Chapter 4

Chapter

Four

R afferty

Holding tightly to the cardboard box full of wedding stationery, I nudge the door of Confetti Hitched open and stagger into the reception area.

"Quick," I gasp. "Clear the desk, Grid."

Ingrid, the receptionist, looks up from her phone. "What's in the box?"

"The last person who asked that was Brad Pitt and it didn't go well."

"What?"

I shake my head. "You need to watch something other than Real Housewives ."

"They're valuable indicators of the shift in society's values. And I'm sure it was you discussing the New York format last week."

"It's just not the same without grown women wetting themselves and falling into the shrubbery." I groan. "You'll see the contents of the box close up very soon, if you don't move that crap on the desk. The bottom's about to go out of it."

She jumps up and clears the files out of the way, and I set the box down with a grateful sigh. "Cheers, babe."

"It's not crap anyway," she says thoughtfully. "It's Jed's annual job reviews." She smirks at me. "Shall I destroy yours?"

"The damage was done when we met to discuss the review. He has very piercing eyes. He makes you confess all sorts of things you don't want to. Dark secrets were spilled."

"I can't imagine what you'd have hidden, knowing all the crap you get up to quite openly."

"I'm still emotionally and mentally scarred." Jed's voice comes from behind us. He's leaning against the door, holding a bunch of files in his hand. "Staff meeting in ten minutes." He eyes me, and his lip twitches. "We can discuss the Hollis wedding."

"Or we could chat about world peace. That's surely a more worthy subject."

"But not as entertaining. Ten minutes."

He vanishes back into the office, and I blow out a breath, slumping against the desk. "Shit. I need a vodka."

"It's nine in the morning, Colin Farrell." She settles next to me. "Will it cheer you up if I tell you about the Foston-Halls?"

I turn to her. Ingrid is the eyes and ears of London. Nothing happens on the marital circuit that she doesn't know about. "Possibly. I still shake when I think of their wedding arrangements. My partner was disturbed mid-shag at two in the morning by her mother ringing me to tell me the napkins were the wrong shade of teal, which still gives me flashbacks."

"Did you stop shagging?"

"Not likely."

"You carried on having sex while talking to her mother ? The woman who makes Medusa look like a fluffy bunny rabbit?"

I shrug. "My partner's pleasure is my priority. Men could learn from me."

Joe appears at the door. "You should have that printed on your business cards."

"Then I'll leave the wedding business behind me and open a commune. I will wear a sheet at all times, and men will feed me grapes."

"Knowing your exes, they'd probably try to choke you with them."

"You speak the truth." I eye him. "I'll make you my trusty lieutenant, and you shall run my commune."

"That isn't half as enticing as you think it is. It'd resemble the Lord of the Flies after a few hours." He looks at Ingrid. "So, what's the gossip about the Foston-Halls?"

"They're getting divorced."

"Why?"

"Oh no," I say in dismay. Ingrid and Joe turn to stare at me. I shrug. "I didn't like them. They were more imperious than Julius Caesar on an off day. But I hate that they're divorcing. Why, Grid?"

"He was sleeping with her mum."

" What ?"

Joe gapes at her. "He was shagging the Medea of the mother-in-law world? Well, he's a brave man. I'll give him that."

Ingrid shudders. "I still remember her meltdown over the chocolate content in the taster bags. It was like a volcano going off. But more dangerous."

"She was shagging her son-in-law. That's terrible ," I say. When Joe shakes his head, I ask, "What? You know I hate cheating. It's appalling."

He claps me on the back. "You're sweeter than Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz ."

"I have infinitely better fashion sense."

He tugs my hair. "And longer pigtails."

"I heard that open shirts were de rigueur on the wedding circuit nowadays," Ingrid says earnestly, which is spoilt by the piss-taking gleam in her eyes. "Any comment, Rafferty?"

"You're a couple of twats," I inform them over laughter.

Jed's assistant Artie appears at the door. "We're in the conference room," he says with a sweet smile, his silky dark hair flopping over his forehead. "Seeing as everyone is here for a change."

"Joy," I say, my tone surly. "That means we'll have a full house for my dressing down."

"Surely there can't be more said about that?" Joe says in a serious voice. "You dress down more than a scarecrow."

I take a detour to add the wedding invitation samples to my desk. After grabbing my diary, I saunter into the conference room. It's a large space at the back of the house, with windows that look over the narrow, walled garden. The office is actually on the ground floor of Jed's house. He occupies the two floors above.

