Sunday

I sit in the dappled shade of a tree on the estate, sketchbook on my knee. The tree's trunk shields me from the glowering windows of the house. It's been a long time since I last spent a day sketching. I'm fortunate. I already had plans for a castle drawbridge I could adapt for this project, and I've no shortage of old sketches of odd medieval-looking houses. The things I need to design completely from scratch won't be boring, though. Arthur's throne will need to be absolutely spectacular. As will Excalibur.

I considered basing Excalibur off Galgano Guidotti's sword - the real sword in the stone - but if memory serves me it had a rather simple design. I doubt it would pass muster for a Charles Pitch music video.

I'm honestly tempted to base it on a lightsaber. I could have the whole set lit up with laser lights and sparkly things.

The design brief is really quite sparse and vague, so I could do virtually anything with it and it'd still technically be within the confines of the brief.

I spent an hour this morning looking at his previous music videos to see what sort of standard he's likely to expect - I'm honestly unimpressed by all the previous sets. The costume design was great in some of them - the ones where he wasn't just in street clothes - and the choreography was pretty on point in all of them. The sets, though. They were often bare. A pretty man in a silly outfit dancing in a blank white space, or a boring open field, or a generic beach somewhere.

These make me think he probably wants a cookie-cutter castle backdrop and a bland village. He probably wouldn't particularly care if I handed him a cheap replica sword I got from one of those super scammy knockoff weaponry websites, so long as it was nice and flashy, looked mostly like a sword and didn't immediately break.

If I really wanted, I might actually be able to scrape together the whole thing from old sets and props in the storage room at the Euripides.

That's what I'd have done if this were a play they were putting on.

He's given me the budget to push the limits of my wildest set-building fantasies, though. I can buy all the lumber and paint I like - I could buy all the tools I need brand new. I could hire someone to wire up lights professionally, rather than cobbling it all together myself in a desperate attempt to save money. The only real constraint I have is time - and with the budget here, that's not much of a constraint at all. I can hire people to do all the tedious, time-consuming things like sanding, priming and varnishing.

I don't even need to waste time putting out ads or working with a recruiting agency. I already know all the people I'd want to hire.

So, he's not going to get something shitty and generic. He's going to get something utterly wild.

I finish my sketch of a plywood dragon. There's really no need for a dragon. I just want to build one because it'd be cool.

I want to ask his costume designer and choreographer what they're planning to do. It'd help me nail down the direction I want to take this. It's Sunday, though. It'd be rude to call outside of business hours.

I don't even have a copy of the lyrics to the song, so I can't work in nods to whatever it is he's supposed to be singing about. It's fine. These are rough sketches. When I have more information, I'll refine them.

I kind of can't wait to get my hands on a jig saw again. I've been playing a boring rich boy's fiancée, with all the fussy dresses and silly heels, for more time than I'd like. I want to be back in a workshop with sawdust in my hair. It's where I belong. I lean back against the tree, shutting my eyes.

I can't wait to be back in a workshop with my friends.

Carpentry is simple - even when I'm making something with complicated moving parts, the processes to make it all come together are predictable. Set painting follows rules that are pretty easy to understand. You want things that are big and bold enough to be seen from the back row, but detailed enough to convince people seated at the front. There are brush techniques to create the illusion of any texture you'd like. It might take some effort, or a little practice to get it right, but I've never had a challenge I couldn't overcome.

It's familiar. Comfortable.

Nothing like the life I've been leading since I met Jaq.

I can't believe that my enemy is the one offering me the chance to return to the thing I'm best at.

My enemy.

I can't believe I have an enemy. A nemesis, even. A villain to fight, as though I'm some kind of hero.

It's not who I thought it would be. That bothers me a little. It's messy. It makes it harder to script as a play.

Despite my misgivings, I feel powerful - I'm a hero with a plan. I've got weapons and allies. My princess in the castle's keep is... a disappointment. Jaq probably won't ever fully understand what I'm doing for him.

I don't think I'm even doing this for him.

I'm not sure what I'm doing it for.

Vanity?

I shake my head. I don't want to think of myself as that kind of person. Besides, I only just started fantasizing about being a hero.

My phone rings. I try not to be annoyed at the disturbance.

Of course. This call was inevitable.

'Hello. It's been a while.'

'Hello my sweet little Joanne, it really has! And you're getting married? How come your father and I haven't been introduced to the lucky boy yet?'

She sounds almost smug.

I inwardly shudder.

She's sure she already knows what's happening.

I don't like talking to my family. It's not that they ever did anything overtly wrong... they're just very bad at hiding how judgemental they are. They've never approved of any of my choices. Who I befriended in school, all the way from creche to high school. The things I was interested in. The types of books I liked to read. The after-school activities I wanted to participate in. The things I liked to eat. Where I chose to go to uni. What I chose to major in. Where I chose to live. Who I lived with. My choice in partners. My fashion sense. My weight. The way I speak. The way I do my hair.

