The Wedding Cake Tree (18 page)

‘
And what would those incorrect assumptions be exactly?’ He stared at the book, bit his lip and said nothing. ‘Alasdair! For crying out loud, close the damn book and tell me. What would those assumptions be?’

He closed the book
.

‘
Look, I just wanted to protect you.’

‘
Protect me? Why would I need protecting? What the hell is wrong with my job?’

‘
I didn’t want them to have the stereotypical paparazzi image of you. Didn’t want them to see you as a moped riding, cut throat, money grabber who—’

‘
Who
what
?’

I couldn’t remember a time when I
was so thoroughly angry, not because he told the boys I was a singer, but because we were getting to crunch time regarding what Alasdair genuinely thought about my job, about me.

‘
Okay, you
really
want to know what I think?’ His voice was calm but firm. ‘I have very little time for so-called photographers who sneak about the world taking hidden photographs of insignificant people doing indiscreet things, while a poor soldier has probably died on the same day and it doesn’t even make the paper.’

‘Tha
t’s where you’re wrong,’ I snarled, ‘because troop losses
do
make the papers. You may not have noticed but the forces have great support from the press!’

He glared at me. ‘Fine, you’re right! But this gossip stuff is all irrelevant nonsense and the stupid-arse general public lap it up, handing over good money just for a glimpse of tits and arse, or a peek at some obscure celebrity who happens to be sleeping with the husband of someone even more obscure. Who cares, for Christ’s sake?’ I hated seeing this side of Alasdair and tried to hold back the tears.

‘
And that’s what you think of me?’ I said, my turn to speak quietly. ‘Is this because of the photo I took of that politician’s wife in Yorkshire, because if it is—’

‘
I didn’t say that.’

‘
I hadn’t got you down as someone who would make rash assumptions, but you really are a judgemental, stuck-up arsehole. And you haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about. First of all, I’m not actually a pap – not that it would matter if I was – and second of all, my kind of photography provides a bit of light relief from the boredom of everyday life, it’s like eating a bar of chocolate. You’re taking it to the extreme. And perhaps you should remember that it’s the very same “stupid arse” general public who buy these magazines who also fully support the troops and pay your wages by the way.’

Alasdair’s face turned to thunder.

‘I’m fully aware of that. You’ve taken what I said and twisted it.’

I rose to my feet and walked over to
look out of the front window.

‘
Did Mum put you up to this?’ I asked, looking into the forest.

‘
Put me up to what?’ His voice sounded tired and dejected.

‘
I’ve been such an idiot falling for this ridiculous charade. I can just imagine the scene at St Christopher’s’—I mimicked Mum’s voice—‘Hello Alasdair love, I’ve got quite a favour to ask. My silly daughter Grace has got herself in with the wrong crowd. You’re a sensible boy, I’d like you to make her see sense, get her back into music.’

‘
That’s not how it was. I make my own decisions, my own judgements.’

‘
You don’t do a very good job of it.’

I turned
to face him. ‘I’m sorry, Alasdair, but it’s pretty obvious you’re operating to Mum’s agenda, using Buddhist crap to sort out my nerves’—I gesticulated towards the book lying on the floor—‘from Mum’s book by the way. You’ve been trying to persuade me to sing and manoeuvre me away from photography all along.’

‘
I haven’t tried to persuade you to sing.’

I wasn’t listening.

‘God, she did a cracking job working you over.’

‘
I think Rosamund probably did have a number of hidden agendas behind this trip, Grace. But I would hope you know me well enough by now to see I don’t operate like that.’ He sounded tired suddenly. I said nothing, turned to face the forest through the window and tried not to cry.

‘
If I have tried to show you a way in which you might calm your nerves to enable you to sing, then it’s because
I
think you have a beautiful
voice, not because your mother asked me to. If I’ve said harsh words about your job, then it’s because
I
think you’re wasted. I’m absolutely certain running around snapping photos doesn’t make you happy. You said yourself you’re thinking of moving on.’

He sat on the chair
and sighed. I hadn’t been able to hold back the tears. My only defence was attack.

‘
If we’re on the subject of happiness maybe you should look a little closer to home.’

‘
I don’t know what you mean,’ he said quietly.

‘
Come off it, you’ve got more baggage than all the carousels at Heathrow’s Terminal 5. Rather than trying to sort
me
out maybe it’s time to look at your own life.’

I turned around
to face him.

‘
Just like Mum, you see me as this two dimensional person, that I take snapshots of moments and never see what lies beneath. But I do see, more than most. And just so you know, I
am
happy with my life,’ I lied, ‘
and
, I deleted that bloody photograph of the woman in the Dales, I deleted it on the same night for Christ’s sake, just for you I might add’—his face softened—‘Thank you for admitting what you think about me, that I’m a cut throat, money grabbing—’

‘
But that’s not what I think about you, and just for the record, I don’t see you as two dimensional, far from it. No one could sing the way you do and be two dimensional.’ He started towards me but, even though I was secretly delighted with his final line, I edged towards my bedroom.

‘
I’ll get the rest of Mum’s letters from you tomorrow and we can go our separate ways. I don’t want to do this any more. At least, I don’t want to do this with
you
any more.’

He stepped towards me
again, but I couldn’t cope with the emotion and I really needed a tissue. ‘Cancel my invitation for the wedding and write out everything I need to know to finish this debacle on my own.’ I grabbed my bag from the floor and started delving through the contents.

