The Butterfly Storm (20 page)

‘Pamela?’ Mum calls.

Doors bang upstairs before a shock of blonde hair appears over the banister.

‘Leila, honey, how are you?’ The blonde hair belongs to a fifty-something woman who clatters down
the stairs in pink high heels and a black Japanese print dressing gown. She hugs Mum and plants a kiss
on her cheek. ‘You poor, poor thing.’ She pulls away from Mum. ‘But you’re looking well, you really
are.’ She glances over at me. ‘And who’s this?’

‘My daughter, Sophie,’ Mum says. ‘She’s come over from Greece.’

‘Greece. Fabulous.’

Mum turns to me. ‘This is Pamela, mother of the bride.’

‘I just love it – mother of the bride!’ She rolls her eyes at me. ‘It’s my youngest daughter, Sylvie,
who’s getting married. My eldest has sworn off marriage and is living in sin with a man twice her
age.’

Pamela is already in full make-up. Up close, when she kisses my cheek, I can see the tell-tale lines
around her eyes and the way her jawline is beginning to sag. Even so she’s a beautiful woman, confident
and unforgettable.

‘The girls are in Sylvie’s room,’ she says, ushering us upstairs.

The first floor hallway runs the length of the house, from east to west with the stairs in the centre.
Pamela leads us down the left-hand side corridor and we creak our way to the end room at the back of
the house.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Pamela says, before heading into another room.

We’re engulfed by women screeching, laughter and Britney Spears’ “Oops!... I Did It Again”. A
muddle of perfumes stick in my throat. Three girls are dancing around the room. It’s a teenager’s
bedroom with teddy bears propped on the bed and pictures of horses on the wall. As for the bride, I
wouldn’t put her past her early twenties.

‘Hi Leila,’ Sylvie says, still swirling. She’s a younger version of Pamela and sickeningly pretty, even
without a touch of make-up on.

‘It’s a pink theme,’ Mum whispers. ‘I tried everything to dissuade them.’ She shrugs. ‘It’s their
wedding, their photos.’

Pink it certainly is. Sylvie’s dress on first glance is cream, but a fitted bodice leads my
eye towards a full skirt with swirls of pink chiffon sewn on to the cream satin. Her hair is
strawberry blonde, almost certainly dyed, as it’s too perfect and obvious a colour to be
natural.

Mum unloads a bag heaving with foundation, lipsticks, eye shadow and blusher. There’s commotion
at the dressing table with the first bridesmaid until Mum gets herself on the right level to do the girl’s
make-up.

Sylvie twirls towards me. ‘Hi.’ She holds out her left hand and I shake it, aware of her
engagement ring with a diamond the size of a cherry glinting at me. ‘Are you doing our make-up
too?’

‘No. Mum only trusts me with the flowers.’ Any memories Mum might have of encouraging me,
aged twelve, to experiment with make-up when I would rather have smeared my face with mud
probably don’t help.

‘You can start putting the table arrangements in the marquee, Sophie,’ Mum says.

‘It’s going to look so totally amazing out there,’ Sylvie says.

‘What music shall I put on now?’ One of the bridesmaids calls across the room.

Pamela pokes her head round the door. ‘Anyone for Bucks Fizz?’

I escape the singing and constant squirt of perfume and leave Mum to transform Sylvie and her two
pink-cheeked bridesmaids. The bridesmaids are more fortunate than Sylvie. Their dusky pink
floor-length skirts and bodices are actually quite flattering.

The house is intriguing and doesn’t quite fit with an over-the-top pink wedding. The
decorations and furniture betray the owner’s tastes: alongside fireplaces and wood-panelled
walls are white leather sofas and flowery wallpaper that overpower the history. I’d love
to explore it, to rip away the modern touch and discover the past. Back in the entrance
hall, I find the hallway that leads to the rear of the house. My footsteps on the flagstones
merge with the voices and laughter echoing from other parts of the house. I slip silently out
of the back door and on to a patio the size of our entire back garden in Hazel Road. It
is weed-free and the stone looks polished, as if someone’s given it a good scrub. A raised
border divides the patio from the lawn. The marquee is huge and white, with pink balloons
hanging above the entrance. It’s set in the middle of a large lawn that reaches towards
weeping willows and a meandering river at the end of the garden. The grass looks newly
laid. With no moss, weeds, daisies or clover, it looks artificial but is spongy underfoot.
The grass in Greece shrivels in the sun and is constantly trampled on by customers and
children playing. I feel I should take my shoes off and not ruin it; it’s like walking on a new
carpet.

