Chapter 1

Chapter

One

R afferty

I come awake slowly to three realisations. First, my head is pulsing like a tiny goblin is trying to bang its way out of my skull. Second, if I move, I might very well vomit. Third, someone's long body is hot against my back and an arm is resting over my waist.

I freeze. Has someone broken into my flat to cuddle me?

I'm pondering the fact that I've had weirder things happen over the years, when a deep snore ruffles my hair.

I force my eyes open and immediately throw up my arm as a shield against the nuclear blast currently detonating outside the window. After a moment, when I feel more capable of dealing with the sun, I drop my arm and look over my shoulder.

There's a man behind me. I don't panic, because this is a regular occurrence. I examine his face, trying to remember who he is.

He's slim with red hair that falls over his eyes, and I vaguely remember dancing at a club last night and drinking shots. So many shots.

I swallow hard to relieve my nausea and taste tequila on my tongue.

"Fuck," I whisper plaintively.

When no one comes to help me, I lie still for a minute or so, waiting bravely for death. It's quiet here and seems like a good enough place to pop my clogs. And that's when I have a fourth realisation. It slams into my brain like a tennis racket in the face—a tennis racket wielded by Venus Williams.

"Oh shit ," I shout, jumping out of bed. I catch my foot in the duvet and nearly faceplant but manage to steady myself on the dresser. "Bollocks," I hiss.

The man in the bed stirs. He opens his eyes, blinks, and then gives me a lazy smile. "Hey, babe. You're still here."

I'm equally surprised, but I don't have time to express it as I search wildly for my clothes. "Oh, god," I whisper. "I'm so fucked. Fucked , I tell you."

He rises to a sitting position. "What are you doing, babe?"

Again, with the babe. I'm unsure what I've done to earn that endearment, so it makes me rather nervous.

"I'm looking for my clothes," I mutter and then exclaim triumphantly when I find my jeans. I debate searching for my underwear, but this is a Category One emergency, so commando it is. At this stage in my life, I've been commando more than a member of His Majesty's special armed services.

"Oh no, don't go." The man gives me a pretty smile. "I was going to make you breakfast."

I pause and put my hand to my stomach, swallowing hard. "No breakfast, thank you," I whisper.

He pouts and settles back in the bed. "Still, there's no rush. We can have a lazy morning and maybe go out for breakfast later. What are you doing now?"

I glance back. "Looking for my shirt."

"In my rubbish bin?"

"It's been in a lot wilder places."

He snorts. "I bet it has, naughty boy."

I exclaim in triumph when I finally find the shirt. For some reason, it's in his window box. I gingerly pull the now-damp item of clothing back into the room. It smells of rain, tequila, and poor decisions.

"You can wear one of mine, silly," the man says, jumping out of bed. He rummages in a drawer and pulls out a T-shirt. "Here," he says, tossing it to me.

"Thank you." I pull it on distractedly. "Have you seen my phone?"

"I think it's in the lounge," he offers, leaning naked against the dresser. "I like seeing you in my clothes."

I ignore this statement and his rather alarming tone of voice and race into the living room with him following me. I nearly fall over an empty wine bottle that's lying on the carpet. "Ouch," I say, rubbing my foot and watching the bottle roll across the floor to join two more. "Did we have a visit from James Hetfield last night?"

I jump when a hand slides across my arse.

"Not likely," he purrs. "I don't share what's mine."

I gulp. "You don't?"

"No. I keep precious things very, very close."

"And by precious things, you probably mean your food," I say nervously. "I know I hate to share my marmite cashews. They're precious, and Stan can call me Gollum all he likes, but he knows if he reaches for the bag, his fingers will get rapped."

The seeking hand freezes. "Who is Stan?"

"My best friend. There it is!" I exclaim in triumph and leap for the phone. I pick it up with shaking fingers and then moan despairingly when I see the time. "It's ten o'clock. Oh god."

"Is there a problem?"

Instead of answering, I tap a familiar number on my phone's screen. "Come on, come on," I mutter, pacing as I listen to it ring. "Climb off Lachlan's dick and answer the phone."

"Who are you talking to, sweetheart?"

The call connects. "What?" Joe says cautiously into my ear. I can't begrudge him his air of worry.

"I need a favour."