‘
Where are you going?’

‘
First of all I’m looking for my bloody phone,’ I glanced up, ‘even though it’s against the rules, and then I’m going for a walk. I want to talk to a friend. ’

‘I hoped I was a friend by now,’ he offered quietly.

‘Oh, you know what they say, there’s no friend like an old friend.’

I grabbed my phone and tissues and cut through the woods towards the village, monitoring my phone as I walked. And then, finally, a signal. I sat on a bench next to a pretty iron bridge by the River Nethy.

‘
Hi, Grace. What’s that noise? Don’t tell me, you’re at Niagara Falls.’ Paul’s familiar voice brought a smile to my face.

‘It’s just the noise of a river.’

‘You’
re still in Scotland then?’ he asked, trying – but failing – to stifle a yawn.

‘Yes, I’m still in Scotland.
You sound tired.’

‘I am a bit.
I’ve got a features deadline for tomorrow and I’m struggling with it.’

‘
For a proper paper or gossip stuff?’

‘Proper
.’

‘Well. I’ll leave you to it
then. I was just phoning to say you were right, I found a flaw … in Alasdair.’

Paul
perked up. ‘A flaw? In Soldier Boy? Great, what is it?’ It was good to hear his humour again.

‘
Well, the flaw is that he’s an arsehole. With a capital A.’

Paul snorted.
‘Oh, is that all? I thought you were going to tell me Mr Perfect had actually farted, or picked his nose. He will by the way, once you get to know him better.’

‘
I mean it, Paul. He really is an arsehole, and I’ve told him to sod off. We’re supposed to be going to his friend’s wedding tomorrow, but I’m going to finish the trip on my own.’ A wave of guilt flushed through me as the words tumbled out. I realised Mum must have manipulated the whole event so I would be there to support Alasdair through the wedding.

‘Go on then,
tell me. Why is he an arsehole?’

I threw a pebble into the water
and sighed.

‘He thinks my job is two dimensional.’

‘Your job
is
two dimensional.’

‘
Paul!
I thought you of all people would be on my side.’

‘
Face it, you take photos of celebrities for a living. Yes, they’re good photos, but hardly groundbreaking. It’s just a way of earning money, like any other job. Why are you so sensitive about it?’

I didn’t answer.

Paul sighed. ‘Look, it doesn’t matter what this bloke thinks about your job. You don’t need to grub around looking for approval from others. There’s nothing wrong with what you do, so long as it is, in point of fact, what you really want to do with your life.’

S
ilence.

‘Anyway, why are
you getting all prophetic on me?’ I asked, sullenly. ‘Where’s my joker gone when I need him?’

His tone lightened.

‘Don’t worry, the court jester is still here for your amusement. Look, I know I take the piss sometimes, Grace – okay, most of the time – but I was getting the impression you really liked this guy. Don’t go and blow it for the sake of a tiff.’

‘I did
– I do like him,’ I said, ‘but I doubt he sees me that way so it’s all irrelevant.’

‘Did you find out if he’s single?’

‘Yes, he is.’

‘So what are you waiting for? From your description, if I was gay, I’d snap him up!’

I laughed down the phone.

‘Believe me, he’s sexy enough to turn any man gay. Oh, I don’t know, it’s almost like he’s
too
perfect. He even rescued a boy from a mountain yesterday for Christ’s sake. Then we sat round a campfire … it was so romantic.’

‘
What!
A rescue and a campfire? I bet he set the whole rescue thing up just to impress you. And the campfire thing is classic romance. Did he pull some fluff out of his belly button and use it as kindling?’ He snorted. ‘No, even better, I bet he created a spark to light the fire by scraping some flint across his chiselled jaw …’

‘
Stop it, Paul! I’m supposed to be angry.’ I laughed again at Paul’s image of Alasdair. ‘Seriously though, it’s like Mum’s introduced me to my dream man. I suppose I’m waiting for the bubble to burst.’

‘Do me a favour
, Grace.’ Paul’s tone was stern this time. ‘For once in your life just decide what it is that you want and go for it. If that means you want to get him into bed, just do it.’

‘
But what if he doesn’t want the same thing?’

Paul laughed.
‘Grace, you’re a stunner. He’s single, and he’s a man. Trust me, he wants the same thing.’

I paused for a second, saddened a little.
I knew Paul had genuine feelings for me. I skimmed the toe of my boot across the pebbly river edge.

‘
What do I do about the tortoise though?’ I asked softly. ‘I’d hate for him to be upset.’

Paul took a deep breath.

‘Grace, this is the real world, not a kid’s book. In the real world, the tortoise would be totally annihilated by the hare! Go to the wedding, and stop being so sensitive.’

‘
Okay, I will.’ Tears came to my eyes. ‘I love you, you know … in my own little way.’

‘I know you do.’
He cleared his throat. ‘Now bugger off and make up with Action Man; some of us have got serious work to do.’

Alasdair wasn't in the hut when I got back. His laptop sat on the chair
.
The screen was half-closed at an angle of forty-five degrees and the fan was whirring away. I touched the keys; they were hot. I stepped outside and shouted his name – no response.

Where the hell had he gone?

I decided to place his laptop on standby to prevent it from over-heating. An email flashed onto the screen. Despite my best efforts not to look, it was impossible not to notice the title of the email – Re: Bloody Women!

W
hat!

Well, h
e already thinks I have no scruples, so I might as well just …

Re: Bloody Women!