Meet Me at the Honeymoon Suite: HarperImpulse Contemporary Fiction. Charlotte Phillips

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СКАЧАТЬ glasses and Amy moved behind the bar to help, grabbing one of the champagne bottles and inexpertly wrestling with the cork, imagining it was Luke’s neck. The bloody thing refused to budge and she grappled with the bottle and forced her thumbs behind the cork.

      ‘You’ll take out one of the chandeliers if you do it like that,’ Owen said, taking it from her before she could protest. ‘Hold the cork and twist the bottle,’ he said. The cork popped gently out and he filled a couple of flutes before handing it to the bartender.

      ‘I must have loosened it,’ she said irritably.

      ‘You seem tense,’ he commented.

      ‘I am not tense. I’m never anything but calm. There is no room for emotion in wedding organisation. That’s the key to making these things running smoothly.’

      She would make this weekend happen perfectly for Luke as if he was a complete stranger. Which actually in some ways, he was. She still couldn’t get over the image change.

      She heaved an extra tray of champagne flutes from a storage shelf below the bar, forcing her mind to stay on task instead of doing what it wanted, which was to process this new and depressingly predictable slant on her past. There she’d been, considering herself to have one serious relationship under her belt, and the reality was that it had been no more than an overly long and inconsequential fling. Well what a perfect fit for the rest of her life thus far. She squared her shoulders and glanced around the lounge, noting carefully the lack of guests with an empty glass, checking the trays of canapés didn’t need a top up. Guests stood or sat at tables in cosy groups. There was a general buzz of upbeat conversation and laughter. Things were going fine so far.

      Guest satisfaction was always at the back of her mind, and she turned to Owen, who was watching her, and pasted on a polite smile. It occurred to her now that she’d dated Luke for over a year and not only had she never met the person he’d chosen as his best man, she’d never even heard of him. It was becoming clearer and clearer that things with Luke had, in his eyes at least, never been anything more than casual at all. Had she wanted to believe that she, Amy Wilson, could sustain a long-term secure relationship so much that she’d been blind to reality? She passed a hand over her eyes, trying to think straight.

      ‘How do you know Luke? Are you one of his…’ she coughed pointedly, ‘…more recent friends?’

      The word shallow teetered on the tip of her tongue but she didn’t use it. She began stocking extra silver trays for the waiting staff, holding each new flute up to the light and giving it a final polish before it was filled. Never letting the champagne run out was one of her standard rules. Nothing irked the guests like a badly-stocked free bar.

      ‘Actually I’ve known him for years.’

      She stopped mid-polish in surprise.

      ‘Really?’

      He took a sip from his own champagne glass.

      ‘Our parents are old friends. We used to holiday together as kids, then we lost touch for a few years when I moved away. We met up again when he needed somewhere to crash for a while a few months back when he first moved up to London.’

      ‘But you’re not from Wiltshire?’

      ‘Not that far from there actually. My parents own a farm near Bath. It’s been in our family for years.’

      Farmer? She looked at him doubtfully. The expensively cut dark jacket worn over a designer graphic T-shirt. She could pick up the light, crisp and definitely expensive scent of his aftershave. He didn’t remotely fit her idea of the farmer stereotype.

      ‘Crops?’ she said for the sake of conversation.

      He shook his head.

      ‘Dairy. It’s a family affair. My father runs it, my brother works on it.’

      Owen could hear the stiffness in his own voice and made a conscious effort to iron it out. Family loyalty worked both ways. They might have felt affronted that he didn’t want to join the family business but he couldn’t stop the resentment at their lack of interest in his own venture.

      ‘And what about you? You don’t look like you’re in milk.’

      He grinned.

      ‘That’s because I’m not. Not unless it’s mixed with alcohol anyway. I’m in the drinks industry.’

      Her smile lit up her face. He found he didn’t want to look at anything else.

      ‘I’d never have guessed. Sales rep?’ There was a note of triumph in her voice.

      He pulled a mock-offended face.

      ‘Please! After all the effort I made to wow you with my drinks knowledge. I own a chain of cocktail bars.

      A surprised pause and then she smiled her approval.

      ‘I’m impressed.’

      He held her gaze firmly in his.

      ‘Good.’

      Amy’s stomach gave an unexpected warm cartwheel that took her completely by surprise and she found her eyes lingering on his instead of cutting away instantly. Heat began to creep slowly up from her ears towards her cheeks.

       Just what the hell was she doing?

      ‘Joe, let’s have one of the waiting staff check for any empty glasses on the tables,’ she said loudly to the bartender, to make it clear to anyone watching as well as to herself that she was still actually working, even if it felt an awful lot like flirting all of a sudden. She really ought to make her excuses and move away from this man with the crinkly blue eyes and the stomach melting smile. But it was somehow just so nice to have a tiny smidgeon of male attention thrown her way after today’s reaffirmation of what her life experience had been telling her for years - that she was most certainly nothing special. Knowing it was the wrong thing to do – (which somehow made it seem even more appealing because where had doing the right thing actually got her in the last twenty four years) – she resisted the sensible urge to go and give the honeymoon suite a final check before the bride moved into it and instead got right back on with the conversation. A few minutes’ ego-boosting time-out couldn’t possibly hurt. In fact, it could even be seen as therapeutic. And there was still plenty to do here on the front line.

      She opened the glass washer and began to move spent glasses from the top of the bar into its shelves.

      ‘So you were brought up on a farm,’ she said, wiping trays. ‘How does someone make the leap from farming to cocktail bars? The two things couldn’t be more different.’

      He’d heard that exact sentiment so many times before. Was it any wonder he was reluctant to make family visits when they were underpinned by negativity? Not that he had time to schlep back home whenever he felt like it, you didn’t build a successful business by taking time off.

      ‘I know,’ he said. ‘My parents are completely mystified by me. They think I must be some kind of throwback because I couldn’t think of anything worse than taking over the family mantle.’

      He could hear the flip sound in his own voice. It was easy to make it sound light-hearted. СКАЧАТЬ