Wedding Night
Page 42
“And what does Ben do, exactly?”
“Dunno.” She holds up a pair of knickers that untie at the back. “Something or other.”
I resist an urge to yell, You’re getting married to him and you don’t even know what he does?
I get out my BlackBerry and type in Ben—Lorcan—Decree?
“What’s Ben’s surname?”
“Parr. I’ll be Lottie Parr. Isn’t that lovely?”
Ben Parr.
I tap at my BlackBerry, peer at the screen, and do a fake gasp. “Oh goodness. I forgot all about that. Actually, Lottie, I’m not sure I’ve got time for lunch, after all. I’d better go. Have fun shopping.” I give her a hug. “Talk to you later. And … congratulations!”
My bright smile lasts all the way out of the underwear department. Before I’ve even got to the lifts, I’m on Google, typing Ben Parr. Ben Parr, my potential new brother-in-law. Who the hell is he?
By the time I get back to my office, I’ve Googled Ben Parr as extensively as I can manage on my phone, but I haven’t found any company called Decree, only a bunch of entries about a Ben Parr who does stand-up comedy. Badly, according to the reviews. Is that him?
Great. A failed stand-up. My favorite kind of brother-in-law.
At last I find an entry which mentions a Ben Parr in a news item about a paper company called Dupree Sanders. He has some made-up title like Strategic Overview Consultant. I type in Ben Parr Dupree Sanders, and a million new entries appear. Dupree Sanders is clearly a thing. A big company. Here’s the home page … and sure enough, a page pops up with his picture and a little bio, which I scan. Having worked with his father as a young man, Ben Parr was delighted to rejoin Dupree Sanders in 2011, in a strategic role … genuine passion for the business … Since his father’s death, he is even more dedicated to the future of the company.
I lean toward the screen and scan the photo intently, trying to get a sense of this man who is zooming like a torpedo toward being related to me. He’s good-looking, I’ll have to agree. Boyish-looking. Slim. Affable. Not sure about his mouth. It looks kind of weak.
After a bit, the pixels start to dance in front of my eyes, so I sit back and type in Lorcan Dupree Sanders.
A moment later another page pops up, with a photo of a very different-looking man. Dark, thrusting hair, black eyebrows, and a frown. Strong, slightly beaky nose. He looks fairly forbidding. Underneath the picture it says, Lorcan Adamson. Extension 310. Lorcan Adamson practiced law in London before joining Dupree Sanders in 2008 … responsible for many initiatives … developed the luxury stationery brand Papermaker … worked with the National Trust to expand the visitor center … committed to sustainable, responsible industry …
A lawyer. Let’s hope he’s the rational, reasonable type, not the arrogant asshole type. I dial the number, simultaneously clicking on my emails.
“Lorcan Adamson.” The voice that answers is so deep and gravelly, I drop my mouse in surprise. Surely that’s not a real voice. It sounds made up.
“Hello?” he says again, and I stifle a giggle. This guy has a film-trailer voice. It’s that deep-down rumbly, subwoofer voice you hear as you’re scarfing down popcorn, waiting for your movie to begin.
We thought the world was safe. We thought the universe was ours. Till THEY came.
“Hello?” The gravelly voice comes again.
In a desperate fight against time, one girl must break the code—
“Hi. Er … hi.” I try to assemble my thoughts. “Is this Lorcan Adamson?”
“It’s he.”
From Academy Award–winning director—
No. Stop, Fliss. Concentrate.
“Right. Right. Yes.” I hastily compose myself. “Well, I think we need to speak. My name is Felicity Graveney. My sister is called Lottie.”
“Ah.” There’s a sudden animation to his voice. “Well, excuse my French, but what the fuck is going on here? Ben just called me. Apparently he and your sister are getting married?”
Two things I pick up straightaway. First: he has a faint Scottish accent. Second: he’s not keen on the whole marriage idea either. Thank God. Another voice of reason.
“Exactly!” I say. “And you’re best man? I have no idea how this came about, but I was thinking maybe we could get together and—”
“And what? Plan the table decorations?” He talks right over me. “I have no idea how your sister talked Ben into this ridiculous plan, but I’m afraid I’m going to do everything I can to stop it, whether you and your sister like it or not.”