I pop a pod into the coffee machine resting on the sideboard, grab my cup and a croissant, and settle down at my usual seat at the long oak table. The seat cradles my body as if meant for me, and as I look around the room affectionately, I think it might be true.

I've been working here since I was nineteen and have no plans to go anywhere else, despite being offered big money to defect to other wedding-planning agencies.

The others begin to filter in.

"Alright, Margot?" I say, smiling at one of the other planners. She's a statuesque redhead with a wicked sense of humour. "You've got a lovely tan."

She winks. "It happens when you have back-to-back weddings in St Barts."

I roll my eyes. "Alas, back-to-back weddings in Chorley didn't contribute to my tan."

"Do you even get tanned with your ginger hair?"

"It is strawberry blond," I say with dignity. "And as such, my skin becomes a lovely biscuit colour."

"One that's been left in the oven for too long," Joe says cheerfully, coming into the room and slumping into his usual seat next to me.

"How long is this meeting scheduled for?" I ask. "I just need to know how long we'll be focusing on my shortcomings."

"An hour."

"Shit. Quite a long time, then."

"Eons," Jed says, edging into the room. His hands are full of folders, and a tin of the Fortnum and Mason shortbread biscuits he loves is tucked under his arm. He's discarded his suit jacket, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up, showing his corded forearms.

Artie jumps up to relieve him of his files, and Jed smiles at him. His smile is noticeably softer than the smiles he gives to anyone else.

I grab my diary and write, It'll happen next month on a blank page and tap it to show Joe.

He rolls his eyes and, taking the pen, notes, Nope. A year at least .

You have no soul , I scribble.

We've been betting on how long it'll be before Jed reaches for his beautiful assistant. First, Jed has to forget that he's Artie's boss, he's much older than Artie, and a widow to boot.

Joe looks at what I've written and smirks at me. "Realist," he mouths.

"Are you writing a thesis on how to screw up a wedding, Rafferty?" Jed enquires.

The others snort, and I grin at him. "Mankind will thank me for my contributions."

Jed sits, murmuring his thanks as Artie hands him a coffee. Artie flushes a lovely pink and settles down next to him, pen ready to take the minutes.

I nod at him. "It's Rafferty with two fs, and make sure you can spell the phrase ‘superb wedding organiser'."

"He'd be better off spelling ‘chaotic disorder'." Jed shakes his head. "And still, despite jogging to the wedding, turning up sweaty and dishevelled, missing half of your shirt, and looking like you'd dressed for a strip club, the bride and groom are thrilled with you and are recommending you to everyone. How do you do it?"

"Yes." I fist pump and smile at everyone's groans of despair. "It's just excellent time management skills and an uncanny knack of knowing which way the marital market is swinging."

"You don't half talk some bollocks," Margot says almost admiringly.

I nod. "That too."

"So, what's next?" Jed asks, opening his bulging diary.

I pull off the band that holds my organiser together. The leather cover is soft with age and handling. I open it to my current page. "I've got the Templetons today to discuss their circus plans."

"How's that going?" Jed asks. "I have to say it's one of the more unusual wedding requests we've had."

"Put it this way—I never want to source another clown in my life. And I prefer the old days when the words ‘big top' had much more pleasurable associations." Everyone laughs, and I grimace. "And after that, I've got a meeting with a new client to discuss possible venues, and then the Millers for cake testing."

Joe groans. "If I have to taste one more piece of cake this week, I'll hurl. Why can't we have biscuit piles instead?"

"It doesn't have the same ring as a croquembouche," Margot offers, sliding a sly glance my way.

"Please don't mention that," I mutter.

Joe laughs. "I'd forgotten all about that."

"How was I to know that cake was a balancing act held together by a bit of caramel and the best wishes of the bakery? I thought the layers were glued together with edible cement or something."

"I still have the photo of the bride's mother on my phone. I like to look at it when the days are long and depressing."

"Why? Does it make you smile?" I say sourly.

Joe winks. "No. It reminds me that someone is worse at this game than me."

Jed shakes his head. "Was that in the months when I foolishly let you two do weddings together? I'd have had better results if I'd employed the Chuckle Brothers."

I sigh. "Fucking cake."

"This time of year, I have to add another gym workout," Margot says.

