Stuck On You Page 14

  ‘That’s what it is,’ he says. ‘That’s what I can see in the pictures. Their history. They wear it in their smiles and their scars and look how happy they are. When I looked into Mackie’s eyes in the photos I took I just saw a dark, empty void. There was nothing to see but darkness – and I still wanted to look away. But in this picture… there’s love.’

  ‘Well, love is easier to find than an interesting portrayal of a wife murderer,’ I point out. ‘Mackie is just a dark hole – whether he did it or not, there’s nothing to see when you look at him.’

  Damian stops on the spot.

  ‘I should be capturing love,’ he announces. ‘Not hate, not poverty, not abuse. I’ve done enough of that. Maybe it’s time I showed people something new? Maybe that’s why I’m struggling. I need something fresh. Oh, come on, don’t laugh at me, Sadie.’

  ‘I’m not laughing at you,’ I tell him. ‘I’m laughing at one hell of a coincidence.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, what’s that?’ he asks.

  ‘The date your preview is due to open,’ I say, but it doesn’t trigger anything.

  ‘What’s the date?’

  ‘February 14th,’ I remind him. ‘Valentine’s Day.’

  ‘OK, that’s it, it’s a sign. I’m doing it. I’m capturing true love – and not just romantic love; I want families, people with their dogs, people doing things that they love, so long as it’s real.’

  ‘I like it,’ I tell him. ‘No, wait, I love it.’

  Damian shuffles on the spot a little.

  ‘Is it too much of a departure?’ he asks. ‘Will people think I’ve gone soft? That I’ve lost my edge?’

  ‘Look at that photo again and you tell me.’

  ‘I love it,’ he says.

  ‘Well, there you go, the Yule Cat isn’t going to be eating you this Christmas,’ I say with a smile.

  I’m not only happy that Damian has found an idea, but I’m also so relieved I’m not going to be leaving him in the lurch, struggling with work, with no idea what he’s going to do. I am, maybe, just a little bit disappointed though. Well, in my year working with him, this was going to be my first show with him, and, annoyingly, I’m really excited about it now that it actually feels as if it’s going to happen. I’ve never seen him this excited about any of his ideas yet; this one feels different. It’s a shame I won’t get to see it through.

  ‘In fact, it sounds like you’ve done good work, so let’s go try some clothes on,’ I say, edging towards Pandora’s Boutique.

  ‘But what about the race? Don’t you want to win?’ he replies.

  ‘The prize is a trap. The winner gets to dress the table for Christmas dinner. The prize is work! We usually let my mum win, because she thinks it’s a genuine honour and way more fun than it is, but with her not joining in, the real winners will be the ones who don’t arrive home first.’

  Damian laughs.

  I won’t tell him that the last team to return home has to wear dorky Christmas accessories to the cinema on Christmas Eve. I’ll just try and make sure we’re not home first, but not home last either.

  ‘Your mum is great,’ he says. ‘OK, sure, let’s see what this shop has to offer.’

  ‘I absolutely love it here,’ I tell him as we head for the door. ‘I get loads of my cool, vintage stuff here. Either when I visit home or through their eBay shop. They get some really amazing stuff – stuff I could never afford but, when I’m home, it means I can at least try on the things I can’t afford. I suppose you won’t know the joy of doing that.’

  ‘Well, I’ll try on a dress that I couldn’t possibly wear with my manly, hairy legs – if that makes you feel better?’ he jokes.

  ‘That sounds fair,’ I reply.

  ‘Stranger,’ Erin says the second she claps eyes on me. She hurries out from behind the counter to give me a squeeze. This is either because I’m her biggest customer, or because we’re old friends. Probably the latter.

  ‘Hello,’ I say. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m great, I’m great,’ she replies. ‘Ugh, this girl never lets me down, in here every Christmas, putting food on my family’s table – and by family, I mean cats.’

  Damian laughs. I don’t think he knows what to say.

  ‘Look at me, talking to you like I know you,’ she tells him with a laugh as she runs a hand through her big, curly purple hair.

