The Heart Goes Last

XIV | SNATCH Snatch

It’s better for Stan not to return to the Elvisorium, says Conor, because although the guys in sunglasses who’d come looking for him were only Conor and his three pals, you never knew. Next time they might be more sinister, and better to have left no trails, because after the big snatcheroonie took place, leaving trails might turn out to be a fucking bad idea. If everything went as planned there wouldn’t be a problem, but if everything did not go as planned, then there would be police involved or security things, and then it would be all five of them on the red-hot barbecue.

Conor doesn’t seem very worried about this prospect. If anything, he’s excited. Break the window on the mobile home, talk Stan into sneaking inside with him, then, when someone comes, run away very fast, leaving Stan to explain what he’s doing with two steaks from the freezer and a lady’s underpants. Always Conor’s idea of a fun night out.

Conor and the boys have a two-bedroom Emperor Suite at Caesar’s Palace: whoever’s hired Con isn’t poor. Con says they can’t go out, to a show or a strip joint or the casinos, because he can’t run the risk of them fucking up so close to bingo. Budge says that’s fine with him, maybe they can watch a game, but there’s some grumbling from Rikki and Jerold. Con shuts that down by saying who’s running this, and if there’s a question about that he’d be happy to settle it. So the five of them end up playing Texas hold’em for grapes and pieces of cheese off the Cheese Assortment plate Con’s ordered in and drinking Singapore Slings because Con’s never had one and wants to try it, but they can only have three each because they have to be fresh for the next day.

Stan wins a moderate amount of cheese, which he eats; but after three Singapore Slings he’s out for the count and nods off on the sofa. Just as well, because there are only four beds, and he has no yen to be in any of them with someone else.

In the morning the five of them sleep in, shower, complain about their hangovers – all except Budge, who’d showed some self-restraint the night before – and order in breakfast. Rikki stands behind the door when the cart arrives, Glock at the ready like something in a cop show, just in case it’s a trap. But no, it’s only scrambled eggs, ham, toast, and coffee, wheeled in by a cheerful Caesar’s wench: they’re safe so far.

Then they get suited up and paint their heads green. Con’s hired a van; it’s in Parking with the Green Man gear already loaded into it. Before they leave, Con goes over Stan’s gong cues. Every time he points to his ear, Stan is to hit the gong. He doesn’t need to know fucking why, he only has to hit it. That shouldn’t be too hard. If Con should suddenly rush off toward, for instance, an ambulance that might, for instance, be pulling up in front of the facility, and if the other fake Green Men should rush off with him, Stan should hit the gong three more times so people think it’s all part of the show. Then he should wait for further cues. Then he should go with the flow.

Once they’re in the van Stan gets butterflies. What is the flow? Is this going to be another case of Con vanishing over the fence while Stan is left floundering?

“You missed some green at the back,” Jerold says to him. “I’ll paint it in.”

“Thanks,” says Stan. He has a crick in his neck: he’s sitting up very straight so the green from his scalp doesn’t rub off on the upholstery.

Con has a pass that gets their van in through the Ruby Slippers gate, with its motto: There’s No Place Like Home.

Inside, the road divides: Main Entrance and Reception to the left, Clinic to the right and around the corner. They park in the Visitors Disabled section at the front and lockstep inside; Con flashes his pass at the receptionist.

“Oh, the special event,” she says. “You’ll be in the Atrium.” She’s obviously used to green guys or the equivalent filing in past her desk. Clowns, jugglers, singers with guitars, zombie dancers, pirates, Batmen, whatever. Actors.

In the Atrium there’s one already in full flight – an Elvis, in the white-and-gold outfit. He’s finishing up a gargly rendition of “Love Me Tender” and gives them a dirty look as they troop in. The old people in the audience provide a smattering of applause, and the Elvis says, “Thank you, thank you very much. Would you like another song?”

But Con blows the green New Year’s Eve horn he’s brought along, which puts a stop to that. “Timing’s everything,” he says to Stan. “Can’t have that loser cutting in on our act. Get that music going!”

