A Ballad of Confetti, Cake and Catastrophes Page 2

  Oh shit, oh bollocks. Everyone was looking at him. And then the hint of a frown began to form between his sister’s eyes.

  “Yep,” he blurted, clapping his hands together and giving her a thumbs up. “All sorted, no worries.”

  Clara blew out a sigh of relief.

  “Fabulous,” said Danielle, making a note. “Can you get me their contact details? So I can add them to the log. The venue needs it for the day. That way, if there’s a problem, they can ring around people instead of asking us to do it.”

  Nicholas swallowed. “Uh, yeah, sure,” he said. “I’ll have to look them up though, not sure where I wrote it down.”

  “Probably on the back of a Chinese take away menu,” Peter teased him. Nicholas appreciated his soon-to-be brother-in-law feeling comfortable enough to rib him, but his terror meant he was only able to give him a weak smile in return.

  “Yeah,” Nicholas breathed out. “Don’t worry though, I’ll find the details. Soon.”

  Just as soon as I find a bloody harpist before you find out what I did. Or didn’t do.

  It was fine, he would just contact Jones as soon as he could leave the table, and hopefully his sister would be available. Nicholas wasn’t sure where she lived, but he had it in his head it was in London, so that wouldn’t be far to travel. Plus, he had permission to pay her a crazy amount, so maybe he’d add a bit extra of his own money to compensate for such short notice.

  Yeah. Yeah it was going to be fine. Everything was going to be fine.

  Chapter Two

  Everything was, in fact, not going to be fine.

  “Are you sure?” Nicholas tried to keep the pleading note out of his voice, but at this stage, he couldn’t really help it.

  “Sorry love,” said the voice on the other end of the phone. The girl was genuinely apologetic, but that didn’t particularly help Nicholas all that much. “Saturdays are booked up months in advance. Especially around the holidays. I hope you find someone.”

  That was looking less and less likely.

  “Thanks,” said Nicholas anyway.

  There was no sense in taking it out on the harpist, it wasn’t her fault after all. Neither had it been the past dozen musicians’ fault, but that didn’t stop Nicholas from wanting to scream at someone.

  How could he have been so careless, so selfish? This was his sister’s one and only wedding, and he’d made a promise. The sun was shining down on St Albans’ city centre, but that had little effect on how absolutely wretched he was feeling in the light of his failure.

  As soon as he’d been able, he had escaped from his parents’ kitchen, grabbed his laptop, and hopped on a bus into town where he had no chance of being overheard as he frantically started making phone calls.

  He had set himself up on one of the outside tables at his favourite little greasy spoon café, Simmons. It was hidden down one of the narrow, cobbled streets, just far enough away from the Saturday market so he would be able to hear himself over the stall-sellers’ cries. He’d started with Jones, but his mate hadn’t even needed to ring his sister; he confirmed off the bat that she had just gone on holiday for the next two weeks. That had initiated a frantic Google search, but even as he broadened the locations farther and farther afield, Nicholas was getting the same response from everyone.

  A week was just not enough time to book a classical, professional harpist.

  Inspiration struck as he began on his third cup of coffee and second bacon butty. They didn’t have to be professional, did they? He could look for music schools, perhaps reach out to department heads and see if any of the students would be willing to perform. They had to be good enough if they’d got into the Royal College of Music or something, surely?

  Half an hour later confirmed that all the major colleges had also broken up for Easter, just like he had, and administration staff were not willing to hand out personal details.

  Nicholas got himself a slab of carrot cake.

  Did it have to be a harp? What about a flute? They were pretty classy too. He amended his search parameters, and started again.

  There were even fewer professional flautists than there were harpists. The first few he called were busy with general life activities like birthdays or holidays, as well as already being booked for events. He had a spark of hope as one woman confirmed she was available, but the logistics of getting her from Glasgow to St Albans quickly became too complicated, and Nicholas regretfully told her not to worry.

