Alan Goodwin - Gravity's Chain

P olly’s wedding was from start to finish an epic—a Ben Hur of the marriage world, an expensive style setter for the three girls who would follow and no detail left to chance. I couldn’t help but feel that furtive glances were cast at Mary and me as though sizing us up for the next instalment, much like an undertaker measuring potential clients at a cocktail party. Polly and David married in St Patrick’s, a beautiful and calm oasis amid the glass horrors of the city. The guests were well groomed and dressed for the occasion, everyone resplendent in the sun reflecting off the white walls of the church. It was a meeting of the beautiful people. They sauntered inside as if they owned the place. Lilies decorated the end of every pew, blooms of white against the wood. The ceremony was crisp and culminated in ‘Ave Maria’ sung by a ten-year-old cousin. Half an hour later, after a car procession that reminded me of a royal tour, we were drinking our first champagne of the reception. The sun was still fierce and I sweated in my suit.

‘So you must be Jack.’ I shook the outstretched hand. ‘I’m Caroline, Mary’s sister. We haven’t met before.’

‘Yes, I recognise you. Nice to meet you.’

‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’

‘All good, I hope.’ She held on to my fingers, only reluctantly letting go when I tugged them free. She was stunning in her bridesmaid dress, slim but with shape, her blonde hair curled and held by a braid embroidered with small blue flowers.

‘All good, Jack—there’s no need to worry.’

‘That’s great.’ I was embarrassed at her focused attention.

‘God, every time I see Mary she’s on about you and Cambridge—“Jack this, Jack that”, it’s hard to get away from you at times. Still, it sounds like you’re having an amazing time there. Are you? I mean I’d love to hear all about it.’

‘I’ll look forward to that.’

‘I shall seek you out for a dance after dinner, Jack Mitchell, so you watch out. I’ve never danced with a genius before and when I woke this morning I said to myself, this is the day. Now you wouldn’t disappoint a poor girl, would you?’ She smiled, revealing a perfect row of straight, bright white teeth.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats for the wedding supper.’

Caroline tugged my elbow and pulled me toward a table near the dance floor. ‘This is you, Jack—I checked where you were sitting earlier. I’m afraid you get relegated to the minor family table. A few more years and you may make it to the top table. See you later.’

‘Look forward to that.’

Caroline was certainly on the mark about the other guests at my table. They were minor nobility all right—cousins and friends only wheeled out on such occasions and a strange man called Jonathan Martin whom everyone knew but no one seemed to like. Despite several attempts to understand where he fitted in, the explanation eluded me. Cousin Keith rolled his eyes every time Jonathan spoke, revealing his dislike of the man. Later I learnt Jonathan had served in Vietnam with Mary’s father, an experience both men never discussed but which forged a friendship neither wished to relinquish. Others might dislike Jonathan, but for as long as old man Roberts was picking up the bill his old mate was always welcome. The story left me with a pang of jealousy that people could experience such closeness.

When the golden summer evening light finally faded, gaudy flashing lights took its place and the soft chatter and rolling waves succumbed to the bass line of a Donna Summer song. I could almost hear the sigh of disdain from the older guests and whoop of delight from the younger ones. Like me, they had gritted their teeth and endured the small table talk of dinner and sat through the speeches, ignoring numb bottoms and sweaty discomfort in unfamiliar clothes, waiting for this moment of release. Mary grimaced as she walked to me in tight shoes and after her first steps kicked them off and danced in bare feet.

They played all the old favourites—classic Beatles, some Bee Gees, Abba greats and some rock’n’roll for the faithful oldies who ventured to mix it with the younger brigade. I could cope with most of these, but not with ‘Mull of Kintyre’.

‘Come on, Jack.’

‘No Mary, not this, please, I draw the line at this one.’

But she was pulling me away from the window and onto the insanely overpopulated dance floor. Her feet were black at the sides from dirt.

‘Don’t you like this?’ she quizzed as she pulled me to her and nuzzled my neck.

‘In one word—no.’

She pulled away and looked at me with genuine amazement. ‘Really? I love this song. You know I think Paul McCartney is great. He’s my favourite Beatle.’

‘That may well be right, but “Mull of bloody Kintyre”, please.’

‘Oh, come on, grumpy, give me a cuddle.’ She pulled me closer and kissed my cheek.

The pace picked up after the grisly song. We danced wildly and gyrated to ‘Dancing Queen’, which brought the sweat from me in great rivers. I relinquished my place on the cramped floor and elbowed my way outside for some fresh air and the chance to cool down. The breeze was refreshing on my face and wet shirt. There was a terrace at the side, one end lit, but the other half was deep in shadow. Caroline sat there smoking a cigarette.

‘So here you are, Einstein.’

‘Here I am.’ Given my new status as a drinker I’d drunk a fair number of beers as well as wine. Of course, it was more than I was used to and my head was spinning as I stood looking at her. She had changed and now wore a simple blue summer dress with a subtle white pattern. The soft material caught in the breeze and billowed around her legs. Her hair was down now and looked lighter. This was the first time I’d really looked at her rather than merely acknowledging her presence. She was prettier than Mary (a wickedly guilty thought), her features softer, her eyes clearer and wider. There was no mistaking she was Mary’s sister, but she was like an improved version—a coupe to Mary’s four-door saloon.

‘Where’s my dance?’

‘Any time, I’m all yours.’

‘I hope so.’ She raised an eyebrow and smiled.

I was entering dangerous shark-infested waters. This was the time to turn back, the time to hang on to the last outcrop of land before I was swept away.

Caroline cocked her head, like a dog listening for a master’s whistle. ‘This should do.’ Frankie Goes to Hollywood, ‘The Power of Love’, filtered from the dance room, which was only half full now. The lights were low and I tried to hold her at a respectable distance, but she moved closer, placing her hands on my shoulder. ‘So tell me, Einstein, what’s it actually like to be a genius?’

‘Oh, you know.’

‘No I don’t actually, that’s why I asked and yes, before you say it, I’m interested, really interested. I mean it must be weird talking to people all the time who are just, well, you know, a whole lot more stupid than you.’

‘It doesn’t really work like that.’

‘Oh come on, it must do. Don’t be shy, I can take the truth. I mean we all have different gifts, we can’t all be brilliant at everything.’

‘What are you good at?’

‘Painting, actually. I paint and I think I’m pretty good. Do you paint?’

‘No.’

‘Any good at drawing?’

‘No.’

‘Well, there you go then. You’re crap at art and I’m good. I’m crap at maths and you’re good. Doesn’t really matter though, does it? So go on, be honest.’

‘I’m not sure I really follow.’

‘Shit, nor do I. I’m just trying to get you to talk to me about life as a fucking genius.’