It went without saying that writing for the Post was very different to writing for Rallegra. I was used to writing upbeat articles about how to knit or spice up your sex life or how to spice up your sex life with knitting. Overnight, I had to switch gears and research leading politicians and breaches of legislation by the aluminum industry. It was more exciting than it sounded. I loved immersing myself in a subject and thinking about nothing else for weeks, rather than flitting between makeup tips and poncho reviews.
The problem was, with few contacts and a history in women’s magazines, I’d not been able to find a juicy story yet. I’d just done small bits here and there and helped other, more experienced journalists with research. But this was my chance to make a splash. To prove I wasn’t my mother’s daughter, destined to write for a gossip column. If I could impress over the next three months, I’d be first in line when something permanent opened up.
The clock was ticking.
I drained my champagne glass just as we were ushered inside. At least there would be assigned seating and I’d have someone to talk to during the reception. I loved getting to know new people. I loved asking questions, getting under their skin, finding out what made them tick. No matter who sat next to me at the reception, I’d be able to write a book about them by the time the speeches started.
The seating plan was displayed outside the bright conservatory, and I found my name in the list of people on table eight. As I stepped into the room, swathes of green and white flowers dripping from the roof, down to every table and across every surface, drew my gaze.
It was dazzling. If I’d been getting married, I’d have chosen a wedding just like this.
I made my way to my assigned table and took a seat, scanning the room to see if anyone was approaching. I glanced at the name cards either side of me. The one on the left read Nathan Cove—poor guy probably hadn’t even heard of the idiot banker who was partying his way through London after making ten trillion pounds or something when he sold his company last year. I knew all about that Nathan Cove because my mother enjoyed writing about him, which meant I got to hear about his exploits over dinner. This Nathan Cove probably loved spreadsheets and lived with his mum. Then on my right was Tom Miller. It was a Hardy-esque name that conjured up a man full of integrity and grit—a man with a story. I began to feel a little better. Two people who would be forced to talk to me. I could pepper them with questions and prepare to write their biographies.
Perfect.
An older couple approached the table and checked out the place cards. “This is us, Marjorie,” said a gentleman with a grey beard and matching hair that stuck straight up, as if he’d just had an electric shock.
He turned to me. “I’m Tom Miller,” he said.
Not quite the brooding hero I’d envisaged, but he looked nice enough. And he might have a deep, dark past I could explore.
“I’m Madison,” I replied.
“Your name is Medicine?”
“Madison,” I said, a little louder.
“Ahh, Mary. Sorry about that. You’ll have to excuse me, dear. I’m a little deaf on my right side.”
My heart sank. So much for asking Mr. Tom Miller a thousand questions about his past. I wasn’t sure he’d hear me if I asked him to pass the butter. He’d busied himself getting his wife seated and pouring water for the entire table when someone pulled out the chair to my left.
I felt a tug at my dress, followed by the sound of ripping fabric. I whipped my head around to find the pink sleeve of my dress caught on the back of Nathan Cove’s chair. The hole was getting bigger and bigger, and I pushed my chair back in an effort to stop my entire sleeve being taken off.
“Wait!” I shouted. “You’re ripping my dress.” I tried to hook my other arm over to free myself but couldn’t reach, so I shifted around, stretching one leg over Nathan Cove’s chair to keep my balance as I tried to stop the rip getting any bigger. That didn’t work—I still couldn’t reach—so I half-stood on my other leg, spread-eagled across the chairs.
The person moving Nathan’s seat stepped closer, about ten centimeters away from me. “Can you move out of my light?” I snapped. “I can’t see what I’m caught on.”
“I would, but the entire room may get a view I’m not entirely sure you were planning to show everyone this early in the proceedings.”
I glanced up at the sound of the deep, resonant voice, and my breath tripped at the sight of a man’s long eyelashes and twinkling eyes. It was a full three seconds before I remembered I was trapped on the back of a chair and had just been informed I was showing everyone my knickers.