"It still bewilders me that most brides and grooms expect us to take part in the tasting with them. It's the fruit cakes I dread. Tiny raisins." Jed grimaces and then gestures at me to get on with it.

I tap my pen on the diary pages. "And after that, I've got a meeting with Leo."

"How's that going?" Margot asks.

My coworkers all know Richard and Leo, a couple who've been my best friends for years. "Fine." I flick through the pages with details for their wedding. "They've got the pre-wedding party next week at Anson's Restaurant. Don't forget that you're all invited."

Everyone nods, and there's a rustle as they check their diaries.

"They're getting married in two weeks in Devon in a small ceremony for the families. Then they've got their commitment ceremony in Greece, so don't forget I'm out of the office for two days to do last-minute checks."

"How is it you get Greece, and I got snowy Scotland?" Joe muses.

"Hope I don't return with the same souvenir you brought home the last time you visited Scotland."

Artie laughs. "At least he didn't bring home shortbread."

"A surprise husband is not better than biscuits," I say. "But don't tell Lachlan I said that."

Artie mimes zipping his mouth, and Jed looks at him affectionately.

"Good," Jed says. "So all is proceeding as planned. Will you be missing your trousers at the next wedding or just the shirt?"

Laughter fills the room, and I roll my eyes.

"It wouldn't be the first time," Joe muses.

Jed works his way around the table, addressing everyone's schedule, making notes in his diary, and offering his usual astute observations and helpful advice. He's very handsome and commanding, sitting by the window with the sun shining on his brown hair.

I remember the first time I met him. Stan and I attended a wedding of a friend of his Uncle Pat's—which accounts for the wild events of that evening—and Jed had been there as a friend of the bride.

Jed had been sitting at the bar, with a palpable air of loneliness about him. Later, I discovered he'd just lost his husband. But at the time, I'd simply hated how sad he'd looked. I'd left Stan with his boyfriend at the time and sidled over to Jed.

Jed offered me a cautious glance when approached.

"I can't help but notice—" I began.

He immediately interrupted. "I'm not interested."

"Rude." I smiled and leaned against the bar. "But I'll cope with the crushing disappointment. Fucking a hot daddy is not on my agenda tonight."

One eyebrow rose slowly. "Is it usually?"

I seesawed my hand. "It depends. Older men can be a teeny bit problematic."

He reluctantly turned to face me. "I know I'm going to regret this for eternity, but why?"

I leaned closer. "Well, they're either far too bossy or overly fixated on their ailments."

His mouth twitched. "Ailments?"

"I had one older man who decided to spank me. I was just getting into it when the motion aggravated his old wrist strain. The emergency department on a Saturday night can never be classed as foreplay."

He stared at me for a second and then started to laugh. It sounded rusty with a sad edge, and I'd just decided I wanted to make it happen again, when all hell burst loose amongst the wedding guests.

The two bridesmaids, who'd been competing for Pat's attention all night, decided to end the evening with a spot of warfare. This took the form of high-pitched screaming, flying flowers, and cake splattering everywhere.

Pat danced around them, pleading, "Girls, girls, no violence, please. It's abhorrent. We don't need it in society. There's more than enough of me to go around."

Jed and I had leapt into the fray and separated the warring women.

After, we took our seats at the bar again to nurse our injuries.

"Amanda has a promising career in the MMA ring if she ever wants to give up her work at the bank," I observed. "Ouch, Stan! That hurts." I winced as Stan pressed an ice pack to my face.

"Don't be such a baby," he ordered.

"Your sympathy could use some work."

"So could your damage assessment." He paused. "What's this sticky stuff I can feel on your face?"

"Cake."

"Oh, yummy." He licked his finger. "I missed out on the cake."

"If only Amanda and Dawn could say the same thing." I shook my head. "Whoever organised this wedding needs a new job. Maybe in a high-security prison."

Jed turned from where a handsome young man was trying to dress the cut over his eye. "Tell me why you think this."

I shrugged. "Well, we all knew Amanda and Dawn went out with Pat at different points. Apparently, the bride mentioned it to the planner, but they promptly put them all on the same table. It was like Gladiator , only with gateaux."

"What would you have done?" he asked, his tone unexpectedly intense.