The music’s on Con’s phone, attached to a Bluetooth speaker. Jerold’s blowing up green balloons with a hydrogen cylinder, Rikki’s handing them to Budge, who doles them out to the audience members. They take hold of the strings, some with confusion, some with distrust, others maybe with pleasure, though it’s hard to tell. Several Ruby Slippers Events Assistants in their trademark red shoes help out, wearing green hats in honour of the Men. “Isn’t this nice?” they coo, in case there’s any doubt, which there is. But no one has protested yet, so the act must be doing well enough, or at least well enough to convince. Conor points to his ear and Stan whangs the gong.

Con looks at his watch. “Fuck,” Stan hears him mutter. “What’s keeping them? Squirt some water out of your mouth,” he tells Rikki. “That’s always a howler.”

Now there’s the wail of a siren, coming closer. An ambulance drives in through the front gate, heading for the clinic entrance at the side. Con produces a giant rubber tulip from inside his jacket, waves it aloft. It explodes, mildly. That’s the signal: Jerold, Rikki, and Budge release a clutch of helium balloons into the air, rush out through the Atrium door, and disappear around the corner.

“Are they coming back?” says a plaintive voice from the audience. Stan nods vigorously and hits the gong again. Maybe they’re a success after all.

Now Con is tugging on his sleeve. Up. Stan rises to his feet. Con is bowing, so Stan does the same. Con links arms with him and two-steps him out through the door. “We got him,” he whispers. Who have they got? Stan wonders.

Around the corner. There’s the ambulance, back doors open. There’s Jocelyn, with another woman. Jocelyn’s asshole of a husband is helping Budge with a third man, who appears to have slumped to the ground. It’s Ed, the big cheese at Positron, without a doubt. Two Ruby Slippers security guards and three other guys in black suits litter the pavement. Fast work, thinks Stan.

“Let’s move it, lynchpin,” says Con. “In here. He steers Stan to the ambulance.

Inside there’s a stretcher, with someone on it, covered to the chin with a red-and-white blanket.

A woman. Charmaine. Is that the robot head? It looks too real. Stan touches her cheek.

“Oh fuck!” he says. “Is she dead?”

“She’s not dead,” says Jocelyn, who has joined him. “Everything’s in order, but we don’t have long. “They’re standing ready.”

“Let’s get them inside the clinic,” says Con. “Fast.”

Flamed

Lucinda Quant breaks the story of the big leak on the six o’clock news. She’s straightforward, she’s believable, and, best of all, she has extensive document trails and video footage. She tells the story about how she came by her treasure trove of dirt, though she doesn’t name names – she says “a brave employee” – and how she smuggled the flashdrive containing the information through the herds of nosy journalists and undercover security agents at the NAB convention by taping it to the top of her fuzzy head under her cancer survivor’s wig – here she removes the wig, to demonstrate.

She closes by saying that she is so glad fate has given her this opportunity at what might be the end of her life, because Live every minute to the full has always been her motto, and she’s humble about the small part she’s played in what is after all a much bigger picture, and though she could have been a casualty and found dead at a blackjack table or similar, because big money has a lot invested in Positron, she took the risk because the public has a right to know.

The host thanks her very much, and says that America would be a better place if there were more people like her. Big smiles from both of them.

Instantly the social media sites are ablaze with outrage. Prison abuses! Organ-harvesting! Sex slaves created by neurosurgery! Plans to suck the blood of babies! Corruption and greed, though these in themselves are no great surprise. But the misappropriation of people’s bodies, the violation of public trust, the destruction of human rights – how could such things have been allowed to happen? Where was the oversight? Which politicians bought into this warped scheme in a misguided attempt to create jobs and save money for the taxpayer? Talk shows roister on into the night – they haven’t had this much fun in decades – and bloggers break out in flames.