  Erin, who owns the shop, is probably somewhere in her forties. She’s a petite 5’3” but what she lacks in height she more than makes up for in accessories. Looking exactly as you would expect someone who owns a vintage boutique to, Erin is so cool, with a style that is completely her own. For Erin it’s all about intentional clashing. Mixing gold with silver, patterns with completely different patterns – basically breaking all of the rules we’re told we are supposed to follow.

  ‘This is Damian,’ I say. ‘Damian, this is Erin.’

  ‘And is he with you or did you bring him for me?’ she asks with a wiggle of her eyebrows.

  ‘He’s with me,’ I reply, but then I catch myself. ‘Well, he’s here with me, but he’s not with-me with me.’

  Smooth, Sadie. Really smooth.

  Erin just laughs.

  ‘Well, you know where the good stuff is. I trust you alone up there,’ she says with a wink. ‘Ring the bell if you need me.’

  ‘Will do, thank you,’ I say before turning to Damian. ‘This way.’

  I lead him to the back of the shop where there’s a doorway that leads up a very narrow staircase. The top floor is where Erin keeps the good stock – the things she doesn’t display on the shop floor because they sell online. Also up here is all the new stock, so I can have my pick of all of it before she puts it out, which is like a dream come true. Shopping is one of the main things I miss the most about living here. Oh, after my family, obviously…

  The large attic room is a series of shelves and rails. In the centre of the room there is a rail for a curtain, allowing a little privacy for trying things on. Up here the rails are sorted by decade so I start rifling through them, one at a time.

  ‘Why do I feel like I’m in your wardrobe?’ Damian asks with a laugh.

  ‘Oh, I wish,’ I reply. ‘I couldn’t do what Erin does for a living. I’d just want to keep everything.’

  ‘Good job your job is to hold my hand or you’d be skint,’ he replies.

  ‘I might be anyway, there’s so much good stuff here today,’ I say as I grab a few more items. ‘You can see the sea through that window.’

  As I point out where to get the best view I pull the curtain closed between us.

  ‘I’ll just try a couple of things on,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry, I’m such an efficient clothes shopper.’

  ‘Take your time,’ he replies. ‘I could probably look out of this window all day.’

  I cycle through a few items before deciding which two to get. Obviously I want to buy all of it but I need to show some restraint.

  As I whip the curtain back Damian turns around.

  ‘Oh, don’t I get to see?’ he says.

  ‘Erm…’ I laugh. ‘I didn't think you’d care.’

  ‘Are you buying anything?’

  ‘Yeah, this lime-green 1950s tea dress, and a leopard-print Calvin Klein dress from the nineties.’ I hold them both up for him to see. ‘Let it never be said that I’m not versati… oh my God.’

  ‘What?’ Damian asks. ‘What is it?’

  I peer down into the cabinet next to me. It’s an old wooden cabinet with a glass top that is locked shut with a padlock.

  ‘This is my dream handbag,’ I blurt. I realise how stupid that sounds – who dreams about a handbag? But bags like these are precisely the ones you do dream about, because normal people don’t carry them. The way I see it, with designer handbags, is like this: some people can never afford a bag like this, some people could technically have the cash to pay for a bag like this, but, unless you are rich, you don’t just have spare thousands of pounds to sink into a handbag. Never carry or
wear anything you couldn’t afford to lose.

  ‘Ah, yes, the much sought-after black bag,’ Damian says sarcastically. ‘Nice.’

  ‘Watch your mouth,’ I joke with a fake gasp. ‘This is a black Hermès bag, and the reason I love it so much is because it’s a handbag that turns into a backpack.’

  ‘You gonna buy it?’ he asks.

  ‘Ha!’ I cackle. ‘That is maybe two grand of handbag right there. I don’t think so. I’ll stick to my dresses.’

  As we head back towards the winding staircase I notice a mannequin with a flat cap on.

  ‘We should get you that for tomorrow,’ I tell him. ‘That’s not so bad.’

  Damian stops in his tracks in front of me.

  ‘Why would I need that for tomorrow?’ he quizzes me.

  ‘Erm, let me pay for these and then we’ll take the scenic route home,’ I tell him. ‘You and I need to have a chat about Dickens Day.’