It was natural that I'd grow apart from them. Even the ugliest weed strives to reach unimpeded sunlight.

The more I disappointed them, the less I wanted to be near them, and the less I spoke to them. I'd appear if they explicitly invited me to events; things like my sister's wedding. I wasn't prepared to shun them openly. I just never wanted to make an effort to spend time with people who treated me like that. I couldn't even take refuge in a sisterly bond - she's just like them. She says things like; 'They're just doing this because they love you.'

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I always wanted to respond by asking her; 'If someone loves you, really loves you, would they spend every second of every day making you feel ashamed for existing?'

I never said it.

I was too ashamed of myself to even suggest it.

Now that I've seen the relationship between Frances and Jaq... well. I still can't call a relationship like ours 'love'. The way she treats him is far worse than my parents and me, but that doesn't excuse their behaviour. It's not okay for children to have to block out all memories of having parents in order to feel safe and comfortable in their own skin. If I'd stayed under their wing, stayed under their constant critical gaze... I'd have withered away. That's not love.

'I had an NDA. I really couldn't say anything to anyone until he was prepared to make a press release about our wedding.'

I pause to let it sink in. I almost wish I could see her face as she grapples with what I've just said.

'An NDA?'

'Yes. Every time he's been seen with a woman it's all over the tabloids.'

I think back to the search results I got when I looked up his name at our first meeting. All the photos of him at random events, posed awkwardly with the women his mother picked out for him. He's a pretty low-tier celebrity, but that doesn't mean he has any privacy.

'Wait, what are you saying?'

They were so proud of my sister when she got engaged to her nice, high-earning banker boyfriend. She'd chosen well. A good boy who would place her firmly in the middle to upper-middle class, as opposed to their lower-middle class.

'I'm surprised you didn't see us in the paper last week. I kind of expected a call.'

Twisting the knife feels far too good. I can't help it. They were always so proud of my perfectly well-behaved sister, who'd never put a toe out of line, and who lacked even an ounce of individuality. I continue;

'I suppose you were never much interested in the Culture section of the paper.'

Take that, you fucking social climbing goat. I continue;

'It's a good thing all those free dance classes at school paid off.'

I stop myself from reminding her that she absolutely hated those classes.

I stop myself from reminding her how adamant she was that she wouldn't pay for any extracurricular dance or music classes, because they were 'worthless'.

I want to say it. It would make the next blow just that much more impactful.

I restrain myself. It will hurt enough.

'Oh, don't worry. My fiancé isn't a dancer. I know exactly how much you'd hate that.'

I pause again.

'He's a musician.'

Monday

Everything hinges on the wedding.

It has to happen before Frances dies.

No exceptions.

I can't delay. Not even a little.

My meeting with the Executioner was both reassuring and worrying, in equal measures.

If I'm not married before she's dead, her deceased estate could be frozen while a court battle ensued between Jaq and Charles. The problem is that a lot of the money could still be siphoned out despite that because many of the holdings aren't the sort that can just be frozen, like a regular bank account. There are too many moving parts that could be tampered with.

If I'm married, the will can still be readily disputed by an assortment of claimants, but their odds of winning aren't particularly good.

Lionel has no claim at all. Stepchildren get nothing.

If there was no will, Isaac would have the right to claim up to two-thirds of Frances' estate, but because there is a will that explicitly writes him out, it would have to go through a court, and considering how thorough the will is in explaining why Isaac has been left out, it's not particularly likely to work out for him.

Charles, much like Lionel, would have no claim.

It's far more likely that the will would be contested by Jaq - the whole managed estate thing puts him in a precarious position.

I said I'd be more than happy to hand it entirely over to Jaq. Skip the managed trust thing.

That gave the Executioner pause. I think she expected me to want to keep control of his money.

The hours I spent with her condensed into a single, extremely reassuring statement;

'So long as you're married before Frances dies, you won't have any real trouble.'

I can do that.

I hold my phone to my ear, waiting for the call to connect.

I've already gone shopping for flowers and dresses. I don't need to print invitations or sort out a guest list, a band, or a venue. I have all the accoutrements necessary for a hasty hospital-room wedding. Sal's brother jumped at the opportunity to help us out. To be fair, I did offer him a rather generous paycheque.

He even helped me fill out the form to shorten the 'Notice of Intended Marriage' waiting period. Otherwise, we'd have to wait a month from the date of submission. Fortunately, Frances' impending death is a perfectly valid emergency to allow a marriage to be expedited.

I could hold the wedding tomorrow.