  He wasn’t sure if a string quartet would be too overwhelming, seeing as the idea was just to have someone playing unobtrusively in the background, but he tried several anyway. They were booked up even further in advance than the harpists.

  Nicholas pressed the corner of his phone to his forehead, and willed himself not to cry.

  He was extremely tired. Nausea swirled in his stomach along with the remnants of last night’s alcohol, and guilt and shame practically seeped from his pores. However, every time he pictured his sister’s crestfallen face, or Danielle’s uninhibited scorn, he picked up the phone and tried another number. There had to be someone in the south of England that was free to play some kind of instrument for a few hours. There had to be.

  For lack of something better to do after his latest failed call, he slumped down in his red plastic chair and let his gaze drift up and down the busy street, allowing the flurry of sound and movement to wash over him. Maybe a solution would appear before him, like driftwood, if only he stopped fretting uncontrollably for a few minutes.

  Growing up, he hadn’t realised that not all cities in the UK were like St Albans. When he’d discovered this to be the case, he had felt sorry for places like Reading and Bracknell, with their distinct lack of historical character. Sure, there were plenty of modern towns around with lovely new architecture and shopping centres made of glass, but you couldn’t really beat sitting under a genuine Tudor eave, like he was just then, so bent and crooked you couldn’t help but wonder if the whole building was going to cave in any day now.

  Even as his panic threatened to overwhelm him, Nicholas still took a second to appreciate being home. Bristol was a beautiful city too, but there was something unique about St Albans’ many church spires and black and white Tudor buildings, mingled in with ghastly sixties-era red bricks, and an overabundance of accountancy firms and, ironically, bridal shops, that instilled him with a calming sense of familiarity. There was still hope.

  He allowed that statement to roll over him several times. There was still hope, there was always hope; he hadn’t fucked things up entirely yet. And it wasn’t like the wedding was going to fall apart if they didn’t have a bloody harp. It was just…he loved his sister, and he wanted to do something special for her big day. He would do something special. He’d find a solution, so long as he didn’t give up.

  A little girl went past where he was sat at the café, swinging on her mother’s hand as they walked. The mum had her mobile phone tucked into her hijab so she could keep a hold of her daughter’s hand on one side, and grip their shopping bags on the other. She was chatting happily away in a language Nicholas didn’t recognise, but he was more interested in the girl. She had light-up trainers and was engrossed in playing a game of hopscotch on the cobblestones, singing tunelessly to herself, at ease in her own, contained world. He smiled, and let some of her carefree spirit wash over him a little.

  She stopped and gaped upwards. Her mother paused by her side, but was distracted by her phone call, so didn’t look at what the girl had seen. Nicholas did.

  A girl on the fruit and veg stall bellowed ‘Three fer a pand!’ from the market to his left, and the café’s faint Spotify playlist could be heard through the doors behind him. The traffic was also grumbling by on the road down to his right. All of which might have accounted for why he had failed to notice a busker had started to play about twenty feet away from where he was sat. He had set himself up with an acoustic guitar in the little nook where the women’s fashion boutique jutted out from the sagging wall
beside it, and the little girl was now staring at him open mouthed.

  He finished whatever song he had been quietly playing, and gave her a small wave. She tugged her mum over to where he had dropped a flat cap on the ground for change, and said something that Nicholas couldn’t catch. In response, the busker knelt down and showed the girl his guitar, letting her touch the wood with her small hand.

  After being mesmerised for a moment, the girl tugged sharply at her mum’s hand, finally snagging her attention, and pointed at the money hat with a cross expression. The mother took in the scene and laughed, then addressed the busker herself. After a few words, the guy stood up and started to play again. The mum let go of her daughter so she could pluck her purse out of her handbag in order to retrieve some change, which she handed to the child.

  The girl cradled the money in two hands, and walked with an over-exaggerated care to the cap. She let all the coins fall in a shower of copper and silver, then brushed her small hands off. The two of them watched him play for another minute, then the mother pulled the girl away, smiling indulgently at her pout.