It’s warm inside the marquee and it will be warmer by the time the guests arrive. Two girls in black
trousers and fitted white shirts are laying the tables round the dance floor. I set a centrepiece of
miniature pink and cream roses on each table and place two larger ones on the head table,
next to jars of dolly mixtures, jelly babies and flying saucers. There are bottles of pink
champagne to wash everything down and even the place names are handwritten on pink
cards.

By the time I’ve finished in the marquee, the two girls are putting up tables and chairs on the lawn.
Music floats from an upstairs window and when I recognise Rihanna’s “Umbrella” I presume it must be
Sylvie’s room. I go back through the house and meet Pamela at the bottom of the stairs. Still
in her dressing gown she clasps two champagne glasses. Her long nails are now shocking
pink.

‘Sweetheart,’ she says. ‘I was coming to find you.’ She hands me one of the glasses. ‘Buck’s Fizz.
We’ll start the day as we mean to go on.’ She pulls me to one side. ‘Leila’s an absolute trouper. I told
her that man of hers was no good. To think what could have happened. I’m sorry for the poor guy
but at least she’s shot of him now. She needs someone decent. Someone to take care of
her.’

‘She’s never expected a man to look after her.’

‘Tsch, tsch,’ she says, leaning towards me. Her hazelnut eyes are framed by lashes thick with black
mascara. ‘We’ll see.’

It doesn’t take long to empty the back seat of the remaining flowers. There are more cars in the
drive now, more family members filling the house with laughter and chatter. I take the
buttonholes and Sylvie’s bouquet up to her room. Hairspray clouds the air masking the
perfume. It resembles an impromptu karaoke bar with hairbrushes in place of mikes as the two
bridesmaids sing along to Abba at the top of their voices. The Buck’s Fizz is certainly
flowing. Mum is curling Sylvie’s hair. She glances up at me, raises her eyebrows and shrugs
towards the two girls. Pamela is clapping along to the music. This is my idea of hell. I was
never the kind of girl to dream of white, let alone pink weddings, or to have named my
future children by the age of thirteen. I always thought there was something twisted about
schoolgirls discussing how many kids they were going to have before they’d even kissed a
boy.

‘Do you need any help?’ I ask Mum over the noise.

‘No,’ she says through a mouthful of hairpins.

‘I’ll check outside again.’ I leave the noise and fumes and head back through the house and into the
garden. The grass slopes towards the riverbank. I crouch down and let the coolness of the fast-flowing
water caress my hand. Forget everything that’s going on behind me, this is the centrepiece of
the garden. The sound of the water trickling over rocks is soothing. A dragonfly hovers
millimetres above the water. My fingers are frozen and I shiver. The sun is shining but
weak; the breeze wraps itself round me and through the slender branches of the willow
trees.

I sit cross-legged on the grassy bank and phone Alekos.

‘Hi stranger,’ I say when he answers. ‘I tried calling you yesterday.’

‘I know. I had a meeting at the bank.’

‘Oh?’

‘I had to work straight after,’ he says.

‘Are you working today?’

‘What do you think?’

I ignore his comment. ‘I’ve been helping Mum.’

‘Doing what?’

‘The flowers for this wedding. You should see it, all pink and showy. Your Mum would love
it.’

Our conversation dissolves into silence. A boat with peeling white paint is moored on the other
bank. I wonder where the river would take me if I set sail. Out into the wild, unpredictable North
Sea?

‘I’d like to be my own boss, like Mum is,’ I say. ‘Run my own kitchen one day.’

‘Look, Sophie, I can’t talk long,’ Alekos says.

‘I know, you’re busy.’

‘When I said about coming home, it’s because I miss you. I’m hoping you’ll be home for your
birthday.’

The light from my mobile dies as he hangs up. I hadn’t given my birthday a thought. It’s next
Sunday, a week tomorrow. I’ll have been here three weeks by then.

‘Sophie!’ Mum’s voice calls across the garden. ‘I’m done.’

She’s standing next to Pamela who has changed into a suit even more shocking pink than her nails.
I slowly walk over to them, leaving behind tranquillity for fake glamour.

‘You’ve both done a super job,’ Pamela says, linking her arms with ours.

