Page 23 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
“It’s Geordie.” Rachel, oblivious to my distress, waves her phone enthusiastically as the ladder sways beneath me. “Come down and talk to him.”
I make my way down with wary steps. Each rung bows under my weight, creaking ominously. By the time I’m standing at the foot, her screen is lit up by the face of a blonde-haired guy with a mop of untidy curls. The resemblance between the two is unmistakable. Same wild hair, same heart-shaped face, same intense eyes, though his are soft blue, while Rachel’s are sapphire-bright and full of excitement as she flips the screen to me.
“Geordie, this is—” she starts.
“The guy you’ve trapped on a ladder,” the man interrupts with a grin. “I’m Geordie, Rachel’s brother.”
“Teddy,” I say, swallowing hard. “Rachel’s…partner.”
The word hangs in the air. Geordie’s eyebrows inch up; Rachel stiffens beside me, her shoulder rigid against mine.
“In the wedding party,” I add hastily, heat crawling up my neck. “And in this stupid Christmas competition.”
Geordie’s expression relaxes into an amused smile. “Right. The bridesmaid and groomsman duo. She mentioned she’d been paired up with one of the band. Guess plenty of girls would kill to be in her shoes.”
Rachel shoots him a look I can’t quite decipher. “Can we get back to the frigging lights before Teddy has to climb that death trap again?”
“One rickety ladder and zero adult supervision? Should I alert A&E now or later?”
Rachel rolls her eyes. “We’re making a light display for the front of the barn for this bloody competition, and we could use some actual advice, Geordie, instead of jokes.”
“Because you want towin.” His taunting grin fills the screen.
“Of course we want to win. It’s for charity. We have to win.”
“Yeah, right,charity,” Geordie’s grin widens. “And because if you’re not winning, you’re not breathing, eh?”
“Oh, piss off, Geordie, and do something useful. We’ve got less than three hours before dark, and then we’re screwed.”
Geordie simply laughs at the thundercloud on her face, and carries on. “Alright, let the electrician see what you’re working with.” He gestures for Rachel to flip the camera around.
She steps back, panning the phone to show the ladder leaning drunkenly against the barn and the pathetic tangle of lights above our heads that doesn’t look the least bit like a star.
Geordie gives a low whistle. “First rule—never mess with electrical workwhile on an unstable ladder.”
Might be breaking rule number one, as it’s the only ladder we’ve got, but I won’t tell him that.
“Second, you’re going to want to test those lights before you climb up again.”
“We did,” I protest, feeling oddly defensive. I shouldn’t be ashamed of my lack of skill. I’m a drummer, for fuck’s sake, not a sparky. Bloody Geordie might know a thing or two about wiring, but I bet he can’t hold a rhythm.
“All connected together?” Geordie asks. “Because if one section fails when they’re up there, you’ll be back on that ladder tomorrow.”
Rachel shoots me an ‘I-told-you-so’ look. “See? This is why I called the expert.”
I wish I hadn’t banged on about not needing him. It would have been way less humiliating to call before I fucked it up totally.
“So, what’s the vision behind this bloody grand plan of yours?” An amused smile twitches at Geordie’s mouth.
“It’s going to be a star. You know, like the star of Bethlehem, over the stable. It’s perfect.” She’s right; the idea is perfect, but the sad disaster dangling over our heads is anything but. My impatience plus no skill has led us here. Time to suck it up and let Geordie take over.
A deep sigh drifts from the phone. “Yeah, and why am I not surprised? Trust you to want something flash instead of a simple waterfall of lights above the door.”
“A simple waterfall won’t cut it, Geordie.” She stamps her booted foot in frustration. “We need to win.”
Geordie continues, undeterred by her little tantrum. “For a star that size—and I presume you’ll want some strands trailing out behind it, to be really effective—you’ll need to secure it to a frame first. Got any battens?”
I glance at the thin wooden strips scattered like pick-up sticks across the cobblestones, casualties of earlier frustrations.
