Page 27 of Something Borrowed

“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 monthon 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.”

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