"I'd have seated them separately, maybe one in France and the other in Outer Mongolia." Stan laughed. "Also, I'd have sorted the flowers at the church. If the florist's remit was to obscure the bride and groom, they did stunningly well. Some of those arrangements were taller than me, and I expected Tarzan to come swinging through them at some point."

"Hmm." Jed stood up, declining any more help from the young man with a charming smile. Then he reached into his pocket and produced a card case. After extracting one, he handed it to me. "Give me a ring. I might have a job for you."

I stared at him. "Really? Was it my disastrous daddy story?"

Stan groaned. "Why do you always tell that story?"

Jed grinned, the smile glorious enough to almost convince me to try older men again. "It definitely wasn't that story," he said very seriously and patted me on the shoulder. "Ring me."

I wasn't to know that calling him would lead to my dream job.

The memory prompts me to make a mental note to remind Stan that my daddy stories are always necessary.

I return my attention to the meeting when Jed announces the last item on the agenda. Soon the room clears as everyone has appointments. I stroll out with Joe at my side and grab my jacket from my desk.

"Okay," I say. "I probably won't see you until tomorrow."

He leans against his desk. "Lunch?"

I shake my head. "I can't today. I'm meeting Saoirse for what will probably be a liquid lunch."

"How is your mum?"

I grab my messenger bag, push my diary in, and then refill my business card case. "She's fine. She's just back from her honeymoon in Bermuda."

"Oh, Christ, not another one."

I grin at him. "Husband number five, baby."

He frowns. "I thought it was four."

"No, she married my dad twice."

"God, I always forget that."

"I don't blame you. The Kendricks have less of a family tree and more of a forest full of ley lines."

He laughs. "How's your dad?"

I roll my eyes. "Rollo is as usual—loud and flash."

"That's where you get it from. He's a character."

"He's on wife number—" I pause and think. "Four, including my mum."

"God, he's practically a romantic."

I snort. "Anyway, I'm off for lunch with her. Then I've got to see Leo at the salon and then home."

He cocks his head to one side. "How's Stan?"

I think of last night, and my stomach sours. "You keep asking me that," I say shortly. "He's the same as the last time I answered you."

"Lachlan said he saw him at a restaurant last night with Bennett."

I frown. Why a restaurant when Stan had already eaten with me? "Was Bennett being excessively loud and bossy?"

"He was telling Stan what to eat. Lachlan said he was stunned the man still had a spleen by the end of the meal."

I force a reluctant smile. "And yet Stan's still with him."

"How long is it now?"

"Four months." I could tell him how the date when Stan first met Bennett at a charity event feels like it's burnt on my heart. But that would give Joe ideas about Stan and me and he doesn't need any more help in jumping to romantic conclusions.

I smile at him breezily. "Anyway, I must be going."

"Of course, you must," he murmurs. "I'm sure we'll return to the subject at a later date."

"Well, you will. You're more persistent than a terrier sniffing a crotch."

"Such a lovely comparison," he says sunnily.

I grab my stuff and leave the office, shouting a hurried goodbye and leaving that stomach-clenching moment behind me.

A few hours later, I walk through the Italian restaurant my mum picked for lunch. She's at a table near the windows, her red head bent over her phone. Several men nearby are sneaking looks at her, which is her life story. She was a very famous Irish model in her early twenties, mixing with all the famous pop stars and actors, and something of that time still clings to her in her wild air. It always feels as if there's no bad behaviour she hasn't seen or done which was excellent for avoiding parental lectures when I was a teenager.

"Alright, Saoirse?" I say, coming up next to her.

She looks up with wide eyes, as though astonished at seeing me despite having organised the meeting, and then delight spreads over her face.

"Raff," she says, jumping to her feet and hugging me. She's as thin as ever, and I tower over her. "It's lovely to see you."

I hug her back. "And you," I say, taking in the familiar scent of Baccarat Rouge that hangs in a subtle cloud around her. "How are you?"

She lowers herself to her seat and smiles at me. "I'm fine. Sit down, darling. You're like a giant."

I roll my eyes and slide into my chair. A waiter immediately appears and hands me a menu.

My mother smiles at him with potent charm, and he straightens like he's been poked with a cattle prod. "I'll have another Chablis, please, and my son will have?—?"

"Oh, an orange juice, please."

She shuts her menu and hands it back without ordering food, and I sigh quietly, resigned to going to McDonald's afterwards as usual.

"Darling, no real drink?"

"No, Mother."

