The beachside barn with its driftwood chandeliers does seem to be getting all the oohs and aahs. Big, shiny romance has been achieved, for those who have come for that sort of thing. He has to assume Tilly has, judging by her frothy dress.
Sam prefers to play romance as an ever-changing game. His attention jumps from woman to man to woman as if he is choosing glass bottles to blow over, testing the music created. He imagines each one straining to make their neck higher, longer, smoother, to produce the sweetest note. His dad has given him the jokes, his mum the looks, and his Auntie Susy the charm. And, by 27, he’s given himself many experiences. Can you blame him? Who sticks to monotone when they can have a symphony?
His dad heaves himself up and slaps Sam’s thigh, “C’mon you, get yourself on the dancefloor. Noone's too cool to dance at their sister’s wedding, even city lad you.” He strides off, left leg seemingly reinvigorated with the reminder of his wit.
Sam’s eyes look past the swaying bodies in front of him to the clump of bridesmaids shaking their arms like they want everyone to know they just don’t care. His dad was right; Tilly has picked a pretty fleet. Strictly forbidden by Tilly of course, and thus all the more flavoursome. His gaze snags on one. What a waist, hips flaring out either side as if holding her open to him. He adjusts his trousers.
“Sweaty balls?”
“Excuse me?” he looks to his right at the woman who’s just sat down beside him.
“Sweaty balls?”
“Ah, um, ha, well, polyester, you know…” What is he saying? What is she saying?
“Ah, rookie mistake. Polly and Ester are 2 ladies who should never meet in the crotch area.”
Sam lets out a new and unappealing high-pitched laugh.
“Although you don’t have the sheen of a recent dancefloor twirl on you…waiting for Abba is it? I so need a dance after the week I’ve had.”
He searches his mind for some witty reply. Any reply. His mind is blank. He stares uselessly at this energy drink of a woman, somehow turning him into airy bubbles where once there was calm substance.
“Loving the band though, got to say.” She looks out at the dancefloor smiling with satisfaction, then winces at a memory.
“My brother’s wedding band last year seemed to be exclusively Avril Lavigne.”
She sets her eyes on him. “Did you know she has 7 albums? 7! I learned a lot about her that night. Not just a punk princess. I can get any pub quiz question on her now. Try me!”
He laughs. Is she serious? And how does she look so cute when she has the haircut he had as a 6 year old. He wants to push the hair back behind her ears. He presses into the cushion under him.
“Um, is she married?”
“Ah not a good question for today…twice divorced I’m afraid.”
He mirrors her grimace. He sees his Auntie Susy guzzling a slice of wedding cake off a precariously tilting plate.
“Favourite food?”
“Pizza. And she’s got one named after her in her hometown. True A-lister level that. What would your food be, if you were a celebrity?”
“As in what food do I want named after me?”
“Yeh, go on, amuse me.”
He tries to think of something cool, then gives up, laughing awkwardly, “I’ve actually got a dish named after me already, so I guess it would have to be that!”
She raises her eyebrows and downturns her lips, looking like an adorable De Niro.
“In my family, we call spaghetti bolognese Sam’s Worms.”
“Ha, ok, intrigued.”
“My dad buried spag bog leftovers in our allotment one time before me and my mum went to dig up some tatties. When I saw them in the soil, I thought they were a type of worm and started howling, thinking we’d eaten worms for dinner the night before. There was nothing my mum could do to convince me it was my dad pulling a stupid prank till we got home and he, as usual, couldn’t help himself and asked if we’d unearthed anything special.”
She rocks back into the bench, snorting, and he feels giddy and wide.
“Brilliant. He sounds like a fun guy!”
“You have no idea. He had actually meant for me to believe that spaghetti grew like tatties, but he was happy either way.”
He can tell she is about to ask something more, but he is suddenly impatient to know something about her, beyond her brother’s shite wedding band.
“What about you, named food of choice?” he rushes out, making it sound oddly urgent.
“Oh, me, um, no idea. Ha. Um. Hm, will have to think about that.”
How has she not been thinking about it while he was speaking? He feels a buzzy delight that she has been really listening to his story. Not just waiting to speak, or considering how to phrase her thoughts. He knows it isn’t just him that does that when others speak, though he has the feeling he does it more than most people. What is with her dress? Is it a pattern or a picture of a sunset? It is hugging her folds and he wants to straighten it out to see. Or lift it off her and give her more space. Touch her. He taps the bench arm and looks at her mouth, lips resting apart. He waits for her to speak, the warmth of her soft Yorkshire voice.
“Ah got it! I’d have to say…Wait, ooh, Is that Clean Bandit? Ah, this is such a tune! Are you dancing?”
An outstretched hand.
Finally, a bubble of banter pops out of him.
“Are you asking?” he growls in his deepest brogue.
He grins, pleased with himself, Glasgow lad once more.
She looks at him, confused, “Uh, yeh?”
He laughs, paused, cheeks slapped pink with embarrassment.
She turns, and before he can reach for her, she is on the dancefloor pulling silken power poses, arms stretched skywards, sinuous.
He shunts to the edge of the bench. He has the overwhelming feeling that its end is a precipice. His right hand is on its arm, clenching it like it is a tree root in a fast flowing river. Upstream, ego and embarrassment are heading towards him. Downstream, tumbling rapids of the unknown.
He lets the current guide him to the dancefloor, move his left foot to his right, and back, and back again.
“Eh, Hokey Cokey Sam, nice to meet you! I’m Lizzie by the way!”
She grabs his hand and spins herself under him, 1, 2, 3 times, her eyes finally coming back to meet his before she leans back, singing the lyrics to the ceiling. Her skin is luminous, glowing under the barn’s starlights. She beams at him, mouthing the words while she catches her breath.
He fills the air between them with the words of the song, “I just want to be part of your symphony.”