The Red Wing Mansion

Chapter Twenty-One

9.30am

I was late.

I was fucking late.

The reason was simply that the clock's hand in the cabin was slow by half an hour. Like what the actual fuck?

Strange, much? Yep. But could I wonder if a ghost taunted me and messed up the time before my one and only cool job opportunity, like ever? No, because I needed to get to Mr. Fontaine, like, now.

I run to the office, already seeing a fancy wedding car parked out front in the carpark.

I open the reception doors, where my mother is working with her head down, phone to her ear... but I can see the bride and groom outside Mr. Fontaine's office, arguing.

Oh, no.

I walk up slowly. I had no 'dressy clothes' beyond my summer dresses, so I chose a red one with white tulips in the pattern. It was nice, just missing a button... or maybe two... but they were missing from the top, so it wasn't really noticeable, although you could see the sides of my boobs... oops, I guess?

I had simply tied my hair back, into a basic ponytail, with my camera hanging around my neck.

The couple don't see me approach, as they are focused on Mr. Fontaine inside his office, yelling in at him.

"We know the mansion is closed, but we want to go there, since the photographer we paid for isn't here... you should fix this by giving me what I originally asked for, I might not be able to get married there, but I want my photos there, and I don't care who takes them, but we need them done today," the bride speaks to Mr. Fontaine, "I don't care about the history of the Red Wing, I want photos, on the outside. Now. Today."

"Or I can... call my lawyer?" the groom softly speaks.

"Or I'll ruin your reputation," the woman hisses, bunching up her white dress with white knuckles, "I have a lot of connections who can ruin you overnight. No one is going to fuck with my perfect day."

I shuffle to the left, to see into the office.

Mr. Fontaine stands cool, calm and collected. He gazes at the bride into her eyes, waits for her to stop, and then he answers.

"I understand the frustration, but I've already patched it. My best photographer just got back from Greece overnight and agreed to do the photoshoot, so this is an upgrade," Mr. Fontaine smiles as he looks to me, "Welcome, Alix."

The bride turns and I try to smile, but it's hard to smile at such a bitchy screwed up face. She's absolutely gorgeous and dolled up to high hell, as is her superficial husband – who looks like a famous footballer or something.

"Please, let go of that gorgeous dress, you don't want to rip the material, let's go to your desired location," I hold out my hand for her hand, and I carefully pry her fist out of the ruffles, then softly let her hand go. I don't know how I do it so delicately and with such ease, but the bride immediately calms down, her facial expression softens and she lowers her shoulders.

"You just came in from Greece?" she whispers, "That was my first preference, but my husband... he doesn't like flying," she laughs a little, and her husband blushes.

Perfect save.

"I had a high profile... event... to attend," I whisper, slightly more anxiously.

"I'll make an exception just this once for your trouble. I'll drive Alix to the historical mansion, your driver can follow us, come," Mr. Fontaine steps forward and ushers them both out.

The bride and groom hold hands and walk down the hall, past the reception hall, out to their awaiting sedan.

I walk next to Fontaine, unable to look him in the eye as we walk side by side.