Take On Me. Sarah Mayberry
Читать онлайн книгу.
do it. Please.”
“I want to do it,” Sadie said through gritted teeth. “I need to do it.”
It was true. She knew they’d all feel sorry for her, and she didn’t want or need their pity. Would do anything to avoid it, in fact.
Grace slowly stepped aside, and Sadie continued her headlong march toward the church door. The coolness of the vestibule enveloped her as she pushed open the ornate double doors. She almost tripped on her voluminous skirts, and she looked down to see her train had gotten caught in the door. She felt tears looming again as she tugged her dress loose, as though the act of pausing had allowed the shame and hurt to catch up with her.
God, she couldn’t do this. But she had to. For herself. She took a step forward.
“Wait,” Grace said.
Sadie steeled herself to be firm again, but Grace pointed at her mouth.
“You’ve got lipstick on your teeth,” she said quietly.
Sadie rubbed her thumb across her incisors and smiled for her friends.
“How’s that?”
“Good,” Grace said tightly.
Nodding her thanks, Sadie grabbed a big fistful of silk and lifted it to her waist so she could walk more freely. Claudia and Grace stepped ahead of her, their expressions tortured as they shoved the inner doors open for her.
An abrupt silence fell as two hundred and twelve people swiveled in their seats to stare at her as she stood at the top of the aisle. At the front of the church, the organist gasped with surprise and automatically dropped her hands down onto the keyboard. The first few notes of “Here Comes The Bride” sounded before the woman snatched her hands away, blushing furiously.
Humiliated heat rushed to Sadie’s cheeks as the echoes died. Eyes straight ahead, she strode briskly up the aisle toward the altar where the priest, Father Baker, was eyeing her sympathetically.
Claudia and Grace flanked her, their faces set. Sadie had no idea what her own face was doing. She was just concentrating on not crying, not throwing up and walking. That was about all she could handle at the moment.
The priest came down off his three-step elevation to meet her.
“Sadie, my dear,” he said, reaching out a hand.
“I’m sorry for wasting your time, Father,” she said stiffly. “If you’ll give me a moment, we’ll get out of your hair.”
He looked surprised when she swept past him and stepped up to the microphone on the pulpit. Flicking the switch on the microphone’s side, she took a deep breath and lifted her gaze at last to confront her waiting audience.
Every last person was holding their breath. Some of them were even leaning forward in anticipation. It was almost funny. Almost.
“Sorry to keep you all waiting,” she said. Her voice broke on the last word, and she cleared her throat and blinked back the tears that had rushed to her eyes. She was not going to cry. Not yet.
She felt Grace’s hand on her back as her friend moved behind her. The warm knowledge that Grace and Claudia were here helped her focus.
“As you might have noticed, we seem to be short a groom. Don’t you hate that?” she said wryly.
Her audience stirred, and a few people tittered. They hadn’t expected wise-cracking, but it was all she had to offer at the moment.
“I don’t suppose anyone wants to volunteer on short notice?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and looking around, pretending she was waiting for someone to step up to the plate. More embarrassed laughter and uncertainty from her audience. “Can’t be tempted? Bummer. I guess it’s party time, then. And I expect to see each and every one of you at the reception—Greg has assured me he’s paying, so let’s make sure we blow out the bar tab.”
Pinning a bright, confident smile on her face, Sadie stepped back from the mike.
Claudia’s face was pale as she helped gather up Sadie’s skirts so she could march back up the aisle.
“Are you sure…?” Claudia asked in an undertone. “I mean, the reception…?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
Sadie had no idea how she was going to get through finger food plus three courses, but somehow she had to.
There was a muted murmur as she strode up the aisle, head high.
Then she was outside, heading toward the limo. The chauffeur hastily butted out his cigarette and leaped to open the door for her. She practically dove into the rear of the car, one hand reaching for the half-full champagne bottle before her dress train had even made it through the door. All pretense at grace or composure gone, she lifted the bottle to her mouth and guzzled greedily. A small rivulet of golden champagne trickled over her chin and down between her breasts. She didn’t give a hoot.
Claudia and Grace wedged themselves in beside her, and Claudia reached over to secure the seat belt over the scrunched-up folds of Sadie’s dress.
Sadie took another hearty slug of champagne before speaking.
“I hope you’ve broken those shoes in, ladies, because tonight we are dancing,” she announced bravely.
DYLAN ANDERSON SMILED to himself as he pulled down the last photo from the corkboard in his office. It had been taken using a Polaroid camera during a long, crazy afternoon in the story room when everyone had been banging their heads against the wall, trying to come up with something to fill sixty minutes of commercial television for Box-Office Cable’s hit drama, The Boardroom. The smile turned into a grin as he studied the shot—six grown, adult people crowded together, their features hopelessly distorted by the adhesive tape they’d used to fix their faces into weird, strange configurations. It was puerile, adolescent—and that was being generous. Particularly given the net total of their salaries. But sometimes the pressure cooker of the writers’ room had to blow. And, in his experience, something strange, funny and wonderful always came out of it.
Okay, maybe the day of the taped faces wasn’t the best example of the phenomena—but it was a great memory, which was why he was taking all his Polaroid shots with him. Each one represented a moment he wanted to remember. The Boardroom had been his best TV writing experience to date, a rare convergence of inspired creator, simpatico writing team and talented directors, cast and crew. An absolute gift, from beginning to end. But Dylan had still opted not to renew his contract with the show for another year.
He’d been tempted. It was always tempting to stay where you knew you were appreciated, and your work was consistently affirmed by the television industry in the form of award nominations, stellar reviews and high ratings. But Dylan had never been the kind of guy to rest on his laurels. Despite what certain people in his past might think. He had goals, and nothing short of the extinction of the entire human race was going to stop him from achieving them.
His hand dropped to the thick envelope sitting on his desk, already addressed and ready for the courier to pick up. His feature screenplay, finished at last. The first of many, he hoped. Ready to send off to his agent so she could begin shopping it around. He patted the envelope, thinking of all the long hours he’d spent plotting the damned thing, writing, rewriting, then rewriting again to get it where he wanted it.
He allowed himself to feel a small moment of pride as he contemplated the achievement on the very simplest of scales—he, personally, had written over ninety pages of screenplay. Spelled the words correctly. Even got the grammar and punctuation right, give or take a few colloquial exceptions. The man—boy, really—he’d been fourteen years ago would have been astonished. But that boy hadn’t known that he had dyslexia. That boy had whipped himself daily for being an ignorant half-wit who couldn’t understand even the basics of stuff that other kids seemed to take in as easily as air. He’d been on a road to self-destruction, spiraling out of control, furious at himself for being kicked out of