Читать книгу Meet Me at the Honeymoon Suite: HarperImpulse Contemporary Fiction - Charlotte Phillips, Charlotte Phillips - Страница 7

There’s nothing like a wedding – a celebratory gathering of people you supposedly know really well – to remind you that you may have been neglecting your place on the social radar.

He might be Luke’s best man, but Owen had no clue who at least half of these people were. Then again, the Luke he knew from childhood who’d crashed on his sofa for a couple of weeks some months ago, seemed to have morphed into some kind of pseudo-celebrity since his band had been offered a deal, with a rock star wardrobe and a gang of hangers-on to boot. Owen made dutiful conversation with whoever approached the bar while he swept the room in vain for someone he knew, a member of Luke’s family perhaps. The room buzzed around him with a party atmosphere.

It was supposed to be an honour, wasn’t it? Your childhood friend getting in touch out of the blue to ask you to step up to the plate as his wing man for the most important day of his life. The thought that not necessarily meant to be the life and soul of this party, but at least to be engaged in it nagged at him. Instead he needed to make a conscious effort to keep his mind from wondering how things were going right now at his newest bar in Chelsea, despite the knowledge that he’d delegated all managerial duties for the weekend across his entire business. It could operate perfectly well without him for a couple of days.

Knowing that didn’t make it any easier to switch off.

Unable to avoid overhearing Luke’s blaring voice from feet away he picked up that the cute events manager also knew Luke from way back, not that Owen had ever encountered her before. He was sure he would have remembered. And from the look on her face the Luke she’d known was AWOL too. As he watched she glanced over at the bar.

The waiting staff had turned up but Amy was needed. Urgently by the look of the bartender, who was unable to fill champagne flutes faster than they were being snapped up by guests in full-on party mode. There was a measure of relief in being slammed back into work. She shoved the hideous sensation of not-good-enough to one side and gritted her teeth hard. The job. That was what was important right now. She was acting Events Manager here. The M-word was in her job title without the qualifying word ‘assistant’ for the first time in history. Yet another let down from her past could not be allowed to affect that.

As she’d honed her working ability, if not her whole lifestyle, by separating all emotion from practical arrangements, focusing on work was the most natural thing to do in this situation.

She manoeuvred her way through the throng of wedding guests and headed straight for the bar to check on the drinks.

‘So you know Luke?’

She glanced sideways. Owen Lloyd was standing next to her, one elbow leaning against the bar, that same shrewd smile still on his face.

‘He’s just someone I used to know from my home town,’ she said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. The dismissive way Luke had described her really stuck in her craw. Not that she had any feelings for him now. Months of throwing herself into work and a fresh start move to London had put things into perspective. She was over him.

She still had the right to feel affronted.

So what had happened between them had been a bit of fun. A time-filler. Her mind now insisted on trotting out a succession of scenarios that bore this out. He’d kept up a full-on social life with his mates while dating her, never really including her in that social circle at all. She’d met his parents only once, by accident in the street. There had been no meet-the-parents Sunday roast for her. They’d never holidayed together nor even planned so much as a mini-break. The examples rolled through her mind on a loop. Her bruised feelings were her own stupid fault for reading things into the situation that simply weren’t there. His insensitivity however, was undeniable.

‘We dated for a while back in the day,’ she clarified, noticing that Owen was watching her intently. ‘It was nothing serious.’ Now wasn’t that the truth.

The bartender was still refilling glasses and Amy moved behind the bar to help, grabbing one of the champagne bottles and inexpertly wrestling with the cork, imagining it was Luke’s neck. The bloody thing refused to budge and she grappled with the bottle and forced her thumbs behind the cork.

‘You’ll take out one of the chandeliers if you do it like that,’ Owen said, taking it from her before she could protest. ‘Hold the cork and twist the bottle,’ he said. The cork popped gently out and he filled a couple of flutes before handing it to the bartender.

‘I must have loosened it,’ she said irritably.

‘You seem tense,’ he commented.

‘I am not tense. I’m never anything but calm. There is no room for emotion in wedding organisation. That’s the key to making these things running smoothly.’

She would make this weekend happen perfectly for Luke as if he was a complete stranger. Which actually in some ways, he was. She still couldn’t get over the image change.

She heaved an extra tray of champagne flutes from a storage shelf below the bar, forcing her mind to stay on task instead of doing what it wanted, which was to process this new and depressingly predictable slant on her past. There she’d been, considering herself to have one serious relationship under her belt, and the reality was that it had been no more than an overly long and inconsequential fling. Well what a perfect fit for the rest of her life thus far. She squared her shoulders and glanced around the lounge, noting carefully the lack of guests with an empty glass, checking the trays of canapés didn’t need a top up. Guests stood or sat at tables in cosy groups. There was a general buzz of upbeat conversation and laughter. Things were going fine so far.

