Free Unsuitable Men by Pippa Wright Page A

little undignified a decoration for the hardened manly souls of the tree-bound ancient warriors.
Lance made me stand at the top of the steps to the chapel, which was sunk down in a yew-surrounded hollow, while he ran ahead and switched on the lights. I shivered, pulling my coat tighter around
me; even in the light of day this place was a little spooky.
    ‘And here is the pièce de résistance ,’ he announced, and I stepped into the chapel. It had been whitewashed into a stark purity that contrasted with the dark
greenness of the yew trees which brushed against the mullioned windows. Lance had eschewed candles here for hundreds of tiny lights which surrounded the altar, leaving the rest of the chapel in
almost-darkness. Instead of flowers, it had been decorated with lichen-covered branches which cast their shadows across the walls. Although it was a consecrated chapel there was something pagan and
ancient about it; it wouldn’t have surprised me if the long-dead soldiers had stepped out of their yews to kneel here in front of us, offering sacrifices to their Saxon gods.
    ‘And here’s the thing,’ said Lance, interrupting my open-mouthed staring by promenading down the aisle as if it was a catwalk. He stopped at the altar and spun on his heel to
face me. ‘We just need someone to look a bit bridal in a few shots – and Martha and I think it should totally be you, right?’
    ‘Wh-what?’ I said, horrified. This wasn’t at all what I had signed up for. I was here as a responsible journalist and representative of Country House , not a dress-up
Barbie for Lance’s entertainment.
    ‘I know, I know,’ said Lance, waving his hands. ‘Martha said you might be all weird about it, but it’s nothing much – no face shots, no full-body shots, just a
little bit of human interest. We’ll have Sacheverall and Bibi in the Hall and in the walkway, but here we want someone young and bridal-looking. And you’re just perfect, darling, with
that amazing red hair of yours.’
    I felt tears well up alarmingly. I felt so very far away from being bridal. It seemed impossibly cruel that Martha should have lined me up to play that role just after I’d been dumped by
the man I had thought I would marry. I wouldn’t believe that she had done it on purpose – she must have not thought it through. Luckily the weak light in the chapel hid my trembling
chin.
    ‘I – I’m not sure,’ I wavered. ‘I don’t really like having my photograph taken.’
    ‘Oh, Aurora,’ said Lance, skipping back up the aisle towards me, both hands outstretched in entreaty.
    ‘Rory,’ I insisted.
    ‘Rory,’ said Lance. ‘It’s going to be a few shots of, like, your hand holding on to a man’s hand – mine, of course, there’s a dire shortage of male
models up here, I’m sorry to say. It’ll be the back of your head bowed near the altar, that kind of thing. It’s not like, America’s Top Model or anything: no full
bridalwear, no hanging from harnesses, no smizing, I swear it. Bibi’s going to be in the other photographs and not one of Sacheverell’s female staff is under, like, two hundred years
old. Please say you’ll do it.’
    I remembered how hard Martha had worked to arrange this. I thought about how she had begged me to do her justice.
    ‘Do you absolutely swear that you’re not going to put me into some hand-woven wedding dress?’ I asked. ‘Because I will not put on something scratchy and hempy made by
Warp and Weft.’
    ‘Oh, darling,’ laughed Lance, ‘as if. You don’t have to get changed at all; we’ll make it work beautifully without any fuss. Just you and me. Trust me.’

7
    By the time I got to my room at the Delaval Arms I was exhausted. I had no idea how professional models did it – but then professional models most likely didn’t
also have to interview a duke and his frosty duchess as well as supervise the photo shoot while being directed in how to assume poses of a bridal nature. I threw