He groans. "Last time you said that we got fined for causing a public disturbance."

"No, this time it's really bad," I whisper. "I need you, Joe."

"Joe?" the man asks from behind me. "Who the fuck is Joe ?"

"Who's that?" Joe asks.

"No one," I say over the insistent voice of the man who is now frowning at me—the man who appears to think we're married.

"It doesn't sound like no one," Joe says, his voice rich with amusement as my bedmate paces the room and shouts about people who cheat.

"Well, it is," I say in a quelling voice. "Joe, I've got the Hollis wedding today."

"Yeah, I know. You'll be fine."

"That might be true if I'd gone to bed at an early hour in my own bed. Sober ," I add with emphasis.

"Oh god," Joe says.

I walk back into the bedroom. "I know," I whisper. "I woke up naked, and apparently, I'm now in some sort of a relationship I have no memory of agreeing to. I leave that sort of behaviour to you, mate." Joe laughs. "This is serious," I hiss. I look at my watch and groan. "The bride will arrive at the church in an hour."

I look over at my bedmate, who's joined me in the bedroom and is still frowning. I ask him, "I don't suppose you have a spare morning suit hanging around?"

"I don't know any dead people," he snaps.

Joe snorts in my ear.

"That's not what I meant—" I start to explain and then give up. "Well, you know me," I say briskly. "And I'm about to enter a corpse state if I don't make this wedding on time, because my boss will fucking kill me."

"Oh my god, you're getting married ."

"This is going well," Joe murmurs in my ear.

"I'm a wedding planner," I try to say to the man, but he's talking over me. I grip the phone and tell Joe, "Don't pay any attention."

"How can I help it when you appear to have set up home on the set of Hollyoaks ?"

"I hope not." I shudder. "Someone was wearing a tracksuit to a wedding the last time I looked at that show." I shake myself. "Can you pop into my flat and grab my grey morning suit?" I spy my trainers by the bedside table, and step into them. "I'll need my top hat and my emergency bag, which is on the dresser in my bedroom."

"Your emergency bag? That makes it sound like you're about to give birth rather than just being a chronic ho."

"Grab that bag, too," I continue in a repressive tone. "Get a taxi and meet me at—" I look at the pretty man glaring at me. "Where are we—?" I try again to recall his name. "Nick?" I venture.

He glares at me and slams out of the room.

"Not Nick, then. Never mind," I say wildly to Joe. "I know you can track me down."

"It feels like we're on the set of Last of the Mohicans ."

"Use the app on your iPhone."

"Isn't that a bit stalkerish?"

"If you showed up now with a bunch of roses stuck up your bum, I would still kiss you."

"That isn't the reach you think it is. Didn't one of your conquests du jour turn up wearing only daisies?"

"It wasn't quite so erotic when it set off my hay fever."

Joe laughs.

"Come and get me," I hiss.

There's a long pause. "What was the first thing you asked me to do? It's such a long list I've forgotten already."

" Joe ."

"Okay, but you owe me big time. By the look of my phone, you're in Islington, so I won't be long."

"I am?" I dash to the window. "Oh, thank you, tiny Baby Jesus. I'm near St James church."

"How apt. They can bury you there when Jed catches you. Isn't he a friend of the bride's father?"

"Stop talking ."

He laughs again and rings off.

Twenty minutes later, a taxi pulls up to the curb where I'm pacing. "Thank god," I mutter, opening the door and sliding in.

"Where's your new husband?" Joe asks, a thread of amusement running through his voice. I glare at him, and his lip twitches.

"I do not have a husband," I say with dignity, which I promptly lose when the door to the house opens. "Oh Christ, step on it," I call to the driver.

He turns rather ponderously. "This is not an episode of Dempsey and Makepeace , sir."

"Dempsey and who?"

He shakes his head. "Bloody kids."

My bedmate starts towards the car, mouthing something.

"Is that him?" Joe asks.

"What are you doing?" I ask him, panicked.

"Just waving," my twat of a friend says happily. "It'd be rude not to."

I grab his hand and force it down. "Well, don't." I lower the window cautiously. "Thanks for last night," I call. "It was wonderful."

"Wanker," the man cries.

"Is that someone he knows?" the driver asks Joe while thankfully engaging the central locking system.