Guest satisfaction was always at the back of her mind, and she turned to Owen, who was watching her, and pasted on a polite smile. It occurred to her now that she’d dated Luke for over a year and not only had she never met the person he’d chosen as his best man, she’d never even heard of him. It was becoming clearer and clearer that things with Luke had, in his eyes at least, never been anything more than casual at all. Had she wanted to believe that she, Amy Wilson, could sustain a long-term secure relationship so much that she’d been blind to reality? She passed a hand over her eyes, trying to think straight.

‘How do you know Luke? Are you one of his…’ she coughed pointedly, ‘…more recent friends?’

The word shallow teetered on the tip of her tongue but she didn’t use it. She began stocking extra silver trays for the waiting staff, holding each new flute up to the light and giving it a final polish before it was filled. Never letting the champagne run out was one of her standard rules. Nothing irked the guests like a badly-stocked free bar.

‘Actually I’ve known him for years.’

She stopped mid-polish in surprise.

‘Really?’

He took a sip from his own champagne glass.

‘Our parents are old friends. We used to holiday together as kids, then we lost touch for a few years when I moved away. We met up again when he needed somewhere to crash for a while a few months back when he first moved up to London.’

‘But you’re not from Wiltshire?’

‘Not that far from there actually. My parents own a farm near Bath. It’s been in our family for years.’

Farmer? She looked at him doubtfully. The expensively cut dark jacket worn over a designer graphic T-shirt. She could pick up the light, crisp and definitely expensive scent of his aftershave. He didn’t remotely fit her idea of the farmer stereotype.

‘Crops?’ she said for the sake of conversation.

He shook his head.

‘Dairy. It’s a family affair. My father runs it, my brother works on it.’

Owen could hear the stiffness in his own voice and made a conscious effort to iron it out. Family loyalty worked both ways. They might have felt affronted that he didn’t want to join the family business but he couldn’t stop the resentment at their lack of interest in his own venture.

‘And what about you? You don’t look like you’re in milk.’

He grinned.

‘That’s because I’m not. Not unless it’s mixed with alcohol anyway. I’m in the drinks industry.’

Her smile lit up her face. He found he didn’t want to look at anything else.

‘I’d never have guessed. Sales rep?’ There was a note of triumph in her voice.

He pulled a mock-offended face.

‘Please! After all the effort I made to wow you with my drinks knowledge. I own a chain of cocktail bars.

A surprised pause and then she smiled her approval.

‘I’m impressed.’

He held her gaze firmly in his.

‘Good.’

Amy’s stomach gave an unexpected warm cartwheel that took her completely by surprise and she found her eyes lingering on his instead of cutting away instantly. Heat began to creep slowly up from her ears towards her cheeks.

Just what the hell was she doing?

‘Joe, let’s have one of the waiting staff check for any empty glasses on the tables,’ she said loudly to the bartender, to make it clear to anyone watching as well as to herself that she was still actually working, even if it felt an awful lot like flirting all of a sudden. She really ought to make her excuses and move away from this man with the crinkly blue eyes and the stomach melting smile. But it was somehow just so nice to have a tiny smidgeon of male attention thrown her way after today’s reaffirmation of what her life experience had been telling her for years - that she was most certainly nothing special. Knowing it was the wrong thing to do – (which somehow made it seem even more appealing because where had doing the right thing actually got her in the last twenty four years) – she resisted the sensible urge to go and give the honeymoon suite a final check before the bride moved into it and instead got right back on with the conversation. A few minutes’ ego-boosting time-out couldn’t possibly hurt. In fact, it could even be seen as therapeutic. And there was still plenty to do here on the front line.

She opened the glass washer and began to move spent glasses from the top of the bar into its shelves.

‘So you were brought up on a farm,’ she said, wiping trays. ‘How does someone make the leap from farming to cocktail bars? The two things couldn’t be more different.’

He’d heard that exact sentiment so many times before. Was it any wonder he was reluctant to make family visits when they were underpinned by negativity? Not that he had time to schlep back home whenever he felt like it, you didn’t build a successful business by taking time off.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘My parents are completely mystified by me. They think I must be some kind of throwback because I couldn’t think of anything worse than taking over the family mantle.’

He could hear the flip sound in his own voice. It was easy to make it sound light-hearted. In reality it had been anything but. He thought for the hundredth time of the flabbergasted response from his father when he’d first touted the idea of doing anything other than stepping into his shoes when the time came.

‘It’s a very routine-based life and a massive tie,’ he said. ‘Up at four-thirty every day of the week for milking. Massive emphasis on cleanliness so major daily hygiene routines to keep to. Hard graft that doesn’t end until early evening and on top of that the constant battle for income with milk prices being driven down. It’s not an easy life.’ She looked slightly surprised at his outburst and he paused, aware that this stream of justification for his decision was still as much for himself as for anyone else. ‘I’m not afraid of hard work but that just wasn’t for me.’