Because there’s always two sides, at least two sides. Some say those who got their organs harvested and were subsequently converted into chicken feed were criminals anyway, and they should have been gassed, and this was a real way for them to pay their debt to society and make reparation for the harm they’d caused, and anyway it wasn’t as wasteful as just throwing them out once dead. Others said that was all very well in the early stages of Positron, but it was clear that after they’d gone through their stash of criminals and also realized what the going price was for livers and kidneys, they’d started in on the shoplifters and pot-smokers, and then they’d been snatching people off the street because money talks, and once it had started talking at Positron it wouldn’t shut up.

Yet others said that the idea had been a good one at first; who would sneeze at full employment and a home for everyone? There were a few rotten apples, but without them it would’ve worked. In response, some said that these utopian schemes always went bad and turned into dictatorships, because human nature was what it was. As for the operation that imprinted you on a love object – if not of your own choice, then of somebody’s choice – what was the harm in that since both parties ended up satisfied?

Some bloggers objected, others agreed, and in no time at all “Communist” and “Fascist” and “psychopathy” and “soft on crime” and a new one, “neuropimp,” where whizzing through the air like buckshot.

Stan’s watching one of the talk shows on the flatscreen in the recovery room where Charmaine lies in an anaesthetic slumber. There’s a small white bandage on her head, no blood. Happily they didn’t shave off her hair; that would have been unsightly. She may get a fright when she first sees the new, bald Stan, but that will be fleeting, says Jocelyn, and after that Charmaine will be all his. “But don’t push your luck,” she says. “Remember, she didn’t have any more sex with Max, or Phil, than you had with me – less, in fact– and I intend to tell her all about our little interlude. This is your payout for all the help you’ve given us, so don’t muck it up. By the way, get rid of the green makeup; otherwise you’ll have to paint yourself up like a zucchini every time you want sex.”

Stan did as suggested, wrecking a couple of hospital towels in the process, because he could see the point of it. Then he settled down to wait for the magic moment when his sleeping beauty would awaken and he could say goodbye to froghood and become a prince. He’s listening to the TV on the earphones, so as not to disturb Charmaine prematurely. Jocelyn has been very firm – he must not leave the bedside, even to pee, or Charmaine may imprint on the wrong love object, such as a wandering nurse – so there’s a bedpan handy.

How long is this going to take? He could use a burger.

As if on cue, in comes Aurora, carrying a tray. “I thought you might like a nibble,” she says.

“Thanks,” says Stan. It’s only tea and cookies, but that will hold him till something more carnivore-friendly comes along.

Aurora perches on the foot of Charmaine’s bed. “You’re going to be amazed at the results,” she says. “I certainly am! As soon as Max woke up and gazed into my eyes he swore undying love, and five minutes later he proposed! Isn’t that a miracle?” Stan said it certainly was.

“He’s so handsome,” Aurora says dreamily. Stan yups politely.

“Of course he’s already married,” Aurora says, “but the divorce is underway; Jocelyn ordered it up in advance, and UR-ELF is taking care of it for them. It’s called the Lonely Street Special, they fast-lane it.”

“Congratulations,” says Stan. He means it. The idea of philandering Phil or roaming Max tied by the ankle to Aurora – or to a pit bull or a lamp post, come to that – does not displease him at all, so long as the fucker is out of commission.

“Jocelyn doesn’t care?” he says.

“It was her idea,” says Aurora. “She says she isn’t even being generous. She has something else in the works, and this way, poor Phil will be cured of his sex-addiction problem. Would you like another cookie? Take two!”

“Thanks,” says Stan. She looks so happy she’s almost pretty. And for Max, she’ll be ravishing. Good luck to them, thinks Stan.