If I did that, though, it'd make Charles unduly suspicious. I don't want him to have reason to start sending more of his toughs.

The phone continues to ring.

I need Frances to last until Friday, at least. Longer, if possible. The wedding will be Friday. But, I don't just want Jaq's money to be safe. I want the payout for the music video. I deserve to line my pockets with Charles' money. I've gone through enough trouble at his hands, because of his greed. I have every right to treat him the way he treated me.

If she can survive long enough, he won't realise I've double-crossed him until I've been paid. Delicious icing for a cake made with anxiety and terror.

And then?

I guess all hell will break loose.

'Hello?'

Isaac's voice sounds awful.

'Hi Isaac, it's Jo. I just wanted to let you and Frances know that the wedding is set for this Friday. It'll be in Frances' hospital room.'

'Oh. Right.'

'While I have you on the phone, do you need anything? Is there any food you've been craving that I can bring you? The hospital cafeteria wasn't very impressive.'

'No, no. Don't trouble yourself. You're busy.'

'Okay. Well. You have my number. If either of you need anything at all, let me know. I'll come right away.'

He hangs up without saying goodbye.

Poor guy.

I step into the dressmaker's shop, weaving around mannequins draped liberally with taffeta and lace.

'Ah, Joanne! Just a moment while I get your gown!'

I don't even see the woman's face before she's gone. I hear rustling fabric and rattling coat hangers.

'Here it is!'

She lays the garment bag across the counter.

'Would you like to try it on, one last time? Make sure everything is exactly how you want it?'

'Thank you.'

I take it to the large, mirror-walled dressing room.

The dress was probably just a bridesmaid's dress, originally. The op-shop had three of them, all different sizes. It was the only thing 'bridal' enough that fit me. I'm glad I found it, or I'd be in an off-the-rack dress from some overpriced store that I'm sure Frances would both recognise and hate.

With the rushed additions and alterations, it looks like it was always a wedding gown. The original pink satin skirt is barely visible through the loose haze of white chiffon and embroidered organza. The white lace appliquéd to the bodice transforms it from something relatively plain to something a fairytale princess might wear. I'd have loved to have a doll with a dress like this when I was a child.

There's a tap at the dressing room door.

'If you're ready, I'll put your veil on for you.'

'Thank you.'

The woman deftly clips the veil in place. It's a little heavier than I expected, but it doesn't matter. It's excellent.

My phone rings.

Took him long enough.

The woman gestures to the phone and says;

'I'll just be outside.'

I accept the call, still posing in the mirror, admiring the dress.

'I've just been informed you're having a secret wedding on Friday. What happened.'

Charles sounds angry already.

I turn to watch the skirt twirl.

'It's not really a secret, and I don't know why you're so upset. Frances is dying. She needs to see this for her peace of mind. It doesn't mean I'm staying.'

'You said you wouldn't marry him.'

Come on, say it properly.

'She wants to see this. It'd be cruel to refuse her dying wish.'

'You're not to marry him.'

Better.

Secretly recording calls is illegal, but having the audio to hang over his head is still worth something.

'Is that what you're worried about? It's just a play. Actors. You know. A little story on a little stage.'

'I forbid it!'

He 'forbids' it?

He sounds enraged.

Softly, I say;

'Look, if it makes you feel better, you can shred the certificate yourself.'

'A certificate? It's not fake if there's a wedding certificate!'

'Exactly. You can shred it. I was planning to. She's not blind! She's not stupid! She won't accept it if it's not at least that realistic. But, she can't personally take the certificate to file it. It isn't going to be filed, so it won't be legally binding.'

I think I hear him trying to calm his breathing.

'You'll give me the certificate.'

'Sure. Or I'll burn it in front of you. Whatever floats your boat. I told you. You don't have to worry. I won't get between you two.'

He stifles a laugh. He must think it's funny that I thought he was in love with Jaq.

'Fine. I'll send someone to collect it.'

'Cool, just let me know what they'll be wearing on the day so I can identify them.'

There will be so many cameras set up for this. It doesn't matter where he wants to collect the certificate from. I'll have film from every angle of his guy intimidating me into handing over my marriage certificate.

'I didn't think you had it in you.'

He can't suppress the laughter any more; it tumbles out through the phone line.

'What?'

'You're a stone-cold psycho. Lying to that idiot's dying Mum.'

I purse my lips. It's my turn to suppress my emotions.

'I'll do anything to protect real love.'

The roar of laughter is deafening.

'I'm going to keep you after this is over. You're too good to let go.'

'Why do you think I'd want to stick around?'

'I pay well. Better than he ever could. And, I can make you famous.'

'We'll see.'

I hang up.

I can't breathe.

I need to get out of this dress.