AllFreeNovel
Share Us
1
Francescahated weddings.
Numberone: they were a waste of money.Evenjust being a guest these days was a major investment: the outfit, the hat, the hotel, the gift, not to mention the hen and stag dos.Attendingtwo weddings per year would bankrupt most twenty-somethings.Andthe couples…so many started their married life in debt because they spent too much money on items like personalised wedding favours destined for landfill.
Numbertwo: the drama, in the form of (but not excluded to) drunken brawls,Bridezillas, jealous bridesmaids, horny groomsmen, and over-bearing parents.
Numberthree: weddings wereboring.Samething every time.Thecouple says the vows before having a meal and making everyone sit through speeches downloaded from theInternet.Thenthey do a crappy dance and cut a dry cake that costs more than a holiday toIbiza.Andsometimes, there were fireworks.
Numberfour, and the thingFrancescahated most about weddings: she’d probably never have one herself.
Shelooked up at the wooden pub sign, creaking in a light summer breeze:TheBleedingHart, featuring a charming picture of a deer with its insides ripped out by a smiling hunter.Whata fitting place to meet the groom and his party, a group of virile men celebrating the thrill of conquest.Shesympathised with the deer.
Anuncomfortable ache radiated from her middle, and she inhaled deeply through her nose.Shemade a littleOwith her mouth and pretended to blow out a candle—a technique she’d learned from aYouTubevideo.Apparentlyit was a breathing technique that helped women in labour.IthelpedFrancesca, too.Helpedher breathe through the pain that rippled through her, even with the co-codamol taking the edge off.
Frowningat the sign, she readjusted the bag full of video equipment weighing down her shoulder.
Eighthours.Onlyeight hours and it would be done.Eighthours and she could go home to curl up with a hot water bottle.
Asshe worked up the resolve to go inside, a man in a football jersey stubbed out a smouldering cigarette on the pub wall and chirped at her, ‘Cheerup, love.Itmight never happen.’
Shestopped and cocked her head to the side.Benice,Francesca, she told herself.He’sjust trying to flirt with you in his own twisted, ineffectual way.
‘Fuckoff, twat face,’ she said.
Closeenough.
Francescalifted her lips into a practised smile and yanked the door open.
Friendlychatter washed over her as she entered the swankyEastEndpub.Itwas working hard for that historic public house look: dark wooden beams treated to seem three centuries old, paintings of men in wigs with their hunting dogs acquired from ye olde boot sale, lots of brass.Tossers.Asa woman, the decor almost repelled her.Castye out, oh child ofEve!Herebe the den of men.
Hereyes landed on the groom straightaway: dark hair and manic eyes, standing at the gleaming mahogany bar with someDutchCouragein hand, surrounded by men in matching grey tails, pink cravats, and top hats.Theylooked like an advert forMossBros.Sooriginal.Shepursed her lips hard to stop her eyes from rolling.
Shewalked towards him.Asshe got closer, the stale beer smell oozing from the carpets was replaced by a soupy mix of colognes. ‘Hey,Robert.’
‘Francesca!’Hekissed her on each cheek, which she tolerated.Shewasn’t a fan of other people invading her space.
‘Howare you feeling?’Shesmiled like she cared.
‘Oh, you know.Havingmy last drink as a free man.’Helaughed.Shelaughed.
‘Great.Um, soIjust need to mic you up.’
Sheloathed this part.Itinvolved feeding a wire through the groom’s jacket and attaching a lavalier under his corsage.Shealways performed the manoeuvre as professionally as possible, with minimal contact, and yetFrancescawas willing to bet there would be at least one lewd comment from the groom’s party.
Withthe mic in place, she asked the groom to do a routine soundcheck. ‘Robert, could you tell me what you had for breakfast?’
Shecould practically feel it coming when the best man leaned in and said, ‘Jenny!’Heslapped the groom on the back, andRobertthrewFrancescaan embarrassed smile while snickering along with his mates.
Soclever, you see, becauseJennyis the bride.Getit?Shebit her tongue.Howmany hours were left until she could go home?
Turningthe groom towards the door, she flipped up the tails of his morning coat, so she could attach the mic pack to his waistband.Themetal clip could be sticky, so she had to fiddle with it to get it open.Asshe did that, the tails of his coat kept slipping down to cover it, making her job harder.
Justas she managed to get it on, a new, deep voice joined the crowd. ‘Hi,Robert.Allgood?’
‘Krish!’ said the groom.Francescafroze, her eyes fixating on the way the back of the groom’s jacket rippled as he shook hands with the newcomer.
Herheart pumped adrenaline through her.She’dknown this day would come.Thewedding industry was small.Itwas inevitable that one day she’d find herself shooting a job alongside her ex-boyfriend.
