Claire and Phillip have a large terraced house with glimpses of the park. It’s only a short walk to the church. One of Claire’s girlfriends opens the door. A bridesmaid. Gina. She’s an old school friend, now married. Ruiz can picture her being eight years old, dancing around Claire’s bedroom to Madonna songs.
The other bridesmaids are in various stages of dress, being fawned over by a hairdresser, a beautician and a stylist. There are yards of lace and flashes of bare shoulder.
Women in groups have always intimidated Ruiz. Their mystery increases exponentially when they’re together, laughing and exchanging news. Champagne can also be a factor. Perhaps his anxiety dates back to his youth when girls would congregate in groups on the far side of the dance floor and necessitate the “longest walk” and a mumbled request to dance. Success meant a few minutes of touching a female waist and hand. Failure meant public humiliation.
“Can I see Claire?” he asks.
“She’s still getting ready.”
Gina knocks on the bedroom door. “It’s your dad.”
“Is he drunk?” comes a voice from inside.
Gina addresses Ruiz. “You’re not drunk, are you?”
“No.”
“I don’t think he’s drunk,” she yells back.
The door opens. A breath catches in Ruiz’s throat. For a split second his mind flashes back and he sees Laura standing in their hotel room, breathless and giggling, having been carried across the threshold.
“Well?” asks Claire. She completes a twirl. “It’s Mummy’s wedding dress. I had them copy the design.”
“You look beautiful,” he says, struggling to find words.
“And you’re very handsome.”
She kisses his cheek. Behind her in the room is another vision from his past. Miranda Louise Mills. Ex-wife number three. Dressed all in black.
Miranda straightens his tie and Ruiz glances at her delicate hands and past them to her cleavage. Ex-wives should be fat and frumpy. Not like this.
“Have you heard from Michael?” she asks.
Ruiz shakes his head.
“Maybe he’ll surprise us.”
Claire gives him a pained smile that says, I’m not a child any more, Daddy, you don’t have to lie to me.
Ruiz reaches into his pocket and pulls out a creased envelope and a small wooden box with a hinged lid.
“I have something for you,” he says. “It was given to me a long while ago with very specific instructions that I was to give it to you on your wedding day.”
Claire can hear the slight tremor in his voice. “It was your mother who gave it to me. It belonged to her mother and her grandmother, so it goes a long way back, and now it’s yours.” He opens the box. Claire’s hand flutters to her mouth.
Ruiz continues, “I think she thought maybe you might wear it today… as the something old, you know, but maybe you have the dress now, so you don’t need anything else.”
Claire shakes her head and holds the envelope in trembling hands. She looks at Miranda and back to her father and then at the envelope. Opening it nervously, she unfolds the handwritten page and turns away as she reads the letter.
When she finishes, she folds it again, holding it against her heart.
“Now look what you’ve done,” she says. “I’m going to cry and my make-up is going to run. I’ll look like a panda.”
“Pandas are very cute,” says Ruiz.
Miranda takes the hair-comb and slides it in Claire’s hair, tucking it beneath the veil. Then she ushers Ruiz into the hallway and gives him a kiss on the lips, before rubbing the lipstick away with her thumb.
“You haven’t returned any of my calls.”
“Were they urgent?”
“It’s called being polite.”
“I took you to dinner a fortnight ago.”
“To that tacky fish restaurant-the meal left me faster than a fire drill.”
“I thought you’d lost weight.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.” She punches his shoulder. “Go outside. We’re not ready.”
Ruiz doesn’t need a second invitation. Retreating to the front steps, he takes a boiled sweet from a round metal tin in his pocket and sucks on it thoughtfully. Michael should be at his sister’s wedding. What excuse will he give this time? Bad weather. Missed flights. Forgotten dates. Michael is his father’s son. Ruiz wishes that he could warn him that one day he’ll regret spending so much time away from his family. Maybe that’s wishful thinking.
There are no bridal cars. They’re going to walk to St. Mark’s, which is just around the corner; a true wedding procession through the streets of Primrose Hill.
Joe takes the step next to him and they sit comfortably in silence, listening to the champagne corks being popped inside. Ruiz notices a car parked on the corner. It’s the same dark blue Audi that was outside Holly’s flat in South London. Two figures are visible behind the dark-tinted windows. Ruiz feels a pain in his chest like someone has placed a fist against his breastbone and is twisting knuckles into the cartilage. This is his daughter’s wedding day.
Without a word, he stands, walks down the steps and crosses the road. He taps on the driver’s window. After a long pause it glides down. The man behind the wheel has close-cropped hair and a three-day growth. His shirt is rolled up revealing a long pink scar running down the inside of his forearm.
Ruiz can smell the new leather of the seats. “Can I help you?” he asks.
“No, sirree.”
He’s American. A southerner.
“Are you waiting for me?”
“We’re just waiting.”
His passenger is younger, also unshaven, with blond highlights. His sunglasses are hinged on the frames and flipped upwards like wiper blades. His left hand is tucked out of sight below the level of his thigh.
The driver motions to the house.
“Fine day for a wedding,” he drawls. “Who’s getting married?”
“The bride and groom.”
“Well, you make sure you pass on our good wishes.”
“I’ll do that,” says Ruiz, who can feel his molars grinding saliva. He tucks his hands into his pockets. “Maybe we can come to an arrangement.”
“What would that be?”
“How about we agree to meet up tomorrow? I can make myself available all day. I’ll even come to the office… meet your boss. That way you guys can go home and gel each other’s hair and my daughter can get married.”
The skin tightens around the driver’s eyes. “You’re a funny guy. Is that what you Brits call irony?”
“You want me to explain irony?”
The driver closes his fingers, all except the longest, and pushes his sunglasses up his nose. That’s his answer.
Ruiz walks away. Twenty yards down the street he pauses at a builder’s skip full of debris and broken bricks. The red-black color is rising from his chest to his face and he can hear a tearing sound behind his eyes like fabric shredding. Picking up a half brick, he weighs it in his hand.
The driver and passenger of the Audi are laughing about something. The side window shatters with the sound and fury of a shotgun. Ruiz reaches through the window and bounces the passenger’s head off the dashboard, making his nose bloom. He’s a bleeder.
The driver reaches below the seat, but Ruiz has already taken a gun from his partner’s hand. Now he’s aiming it across his crumpled body with one eye closed, the other looking along the barrel, his hand steady as a barber with a cutthroat razor.
A thought passes across the driver’s face. Ruiz has always referred to it as the Dirty Harry moment-that
