Katey-Louise steps back, her bottom lip wobbling. ‘Don’t shout at me. It isn’t my fault.’
Adam opens his mouth, then shuts it again. I don’t blame him. There’s no point trying to reason with Katey-Louise. Nothing is ever her fault. Or her responsibility, come to that. As the boss’s daughter, she thinks she can coast through life looking cute and pouting. Which is proving to be true. With no qualifications, experience or knowledge of what the job entails, Katey-Louise is head of marketing at Brinkley’s. It’s a wonder the company hasn’t gone under.
And the nepotism doesn’t stop with Katey-Louise. The whole office – apart from me and Adam – is made up of Brinkleys, from Managing Director Neville Brinkley and his wife Denise, to offspring, Katey-Louise and Jasper. Jasper is head of IT, which is just as laughable as Katey-Louise’s role. Jasper doesn’t know anything IT-related beyond Facebook and Minesweeper. He’s currently sat at his desk, headphones planted over his ears as he clicks away at the Minesweeper grid, grunting every time he clicks on a mine.
I didn’t even realise people still played Minesweeper until Jasper joined our team.
‘Do you know what?’ Adam had stalked across the office, but he’s returning now with the green plastic box. ‘It is your fault. Your dad sent you on that first aid course. The one you asked him to.’
‘That’s because I wanted to go to Liverpool for a few days. One Direction were playing at The Echo Arena and my friend Tansy-Mae managed to get tickets. They were sold out in Manchester.’ Katey-Louise says this as though it explains everything; her dad paying for the course and accommodation (we couldn’t have Katey-Louise travelling there and back daily on the train, could we?) and her return without any first aid knowledge whatsoever.
‘Just make yourself useful and go and make Delilah a cup of tea.’ Adam plonks the green box on my desk and opens it up while Katey-Louise stands there, open-mouthed. I don’t think she knows where the kettle is either.
‘Maybe you could bring me a biscuit too? Sugar is good for shock.’ Yes, I am milking this scraped knee for everything it’s worth. It isn’t every day I’m treated with kindness in the office.
‘Good idea.’ Adam looks at me, his lips twitching. He’s the only decent one in the office. He doesn’t have any authority, which is a shame, but it’s nice having somebody on my side.
‘I think a Fudge Sundae would be best,’ I say. They’re my favourite of the Brinkley’s brand and as rare as hen’s teeth in the Brinkley’s office. Neville is loath to give out freebies – we’re only given a bag of seconds at Christmas.
‘Dad isn’t going to be happy.’ Katey-Louise is calculating whether to do my bidding; to give in and serve me would be humiliating, but the pleasure of telling her dad that I’ve been wolfing the stock is tempting. She decides landing me in it is the better option and slinks away in search of the kettle and biscuits.
‘Where is Neville?’ The office is oddly empty, with only the four of us present (although Jasper may as well not be here). ‘And Denise?’
‘Neville’s gone to that brand-building conference, though I think it’s just an excuse for a jolly.’ Adam lifts a flap of my tights and I hiss again. ‘Sorry. I think I’m going to have to cut away a bit of your tights. You don’t mind, do you?’ I shake my head. They’re ruined anyway. ‘Denise is over at the development kitchen. They’re almost ready with the new line.’
Which means Denise is stuffing herself with delicious new biscuits.
‘Are you ready?’ Adam has a small pair of scissors hovering over my tights. I nod, thankful I shaved my legs before going to the pub last night.
Chapter 3
Francesca Holden (soon-to-be Radcliffe)
Text Message:
Francesca: Hello, darling! It’s been soooooo long since I saw you! Let’s meet up soon!
Delilah: I’m free at the weekend
Francesca: This weekend is no good for me – Jeremy is whisking me away to Venice!
Delilah: The weekend after?
Francesca: Also difficult! I have a client meeting on the Saturday and a christening on the Sunday. Sorry!
Delilah: No problem. Let me know when you’re free and we’ll meet up
Francesca: I’ll have a good look through my diary and let you know!
You’d think falling bum-over-boob onto the pavement would be the low point of my day, but you’d be wrong. There is far worse to come and this Monday will forever be known as The Worst Monday Ever. At least to me.