"I think so, Nigel," Joe answers with a great deal of relish. "But it's always so difficult to tell with Rafferty."

"Ah, probably a pissed-off boyfriend, then." He observes the redhead standing outside the car. "Takes a few years to build up that head of steam," he adds knowledgeably.

"Oh no," Joe says. "Raff's only known him for a few hours, but I regard them as dog hours, where each minute lasts for a century."

I glare at them. "Could we please get a move on?"

Finally, Nigel starts off. Joe leans toward me and scans my face. "Let's have a look at you." He blanches. "Oh fuck."

"Is it bad?" I ask frantically, pulling my phone out and clicking on the camera.

He bats my hand away. "Well, your eyes look a teeny bit hungover. The last time I saw that particular shade of red, I was watching the creepy room scene in The Amityville Horror ."

"That house's horrors will have nothing on my life if Jed finds out what's happened."

He hands me my bag, and I rummage frantically through it. "Aha," I exclaim in triumph when I find my eye drops. I add a couple to each eye and another two for good luck. "How's that now?" I ask.

Joe purses his lips. "You look like you've got myxomatosis."

"Is that something I could offer as an excuse to Jed?"

"Not unless you're a rabbit starring in Watership Down ."

"Shit." I grab my toothbrush, squeeze out a line of toothpaste, and brush my teeth. "That's bliss," I garble through a mouthful of foam, and he hands me a bottle of water to rinse.

"You'll have to swallow the foam, as I didn't pack your spittoon."

"How very disappointing."

I splash water on my face and then reach for my face wash. Lathering up, I catch the driver's eyes on me. He's staring at me in his mirror, fascinated as we sit in the queue at some lights.

"Okay?" I ask him.

"Absolutely," he says. "Don't mind me."

"No problem." I spill some water onto my hands and wash my face, before patting it dry on the towel Joe hands me from my bag. "That feels so much better."

I reach for the moisturiser. "How long will this take, Nigel?" I ask, nerves squirming in my stomach.

He shrugs. "A while. There are roadworks on the route to St James."

"Oh fuck," I breathe.

Joe nudges me. "Don't think about it. Concentrate on what you've got to do."

I whip the T-shirt off and roll on some deodorant. Becoming aware of a commotion in the car next to us, I look over and see two women waving and cheering. I look down at my bare chest and laugh before giving them a lordly salute.

Joe clears his throat. He's sitting calm and collected, one leg crossed over the other, sunlight gleaming on his intensely blingy wedding ring. "Back to the humdrum problems of your immediate future. Do you think Jed will disembowel you first, or opt for something slower?"

I roll my eyes and immediately regret it. They might drop out of their sockets. "He'll probably do both," I say gloomily, reaching for the tube of paracetamol in my bag and swallowing two with the last of the water.

I brush my hair, which is hitting my shoulders and will undoubtedly be the subject of another lecture from my boss at the next staff meeting. I turn to Joe. "Well?"

He grimaces. "I suppose you'll do. Could you get away with wearing sunglasses in the church?"

"Hardly. The vicar's a bit of a stickler for tradition. I don't know why. Last week, he married Sally Parsons in what looked like a sheet."

He snorts, and I reach into the suit bag to get my shirt. I fumble around, and panic starts to stir. "Where's my shirt?"

Joe blinks. "In there?"

I shake my head, pulling out the dark grey morning suit and then searching frantically to the bottom of the bag. "It's not there."

"Oh dear. Your emergency measures could do with some refining."

"Oh my god. I'll have to go bare-chested to church. What am I going to do ?"

"Have we got time to stop at a shop?"

"No." Panic combines uneasily with my headache, making me feel like I might throw up. I stare out the window to steady myself, and then do a double take. We're next to a bus stop, where a line of bored-looking people are waiting.

"Pull over, please," I call to Nigel.

"What?"

"Can you please pull over by the bus stop? Right here."

Grumbling, he stops the car. I open the window. "Hey, Bobby," I call out to the last man in line.

"Raff?" he says, squinting at the taxi.

"Yes, babe. Can I have a quick word?"

He strides over. "For you anything."

I grin at him. "I need your shirt."

" What ?"

"I need to borrow your shirt."

