A
sea of eyes gravitated his way. A private function, the insiders and the elite
still amounted to almost a thousand: his staff, advisers, colleagues, family,
friends, contemporaries and more. The music dipped as the hoard made a
staggered rent in the centre of the room. Vince expected no hitches this
evening but reserved skeleton staff to keep things smooth. A ramped podium with
mike waited ahead. Vince had prepared a short speech, the contents of which he
didn’t entirely believe in. The crash had made him a changed man, but he wasn’t
going to let the small matter of crushed legs keep him from being a complete
bastard.
Perhaps
a titter at this point.
But
seriously, Vince considers himself very lucky to be here and most gratified to
see such a great turnout – and all to see a handsome cripple cracking a few
corny jokes.
Another
titter.
And
I am pleased to see my girlfriend and intended Charlotte here in the crowd to
finally make an honest man of me.
Claps
and whistles and a beam from a pretty blonde in the front.
And
now, if you will excuse me, I have a table and a glass of wine awaiting me on
the roof terrace. And…do try to keep it down, will you?
Laughter
and applause before Vince makes a dismount from the podium.
But
now, a hush had descended upon the room. His tendons reverberated. A multitude
of eyes beamed at him. Someone coughed. Vince’s breaths funnelled though his
nostrils. Marcus leaned in from Vince’s right. Vince raised his hand in a
ward-off. The shoulders of Vince’s suit whispered as he pushed against the
crossbars and gathered his crutches together. The shafts clanked in the
silence. Marcus took them, Vince knew, dumbfounded.
Restiveness
infected the crowd’s former unanimous beam. Vince glazed ahead. Near the front,
he spotted his uncle, cousin and step-sister flown in from Milan. Charlotte,
her brother Don, administers of his enterprises in Los Angeles, London, Paris,
New York and Rome. Recording artists from his Nexus label: Serena York, Fern
Stokes, the Founders and Joey T; his new PA Paul Thom, friends Stevie, Bo,
Dean, Sam and their chosen guests. He anticipated the sight of his mother once
upon the roof terrace.
Marcus’
voice stirred the silence. ‘Vince…’
Vince’s
foot advanced an inch over the carpet. Pressure ballooned within his kneecap.
He stopped. His pelvis pulled to the left. His other foot slid forward. Another
reverberation. His pelvis pulled to the right. A little easier now, just as he
had expected, and he should know. Since Nancy’s arrest, Vince had clocked up
the lurching mile – to the copse – and back; to the copse – and back.
And
again to the copse. His knee twitched. This time, his foot skimmed the carpet.
A respite. And now to draw heels level. His fingertips grazed the flanks of his
trousers. Muscle memory activated, his quadriceps flexed. His foot advanced
without effort. The other would do so too.
He
knew.
Faces
inched by. His feet kept moving. His shoulders worked, his fingertips kept
grazing. Paul, Joey and Fern wore different versions of bewilderment. Charlotte
cupped her fingers around her mouth. Theodora, his step-sister knit her lip. On
passing a corn-blonde in a tie-dye T-shirt, he cocked a smile. Her eyes
fluttered down in abashment.
He still had it.
A
clap exploded.
Another
clap.
Vince
kept walking. Two claps together. One from the back. The claps gathered
momentum like raindrops at the leading edge of a thunderstorm. Someone
whistled. Hands at the front appeared like magic. Slow claps, measured claps,
hearty claps, fast claps. Pudgy fingers, slender thumbs, hairy knuckles, meaty
palms, knobbly wrists, bony joints.
But
his eyes sought out only one pair of hands within the crowd: square, clipped
and immaculately clean, clasped about her front, without encouragement, without
praise.
…
THE END
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