On the screen now is Veronica, more luscious than ever. She’s explaining that she’s a Positron experiment gone wrong, doomed to be romantically bonded to a blue teddy bear forever. Close-up of the bear, which is looking a little frazzled. The woman anchor interviewing her asks whether there’s the possibility of a second operation to reverse her fixation, but Veronica says, “No, it’s too dangerous, but anyway why would I want to do that? I love him!” The anchor looks out at the TV audience and says, “And that’s just one of the stranger-than-fiction angles on this unfolding story! Some of the culpable middle management have been rounded up and warrants are out for more. We’d hoped to be able to talk to the ceo and president of the Positron Project, who hasn’t yet been charged with any crimes though an arrest is said to be imminent. However, a news flash has it that he’s collapsed from a stroke, and is currently undergoing emergency brain surgery. We’ll be back later with more!”

“So where did Ed get to?” Stan asks Aurora. “Frying in hell?”

“Just down the hall,” she says. “He’s had the operation, but he’s still out cold. Now I’ve got to buzz. Max says he can’t get enough of me! See you later!”

Ed’s had the operation too? Stan grins. What are they going to love-bond him with? Delicious possibilities float through Stan’s head: a plumber’s helper, a car vacuum, a blender? No, the blender would be too harsh, even for Ed. Maybe an Elvis sexbot: that would be fucking sweet. It must be Jocelyn who set this up; she has a sick sense of humour, and, for once, Stan appreciates it.

Charmaine stirs, stretches, opens her blue, blue eyes. Stan sticks his head into her sightline, gazes deeply. “How are you, honey?” he says.

Her eyes fill with tears. “Oh Stan!” she says. “Is that you? Where’s your hair?”

“It’s me all right,” he murmurs. “It’ll grow back.” Is this working?

She wraps her arms around him. “Don’t ever leave me! I’ve been having such a bad dream!” She hugs him tight, locks on to his mouth like an octopus. A boiling-hot octopus. Now she’s ripping off his shirt, now her hand is reaching down …

“Whoa, wait up, honey!” he tells her. “You’ve just had an operation!”

“I can’t wait,” she whispers into his ear. “I want you now!”

Fan-fucking-tastic, thinks Stan. At last.

Charm

Once Charmaine has drifted off to sleep again with what Stan hopes is a satisfied smile on her lips, Stan gets dressed and goes out into the hall. He’s feeling depleted but exhilarated. He’s so hungry he could eat a cow. There must be a cafeteria in this joint somewhere, and with any luck they’ll serve beer.

He turns a corner, and there are Con, Jerold, and Rikki standing in front of a door. They aren’t green any more, and they’ve changed their suits to black. Each of them has an earpiece, each of them has a slight bulge under the left arm. Each of them has reflector sunglasses, despite the fact that they’re inside a building.

“Hi, big bro,” says Conor. “Everything come out all right?” He flashes a large dirty-minded grin.

“Can’t complain,” says Stan. He allows himself a smug little smile. “Worked like a charm.” In fact, he’s walking on air. Charmaine loves him! She loves him again. She loves him more than before. It transcends mere sex, a thing Con will never be able to understand.

“Way to go,” says Jerold.

“Wicked,” says Rikki. Handshakes and high-fives all round.

Stan lets himself be congratulated as if it’s a football game. Why try to explain?

“Who are you guys supposed to be?” he says. “In the outfits?”

“Security,” says Con. “To keep away the reporters, supposing they figure out where our guy’s at.”

“The real security’s in the Men’s,” says Jerold. “Inside the cubicles. Jocelyn gave them some sleepy-time needles, they’ll be out for a day.”

“So, let me guess,” says Stan. “It’s Ed in this room?”

“Correct,” says Con. “Rushed him into the clinic. Said he had to have an op. Matter of life and death.” He looks at his watch. “Where are those two? They better hurry, or he might wake up and get a boner for the night table.”

“Naw,” says Jerold. “I asked Jos. Whatever it is gotta have eyes. Like, two eyes.”

“I know that, moron,” says Con. “It was a joke.”

“Here they come now,” says Rikki.

A couple of nurses are hurrying down the hall, wearing the Ruby Slippers Clinics health attendant uniforms: white dresses, red pinafores, white hats with a border of red flowers, and rubber-soled red shoes with no-nonsense heels. “Are we in time?” says the first one. It’s Jocelyn; she looks really convincing in the outfit, Stan thinks. Like a dominatrix playing nursie. She’d have that thermometer or that cucumber up your ass in about two seconds, and no saying no.

