Dylan kindly ignored my flustered demeanour, probably well used to his effect on women, engaged or otherwise. ‘Yes. She talks tough, but she loves her choir. Refuses to let them settle for anything but the best.’
‘The best singing?’
‘That too.’
We pondered that thought for a minute. Helmet – Hester – stood on the other side of the room, frowning as she listened to a young Asian woman wearing a headscarf and a long, black cardigan with grey jeans.
‘You wanted to see the minister?’
‘Yes. I’m looking for a wedding venue.’
I pretended that I imagined the micro-flash of surprise on his face. I tried with reasonable success to believe my new, swanky haircut and expensive clothes hid the underlying truth about my utter lack of respectability, but the rapidly concealed expression was a punch to my guts. First Hester, now this bloke. Was this a magic church that revealed my hidden secrets to all of the staff? Did God tell them?
‘This isn’t most brides’ first choice. Not those that aren’t members anyway. They tend to prefer the C of E. It makes for better pictures. And fits more people in. Why did you pick Grace Chapel? You don’t live in the village, do you?’
‘Not currently, no. And I’d rather discuss that with the minister, when he finally turns up.’ I heard the snap in my voice, and tried to wind my wedding-plan irritation back in. This was supposed to be a fun day. And it was only my fantasy wedding, after all. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just… private. Andchurches make me nervous. I can’t help finding all the holiness a bit creepy.’
He shrugged, smiling to indicate no offence taken. ‘Why don’t I show you the chapel?’
‘Thank you. That would be great. I’ll grab my friend.’
We spent a few minutes wandering around the hall while the caretaker pointed out the relevant features: where the bride and groom usually sat, where the register was signed, and so on. The room didn’t look ugly as much as boring. Plain, white walls and ceiling, with one faded banner hanging in between the two narrow windows on one side. More red-cushioned chairs – ten rows of eight; a parquet floor and another piano. Some shelves at the back stuffed with books and that was about it.
Marilyn prowled up and down the centre aisle. ‘Okay. We can make this intimate rather than cramped. Put some candles in the windowsills, hang fairy lights in the beams. Tiny bouquets of flowers on the ends of the rows?’ She carried on describing her ideas for how we would turn this from ‘dull to quaint’ and from ‘soulless to romantic sophistication’.
Dylan, now sprawled on a chair with his legs stretched out into the aisle, straightened up. ‘Excuse me? Soulless? A more sensitive man could get offended by that. This is a church.’
Marilyn flapped her hand at him. ‘Oh, you know what I mean. Is this minister bloke single? A crusty old bachelor?’
Dylan shook his head. ‘I’m not sure that’s relevant.’
‘It’s absolutely relevant as to why this place is so… stark.’
‘Stark? That’s a bit harsh.’
‘The room’s all about functionality. Where’s the heart, or the comfort? Anything that would make people other than cyborgs feel at home?’
‘Cyborgs?’
‘Sorry mate, this just isn’t the type of place anyone would want to spend time in if they didn’t have to. Ask the congregation.’
Dylan frowned and looked about, as though seeing the room for the first time. Marilyn was right, but we were strangers here, and her comments were pretty disrespectful.
‘Well, thanks for showing us round,’ I said, with a broad smile that would hopefully make up for Marilyn’s lack of tact. ‘It was very kind considering you’ve probably got much better things to do than listen to wedding plans. It doesn’t look like the minister’s going to show. Perhaps I’ll call and make an appointment.’
‘Although,’ Marilyn added, ‘if he’s always this late, it doesn’t bode well for the big day, does it?’
My embarrassment grew. ‘I’m sure he’s not, Marilyn. Ministers must have to deal with important, unexpected issues all the time. Maybe somebody died. Or had some terrible news. Or, or… maybe Hester made a mistake.’
Dylan shook his head. ‘No, Hester doesn’t make?—’
At that moment, the door opened and a man dressed in a dishevelled suit, one trainer and one house slipper burst into the room, instantly followed by a potent cloud of alcohol fumes.
‘Dylan!’ he slurred. ‘My car’s been stolen again!’ He shuddered violently and let out an anguished wail. ‘Why do they do it? Why me?’
Dylan strode over, putting his arm around the man’s shoulder. ‘Hey, now. Steady on. We’ll find your car. Sylvie’s probably driven it home. Let’s call her and find out.’
As he steered the weaving man out of the door, he turned and pulled an apologetic smile at us. ‘Sorry about this. If you look online, you’ll find our website. The contact details are all there if you’re still interested. Nice to meet you, Faith. And Faith’s friend.’