‘Promise me you’ll come back this evening and have a drink or two with us.’

‘We’d love to,’ Mum says.

Pamela leads us through the house and out on to the driveway where a number of people have
gathered. The men of the family are smart in grey suits with waistcoats the colour of the bridesmaid’s
outfits.

The BMW on the drive has been dressed with pink ribbon ready for Pamela and the two
bridesmaids. There’s a horse and carriage waiting for Sylvie and her father, smart in his top hat. The
grey horse flicks its tail and pounds the gravel impatiently with its hoof before they move off in a
convoy towards the church and Sylvie’s husband-to-be.

Back at
Salt Cottage
Mum sleeps for a couple of hours. She looks drained, the busyness of this morning
and the past couple of days finally catching up with her. At seven, as befits the planner of a pink
wedding, Mum chooses her outfit to match the flower arrangements: a pale pink knee-length skirt and
cream top; she even finds a pink necklace.

‘There’s not a lot I can do about this bloody leg,’ she says, looking at her white cast in the
full-length mirror. ‘I’m going to need my other leg waxing soon.’

Even with a broken leg she looks more glamorous than I do. I make do with cream linen trousers, a
halter neck top and a cardigan borrowed from Mum because I feel exposed with autumn definitely in
the air.

We miss out on the three-course dinner, the speeches and the toasts to the bride and groom, but
make it back in time for the jazz band, dancing and the buffet. The pink theme continues into the
night. The trees lining the edge of the garden and river are floodlit with a pink gel, turning the leaves a
strange colour. Tall lanterns flicker light across the patio where a never-ending supply of drinks is
available.

Sylvie’s mother and new mother-in-law are trying to outdo each other: Pamela in fuchsia pink to
match – or more likely from what I’ve seen of her – upstage her daughter. The mother-in-law’s dress is
bright turquoise, with a matching feathered hat. They both remind me of a version of the
woman I met on the plane. They have the same immaculate hair, make-up and clothes.
But there’s something ever so insincere about both of them. Rula wasn’t like that. Her
look was effortless and understated and there was a woman beneath I really wanted to
get to know. I don’t feel like that with these two. Would it be the same with Mum and
Despina?

To the left of the marquee there’s a popcorn and candyfloss stand. Guests have spilled out on to the
lawn clutching thin-stemmed glasses of pink champagne. The photographer is still here, trying to get
as many different combinations of family and friends together as possible. I even see him
make the two poor bridesmaids jump into the air and land on spongy grass in five-inch
heels.

Sylvie is tipsy; she concentrates hard putting one heeled foot in front of the other as she walks
towards me. ‘Isn’t this the most incredible day,’ she says, leaning on me. ‘I’m so lucky. I’m going to the
Maldives tomorrow. I chose the holiday. Mattie was happy as long as he could watch football. He can
watch football while I sunbathe.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘My best friend said I was too young to get
married.’

Her arm is heavy around my shoulders. ‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-two. She’s just jealous. It’s only because she’ll be losing her pulling partner.’ She turns to
me. ‘What do you think?’

Her breath stinks of peach schnapps and garlic chicken from the buffet. I shrug. ‘If you love him,
what difference does it make?’

‘Exactly. Are you in love?’

‘I am, but we’ve lost our way.’

She frowns and her arm drops from my shoulder. ‘Come and dance.’

‘No thanks, I’d best find Mum and I’m sure your husband will be wondering where you
are.’

She gives me a wave and makes her way slowly from the patio towards the marquee.

‘Only the best for my princess,’ Sylvie’s father says as she joins him. He’s smoking a cigar and
talking to his new son-in-law who’s built like a rugby player.

‘Did you get me a drink, sweetheart?’ Mattie says.

‘Oops, I forgot!’

Sylvie’s father is still talking, loud enough for everyone around him to hear. ‘I wanted a bigger
marquee. But that’s the largest one they do. About
£
4000 with the lighting.’

I look around at the strangers’ faces in conversation on the patio, at three little girls in
pink dresses dancing in a circle by the candyfloss stand. Pamela is laughing loudly with
an elderly couple and I spy the best man by the river kissing a lanky brunette in a red
dress. Mum’s alone on a bench beneath one of the willow trees. I walk over and sit beside
her.

‘Why do people throw ridiculous amounts of money into a wedding when it’s clear it’s all going to
go wrong,’ I say.