  ‘Oh, God, Dickens Day… everyone is making me think I am not going to like Dickens Day.’

  I can pretty much guarantee that he’s going to hate it but, if you come for the Kirke family Christmas, this is all part of the package. And, hey, I should look on the bright side. If he hates it as much as I think he’s going to, he’ll probably sack me. Then I won’t even need to give my notice. For some reason the thought of doing so gets harder every day.

  23

  When I say that my family take Christmas traditions seriously, I really can’t stress just how seriously that is, and when I say that my home town goes all out at Christmas, again, I don’t think I’m doing justice explaining just how full on it can be.

  So, when you factor these two things together, what do you get? My boss, standing in front of me, the moodiest I have ever seen him, dressed in the best spare Victorian outfit my mum had to offer him – because of course my mum has spare Victorian outfits.

  ‘This sucks,’ he says like a moody teen. ‘This sucks so much.’

  Damian is decked out in the works: a suit – complete with a waistcoat and cravat – finished off with a top hat that, I swear, is pushing down on his face, making his frown seem even more apparent.

  ‘You’re lucky the fake mutton chops wouldn’t stick on over your real beard,’ I tell him. ‘And that you’re not wearing a corset.’

  I rejig my outfit in an attempt to make my boobs feel less as if they’re being absorbed into my body – in a way that is most unbecoming of a lady from Victorian times.

  ‘I figured Dickens Day would just be, I don’t know, the day your family got together to watch A Christmas Carol,’ Damian says. ‘Not… this.’

  Damian raises his arms up by his sides, gesturing to our surroundings, just in case I haven’t noticed we are standing in the middle of the annual Dickensian Christmas Festival.

  I have attended the festival every single year of my life. Sure, it’s dorky, especially with the fact that everyone dresses up for it and that almost no one breaks character, but you can’t get much more Christmassy than everyone gathering on Main Street, dressed in their Victorian best, to eat roast chestnuts and drink mulled wine.

  Main Street is alive with people from the past. I’m looking around but I can’t see a single person in their regular clothes. Well, in a world with so much to worry about, what’s not to love about dressing up as something else, pretending you’re in a different time?

  The street is overflowing with people – a mixture of locals and tourists who travel for miles just to attend. It’s strange but plenty of people travel here, to spend the Christmas period in Marram Bay. Then again, I grew up here, in this Christmas-crazy town. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.

  To say my outfit is complex would be an understatement – chaotic is what it is. But there comes a time in a young woman’s life when her mum buys her the dress she’s going to wear to the Dickens festival every year, and this is the grown-up one my mum bought me when I finally stopped growing. What it lacks in comfort it makes up for in authenticity. A dress tightly corseted on top, with a rounded bell shape from the waist down. I don’t know how many petticoats I’m wearing – I always stop counting at four. They’re definitely keeping me warm. The icing on the cake for me, though, is surely the bonnet. But, boy, do I wear the heck out of this bonnet. As someone who is always experimenting with fashion – and who is used to doing this dance every year – I don’t mind it so much. Poor Damian though, he looks so uncomfortable… in more ways than one.

  ‘You don't have to wear it for long,’ I tell him.

  ‘Good,’ he replies quickly. 'You look sexy, I look stupid.’

  Damian telling me that I look sexy makes me feel self-conscious all of a sudden.

  ‘I say, is that a frown?’ one of the storytellers asks as he slinks up alongside Damian.

  The storytellers are people employed by the festival to walk around, fully in character, and tell people tales about the man himself.

  The storyteller in question is dressed as a chimney sweep. He’s tall and skinny, with black soot all over his face – well, I imagine it’s face paint really, but if he were to admit that they would probably take him to the town hall and hang him.

  ‘He’s not really into it,’ I tell the chimney sweep, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave us to it.

  ‘Oh?’ he replies. ‘How so?’

  ‘It’s a bit lame, isn’t it?’ Damian says pointlessly. Of course, this guy is going to disagree.

