“Evening,” I say. “Is Mr Moore still here?”
“Hello, Mr Moore.” I don’t bother to correct him. Lachlan and I never got around to formalising our name changes. We couldn’t even work out how to meld ourselves let alone our surnames. “It’s been ages since I saw you. Yes, he’s still here. The car is booked in ten minutes, though.”
“No problem. Is it okay for me to go up?”
He nods and I head into the lift. It shoots upwards and I take the opportunity to calm my wayward hair and appear a little less like someone who’s just had a tantrum on the bed.
Elliott’s office is the gateway to Lachlan’s office. Beyond Elliott’s desk, Lachlan’s door is ajar. It’s very quiet. Ominously quiet and I feel suddenly uneasy. My heart hammering, I swallow hard and push the door open. And then my heart stops altogether.
They’re standing near Lachlan’s desk, and there’s a good reason for why they haven’t seen me. Elliott’s arms are around my husband, and he’s kissing him.
I stand, unmoving, my breath coming quickly. My first thought is that it’s now obvious why Lachlan kept insisting we use condoms despite my suggestion we stop when we got married. And then I realise that we never actually discussed monogamy. I’d just presumed we were exclusive, because marriage vows mean something to me.
All of that seems so silly to me now. He married me drunk. Nothing about our wedding had screamed long term or fully committed.
I note with horrified amusement that Lachlan and Elliott look good together, Elliott’s blond slenderness pressed tightly against Lachlan’s big, muscled body. Elliott clenches Lachlan’s hair as the kiss continues, and my stomach turns over.
The thought that I might be sick is enough to galvanise me.
I turn and leave the office, dropping his passport on the floor as I go. I don’t look back.
Present
Six Months Later
Chapter
Seven
Joe
The wind hits me as I step out of my flat. I huddle into my black overcoat, pulling the collar tightly to my neck, before dashing to the waiting taxi. I fall into it. “The Langham hotel please,” I say, and the driver grunts before setting out.
After pulling off my gloves, I retrieve my diary from my messenger bag. I’d had a mishap last year where my phone—and its calendar—had died at a crucial moment. Since then, I’ve relied on a paper diary. Although my phone calendar never had an elastic band for holding in all my crap.
I open it gingerly, catching a few stray invitation samples, and scan my day. It’s a busy one. An appointment with Erica to run over the final details before we all head to Scotland for her wedding. I have one meeting in the office, and then two appointments with new clients, followed by a meeting with the chap who does table arrangements. Tomorrow is Sally’s wedding—one I’m looking forward to, as it will mean I’ll never again have to solve her cake problems in the early hours.
The taxi stops at some traffic lights, and I glance out the window. My body jolts with a shot of electricity. Lachlan is there.
He’s getting out of a car with a woman in a business suit. I greedily absorb the details of his appearance. It seems eons since I saw him—years of painful loneliness rather than a few pitiful months. He’s wearing the Tom Ford pinstriped suit I used to love on him. Over it he has on his navy coat, and his dark hair is a little windswept as if he’s been running his hands through it, an unconscious gesture he performs when he has a lot on his mind. I used to treasure my knowledge of such quirks.
He shoots a glance in my direction, as if sensing my gaze, and I immediately slump in my seat, cursing myself for staring. It’s no good though. His grey eyes fasten on me like a heat-seeking missile and recognition slams into him. His mouth opens on my name and his companion looks around.
“Shit,” I moan as Lachlan comes towards me. “Erm, you might want to start driving,” I croak.
The driver frowns at me in his mirror. “Only if I had a tank to get over the traffic in front of us, mate,” he snaps, rolling his eyes.
“Thank you so much,” I call. “Well, on your own head be it, if the Spirit of Joe’s Misspent Past catches up with us.”
Lachlan is nearly at my door when the lights change, and the taxi jerks forward. As we pass, Lachlan’s companion stares, open-mouthed, and then we’re off, merging into the morning rush.
“He was keen on talking to you,” the driver says in a tone of voice that suggests he can’t imagine why.
“Some people are,” I croak. “I’m a very popular person.”
He grunts, and that’s it for the rest of our conversation. A relief, because I need all my concentration to get my pulse under control. Part of me had wanted to open the door and punch the cheating wanker, but mostly I was desperate to just talk to him again.
I fucking hate feelings. They mess everything up.
The taxi draws up at the hotel, dragging me away from my turbulent thoughts. After paying the driver, I step out into ice-cold wind. The pavement is full of people carting bags and parcels. The hotel windows glow gold in the gloomy morning light, and the concierge waits patiently, holding the door open for me.
“Shit, sorry.” I leap forwards into the lobby, grateful for its warmth. I remove my gloves and unbutton my coat, checking my appearance in a nearby mirror. My neat reflection displays no sign of my earlier turmoil.
“Can I help you, sir?” the concierge asks.
I smile at him. “No need. I’m meeting someone in the Palm Court.” I crane my head and spot my bride sitting at a table with… “Shit,” I say morosely.
His eyes twinkle. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
I sigh. “My bride has brought her mother.”
“And is that not a good thing, sir? Will that be your future mother-in-law?”
“God forbid. I’d rather have Lizzie Borden in the family.” He bites his lip and I shake my head. “I’m a wedding planner. I’m not marrying the bride.”
“Thank you for clearing that up, sir.”
I grin at him. “Thanks for your words of encouragement.” I slip him a tenner and his smile widens.
“Any time, sir.”
He melts away to deal with a lady struggling with her case, and I take a deep breath and gird my loins. Whatever that means. I wouldn’t want Erica’s mother anywhere near my loins, thank you very much.
Running a hand over my hair, I stride into the beautiful, airy room. “Good morning,” I say cheerfully. “How are you?”
“Joe,” Erica squeals and jumps to her feet, enveloping me in a big hug. I inhale the scent of Miss Dior and get a mouthful of her fur collar.
“Alright?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes discreetly. “Just about,” she mutters.
She sits down and I smile at her mother. “Lovely to see you, Frances. I wasn’t aware you were coming.”
Sorry, her daughter mouths, but she stays quiet out of a sense of preservation. She, like everyone else, is frightened to death of her mother.
“You’re late,” Frances snaps. She’s a beautiful woman with ash-blonde hair cut into a sharp bob and a slender figure currently swathed in a very expensive tweed suit, but the effect is marred by the lines of spite that surround her thin mouth. I’ve yet to find anything that pleases her, but I live in hope.