"Not your usual tactics, Raff. You usually just go straight for the trousers."

Joe snorts. Desperation tugs at me, and I say to Bobby, "I'll give you a hundred quid for it."

"Are you taking the piss?" Bobby narrows his eyes. "Oh, are you drunk again?"

"Oh god," Joe sighs behind me.

I smile at Bobby. "Not this time."

I can't believe we've run into him. We've shagged a few times, yet we're still civil. It's like meeting an actual miracle.

Bobby continues to stare at me quizzically.

I look at my watch, groan at the time ticking away, and talk frantically. "A hundred quid and front-row tickets to whatever show you want to see."

"Really?"

I nod. "Hurry up," I urge.

"Is this how you get so many men out of their clothes?" Joe says in a tone of revelation.

"I'm going to get done for this," Nigel says in a dire voice. "The mayor of fucking London will have my licence. I can't stop here. I can't go there. I'm pretty sure I'll end up carrying people on my back the way that man is going."

"Well?" I say to Bobby.

He hesitates and then grins. "Yeah, of course."

He strips off his white shirt and then pauses. "What am I supposed to wear, Raff?"

"Oh." I fumble for the T-shirt I was wearing. "How about this?"

He takes it from me. "You want me to wear a shirt with Southwark Fun Run written on it? I don't know about that, babe. People might think I'm energetic."

I wink. "I seem to remember you are. Think of the hundred quid and tickets for a show."

He shrugs. "Yeah, why not."

I retrieve my wallet from my jeans pocket and take a quick glance inside. I look back at Joe. "How much money have you got on you?"

" Really ?"

"Yes."

"Fifty quid."

"Great. Hand it over."

I add Joe's fifty to mine and hand it to Bobby along with my business card. "Nice doing business with you. Ring me on that number tomorrow, and I'll sort out your tickets."

"That's great, but you should know that I'd have done it for another shag," he says, winking at me before walking back to the bus stop.

"Is your cock made of gold?" Joe enquires.

"It's much more precious than that." I settle back in my seat. "Okay, Nigel. Drive like the wind, please."

"You are aware that this is bloody London, sir. Even the wind gets charged for using the roads here." He signals and pulls into the road again.

Joe is looking at me, one eyebrow raised.

"What?" I ask.

"Is there a street corner anywhere where we won't find one of your conquests?"

"Maybe in Kidderminster."

He taps his fingers on his jean-clad thigh. "Where's Stan?"

I blink at the change of subject. "At Bennett's house, I expect."

"Hmm."

"What?" I ask, irritated. "Why did you make that sound?"

"I can't help noticing that your wild behaviour has stepped up a few thousand notches lately."

"I cannot keep up with your wild changes of subject when I'm sober, let alone hungover to my eyeballs."

"It's all connected."

"What is?"

"Never mind. So, Stan is out with Bennett again. That seems to be getting pretty serious?"

My stomach churns, and I wonder if I'm going to be sick. "Yeah," I say quietly, my mood shifting downhill. "God knows why. Bennett is far too old for him, and bossy doesn't even begin to cover his personality."

"But Stan likes him?"

"So it seems." I shake off that depressing thought and reach for the buttons on my jeans before pausing. "Okay, I'm going to get dressed, but there's a teeny problem."

"Oh god." Joe sighs.

Nigel eyes me through the mirror. "Have we got to stop again so you can exchange more clothes with another stranger?"

"I actually did know that one."

"Biblically," Joe adds.

Nigel ignores us. "Do you need to have a shower installed in the taxi, sir? Or maybe I should ring for a masseur?"

"No, but I need to get dressed, and I'm afraid I forgot my underwear."

"You naughty little minx," Joe says.

Nigel rolls his eyes. "I'm quite sure you haven't got anything I haven't seen before, sir, but do try to keep the flashing to a minimum. The mayor of London has probably legislated against that, too."

"Good bloke," I announce cheerfully. I kick off my shoes and wriggle out of my jeans before manoeuvring myself into my suit trousers with a great deal of swearing.

"I can't believe you're going commando to Moira's wedding," Joe says in a far too admiring tone. "Her mother has a fit of the conniptions if someone rolls up their sleeves."

"She's unlikely to know unless I split my trousers like you."