With my cut knee now clean and covered in a plaster, I’ve spent the morning working my way through my in-tray, which is as boring as it sounds and isn’t helped by my raging hangover. With my thumping head and throbbing knee, my body is now a one-man-band of drumming.
‘The salted caramel shortbread is going to be a hit,’ Denise announces as she deigns to join us shortly before lunch. It must be a hard life for the woman, being paid to stuff herself with biscuits. ‘Has Neville called while I’ve been out of the office?’
‘How would she know?’ Katey-Louise asks as Denise directs the question at me. ‘She’s only just got in herself.’
Denise arches an eyebrow at me. There’s a tiny shortbread crumb stuck to the corner.
‘She’s exaggerating,’ I tell the crumb, unable to tear my eyes away from it. ‘I was only a tiny bit late and I have a valid excuse.’ Denise and the crumb wait for my explanation. ‘I had an accident.’ I swivel in my chair and stick out my leg to showcase my plaster.
‘She was mugged,’ Adam says.
‘Mugged?’ Denise had been observing my injured knee with disdain but she sits up straighter now. The eyebrow crumb plops off onto the carpet. ‘Have you phoned the police?’
Whoa, hold on there, missy. I’ve quite enjoyed the attention my busted knee has garnered but involving the police is going a bit too far. What if they check the local CCTV cameras and discover I’ve been telling porkies?
‘There’s no need. They didn’t take anything.’ I give my blonde hair a nonchalant flick. ‘I fought them off.’
‘Them?’ Katey-Louise’s eyes narrow until they’re totally obliterated by the ridiculously long false eyelashes. ‘I thought there was only one mugger?’
‘Him. I fought him off.’
‘It doesn’t matter how many there were,’ Denise says. ‘You have to report it to the police. What if he strikes again?’
‘He won’t.’ I can be pretty confident in my statement, what with the mugger being a figment of my imagination.
‘He might!’ Denise’s eyes widen. ‘What if he attacks my Katey-Lou?’ Denise picks up the phone off her desk. ‘What’s the number for the local station? Or should I phone nine-nine-nine?’
‘You should do neither.’ Leaping out of my chair – which causes my knee to double its throbbing tempo – I grab the receiver and replace it before Denise’s fingers can reach the buttons. ‘I’ll pop into the station on my way home.’
‘Good idea.’ Thankfully Denise lets it go. My little fib was about to spiral out of control so I’m glad I’ve managed to rein it back. It’s almost like a forewarning of what is to come but I don’t take heed.
Limping back to my desk, I return to my in-tray, which somehow looks just as overflowing as when I arrived at the office earlier this morning. My next task is one of my least favourite; inputting the absences from the previous week into the payroll report and making sure we have a sickness or holiday form on file to cover it. It usually involves chasing up managers and supervisors on the shop floor so I’m glad of the interruption of my mobile phone, even if it does earn me a glare from Denise. I flash her my plaster and her face softens slightly.
My oldest friend’s name flashes up on the screen and it’s as I press to answer the call and place the phone against my ear that I remember my plans with Francesca.
‘Delilah, darling!’ Francesca cries before I can utter a word. ‘I am so sorry. My meeting ran over and I’m only just leaving the office. But I will be there, I promise.’
>
I’m supposed to be having lunch with Francesca. Right now. I forgot all about it but I can’t cancel as pinning Francesca down is like trying to catch a fly with chopsticks. It may be a breeze for Mr Miyagi but it’s near impossible for the rest of us.
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m not there yet myself. I’m stuck in traffic.’ I pray that the rest of the office will remain silent and not give the game away. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
My second lie of the day. My third will be a biggie.
Francesca is already seated by the window of the café we’ve arranged to meet in, a huge mug of frothy coffee and an untouched sandwich sitting in front of her as she flicks through a magazine. She doesn’t spot me until I’m standing right in front of her.
‘Delilah, darling!’ Flicking the interior design magazine closed, Francesca springs out of her seat and envelops me in a sweet-smelling hug, a delicious mix of fruity shampoo and designer perfume. ‘It’s so good to see you. You look great!’
