“Right.” No service to attend, no Master of Ceremonies to boss us about. “So, where are we going then?” We were still striding across the gardens, after all.
“The bar. Where else?” Edward flashed me a grin, and I returned it.
Maybe the day wouldn’t be entirely awful, after all.
In the end, it was everything a pseudo wedding should be, until the after-dinner speeches.
I’d been sat, with a slightly less professional name plate, exactly where Edward had written me onto the table plan – just apart from the rest of the family, on an extra chair shoved in between some second cousins, Edward and my godfather.
Pat Norris had been the family lawyer long before he took responsibility for my religious upbringing, and we were all very fond of him. The fact that he retained us as clients, despite having retired to the Welsh coast years ago, suggested that he felt the same about us.
“How are things in Perth?” Pat asked, pouring me a glass of white wine from the ice bucket in the centre of the table.
“Fine.” I took a large gulp. “The usual. Busy.”
“I keep asking your grandfather when I’m going to see your name on a hardback in the shops. You were always determined to be a writer like him when you were little.”
Beside me, Edward had a curious eyebrow raised. Time to change the subject. “I don’t suppose Nathaniel mentioned his speech for today in any of these little chats?”
Pat shook his head. “He’s being most secretive. Not secretive enough that we don’t all know he’s planning something, of course…”
“Of course. What would be the point of that?” I turned to Edward. “Have you read the speech?”
Edward shook his head, but his eyes never left the top table, where Nathaniel was pulling out Isabelle’s chair for her. “But I’ve got a suspicion about what he’s going to say,” he murmured.
He wouldn’t say any more. And when, an hour or so later, Nathaniel clinked his fork against his glass and stood up to speak, I understood why.
“When I met Isabelle, over fifty years ago now, she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. As you can see from looking at her today, that hasn’t changed.” Nathaniel reached down to touch Isabelle’s hand, and my grandmother made an attempt at a modest look down at the table. At the family table, I saw Therese roll her eyes.
“Fifty years of marriage is a huge achievement for anyone,” Nathaniel went on, pulling away from his wife and addressing his audience head on. “And I cannot claim that it has always been an easy journey.” I winced, and Edward patted my hand where it rested on the table.
“It’s not going to get any better,” Edward murmured in what he may have misguidedly thought was a comforting tone. “You might want to pour yourself some more wine.” I took his advice.
“But, as all writers know, that’s where the best stories lie – in the trials and the tribulations, the scandal and the betrayals. And what is life, if not our greatest story?”
All of a sudden, I had a terrible premonition of where this was going. “He’s not planning to…” I started to say, but Edward put one long finger to his lips and shushed me, a crooked smile on his face.
“Which is why it gives me great pleasure to announce, here, in front of all the friends and family who have gossiped about us over the years, that you will finally have the opportunity to find out the truth behind the legends – and all for the low price of eighteen ninety-nine, I expect.”
Rustling and whispering ran around the tables, and Isabelle had a rictus grin fixed on her perfectly made-up face. Two tables over, Ellie was whispering urgently in Mum’s ear.
“I can see most of you have caught on by now,” Nathaniel boomed, amusement in his voice. “That’s right – the next book I publish will be my own memoirs. An accurate, and hopefully entertaining, rendition of my life, my marriage, my family and my work – not that I think any of you will be reading it to find out about my writing habits!” There was a ripple of laughter among the outer lying tables – the ones occupied by people who knew they wouldn’t appear between the pages of Nathaniel’s memory.
“I have found, however, that writing an autobiography requires a different mindset to that of fiction. The research, surprisingly, is far more in depth, as I desperately try to remember the name of my first cousin – the one who got shot in Chicago – or who else attended the party we threw upon moving in to Rosewood.” He didn’t even glance down at Isabelle as he said that, but her face grew even tighter and more still. Was that the party he’d been talking about in the tree house? How much of what he’d told me had been story – and what on earth was the truth?
“It became quickly apparent to me that I needed a research assistant. But, as my family will testify, I haven’t had the best of luck with assistants in the past.” Another chuckle, from those who’d heard the stories of past assistants, but not from those of us who’d actually lived through it. Edward, I noticed, had refilled his own wine glass, and was drinking it steadily down.