  Nicholas sighed, lighter from watching the sweet exchange, then clicked on another website. Maybe he could try his luck with a wind quartet? He hadn’t even known that was a thing, but apparently they played weddings.

  If you booked early enough.

  Another fruitless couple of calls later, he stirred his plastic spoon in what was left of his last coffee. The busker had started another song and was earning plenty of smiles as people walked on by, often tossing spare change in the direction of his cap. Despite the slight chill in the air, he just wore a vest top, decorated with a swirling design Nicholas didn’t recognise, if indeed it meant anything at all. In addition to that, he sported a neckerchief and several mismatched chains, jeans ripped at the knees, and big sturdy boots.

  Now he was paying attention, Nicholas could hear his voice drifting through the air accompanied by the strings he was plucking to illicit soft, melodic tones. The sounds of the city tried to swallow up what he was playing, but Nicholas kept catching notes here and there. From what he could tell, the guy was really quite good. Beautiful even.

  He wasn’t bad to look at either, he had to appreciate. His skin was golden brown, accentuated with a couple of silver piercings and tattoos of varying designs, but all coloured in simple black ink. His hair was styled in short dreadlocks that framed his face, and when he glanced upwards, Nicholas could tell even from where he was sat that his eyes weren’t dark like he would have expected.

  He realised he was gawping, and tried to focus back on the issue at hand. He needed a musician and…

  And he was an idiot.

  He was literally looking at a musician.

  He was probably grasping at straws (in fact, he knew he was) but if this guy was any good, would he suffice? Would an acoustic guitar have the same impact as a harp? Probably not, but he wasn’t going to dismiss it until he heard what the guy could do. He might not even be up for playing a wedding, or already have plans this coming weekend, but Nicholas couldn’t bear to stamp on the little flicker of hope that had burst to life within his chest.

  He needed to get closer.

  There was another café the other side of where the guy was stood, but Nicholas reckoned if he sat on the furthermost table (which was currently free) he’d be about ten feet closer, and therefore almost certainly able to hear the music.

  As casually as he could, with the hangover making him about a subtle as a rampaging hippopotamus, he closed his laptop, picked it up with the rest of his crap, and wondered over to the other café. This one was apparently Italian, and he probably annoyed the guy behind the counter by just ordering a bottle of water. But he needed to think straight, and the coffee was giving him as bad a headache as the tequila had.

  He set up his laptop again and made a show of typing some things, but the guy had just started a new song, and this time Nicholas could properly hear. So he brought up a random webpage from one of his previous searches with a good amount of text, and pretended to read while he listened.

  He was right. The guy was good.

  His voice was deep and melodic, not overly loud or intrusive, but grabbing people’s attention all the same as it soared over the cobblestones. He was completely absorbed in what he was playing, his light eyes fixed on some point across the street, not focusing on anyone except when they dropped him some change, and he would nod in acknowledgement.

  Nicholas got his phone out, and acted like he was sending a text. Making sure the sound was off, he took a quick video and a couple of photos. That way, he could watch them back later if necessary, however he was pretty sure he was going to remember how good the guy really was without needing any help.

  It was only as he neared the end of the song did Nicholas realise with a jolt that he recognised it. Well, not precisely because the music was vastly different, however the lyrics were familiar once he concentrated on them. It was that dreadful Katy Perry one about getting shagged by an alien. But here, in the careful hands of this talented man, it had transformed into something tender and sublime.

  “There is this transcendental, on another level, boy, you're my lucky star,” he sang, his eyes fluttering closed as he immersed himself in the song. “I wanna walk on your wave length, and be there when you vibrate. For you I risk it all.”

  Nicholas wasn’t even sure that bit was on the normal song, it was probably what she sang when Kanye normally did his rap. But he liked it, especially in the busker’s style. It reminded him of when Jose Gonzalez took that elecro-pop song ‘Heartbeats’ by The Knife, and made it so romantic everyone used it in their TV ads non-stop for about six months. Considering the original was about slutty space sex, it was an utterly beautiful cover.