"Oh god, don't remind me."

"Time?" I say, reaching for the socks and shoes inside my bag.

"Ten forty."

"Oh fuck." I fan my hand in front of my face after putting on my footwear. "The bride arrives at eleven. I feel faint."

"Faint after," Joe says unsympathetically.

"If I fall and hit my head, will Jed let me off?"

"No."

"Well, at least I'm nearly dressed. That's one thing in my favour. I'll look nice in my coffin when he murders me."

"The morning you're having, you should clutch at all the straws you can find."

I pull on the shirt, fastening the cuffs with ease of practice, feeling my heart rate settle a little. I can face most things if I'm properly attired. I pull the shirt across my chest and pause, looking down uncomprehendingly. I pull it again and then again. " Bollocks ," I whisper.

In the midst of my great emergency plan, I'd forgotten that Bobby was smaller than me. I look over at Joe, feeling like I might throw up. "It won't button up."

He stares at me for a long few seconds, his mouth working, and I wonder if he's going to cry. Then he bursts into laughter.

"Oh, fuck off," I say sourly, pulling at the shirt as if I've suddenly become a magical tailor and can make it enlarge with the power of my own hands. "Motherfucker. Why did I borrow a shirt from him of all people?"

Joe snorts again, wiping his eyes. "I can't wait to tell Lachlan."

"Tell him to come to the wedding. He can witness my downfall at close quarters. Bugger." I tug at the shirt. It moves a bit, and I manage to get the buttons done up to my mid-chest level and then give up, unzipping my trousers and forcing the shirt tails in. "Hand me my jacket," I instruct.

He obeys, and I slide into it. I grab my top hat from the hatbox and cram it on my head. "How do I look?" I ask.

His lip twitches. "Honesty, or complete flannel and nonsense?"

"I'd like more flannel than the towel department of John Lewis, please."

"You look a picture of elegance and poise."

"Ta."

The car shudders to a stop, and I look ahead and groan in terror. We're in a traffic jam that seems to go on for miles. "Oh shit. Can't we go round it?"

"No," Nigel says with a conspicuous lack of sympathy.

I look frantically at Joe. "What time is it now?"

"Ten to eleven."

"How far are we from St James church?" I ask Nigel.

"About five minutes."

"I'll make a run for it."

"You're going to run for the church?" Joe asks.

"It wouldn't be the strangest thing we've had to do."

"True."

I clap him on the back and then open the door. "Thanks for everything, Nigel," I shout. "Joe will pay you."

"Of course he will," Joe says sourly.

"I may be gone for some time," I tell him in a solemn voice.

"I'd rather be Ernest Shackleton than you at the moment, mate. At least he had a head start on that mountain. And he might have escaped Jed, who doesn't like heights."

I wave and edge around the cars in the queue. When I reach the pavement, I start to run.

A five-foot-eleven man running along London streets in a full morning suit, a top hat, and half a shirt doesn't attract as much attention as you'd think, but my five minutes of strenuous activity are still full of ribald remarks and jeering. At last, I arrive at the bulk of the old church and lean against the wall for a second, panting, holding my side, and vowing to do more on the treadmill in the future. That's if I don't die from having a stitch this morning.

People edge past me in their wedding finery, walking up the path where the ushers greet them. One of them waves happily at me, and I offer him a limp salute while trying to suck air in.

"Church looks great, Rafferty," he calls.

I don't think I've ever been so thankful that I was organised and came to the church last night to finalise the arrangements. I'm less fond of the fact that upon hearing that Stan was staying the night at Bennett's house, I immediately went to the club to drink my weight in tequila shots and pick up an alarmingly serious man.

"Fuck," I breathe. As if recognising the end of my great trek, the bells begin to ring the hour, and a grey Bentley pulls up.

I straighten and then groan silently as my boss appears at my side like a villain in a pantomime. The only thing he's missing is the cloud of purple smoke.

"Good morning," he purrs.

"Hello," I say in my most cheery voice. "What a beautiful morning for the bride and groom."

We watch the bridesmaids jump out of the car, shining in their grey chiffon. They stand around laughing and giggling, their voices high in the air.

Jed hums thoughtfully. "Ah, yes. Just the right morning for a jog."