‘Hard work doesn’t have to mean backbreaking physical graft,’ Amy remarked, opening a carton of orange juice and filling a few glasses. She knew that only too well. The hospitality industry was no picnic. She was constantly on her feet, the hours were unsociable and she was dealing with Joe Public, who could never see the bigger picture. If they’d paid for a weekend away, or a wedding or an event, they couldn’t care less if your supplier let you down, or a car was delayed, or if there’d been a double booking by an inept minion of a receptionist. Over Owen’s shoulder she signalled to a nearby waitress to come and refresh her dwindling drinks tray. ‘It can’t have been easy to launch a business from scratch but you’ve obviously made a success of it.’

‘The hours can be tough, I’ll admit,’ he said. ‘This weekend is a bit of an exception for me. I’d normally check out at least one of the bars, making sure everything’s running to plan. I’ve got managers in place but I’m forever on call.’ He glanced at his phone on the edge of the bar, never far from his reach. So far it had been silent. ‘It’s been ages since I’ve taken this much time out actually. I kind of feel constantly like I should be somewhere, as if I’m missing something. It’s ridiculous. I’ve spent so long building the business up that it becomes impossible to switch off. May I?’

She stared as he reached for the carton of orange juice and topped up his champagne glass with it.

‘Bucks Fizz,’ he said, as she raised eyebrows. ‘Very eighties, but what can I do? You rejected my peach Bellini idea.’

He’d managed to elicit a smile, even if it was an exasperated one. He noticed that her eyes sparkled when she did that.

‘Since you mention being forever on call, there’s a hundred things I ought to be doing right now instead of chatting to you,’ she said.

He leaned in close to her.

‘So let’s play truant together,’ he said.

She smiled at him, tilting her chin up a little as she did so. It gave her a very cute expression that made his pulse pick up lightly.

‘I’ll let you into a secret,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘I only started working here a week ago. The previous wedding manager was sacked and they needed someone to take over at short notice. I happen to know one of the senior staff here and they suggested me. Big break, right?’ She didn’t wait for him to reply. ‘At least it will be if I can pull off the trial period.’

‘You’re on probation?’

She nodded.

‘Yup. For a couple of months. They don’t put the word ‘probation’ or ‘on trial’ on your name badge – it makes the guests nervous. But all the same, the job isn’t really mine. Not yet. I know how the industry works. I need to make a great impression from the outset or the post will be put out to agencies before I can turn round. I need this weekend to be a raging success because all eyes are on me.’ She straightened her jacket and nodded at him. ‘And playing truant with you would be madness.’

He shrugged and picked up his glass again.

‘Sometimes a moment of madness makes life interesting, don’t you think? All that work and no play. And other clichés…’

He held her gaze in his own and her stomach gave a very slow and delicious, and extremely ill-judged flip. Probably because a moment of madness had absolutely no place in her life. Amy Wilson did not do madness. She did organisation, conscientiousness and hard graft. She’d learned at the age of seven that she couldn’t rely on other people to provide her with security. If she wanted a steady and worry-free life that wouldn’t be snatched away from her when she least expected it, she would have to get it herself.

She swallowed hard and took a deep breath while the stomach skipping subsided. He really had flirting down as an art form. Then again, she supposed if you spent the majority of your life keeping customers happy from behind a bar, flirting was probably as natural to him as breathing.

‘Tempting though it is to just chat with you all day, I need to get back to it,’ she said. ‘I have to check in with the kitchen and make sure the honeymoon suite is all set before Sabrina makes her way up there.’

It was the oddest detached sensation, talking about Luke’s wedding to someone else. As if their time together had happened to someone else. She glanced at the happy couple across the room, Luke looking like some kind of stereotypical rock god, a drink in one hand and his stick-thin model wife in the other.

Think of them as just any other random couple, that was the way to do it. Think rationally, not emotionally. Remove any partiality and just get on with the job.

She took a deep breath and turned to head for the lobby.

Owen experienced an unexpected faint twist of disappointment as she walked away. He was old hat at conversations in bars – it was part of the job. The key being to listen and let your customer talk about themselves. He realised as he looked after her that for once he’d failed on that front - she knew more about him after ten minutes than he did about her. How had that happened? Bloody hell, was he so starved of interaction that wasn’t work-related that he’d blabbed his life story to the first person who asked?

He liked her. She was funny. And she was also work-obsessed. Maybe that was it - God knew he could relate to that. Without any support from his family, setting up his business from scratch really had been a solitary hard graft. He glanced around the lounge at Luke’s social circle, of whom he knew perhaps ten. His parents hadn’t been invited. Ditto any friends he remembered from his childhood. The room was full of music industry wannabes, models and hangers-on. The kind of people he was happy to have as clientele in his bars. That didn’t mean he wanted to pass the time of day with them. The weekend suddenly yawned dully ahead of him.

‘Have a drink with me later,’ he called after Amy on impulse. ‘We can toast independent workaholism.’

She turned to smile back at him.

‘I would. But I’ll most likely be working.’