“No, I haven’t seen any. Not yet.”
I haven’t seen a single one of Jack and Susie’s wedding pictures on social media since I purposefully haven’t logged on yet.
“I’m sure it was fantastic.” I fake a smile. “Send them my congratulations. They must be so happy.”
“Yeah. They are. It was a great day. Susie looked great.”
That doesn’t surprise me, since she always does.
“You should go,” I tell her. “You’ve got plenty to be doing. Tommy’s waiting to play dominoes.”
She doesn’t look very comfortable with my suggestion.
“I’m serious, Cass. If you’re feeling shitty then I’m here to talk. I don’t blame you for bailing to Malvern, but I don’t like the thought of you being alone.”
“I took the role because it came up.” I shrug. “Coincidence, nothing more.”
She sighs and gives up on the heart to heart.
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll go play dominoes. Call me if you want to talk.”
I ask her one final thing before she leaves, because I have to. The thought has been aching in my gut.
“Did Jack use the vows he wrote?”
She shrugs. “Does it matter?”
“Not really, I just want to know.”
“Yeah, he used them. Sorry.”
“Were they exactly the same?”
She nods, then sighs. “I think so. I don’t remember them word for word…”
It’s her who’s talking bullshit now. She knows he said them word for word.
It hurts more than I thought it would. I can imagine him reading the unique vows he made up years ago like a bad poetry attempt, when we were just teenagers and he shared my dreams of forever. He was so proud of himself for writing them. I hoped he’d at least change some of them before he declared them to someone else, but of course he didn’t.
“I’ll be fine, don’t worry,” I tell Michelle, hoping the tears don’t come before we hang up.
“Okay, cool. Drop me a line later to let me know you’re okay.”
I slump back onto the sofa when the call is over, trying to collect myself. My head isn’t thumping anymore but still groggy and I feel like crap on a load of levels. There is something else crappy looming on the horizon now, too. Something that may have some serious repercussions if my clients find out about it…
You shouldn’t fuck guests at a wedding if you’re the wedding planner. It’s a basic fundamental of professionalism.
At least my woes aren’t all about Jack today. Small mercy at least, if not a terrifying one. There’s no getting away from it, though. I shouldn’t have fucked the guy in the tux last night, no matter how hot he was.
Shit.
In an ideal universe I’d be bright and upbeat today, unpacking the rest of my stuff and making this apartment into a home, not hungover from being a whore right through the night. I can’t, though. This apartment feels anything like a home right now, so I don’t bother to pretend it is, just force myself to eat a bowl of porridge and take a shower. Then I get my period. Brilliant. Shame I didn’t get it yesterday, since it might have stopped me making an idiot of myself with a stranger. I spend the afternoon in my PJs, watching old romance movies and drinking pots of tea, hoping I still have a job when I get to the office in the morning.
I pull up at the office, panicking that Georgie found out I fucked one of her wedding guests and has branded me an unprofessional bitch to everyone she knows.
It seems she hasn’t, though. A huge bouquet of thank you flowers are sitting on the counter – sent via priority delivery. The deep scarlet roses and pure white lilies are absolutely stunning. Georgie sure is generous.
Janie, my assistant, offers me the card that came with the flowers.
“Who the hell is Anthony Bradstone?”
“Sorry?”
“Anthony Bradstone. These came for you as soon as I arrived. Literally, as soon as I pulled up this morning. The delivery girl was already waiting outside.”
I look at the delivery card. Surely it can’t be… but it is. It must be.
Ant – Anthony Bradstone.
“Is he Georgie’s dad?” she asks. “I thought Georgie’s dad was called Jim?”
“Ant was one of her guests at the wedding. An old school friend of Kieran’s.”
“Whoa. You must have made quite an impression. These are from Blooms on Talbot Street. They cost an absolute fortune!”
It shouldn’t surprise me that the flowers are expensive, since a single bottle of De Chante would cost someone’s average weekly wage.
Janie leans over the counter as I open the envelope that came with them, but I turn away, just in case it mentions any damning words like horny slut. But of course, it doesn’t.
Thank you for a beautiful evening.
His phone number is written underneath.
“What does it say?” Janie asks, straining to see.
“He, um. He’s saying thanks.”
“That’s nice of him.”
“Yeah, really nice.”
There’s no way I’m telling her he’s thanking me for a night in his bed and not for a well delivered wedding event.