“Stan,” she nods at him. “Satisfactory, I hope?” Stan nods.

“I guess I have to thank you,” he says. Oddly, he’s feeling shy.

“Ever gracious,” Jocelyn says, but she smiles. “You’re welcome.”

The second nurse is Lucinda Quant.

“Help yourself,” Con says to them and opens the door. Lucinda Quant goes in.

“This is better than a freak show,” says Rikki. “Don’t close it all the way.”

“You can dose it. Give them some privacy. Channel two on the earpiece,” says Conor.

“I don’t have one,” says Stan.

“Okay, leave the door,” says Con.

There’s silence. Lucinda must be sitting by the bedside.

“What’ll she do with him?” Stan asks Jocelyn. “Supposing it works? They’ll be looking to arrest him, right?”

“She’s talking about Dubai,” says Jocelyn. “Expensive, but we’ll pay. No questions asked, lots of orgy-for-two possibilities there, luxury suites with whirlpools; as long as you do whatever indoors. She wants a stellar finale to her life, in case the cancer comes back. And there’s no extradition, so Ed will be free to indulge her every last bucket-list whim. She’s got quite a few of those, so she’s told me. She wants to be covered with chocolate mousse and then licked off, for starters.”

“Where’s fucking Budge?” says Jerold. “I’m starving.”

“I could eat a hippo,” says Rikki.

“I could eat the chocolate mousse off what’s-her-name.”

“I could eat –”

“Shut up,” says Con, “or I’m eating all of it.”

“Why’re you letting him off so cheap?” says Stan to Jocelyn. “After everything he did.” And was planning to do, he adds to himself. Stealing my wife. Messing with her head. Turning her into a sex slave. Turning her into a sex slave for the wrong man. Jocelyn has gone into the details.

“You really think I’d want him giving full testimony in front of Congress?” says Jocelyn. Spilling all the beans? I myself am one of those beans, in case you haven’t forgotten.”

“Oh, right,” says Stan.

“And more than a few of our respected politicians wouldn’t want it either, so it won’t be too hard getting him on that plane. No clean hands at this party,” says Jocelyn.

“So why not just kill him?” Stan asks. He’s surprised by his own ruthlessness. Not that he himself would do that, but Jocelyn is more than capable of it. Or so he believes.

“That wouldn’t be fair,” says Jocelyn. “I’d have to kill all the board members and shareholders too, if it’s a question of who’s responsible. This is a better way. Cleaner. Benefits to others, such as Lucinda.”

“What happens to Consilience and the Project without him?” says Stan.

“Maybe a modified version. Maybe condos, for the prison end of it, with a tourist attraction ensuite. My guess is people would pay to role-play in there, don’t you think? But it’s not my problem, because I’ll be living my next life. Anything happening in there yet?” she says to Con.

“I hear some muttering,” says Con. “Or maybe snoring.”

“Maybe that’s how he has sex,” says Jerold, “with his nose,” and he and Rikki snicker.

“Grow fucking up,” says Con. “Yeah, yeah, he’s coming to.”

Stan applies his ear to the gap between doorframe and door. “I adore you,” he hears. It’s Ed’s voice, thick with either anaesthetic or lust. “You’re lovely! Take off that pinafore!”

“Hang on, soldier!” Lucinda. “Wait till I get my bra unhooked!”

“I can’t wait,” says Ed. “I want you now!” A cross between a laugh and a scream, from Lucinda. Then the sound of moans, or are they groans?

“Shut the door,” says Jocelyn. “Turn off the earpieces. There’s some things that’re none of our business.”

“You never let us have any fun,” says Con, but he does as she says.

“Lucinda’s a client,” says Jocelyn primly. “We have our standards.”

Floral

The wedding is pure enchantment! Or maybe it’s weddings, two of them, because although Aurora and Max are getting married for the first time, Charmaine and Stan are renewing their vows, so the wedding is for them too.