She makes a moue of displeasure.

"Saoirse," I correct myself. "I've got appointments this afternoon. It won't look good if I turn up half-cut."

Like you at my parents' evenings, I add silently, remembering the occasions she lurched in late and loud but still forgiven by my teacher as she laid on her formidable charm.

She pouts. "Well, if you're going to be boring, Rafferty." She shakes her head. "So much like your father."

I look at her slender, ice-cold beauty and wonder for the billionth time what brought her and my father together. My dad is brawny with dark hair and a stocky figure. He's incredibly blunt, incapable of even the most basic diplomacy, and makes no attempt to follow fashion trends. His world was as far away from my mother's as humanly possible and he never attempted to fit in with her fashionable friends.

It was probably his money and charm. My father is loaded, owning a very successful haulage firm and a lot of property, and he has a very charismatic air. If he's in the room, you pay attention. Whatever it is, it's drawn them together and forced them apart many times. I'm remaining braced for the next time.

"How is Rollo?" she asks as if sensing my thoughts.

"Dad's fine, or at least he was the last time we met."

We'd met for dinner, during which he lectured me on rugby, in which I have zero interest, and I talked about weddings, in which, despite having entered into marriage four times, he has even less interest. Then we regarded each other warily and agreed silently not to meet for another six months.

"How's Stan?"

"He's great."

She wrinkles her nose. "Stan is such a strange boy."

I bristle. "Why?"

"He's a stunning man but pays no attention to how he looks."

"You are aware that he's blind, aren't you? His looks aren't an obsession to him."

Unlike yours, I add silently.

She looks as thoughtful as the Botox allows. "Oh yes. I always forget."

"Of course you do." I roll my eyes. "And how is Carlos?"

She smiles her thanks as the waiter delivers her Chablis and immediately takes a long drink. Her face is beautiful but the lack of wrinkles has more to do with plastic surgery than healthy living.

I think of Stan's mother with her long dark hair touched with grey and her makeup-free face. The image warms me. Thank fuck for his parents. I'd have probably been feral if it weren't for them.

"He's fine," she says finally.

"Has the childcare centre got him for the day?"

She glares at me. "There's no need for that, Rafferty. He's not that much younger than me."

"Oh, only three decades, but who's counting?" I smile at her. "Come on. It's a little bit funny. He still thinks CBeebies is grown-up TV."

"At least he wears his trousers correctly. The pinstripes on yours are far too wide, and they're a little tight, darling."

"It brings all the boys to my yard. So where is the child bride?"

"He's at the gym."

"Is he exercising his fingers? All the better to count your money, Saoirse."

Anyone else would be offended, but my mother is made of sterner stuff. The fact that her husband is thirty years younger than her doesn't strike her as ridiculous because, to her, there's no mystery as to why he's with her. She stares at me for a second and then bursts into husky laughter.

"Cheeky," she advises me, affection in her pale blue eyes. "So, what's the gossip?"

The next hour passes pleasantly in the vicious slandering of her friends. When I finally get up to go, she stands up, too, extending her arms. "Hug, please, Raff." I hug her, and she tugs on my hair. "This needs cutting."

"I know. I'm meeting Leo later, so I'll ask him to give me a trim."

"And then you'll go home. Is Stan still staying with you?"

"Strangely, considering the fact that he rents the flat with me, he is still there."

She tuts. "I don't understand that. You have your trust fund, and I know Rollo would help you if you wanted to buy your own place."

"I don't want one," I say calmly. "I like living with Stan."

"It's a bit strange."

"What? Being friends with someone for twenty years? It's about as strange as marrying a man-child with the morals of a rather dissolute alley cat." She stares at me, and I kiss her smooth cheek. "Or so I've heard . Ciao, bella ."

Humour restored, she pats my cheek. "Love you, darling."

"You too."

The bell tinkles as I enter the hairdressing salon, and the familiar sweet scent of shampoo and hairspray fills the air. I grin at the receptionist, Micky, who's sitting at the front desk painting his nails. His hair is dyed a shade of pink that I last saw on my mother's lips. "Alright, Micky?"

He looks up and grins. "Rafferty Kendrick, as I live and breathe. How are you, babe?"

"Well, you know."

"And so does most of the Pink Parrot, naughty boy."

My brow furrows. "I don't think I've done anything too outrageous lately."

"How about the naked shots?"

