MARISA WAILS AS I SET her on the couch just long enough for me to strap the BABY BJÖRN carrier on my chest. She grunts as I awkwardly shimmy her down the front of the makeshift baby front-pack.
“There you go,” I sing proudly, glancing at the entryway mirror. I’m dressed in a pair of my favourite jeans and one of my go-to white V-neck T-shirts. Marisa is decked head-to-toe in red polka dots. Outfit number two for the day for both of us since she crapped through the last one, making a mess all over herself and me.
Her chubby arms and legs flail as she readjusts to her new outlook on life now that she’s strapped to my chest. I slide on my Aviators before adjusting Marisa’s matching mini-Aviators I got her last week. Then I give her two hearty thumbs-up. “We look top-notch, pretty girl.”
Theo and Leslie’s voices trail down the stairs from the master loft bedroom, and my brows rise knowingly. They are on their way to a proper row. That is Uncle Hayden’s cue to take Baby Marisa for a neighbourhood stroll. Theo is attempting to convince Leslie that she’s got to go out for her hen party tonight. He’s already arranged for our parents to keep Marisa overnight so he can go to his drunken stag party as well.
Being around alcohol won’t be a ton of fun for me. After my stint in rehab, drinking was the first thing I gave up. It was painful for a long time, but not nearly as bad as when I quit smoking. I didn’t realise how much I had grown dependent on both fags and booze as part of my everyday survival.
Frankly, the cravings became a great deal easier when I moved out of my parents’ house and back to London. After rehab, I wanted to earn my parents’ trust back, and having a strong support system is key to recovery. So I moved back to rural Essex and lived at home with my mum, dad, and Daphney. They did everything they could to keep my spirits up, but working at my dad’s furniture distribution company felt like a slow and painful death. When Theo and Leslie asked me if I’d want to live with them in their flat in London for a while, I thought they were having a laugh. They were due to have a baby any day. Why would they want a suicidal, post-rehab, recovering alcoholic roommate around their new baby?
But fuck me, here I am. I think Leslie had a lot to do with the offer, though. My bond with Leslie is so acute that I don’t think either of us wants to be too far from one another for a while if we can help it. When someone finds you haemorrhaging from your wrists and you suddenly find the will to live again, it’s not a connection that can be easily forgotten. From the second she found me and every moment since, Leslie has felt like my anchor, keeping my feet planted firmly on the ground. Or at least that was until Marisa was born. The first time I soothed Marisa’s cries with my bare hands, life suddenly looked hopeful.
Despite Leslie’s protests about going out, I tend to agree with Theo. She could use a bit of fresh air. Her mate Frank has been over all week, trying to help her with wedding stuff, but she’s too distracted by Marisa to fully put him to good use. Putting on a dress and some heels might do her mental state a world of good, but it’s not my place to say. I’d never gang up on Leslie with my brother. Maybe the other way around, though. My brother can be a moody sod sometimes.
“We best make hay so Mummy and Daddy can scream until their hearts are content,” I coo to Marisa’s soft head as I shift the diaper bag on my shoulder. “We definitely don’t want to be around for the making up part.”
A knock on the door sounds just as I’m about to grab the knob. I open it to find a robust woman in a cream pantsuit with a tight chignon of black hair pulled back. Her eyes are narrow and severe.
“Are you Theo Clarke?” she asks, eyeing me up and down, barely registering the baby strapped to my chest.
“No, I’m his brother, Hayden. Can I help you?” I drag my sunglasses down to get a proper look at this bird.
“I’m here for Leslie Lincoln.” Her tone is clipped and formal. She thrusts a business card into my hand and on the front in large, swirly letters is “Jaci…no K.”
“Regarding?” I ask as I flip it over and hear Theo and Leslie approaching behind me.
“Ah, Miss Lincoln I presume.” The woman moves past me, completely oblivious to Baby Marisa, and sticks her hand out to an equally perplexed Leslie. “I’m Jaci Baxter, pronounced like Jackie but without the K. It’s short for Jaclyn, which is French, of course. You may call me Jaci. I’m your new wedding coordinator.”
Leslie shakes the woman’s hand and looks at Theo. “Did you do this?”
Theo adjusts his eyeglasses. “I haven’t a clue what this is about.”
“I’ve been hired by a friend who wishes to remain anonymous,” Jaci states pragmatically while handing a business card to each of us. “And I’ll have you know, I’m fully qualified, licensed, and insured. Most importantly, already paid in full with a rush bonus for the next few weeks. And I assure you, Miss Lincoln and Mr. Clarke, I am not cheap. So if you turn me away, you’re only hurting yourselves and your extremely generous friend.”
All of our jaws drop. “Who in the bloody hell?” Theo asks first.
“It doesn’t matter,” Jaci snaps, her mouth pinched in a way that makes me wonder if she’s sucking on a lemon drop. “Do you have a diary, Miss Lincoln?”
“A what?” Leslie asks, her agog expression firmly in place.
“A wedding diary. Something with your to-do list. I work seven days a week, so I’d rather get started now, if it’s all the same to you.”
Leslie shakes off her stupor and strides over to the table to grab a huge three-ring binder. “This probably won’t even make sense to you. It’s a bit of a mess.”
“I’ll manage. We’ll discuss more in the car. I have one waiting out front.”
“Waiting for what?” Leslie asks, looking frightened like a naughty child being sent to the chancellor’s office.
Jaci’s nostrils flare. “I have a hair, nail, and makeup session booked for you with the prestigious Trevor Sorbe, hairdresser to the stars.”
Leslie scratches her messy auburn topknot and tugs down on her milk-stained, button-down, plaid shirt of Theo’s. “How on earth did you get me in there?”
“I am well-connected, Miss Lincoln, and I have a standing Saturday appointment for all of my A-list clients.” Jaci puckers her lips with a chuffed with herself expression.
“A-list clients? This sounds like I’m getting Punk’d,” Leslie scoffs. “How do we know you’re not some loony toon off the street?”
Jaci sighs in frustration. “Open any British bridal magazine and you’ll see my name next to the celebrity spreads.” She turns to me and snaps her fingers. I straighten my posture for fear of being sent to the naughty corner as well. “You…You’re the brother?”
I cup Marisa’s head protectively and warily reply, “I am.”
“I shall tell you who the friend is so you can confirm the identity and that will be that. Then we can all get on with our work. But you will maintain your discretion.”
Her eyes blaze with an unspoken threat. I nod nervously.
Marisa and I follow Jaci into the kitchen. She opens up her binder, shuffling through her notes. “Here it is.”
She opens it to me, and my eyes land on the name assigned to the bill. Vilma Harris. Jaci’s hand conceals the pound amount that’s marked with a large stamp: PAID IN FULL.
“Vi?” I whisper in astonishment. Fuck. Just when I was doing a proper job of not thinking about her, she goes and does something like this.
“Discretion,” Jaci seethes through clenched teeth. “Now, can you please go and inform Miss Lincoln that I am who I say I am so we can get on with our day? We haven’t a moment to waste.”
I nod, my eyes still wide with shock, and follow Jaci to inform Leslie that everything is legitimate. I can’t imagine what Vi must have paid for this woman to assist for a month, but Leslie’s green eyes alight with a level of excitement that just goes to show how truly in over her head she’s been all week. She kisses Theo and Marisa goodbye. Then she smiles at me as I sway Marisa soothingly from side to side.
“I’ll see you guys later!” she beams before scurrying out the door with hardly a second look.
“Blimey, she was a scary bird,” Theo huffs, and I nod in agreement.