  ‘You think Charles Dickens is boring, do you?’ the chimney sweep asks. He sounds almost offended. ‘Well, let me tell you something about Dickens and see if we can’t change your mind. On 9th June, 1865, a fifty-three-year-old Charles Dickens was travelling home from France with his lover – and her mother – when the train they were on derailed while crossing a bridge. The carriage he was travelling in was hanging off the tracks, and others had fallen into the river below, but Dickens did his bit to save his fellow stranded passengers. Then, when he was done being a hero, he climbed back into the carriage to retrieve a recently completed instalment of Our Mutual Friend. Now, tell me, sir, is that lame?’

  Damian just stares at him, blinking a couple of times until the chimney sweep drops his shoulder and goes off to talk to someone else.

  ‘I think you just ruined his day,’ I tease Damian.

  ‘You know I hate street performers and party entertainers – the ones who bother you, even when you don’t want them to, when you’re clearly not into it,’ Damian admits once we’re alone again.

  ‘I know, I remember dragging you away from that magician at that party.’ I laugh. ‘Still, at least you can take lots of pictures for your real people exhibition.’

  Damian cocks his head thoughtfully.

  ‘Real people… I like that. I could call it Real People – what do you think?’

  ‘Sounds great,’ I tell him. It really does. I’m so sad I’m not going to get to see this one through with him.

  ‘Well, lame as this may be, it is great for photos so I’ll do a quick lap, see if anything catches my eye.’

  ‘OK, well, I’ll go find my mum – maybe if I tell her we have work to do we can duck out early,’ I suggest.

  ‘OK, sure, I’ll find you,’ Damian calls back to me as he dashes off eagerly, camera in hand.

  Top hat aside, I think he’s having more fun than he’s letting on.

  I’m about to try and locate the rest of my family in the sea of top hats and bonnets when the mulled wine stand catches my eye. Perhaps if I…

  ‘Sadie?’

  I turn around.

  ‘Oh my gosh, Ivy, hello,’ I say as I pull her in for a hug. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m great, thanks. How are you?’ she asks. ‘It’s so lovely to see you.’

  Ivy and I were friends all the way through school – such good friends, in fact, that I can only remember us falling out once, and even that was a misunderstanding caused by the causeway making me late for the Steps-themed birthday party she was having, but didn’t really want.


  We both had such clear ideas about what we wanted to do when we grew up. Of course, things never work out how you want them to when you’re a teenager, do they? I knew that I wanted to work in the art business, I wanted to marry my high-school boyfriend, have some babies, live happily ever after. It didn’t occur to me, at the time, that elements of my particular plan were never going to play well together.

  For Ivy it was all about cooking – mostly baking. She would absolutely smash it at food tech every time, which made everyone want to work with her, but she always chose me. Ivy’s dream was to open up a cute little cafe where she could sell her creations.

  ‘How are things?’ she asks. ‘Was that a handsome southerner I heard you talking with when I walked over? I have one of those – he’s over there, by the chestnuts, frowning. He hates stuff like this.’

  ‘Mine too.’ I laugh. ‘Well, he’s not mine… my southerner, I mean. The southerner that is here with me.’

  Ivy looks confused.

  ‘Oh, is he not your boyfriend? Sorry,’ she says. ‘I just assumed…’

  ‘He’s my boss,’ I tell her. ‘He’s taking pictures here.’

  I realise I’m being quite creative with the truth but, well, at this stage I think people are starting to feel more embarrassed than I am when I try to explain what we’re doing spending Christmas together.

  ‘At least it sounds like you got your dream job,’ she says with a smile.

  ‘Actually, I’m quitting,’ I say with a really dorky laugh. ‘I’m leaving for another one though – a better one – an assistant curator, which is definitely a foot on the ladder I need to be climbing. How are things at the shop?’

  Ivy runs the local Christmas shop, Christmas Every Day. There’s something so fascinating about a Christmas shop that is open all year round. Luckily Ivy loves all things Christmas, and always has. I’m not sure I’d have the stomach for listening to ‘Jingle Bells’ every day.

  ‘Oh, haven’t you heard? We’ve branched out. I have my own cafe now. Finally, after years of slaving away in the shop, my dreams have come true! I had a lot of help from my fiancé over there but, well, that’s the perks of being a team, right?’