“What I needed this time, I realised, was someone who understood what I was trying to do, someone with experience in this field. Someone who could turn my recollections into true biography.” Nathaniel looked over in our direction. “Well, stand up, boy! Everyone, I’d like you to meet my collaborator in this project. The esteemed biographer and excellent writer in his own right, Edward Hollis.”
As soon as I heard the name, I wondered why I’d not figured it out sooner. No author pictures on the covers of his books, I suppose. Edward staggered awkwardly to his feet, very briefly, before dropping back down in his chair. Esteemed biographer indeed, I thought. The name Edward Hollis was synonymous with unflinching accuracy and truth, even in his biographies of national heroes and historical giants. No one ever came out sparkling clean in a Hollis biography, but no subject could ever claim defamation or slander. He might ruin careers and reputations, but Edward Hollis was scrupulously truthful and fair.
And I was terrified what truths he would find to tell of us.
I turned to ask him what the hell was going on, but Edward was already halfway across the marquee, headed towards the bar.
“Did you know he was going to do this?” Therese asked, dropping into Edward’s suddenly vacated seat. I peered around her and saw Nathaniel collaring his collaborator saying, “Edward! Come meet Cecil.” My grandfather, at least, was in his element.
“No idea,” I said, topping up the wine glass she’d brought with her. “You don’t seem too bothered by it.”
Therese shrugged. “I know what he’ll say about me, about my life. Nothing he hasn’t said to my face over the years.”
“I wish I felt as confident.” Therese chuckled. Over at the next table, the rest of the family was holding what looked like an emergency summit. “Should we be part of that?”
Therese glanced over. “I wouldn’t. They’re bound to repeat themselves endlessly over the next few days anyway. Isabelle especially. In fact, if you really wanted, I could probably recite every one of her arguments for you right now. They all add up to ‘I don’t want my husband telling the unvarnished truth about me.’ You know your grandmother – hates to be seen without her stage make-up.” She took a suspiciously large gulp of wine. I got the feeling she wasn’t quite as unflustered by Nathaniel’s announcement as she wanted me to believe. “We’re not missing anything. May as well enjoy what’s left of the party.”
But as the evening wore on, I realised that something was missing – Edward. I glanced around the marquee, checking on each family member. Dad stood at the edge of the tent, Caro at his side, pointing up at various constellations. Mum sat nearby watching them, a glass of wine in her hand. Therese was chatting to the barman as he topped up her glass, and Isabelle was at the heart of a gaggle of her friends. Ellie and Greg were the last couple on the dance floor, lost in each other’s arms as they swayed to the music. I jerked my gaze away to find my grandfather in another corner, deep in conversation with Pat. Presumably they were discussing the legal
ramifications of his plans.
But Nathaniel’s collaborator was nowhere to be seen.
Hardly surprising, I supposed, since the tent was full of people who either wanted to yell at him for his part in the plan, or find out what secrets he knew. He’d lied to my family, by omission if nothing else. Right then, Edward was even less popular at Rosewood than I was.
The realisation sparked a sense of solidarity in me. I snatched up an almost full bottle of wine and set out to find Granddad’s biographer.
He wasn’t hard to find. On my way towards the terrace doors, I heard a large clunk from the Rose Garden and found Edward sitting on the bench, an empty wine bottle dropped on the shingle at his feet.
“Need some more?” I waved my bottle at him.
Edward looked cautious. “Have you come to yell at me too?”
“Family not happy with you?” I sat myself down beside him. “You do realise that I’m the only other person nearly as unwelcome here as you?”
Edward grabbed the bottle from me and took a gulp from the neck. “You’re family. You’re always welcome here. It’s your home.”
I shook my head and took the bottle back. “Even Greg practically told me to leave today.”
“Ah, but he just married in. He doesn’t count.”
We sat together in silence, passing the bottle between us and listening to the noises of the party. It was getting late; the sky was growing dark. “Surely they’ve got to go home soon,” Edward said, relaxing again after a couple of partygoers who’d strayed too close to our hiding place staggered back towards the drinks tent.