A Wedding Elvis performs the ceremonies – it’s Rob from UR-ELF, in a white-and-gold jumpsuit with a silver belt and a purple cape with silver stars on it – and three Singing Elvises perform the music, to a backup soundtrack played from a speaker hidden inside one of the floral baskets. Charmaine has choosen the flowers – she opted for the Forget-Me-Not selection, a pale blue medley with sprays of miniature pink roses, and it looks just lovely. The sun shines, but then it always does in Vegas, no matter what is going on in the rest of the world.

As an extra treat, a group of five Marilyns, hired by Charmaine and wearing pink taffeta dresses with an off-the-shoulder line, sort of like the big production number in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes where she sings the song about diamonds, only without the long train. The Marilyns smile as if they’re delighted out of their minds, which is what you want at a wedding, and there aren’t any actual relatives to do it, so Charmaine booked this fivesome. They really give value for money, they cheer and laugh and throw rice on all of them at the end, and one of them catches Aurora’s bouquet.

Charmaine doesn’t have a bouquet as such because she isn’t exactly getting married, though it feels like that to her, but she has a spray of pink roses, and that’s almost the same. She’s wearing a floral print in pink and blue, and Stan has a shirt with penguins on it, she found it online. It’s sentimental, but she’s a sentimental person.

There’s champagne at the outdoor reception with a sun area and a shade area, and a fountain with three mermaids holding mics as if they’re a backup group, three surfers playing guitars, and three cupids, each one pouring water out of a fish, with a stone head of Elvis at the top, smiling his Elvis smile. Someone has put a wreath of flowers around his neck.

Charmaine is so happy. The dark part of herself that was with her for so long seems to be totally gone. It’s as if someone has taken an eraser and erased the pain of those memories. It’s not that she can’t remember the things that happened – those things Grandma Win used to tell her not to think about. She can remember them, but only like pictures, or a bad dream. They don’t have power over her any more. It must have been something the doctors did when they were fixing the inside of her head so she would love Stan, only Stan, and nobody else. It was the other Charmaine who’d wandered away from him, and that Charmaine is gone forever. It’s so amazing what can be done with lasers!

She even watched Max, or Phil, being married to Aurora without a twinge of longing or jealousy. And at the reception, when people were kissing the brides, Max kissed her mildly on the cheek, and though once she would have melted like a microwaved Popsicle at his smallest touch, it didn’t bother her at all; it was just more or less like having a fly land on you, she could brush it off and think no more about it. All those things they did, that time when she was so crazy about him – crazy is the right word for it – they’ve faded. It’s like she was under some kind of a spell and then, poof, it was gone. She recalls those interludes clearly but distantly, and also fondly, almost as if she’s recalling the antics of a child, though not herself as a child. She didn’t do any antics then. She was too scared.

There’s Max, or Phil, with Aurora now; he’s under one of the sun umbrellas, he’s got Aurora backed up against the table, his arms are around her, his torso is squashed up against hers, he’s kissing her neck. You can tell he can hardly wait to get her into bed and run those skilful hands of his all over her face job. Charmaine searches her heart, and the only thing she can find in there in the Max compartment is the best of wishes for Aurora, because it’s obvious Max is devoted to her, he follows her around with his eyes all the time, despite what she looks like. Anyway she looks better than she did, because she’s glowing with joy, and it’s the inner beauty that counts. Most of the time. Some of the time. And Max must be happy too! He must be!

There’s Stan over by the Cupid fountain with two Marilyns, who are feeding him bites of the wedding cake. The cake is white, with blue-and-pink icing in a design of bluebirds holding ribbons and festoons of roses in their beaks and claws, which is the design Charmaine ordered to go with the total decoration scheme. It’s very intricate, but she got it 3-D laser-printed.

The Marilyns are definitely overdoing the act, and in those pink taffeta off-the-shoulder dresses you can peer right down their fronts, which is what Stan is doing, but you can’t blame him, because what’s a shelf display for except to be looked at?