‘Thank you.’ Francesca always looks so well presented, leaving me feeling like a tramp in comparison, so I’m glad we’ve arranged to meet during the week as my work clothes are at least more presentable than the old, worn jeans and Converse that I favour at the weekends. Of course I don’t look as sophisticated as Francesca, but that’s never going to happen, no matter what I wear. Francesca is an interior designer – and pretty successful too. She always knows what look suits every single occasion and she’s like a walking advertisement for the sophisticated, glamorous business she’s created. She started off designing for friends of her parents and her business grew from there. I know for a fact that I’d never be able to afford her services.
‘You look amazing,’ I say and then feel like a fool. Francesca always looks amazing. ‘I’ll just grab some lunch and join you.’
I join the queue at the counter, which is snaking towards the exit. Being lunchtime, the café is pretty hammered and I’m worried that I’m holding Francesca up. We hardly ever meet up these days and when we do, it’s only for a fleeting coffee or glass of wine before Francesca has to dash off to see a client or associate. I’m amazed she’s still sitting with her magazine by the time I return to the table. I’ve bought myself a sandwich and coffee and treated us to a cherry and oat slice each.
‘Not for me, thanks.’ Francesca flashes me an apologetic look as I slide one of the cakes towards her. ‘Not this close to the wedding.’
‘How are the plans coming along?’ I sit down opposite Francesca and eye my cake. Should I leave mine too, in an act of sisterly solidarity?
‘We’re getting there.’ Francesca bites her lip nervously but I know her wedding will be perfect. With her father’s money behind it and Francesca’s flair for design, it’s going to be amazing. ‘I wanted to talk to you about the wedding, actually.’
‘Oh?’ Is she going to ask me to be a bridesmaid? It’s pretty unexpected as although Francesca and I have been friends since we were six, we’re no longer particularly close. We were the best of friends throughout our early childhood but when we went to separate secondary schools – Francesca to the posh, all girls’ school while I enrolled in the bog-standard local high school – we started to drift and forged new friendships. We’ve kept in contact all these years and we went through a stage of double-dating when I was with Ben, but it will never be the same. But maybe one of her bridesmaids has had to pull out for some reason and, as her former best friend, I’m the next best thing?
‘It’s about Ben.’
My heart starts to gallop at the sound of my ex’s name. I can’t help it. I’m truly pathetic. ‘Ben?’
Francesca’s eyes drop to her mug and when they finally meet mine again, they’re full of apprehension. ‘Jeremy’s asked him to be best man.’
Oh, sod it. I grab my cherry oat slice and shove it into my gob, not even giving my sandwich a cursory glance.
‘Are you ok, darling?’ Francesca leans forward in her seat, resting a hand on my arm as I chomp away like a demented cow. I’m sure they’ve used superglue instead of syrup in these bloody oat slices. I nod, still chomping furiously. I manage to reduce the clump enough to swallow, albeit painfully. My coffee is still too hot to drink but I gulp down half the cup anyway.
‘It’s to be expected, really,’ I say, though I wasn’t expecting it at all. Although Ben was Jeremy’s best friend, I’d assumed Jeremy would ask his brother to be his best man. Since Jeremy had been his brother’s best man last year, it seemed fitting – and polite – to return the favour. Of course I knew Ben was going to be at the wedding, but I assumed he’d be a regular guest and therefore easy to avoid if I needed to. Part of me hoped Francesca and Jeremy’s wedding would be where we got back together. It would be quite poetic, really; we got together through Francesca and Jeremy – why not rekindle our love through them too?
Actually, this could be a good thing. A very good thing.
Francesca gives my arm a squeeze before she relaxes back into her seat. ‘I wasn’t sure how to tell you. I’ve been meaning to but I kept putting it off. I didn’t want to hurt you or make you feel like I was taking sides, because I’m not. Ben is a good friend of mine and I adore him, but that doesn’t mean our friendship has to suffer. Or at least I hope it doesn’t.’
Francesca looks at me with wide, moist eyes and part of me feels sympathy towards her, being stuck in the middle and everything. But part of me wants to tell to her bog right off. Ben dumped me – cruelly and completely out of the blue – and yet she adores him. What kind of friend does that make her? Lauren thinks Ben is a prick – and pretty vocally too. That’s friendship.
‘Ben is Jeremy’s best friend,’ Francesca continues when I fail to open my mouth to respond. ‘I can’t ignore him.’