  The was only the briefest pause before he went into an Ed Sheeran number, and after that came another couple of songs more suited to his elegant style of guitar playing. Ellie Goulding, Adele, that sort of thing, as well as one or two Nicholas didn’t recognise. The guitarist nailed them all, his vocal range proving more impressive with every song he tackled.

  No matter the genre, the way he performed them meant they all sounded like they would be perfect for playing subtly in the background of a wedding reception. Not too intrusive, but lovely all the same. But what should I do? Nicholas thought. He couldn’t very well interrupt the fellow, and he was just going from one song to the next without pause. He figured he would just have to wait, watching as he started on another slowed-down cover, this one of Lady Gaga’s ‘Telephone’ that became almost haunting in his capable hands. He took another video, daring to let this one record for a bit longer.

  The longer he sat there, the more he liked the idea of a classical guitarist. Sure, it wasn’t quite a harp, but anyone who could play any instrument was impressive as far as he was concerned. And this guy might look a bit rough and ready, but he still had something elegant about him. Nicholas thought so at least. Was that strange? To think of a guy as elegant?

  He wasn’t even pretending not to stare now, which was why he noticed right away when the pause between songs lasted longer than usual. The busker visibly sighed, bit the plectrum he’d been playing with between his teeth, and slipped the guitar strap over his head. Nicholas sat up in his chair and hurriedly swallowed the last mouthful of water from the bottle, a zing of panic flying through him.

  He was leaving, and Nicholas hadn’t thought of what on Earth he was going to say.

  He scrambled to close his laptop and shove it back in his satchel, along with all his other bits and bobs. He hurtled himself across the narrow street, doing his best not to slip on the worn-down cobbles as he fumbled to a halt in front of the guy. He was crouched down, focusing on packing up his guitar, and didn’t look up at Nicholas as he took a deep breath and frantically searched for a suitable conversation opener.

  “I have a permit.”

  Nicholas snapped his mouth shut again. With a frown, he looked down at the top of the guy’s
head, noticing absently that there were paler, almost dark blond strands of hair running through the dark brown dreads.

  “I’m sorry, what?” he stammered.

  The guy stood up, and Nicholas was able to appreciate that he was a good couple of inches taller than him. “A permit,” he repeated, his gaze unflinching on Nicholas’s face.

  Up close, he could tell that his eyes were a metallic grey, like a stormy sea. Unfortunately they were also narrowed, and Nicholas gulped. He resisted the urge to paw at his acne scars, like he was always inclined to do when he felt he was under scrutiny, and tried to understand what they guy had said.

  “A permit?” he parroted, feeling stupid as soon as he said it.

  “To busk here,” the guy finally elaborated. His voice was a low rumble. “I know you’ve been eyeballing me, and if you were wondering if I was here illegally, I’m not.”

  Nicholas spluttered. “Wha-no,” he spat. His own voice came out squeaky, as if determined to highlight the differences between them. “I – uh – you need a permit to busk?”

  That wasn’t the point, but those were the words that tumbled out of his mouth anyway. The guy didn’t reply. He just knelt back down and tipped all the change he had accumulated into a pouch in the lining of the guitar case, before zipping it up and closing the lid, snapping the clips shut on the side.

  “Huh,” said Nicholas. “I mean, I guess I never thought about needing a permit, but I guess that makes sense – and that’s great, that you have one I mean, but that’s not – I mean – I heard you playing and – well, I guess you know that if you saw me, but, well you’re great, did you know that?” The busker looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Yeah, no, I guess you do, otherwise why would you be out here playing on the street?” He laughed weakly. “But, well seeing as you are great, I had this thought—”

  The guy straightened up, his guitar once more over his back, and slipped the cap onto his head. “Is there a danger you might be getting to a point any time soon?” There was the tiniest hint of a smile curving at one corner of his mouth, but the eyes remained cold and Nicholas floundered.