It’s time for an intervention. She strolls over, rather quickly. “Thank you for taking such good care of my wonderful husband,” she says, linking her arm through Stan’s. Then she sees that one of the Marilyns is Veronica, though with a white-blond wig, and everyone knows Veronica can love only her blue bear, poor thing, the same way that Charmaine can love only Stan – that story was all over the TV, Veronica’s quite the celebrity now – so it’s all right.

“Veronica!” she says. “I didn’t know it would be you!”

“How could I miss it?” says Veronica. “I wanted to see the happy ending. You remember Sandi?”

“Sandi!” Charmaine cries, giving her a hug. The last time she saw Sandi in person she was plasticuffed, with shackles around her ankles. “Oh my god! I’m so glad you got out okay! I saw you on TV! It’s like a miracle!”

“It was a close one,” says Sandi. “They’d stuck the hood on and I was just being hauled out the cell door, I figure now on my way to get recycled for spares, though I didn’t realize it at the time. Then there was a lot of cellphone babble, Jocelyn telling them to hold off on everything till further notice because there’d been an exposé and Ed had gone AWOL with the profits. Those guards dropped me on the floor and ran for it, and by the time I picked myself up and made it to the outside, all the gates were open and it was like, Out of here! What a traffic jam! Plus I got a bruised elbow. But hey! Who’s complaining? I’m still in one piece, I’m not shishkebob.”

“I keep telling her they wouldn’t have cut her up for parts,” says Veronica. “She’s too cute. They would’ve shipped her out here and done the brain thing on her. She would’ve ended up with some wrinkly rich dude, acting out his every whim.”

“Like the Fuck Tank,” says Sandi, “only this time with feeling.”

”And with a lot more cash,” says Veronica, and they laugh.

Sandi raises her champagne glass. “Here’s to the old days,” she says. “May they rot in hell.”

The Marilyns head over to the champagne table for a refill, and Charmaine puts her arms around Stan and squeezes him. “Oh, Stan,” she says. “This is so wonderful! Aren’t we lucky?” Stan squeezes her back, though in an absent-minded way. He seems dazed, or maybe it’s the champagne. He’s been drinking it like soda pop, he’s had more than enough. But he’ll be fine tomorrow, thinks Charmaine. It’s worked out for the best, because what’s past is prologued all’s well that ends well, like Grandma Win used to say. Not that this is the end. No, it’s the beginning, a new beginning. The beginning as it should have been. Not everyone gets a chance at that.

She does have a lingering doubt. Does loving Stan really count if she can’t help it? Is it right that the happiness of her married life should be due, not to any special efforts on her part, but to a brain operation she didn’t even agree to have? No, it doesn’t seem quite right. But it feels right. That’s what she can’t get over – how right it feels.

It was Jocelyn who paid for this whole thing, or who arranged for it to be paid. But although Charmaine urged her to come, Jocelyn didn’t attend the wedding ceremony proper. “I don’t want to be the wicked witch at the feast” was what she said. Truthfully, Charmaine was relieved by that, because despite everything that Jocelyn had done for her and Stan, it must be admitted that some of those things might not be viewed as positives by everyone. Such as Jocelyn humping the jockey shorts off Stan. But Charmaine has no hard feelings about Jocelyn, because she isn’t entitled to them. And everything balances out, so it’s like having nothing in the bank and no debts owed.

But here she is now, Jocelyn, walking into the chapel area. She’s come to the reception, as she hinted she might. She’s wearing mauve, which isn’t the same as the pink-and-blue colour palette, but doesn’t clash with it either. Charmaine is pleased that Jocelyn has given this angle some thought, and has come up with a tasteful solution.

