LITMIR.BIZ

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it out towards her.

      ‘Owen Lloyd,’ he said. ‘Best Man. At your service.’

      ‘You’re the best man?’

      Oh just bloody perfect. She looked him up and down in his casual jeans-and-jacket combo.

      ‘No need to sound so surprised. It’s just a bit of partying with a speech thrown in.’

      She opened her mouth to point out how utterly pivotal that role actually was, particularly in light of the fact the Lavington was hosting not only the wedding but also respective hen and stag nights for the bride and groom, but speech was sucked away by the sound of excited chatter as more guests entered the room. She turned immediately to greet them, pasting on a professional smile that faded as quickly as it arrived.

      What the hell? She almost blurted.

      The reality of the situation bit her squarely on the arse as she stared across the lounge. The champagne bottles, the glassware, the bloody annoying best man all suddenly melted into insignificance against the shock that fell through her stomach. She glanced back at her clipboard again, just to check she wasn’t having some insane nightmare. Then back up. Nope, he was still there.

      It bloody WAS Luke Pemberton. The wedding on which her dream job hung and Mr Marriage-Phobic from her past was the bridegroom.

      In half a dozen strides he was across the bar and clapping an arm around her stiff shoulders.

      ‘Babe! Long time no speak!’

      She gaped at Luke in shock.

      Somewhere in the course of the past year his accent, always working class, had somehow become more exaggerated. His reddish hair was in a thick mop style, Oasis circa 1995, and he wore drainpipe jeans, a slim-fit jacket and (most unbelievably) sunglasses, which he now removed.

      ‘I hardly recognised you,’ he blared, as if she’d had a head transplant rather than just aged twelve months or so.

      ‘Me either,’ she said. ‘You look very…er…Britpop.’

      From the corner of her eye she registered Owen Lloyd grin broadly from his place next to the bar.

      ‘How the bloody hell are you?’ Luke shouted. He gave her no time to reply. Everything was spoken a couple of notches louder than strictly necessary, as if he were addressing an audience. ‘It’s so great to see you. I’m getting married!’

      He took a skipping step forward and waved jazz hands, as if he were making an announcement on stage. Amy blinked at him.

      He took a step to one side and from behind him ushered forward a blonde girl with big hair and a slender figure that somehow coexisted with an enviable pert cleavage. Behind them, a slow trickle of wedding guests began milling into the room and heading straight for the drinks trays.

      ‘This is Sabrina. My fiancée.’

      The blonde met her gaze with narrowed eyes.

      ‘Angel, this is Amy,’ Luke said. ‘Just someone I used to know from my home town.’

      Sabrina’s eyes instantly widened at the lack of competition and she offered a perfect white smile that could not possibly be natural.

      ‘Great to meet you,’ she said, holding out a perfectly- manicured hand, the nails painted a glossy shade of black cherry.

      Amy shook Sabrina’s hand politely and swallowed hard to clear the dry indignant sensation that constricted her throat. Just someone I used to know. Could he be more dismissive? Rising resentment mingled with amazement at Luke’s clothes and attitude. What the hell had happened to the guitar-mad but totally normal guy she’d known?

      ‘Are you still in the same job?’ she asked him. ‘Session musician wasn’t it, for that recording studio.’

      He stared at her aghast.

      ‘Babe, you mean you haven’t heard? I landed a recording contract. It must have been massive news back home.’

      ‘I haven’t been back home for a while,’ she pointed out. ‘I managed to land a job here. I live in London now and I’m so busy. I’m obviously not in the loop.’

      He nodded as if it came as no surprise to him that she wasn’t hip to what was going on in the entertainment industry. It seemed that he’d left her behind in Purton because boring old Amy Wilson didn’t fit with his guitar ambitions once they climbed a smidgeon higher than playing the local pubs. Not that he’d bothered to tell her that of course, instead it had been all excuses about focusing on his work and not wanting to be tied down.

      Sabrina excused herself and headed for the bar. As she watched, Owen Lloyd handed her a flute of champagne, his eyebrows raised in a vague impression of disapproval, undoubtedly because it wasn’t some kind of uber-modern cocktail.

      ‘Good news on the job,’ Luke said, and she snapped her eyes back to him. He gave her a cautious half-smile. ‘Sorry things didn’t – you know – work out between us. Back home I mean.’

      ‘So when did you decide that marriage was for you after all?’ she said before she could stop herself, because he’d been so utterly adamant back in the day. ‘An outdated institution, you said. ‘No need for a piece of paper, you said.’

      Luke shrugged, as if a total about-face was no biggie at all.

      ‘It’s just… right,’ he said slowly, as if it was hard to properly capture with words.

      She stared over his shoulder at the empty doorway and swallowed hard to try and clear the constriction in her throat.

      The implication of that was clear of course, and she’d known it for years before she even met Luke Pemberton: Amy Wilson was obviously just wrong.

      Things didn’t work out because he’d been filling in time with her while he awaited a better offer. The real question here was, why was she even surprised? Being the also-ran was the story of every facet of her life involving the regard of other people. Past relationships, home life, work colleagues, in all situations she had been the warm-up act. She’d laughably thought that her relationship with Luke had bucked that trend a little. It hadn’t felt like she’d fallen short because he’d made it clear that their break-up wasn’t down to her. Nothing personal, babe. Settling down just wasn’t on his agenda. Commitment wasn’t a part of his psyche. Except it turned out now that with the right girl, it was.

      She was the wrong girl. Again. And you’d think she’d bloody well be used to it by now.

      ‘Forget it,’ she said. Now she’d had the chance to collect her thoughts there was no way she was going to let him know she was remotely bothered. ‘We’ve all moved on, Luke. I’ve got this amazing new management job…’ she waved her hand to take in the lounge, now buzzing with guests ‘…the last thing I’m interested in is a relationship with anyone.’

      He looked relieved.

      ‘I’m glad, babe. Because it was – you know – fun. No hard feelings, right?’

      Fun? She’d wasted a year of her life sitting in minging pubs out of misplaced loyalty. Fun wasn’t the word she’d have chosen.

      ‘Absolutely,’ she said. She kept her voice coldly neutral. ‘It never happened.’

      To make it clear she was so not bothered, she came at him in full-force work mode.

      ‘Right, my aim here is to interfere with your weekend as little as possible while at the same time making the whole thing run like clockwork. I’m on call 24-7, so if I’m not in the immediate vicinity then Reception can page me. Nothing is too much trouble.’

      He nodded his approval and she congratulated herself on her professionalism, pleased that her tried and tested life formula, perfected over time, now held firm even in the face of this new confirmation of her inadequacy: the three no’s, as she’d come to think of them: no emotion,

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