"Ah. I remember now. It was a chilly evening, so don't judge me."

He chuckles. "You know very well that it was a summer's night. Leo's in the back doing highlights. Go through."

I salute him and make my way to the back, where Leo's station is. Leo is standing with his blond head bent over a lady and a large trolley filled with bowls and brushes positioned next to him.

He looks up and grins. "Hey, babe. Nice to see you."

"I'm sure it is because it's me."

"So modest," he informs his client. "We have such a problem with his wallflower tendencies."

She laughs, and I grin at one of my brides. Bailey has a head full of tin foil, looking rather like a space-age Medusa.

"Alright, Raff?" she asks.

"Fine, lovely. What's this reprobate doing to you? Don't worry about his nickname. Edward Scissorhands is affectionate and not a commentary on his hairdressing skills."

Leo rolls his eyes. "Ignore him if you can," he advises Bailey.

She just smiles at me. "I'll be in tomorrow, Raff."

"I know. We need to finalise the guest invites."

"God, don't remind me. We're bringing Phillip's mother."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Depends if you like hatchet-faced old cows."

"Well, luckily for you, they're my speciality."

"He's not kidding," Leo says. He taps her shoulder. "Fenn is going to take you now, lovely. He'll get you coffee, cake, and some magazines, and then I'll be over to check in twenty minutes."

Bailey smiles at both of us, and Leo's apprentice escorts her away.

Leo starts to clean up the station. "What's up?" he asks, the light catching the platinum band on his finger.

I look at him affectionately. Stan and I met Leo on our first day at secondary school. We'd been keeping our heads down, as befits newbies who don't want their faces rearranged by the older kids. Leo had obviously not read that particular memo, because he'd been laying down the law to three hulking third-years who were cowering before him. He's funny and a complete livewire. You never know what will happen when you meet up with him.

"I came to talk about your wedding arrangements." I settle down in the chair. "It seems funny to be having this conversation with you. I never thought you'd get married given your previous rather caustic opinions of that state."

"Should you be saying that as a wedding planner? I thought you'd claim some sort of marital presentiment."

"I don't think I'd like to possess that. It sounds rather horrifying. No, it's just that you didn't have the best start with Richard considering that you met when he demanded you come into the bank to cut up your credit cards. It's hardly the most romantic meet-cute I've ever heard of."

He smiles at the thought of his banker fiancé. "It was ours, and that's all that counts." He gives a mock shudder. "And he was very thorough with those scissors. Quite turned my head."

"Well, if anyone can make me believe in happy ever after, it's you, babe." I pause and raise my voice, "Oh, and you too, Bailey."

"Wanker," comes the amused reply, and I grin before turning back to Leo.

He gestures at me to tilt my head back and then runs his fingers through my hair.

"I know I'm pretty irresistible, but this is so sudden, Leo."

He tuts. "It's getting too long."

"I know. I'm amazed that Jed's let me keep it this way."

He shudders. "That man. Yummy."

"You've never sat in front of him while he chastises you for hours."

He drapes me in a gown and tucks a towel around my neck. "Does he sweep his hair back when he does it? Ooh! Does he roll up his sleeves? He has forearms to die for."

"And a tongue you could cut your throat on, but far be it from me to interfere with your twisted fantasies. What are you doing?"

He holds up his scissors. "Getting ready to take you swimming. What do you think I'm doing?"

"Oh, okay, but only because it's you. And don't be too nervous. I'm sure I'll like whatever you manage to do with it."

"Yes, I'm sure that's what my hairdressing awards stress."

"No one loves a bragger."

"It's inner confidence." He pauses. "Backed up with a shit ton of shiny statues. Okay, talk to me while I cut."

I lean back in the chair, feeling his long fingers run through my hair. "All the arrangements are done for the party. You just need to check with Richard's Aunt Betty if she's coming and bringing the coven with her. I'm sorry. I meant her daughters."

He begins to snip with an expression of concentration, but his mouth has a tell-tale quirk. "I can't wait for Richard's parents to meet my family. They think Prince William is lower class."

I snort, and he pinches me. "Hold still."

"Are you this tender with all your clients?"

"No, you're a special case. And I mean that most sincerely. Very special. Okay, so I'll confirm with Betty, and you can ask the venue if there's anywhere for them to park their broomsticks." I laugh. "Anything else?"