“Dunno.” She holds up a pair of knickers that untie at the back. “Something or other.”
I resist an urge to yell, You’re getting married to him and you don’t even know what he does?
I get out my BlackBerry and type in Ben—Lorcan—Decree?
“What’s Ben’s surname?”
“Parr. I’ll be Lottie Parr. Isn’t that lovely?”
Ben Parr.
I tap at my BlackBerry, peer at the screen, and do a fake gasp. “Oh goodness. I forgot all about that. Actually, Lottie, I’m not sure I’ve got time for lunch, after all. I’d better go. Have fun shopping.” I give her a hug. “Talk to you later. And … congratulations!”
My bright smile lasts all the way out of the underwear department. Before I’ve even got to the lifts, I’m on Google, typing Ben Parr. Ben Parr, my potential new brother-in-law. Who the hell is he?
By the time I get back to my office, I’ve Googled Ben Parr as extensively as I can manage on my phone, but I haven’t found any company called Decree, only a bunch of entries about a Ben Parr who does stand-up comedy. Badly, according to the reviews. Is that him?
Great. A failed stand-up. My favorite kind of brother-in-law.
At last I find an entry which mentions a Ben Parr in a news item about a paper company called Dupree Sanders. He has some made-up title like Strategic Overview Consultant. I type in Ben Parr Dupree Sanders, and a million new entries appear. Dupree Sanders is clearly a thing. A big company. Here’s the home page … and sure enough, a page pops up with his picture and a little bio, which I scan. Having worked with his father as a young man, Ben Parr was delighted to rejoin Dupree Sanders in 2011, in a strategic role … genuine passion for the business … Since his father’s death, he is even more dedicated to the future of the company.
I lean toward the screen and scan the photo intently, trying to get a sense of this man who is zooming like a torpedo toward being related to me. He’s good-looking, I’ll have to agree. Boyish-looking. Slim. Affable. Not sure about his mouth. It looks kind of weak.
After a bit, the pixels start to dance in front of my eyes, so I sit back and type in Lorcan Dupree Sanders.
A moment later another page pops up, with a photo of a very different-looking man. Dark, thrusting hair, black eyebrows, and a frown. Strong, slightly beaky nose. He looks fairly forbidding. Underneath the picture it says, Lorcan Adamson. Extension 310. Lorcan Adamson practiced law in London before joining Dupree Sanders in 2008 … responsible for many initiatives … developed the luxury stationery brand Papermaker … worked with the National Trust to expand the visitor center … committed to sustainable, responsible industry …
A lawyer. Let’s hope he’s the rational, reasonable type, not the arrogant asshole type. I dial the number, simultaneously clicking on my emails.
“Lorcan Adamson.” The voice that answers is so deep and gravelly, I drop my mouse in surprise. Surely that’s not a real voice. It sounds made up.
“Hello?” he says again, and I stifle a giggle. This guy has a film-trailer voice. It’s that deep-down rumbly, subwoofer voice you hear as you’re scarfing down popcorn, waiting for your movie to begin.
We thought the world was safe. We thought the universe was ours. Till THEY came.
“Hello?” The gravelly voice comes again.
In a desperate fight against time, one girl must break the code—
“Hi. Er … hi.” I try to assemble my thoughts. “Is this Lorcan Adamson?”
“It’s he.”
From Academy Award–winning director—
No. Stop, Fliss. Concentrate.
“Right. Right. Yes.” I hastily compose myself. “Well, I think we need to speak. My name is Felicity Graveney. My sister is called Lottie.”
“Ah.” There’s a sudden animation to his voice. “Well, excuse my French, but what the fuck is going on here? Ben just called me. Apparently he and your sister are getting married?”
Two things I pick up straightaway. First: he has a faint Scottish accent. Second: he’s not keen on the whole marriage idea either. Thank God. Another voice of reason.
“Exactly!” I say. “And you’re best man? I have no idea how this came about, but I was thinking maybe we could get together and—”
“And what? Plan the table decorations?” He talks right over me. “I have no idea how your sister talked Ben into this ridiculous plan, but I’m afraid I’m going to do everything I can to stop it, whether you and your sister like it or not.”