I freeze for a second. "Hmm," I say, thinking quickly. "Well, you know me, Jed. I get so deep into the details that I sometimes have to go for a quick run to clear my head."

He stares at me disbelievingly. "In full morning suit and a top hat?"

"My client's needs come before my own, Jed." I'm quite proud of my tone of voice. It mingles a martyrish quality with a hint of gentle reproach.

He purses his lips, looking me up and down, his eyes catching and freezing at my chest level.

"Did you happen to lose the rest of your shirt on your run?" he enquires in a level tone.

Shit.

I wave a careless hand. "It's the latest fashion. Don't you follow wedding styles?"

He opens his mouth, but his epic dressing down is thwarted when Brian, one of the ushers, appears.

"Alright?" Brian asks, a slight slur in his voice. He uncaps a hip flask and offers it to us. "Hair of the dog?"

"No thanks," Jed says, giving him a charming smile.

He offers it to me, and I shudder. "God, no." Jed's eyes narrow, and I hasten to add piously, "I don't drink on the job, Brian."

Jed relaxes, but Brian chooses that moment to slap me on the back. "Don't suppose you could fit any more alcohol in you after last night. I saw you at the Pink Parrot, you dirty dog."

I freeze, and Jed turns to me with a rather evil smile. "The Pink Parrot?"

"I don't know what you mean, Brian," I say repressively. "Goodness, maybe I have a doppelganger." He opens his mouth to no doubt drop me in it further, but I smile rather manically. "No time to talk." Ever again . "Oh, here's the bride. How lovely."

The Rolls Royce pulls to the curb, white ribbons moving in the summer breeze. The car door opens, and Moira appears, followed by about twenty miles of white tulle.

"Uncle Jed," she cries. "Oh, it's lovely to see you."

Her father climbs out the other side and grins at my boss. "Looking spiffy, Jed," he announces.

My boss shrugs. "I confess I feel a little overdressed now next to Rafferty."

I roll my eyes and step forward. Moira shrieks when she sees me, and I'm gathered into a Coco-scented hug. "You look so gorgeous," she announces when she pulls back. She tugs at my open shirt. "Well, this is novel."

"Oh, it's all the rage now," I say airily. "We don't go in for cravats this year. Far too fussy."

Brian immediately tugs at his cravat, and I shoot a sunny smile at Jed. "Of course, there'll always be the starchier members of the congregation who don't catch on."

I'm sure Jed's lip twitches with amusement, but he bravely covers it up, and we make our way into the church.

An hour later, I sit back in my pew and relax a little. The vicar is currently saying a prayer, and the bride and groom's fingers are now wearing lovely, shiny rings. The wedding went off without a hitch and with many a tear of happiness. Now it's just the reception to get through, and at least there'll be food there. And then home to Stan.

I think of my best friend and smile. It's a Saturday, so I can go home to our shared flat and get into my old sweatpants and a T-shirt. He'll play whatever vinyl he's supposed to have sold in his shop but couldn't bear to part with. I'll offer my lucid criticism, which he'll take the piss out of, and then he'll critique the music much more knowledgeably. Then we'll gossip and bitch the night away. Bliss.

My smile dies. Unless he's out with Bennett tonight. I feel the customary lowering of my mood but shove it away.

My phone vibrates and distracts me from my thoughts. I look around nervously, but everyone is either glancing down at their hands or has their eyes closed as the vicar heads towards the end of the prayer. I ease out the phone from my pocket, and in his usual spooky way, Jed picks that moment to look over.

I freeze and then offer him a look which I hope conveys calm and authority. Bridal emergency , I mouth and frown as I see it's a text from an unknown number. I look around and click on it surreptitiously.

Hey, babe. I'm just texting to see how you are. We must make arrangements for me to get my T-shirt back. It's got a lot of personal significance, so I must have it back.

I bite my lip. The last time I saw his important shirt, it was heading towards Oxford Street on the body of another of my conquests. My life is very hard sometimes.

I sigh deeply, and the remaining buttons on my shirt give up the fight one by one. They pop off and ping onto the floor in the quiet hush of the church. I bite my lip and watch them roll jauntily across the floor towards my boss's feet.

He meets my gaze. In my office tomorrow , he mouths.

"Amen," the vicar and the congregation intone.