"I don't think so for the party. We need to meet next week with both of you to go over the last details for the commitment ceremony." Leo and Richard are getting married in a registry office, but having their commitment ceremony in a hotel in Greece. The country is very close to their hearts after they met again on a Greek cruise where Richard was a guest, and Leo was the hairdresser. After many mishaps, they'd come home inseparable and stayed that way.

"I'll remind him." He puts his scissors down. "Okay. Over to the sink."

"You sweet talker."

I edge over to the sink, clutching the towel around my shoulders, and let him ease me into the chair. "Comfortable?" he asks as I lean back.

"I'll be even more comfortable if you do that special head massage."

"Is that the one where you make sounds like a porn star?"

"I can't help that you have magic fingers." I snap my fingers. "Do me, baby."

He snorts, and I feel the water hitting my neck. "Warm enough?"

"Do you care?"

"Well, I don't want to freeze my wedding planner. Who else will care about the shade of the napkins?"

"I could run the country with my attention to detail."

"What an alarming thought."

We fall silent as he shampoos me, the scent of coconut fresh on the air.

After a few moments, he says, "Stan rang me this morning."

"Oh, yes?" I'm proud of the evenness of my voice.

"Yeah, he needs a haircut."

"Well, I didn't think he wanted his oil changed. Ouch!" I say as he pinches me.

"I saw him with Bennett the other day."

"Oh, yes? How is the Marquis of Marylebone?"

"I don't like him much, Raff."

"Do you think I do?" I say harshly.

"I suspect for very different reasons."

"What do you mean?"

He sighs. "Why do you dislike him?"

I lick my lips, suddenly feeling nervous. "Erm, because he's a massive bellend, and Stan deserves better."

"You're not wrong, but that's not why you dislike him."

"Well, why else?"

"Why else, indeed? You're about as forthcoming as a dead pigeon."

"That's a bit harsh."

He towel-dries my hair and then gestures me back to his station. I sit down in front of the mirror and blink. "Wow, that's…that's short."

He puts his hands on his hips. "And?"

I twist my head from side to side. My long hair is now chin-length, and the shorter length turns my waves more into curls. It accentuates my jawline and makes my eyes look very blue. "It's actually quite nice."

" Quite ?" The word is filled with outrage.

I wink at him. "I'm sure you'll get better at this hairdressing lark the more you do it, love." He rolls his eyes, and I laugh. "It's great. Thank you."

He starts the hairdryer and directs a warm stream of air over my head, his talented fingers busy and his face preoccupied. I can predict what he's going to say next without any effort. You can't divert Leo when he's after the truth.

As if on cue, he says, "So, how is it between you and Stan?"

I shrug, avoiding those clever eyes fastened on me in the mirror. "Not brilliant," I admit.

"Oh, Raff ."

"It's fine," I say quickly. "We just need to get back to normal."

"That's hard to do after you've spent a couple of months shagging."

"I'm beginning to regret confiding in you about that."

"You didn't need to. It was as clear as day when you started fucking around." He stops the hairdryer, watching me with bright grey eyes. "So, it's difficult?"

I bite my lip, fiddling with the hem of the gown. "Yeah. I've fucked a lot of men, Leo."

"They weren't Stan."

"It's just such a mess. I can't be around him without needing to touch him, and I can't get him out of my head."

"Why don't you tell him how you feel, Raff?"

I blanch. "I'd rather suffer from an attack of biliousness."

"Have you been watching Bridgerton again?" He sighs. "You can't keep hiding your feelings from him."

"Really? Because I actually think I can."

"I think you'd be surprised by what he says if you tell him."

"No," I say, and it comes out sharper than I intended. "I have no right to interfere in his love life. I wanted to be just his friend again, and now I am. I need him to be happy. I'll get over everything else."

"Can you get over being in love with him?"

I wince and then try to look as if it was a smile. "It's probably not that. It's because we're best friends, and the waters got muddied a bit. We'll go back to the way we were soon."

"Yes, that's what I'm worried about."

"What do you mean?"

"The last thing either of you needs is to go back to being just friends."

"Why? Because, in all honesty, that's what should happen." He raises one eyebrow, and I narrow my eyes. "I'm telling the truth. He's made his decision and he's chosen Bennett. I just want my friend back now."

He pats my head, his expression gentle and soft. "You're pretty but not awfully bright, Rafferty Kendrick."