Stan’s upsetting brother, Conor, is with her, wearing those reflector sunglasses he thinks make him look tough, and three of his criminal friends. No, not criminal, Charmaine won’t use that word. Unusual. That is a better word, because Conor and those men rescued her from Ed, so how could she ever view them as criminals, even if they are criminals in the rest of their time? Though Conor has always been a bad influence on Stan, in her opinion. Or he was when they were younger. Today he’s looking more mature, in Charmaine’s opinion. Maybe he will meet a wise older woman who will help him become a productive member of society. That is her wish for him, on this wonderful day when everyone should be granted something good.

Charmaine detaches herself from Stan so he and Conor and the unusual friends can do that back-slapping and fist-bumping and name-repeating routine they do. “Con!” “Stan!” “Rikki!” Jerold!” “Budge!” Like they don’t know each other’s names already. But it’s a male-bonding thing, she’s seen a TV show about that, it’s like saying “Congratulations” or something. Now they’re moving over to the champagne is, even though Stan should really not have any more of it or he’ll be too drunk to do the things she’s hoping they’ll do, once they get to the hotel room and she’s had a lovely shower, with white fluffy towels and almond oil body lotion all over her.

And once Conor and his buddies have dumped some alcohol into themselves, Conor will think about kissing the bride, and kissing Charmaine as well; he’ll want to plant some aggressive smooches on her, to annoy Stan. She ought to warn Aurora about Conor – the way Max is, now that he’s truly in love, he might resent any other man laying a finger on Aurora, and then there could be a fight, which Max would lose, because four against one, or maybe five, counting Stan, and Max would get a nosebleed at the very least and ruin the cake or the floral arrangements, and that would spoil this beautiful, perfect day – but as she looks around the reception space, she sees that Max and Aurora have already disappeared. Hot to trot, though it won’t be trotting, it will be galloping, she thinks, without a shadow of regret. Or is that a tiny shadow? It can’t be, since every shadow of regret, and every shadow, period, has been lasered out of her. All of her shadows.

She decides to glide as far away as she can, over behind the fountain where Conor can’t see her, because out of sight, out of mind. Jocelyn comes with her.

“So, joy and fresh days of love,” she says.

“I guess,” says Charmaine. Jocelyn says weird things sometimes. “For me and Stan, that’s really true.”

“Good,” says Jocelyn. “I have a wedding gift for you,” she says. “But I’ll give it to you a year from now. It isn’t ready yet.”

“Oh, I love surprises!” says Charmaine. Is that true? Not always. Sometimes she hates them. She hates the kinds of surprises that pounce on you out of the dark. But surely Jocelyn’s surprise won’t be that kind.

“I can’t thank you enough,” she says, “for everything you’ve done for us. For me and Stan.”

Jocelyn smiles. Is that a real smile, warm and friendly, or is it a slightly scary smile? Charmaine always has trouble figuring out Jocelyn’s different smiles. “Thank me later,” Jocelyn says. “Once you know what it is.”

Then, after the handshakes and goodbyes, and after Conor has kissed Charmaine after all, but only on the cheek, Jocelyn and Conor and those other men get into a long, sleek black hybrid car with tinted windows and drive away.

Charmaine stands beside Stan with her arm linked through his and waves at them until the car is out of sight. “Do you think they’re an item?” she asks. “Conor and Jocelyn?” She’d kind of like it if they were, because then Jocelyn wouldn’t be prowling around uncoupled, so she’d be less likely to make a grab for Stan. Though Charmaine is grateful to Jocelyn, she still doesn’t trust her, after all those lies she told and all the tricky numbers she pulled.

“I’d put money on it,” says Stan. “Con always liked the hard-nosed ones. He says it’s more of a challenge, plus they know what they want, plus they’ve got more RPMs.”

RPMs is a car engine term, Charmaine knows that. But it isn’t very polite. “That isn’t very polite,” she says. “Women aren’t cars.”

“It’s Con’s way of talking,” says Stan. “Not polite. Whatever, they’re in business together.”

“What kind of business?” says Charmaine. It would have to be something they’re both good at, such as bluffing. Maybe they’re working for the casinos. If the two of them are an item, she wonders how long that’s been going on.

“I’d say their business is none of our business,” says Stan.