‘But you think he was wrong to dump me, don’t you?’ Being stuck in the middle is one thing, but I can’t sit here with this woman if she’s completely on Ben’s side.
‘Of course, darling!’ Francesca reaches for my arm once more, giving it a tight squeeze. ‘The two of you were perfect for each other. I really don’t understand what went wrong.’
Nothing went wrong. Nothing at all. We were happy… and then Ben wasn’t, in the blink of an eye.
‘I wish with all my heart that it had worked out for you guys, but it didn’t and we have to make the best of the situation. I wanted to tell you face-to-face about Ben being best man, to give you a bit of warning. I know you’ve both moved on and everything but it’s still only fair that I let you know.’
‘Moved on?’ I’m sure I can feel the oat cake making its way back up again.
‘You didn’t know?’ Francesca’s eye widen momentarily before they drop to the table top. She peels the crust off her sandwich before dumping it back on the plate.
‘Know about what?’ I prompt when she refuses to make eye contact or elaborate.
‘About Ben,’ Francesca says and I have the horrible feeling I’m not going to like what comes next.
Ben
Text Message:
Delilah: I’ve met the man I’m going to marry! He’s so cool and funny and GORGEOUS! I’m in love. Proper L.O.V.E
Lauren: Have you been watching Grease again? You do know Danny Zuko is fictional, right?
Delilah: It isn’t Danny this time (though he will always have a special place in my heart). This one is real! His name is Ben and he is The One
I met Ben at Francesca’s twenty-first birthday party almost four years ago. The party was being held in a gorgeous, ridiculously grand manor house in the countryside. Francesca had hired the whole house for the weekend and had planned activities such as clay pigeon shooting, archery and tennis tournaments – and movie marathons in the huge cinema room in the basement. There was access to the pool, gym and sauna as well as a chef to cook for us. The reception rooms were transformed into an exclusive club for Francesca’s mates, with cocktails and champagne on tap, plus a band and DJ to entertain us. Francesca sure knew how to throw a party, even back then.
‘Great party, Francesca!’ I flung my arm around my primary school bestie and planted a kiss on her cheek. I was a tiny bit tipsy after sinking several delicious but lethal cocktails. ‘I’m having the best time. I’m glad we’re friends, you know.’
Francesca slipped her hand around my waist and guided me away from the bar. ‘Me too. We don’t catch up often enough, do we? We must make more time for each other. You haven’t even met Jeremy yet, have you?’
I didn’t know who Jeremy was. Had I met him?
‘Here he is.’ Francesca used her free hand to grasp hold of a nearby bloke. He was around our age and quite handsome, if a little toothy for my taste. ‘Come and meet Delilah James. Delilah, this is my boyfriend, Jeremy.’ She leaned away from me then to rest her head on Jeremy’s shoulder.
‘Pleased to meet you, Delilah.’ Jeremy held out a hand, which I shook, creating a people-triangle. It felt a bit odd so I let go of both Jeremy and Francesca. ‘I hope you’re enjoying the party.’
‘I am.’ How could I not? ‘So how did you two meet?’
Francesca tilted her head to gaze lovingly at Jeremy and a spike of loneliness shot through me. I’d been single for quite a while (just three months, now I think about it, but when you’re twenty-one, that’s a lifetime and makes you feel like a bit of a loser).
‘Jeremy works for Daddy. Luckily he already thinks of Jeremy as the son he never had, so he doesn’t mind.’ Francesca giggled as she raised herself up on her tiptoes to kiss Jeremy’s cheek. ‘They get on so well. Don’t you, darling?’
‘We do. He’s a great guy.’
My lip, against my wishes, began to curl. He’s a great guy. What a bum-lick. I willed my lips to remain in their benign smile, to not wreck this for me (I didn’t fancy trekking into town to catch the train home in the dark if I was ejected from the party), but they were soon distracted by the appearance of the most gorgeous man I have ever seen. Including film stars. John Travolta, Gene Kelly, Jamie Foxx – they had nothing on this man. My mouth gaped open as he passed, my eyes following him, memorising him. Francesca followed my gaze and, to my utter mortification, she flung out a hand to grab him by the sleeve. I quickly closed my mouth and checked the corners for drool. None – phew!
The Wedding Date Page 2
