“My eldest got married the other week. She looked absolutely stunning…”
He keeps talking, but I don’t hear half of what he says. The movement of the car is making me feel even sicker. Labels on the doors tell me it’ll cost me seventy-five pounds if I throw up in the car. The knowledge doesn’t make me feel any better.
“Are you all right? You look a bit queasy,” the driver says.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine either.”
I force a smile and stare out the window.
“Maybe I should take you home if you’re sick. I wouldn’t want you throwing up in the car.”
If he did, it would absolve me of all responsibility for missing the wedding reception. Except it wouldn’t. I’m not sick. Not physically anyway.
“I’m fine.” Did I sound more confident and less pathetic that time?
“If you say so. I’d have to get the car valeted, meaning I can’t use it for the rest of the night. It says seventy-five quid, but that’s just the cost of the valeting. I’d be out of pocket a lot more than that.”
“I’m not going to throw up.”
“Are you sure?”
No. “Positive.”
He uses the control on the driver’s door to open all the windows fully. The sudden rush of air blasts me in the face and messes up my hair. Not that it was particularly tame. My unruly waves and curls hate to be controlled. Why do I care? My hair is the least of my problems.
The driver falls silent for the rest of the drive, although he keeps glancing at me in the rearview mirror, no doubt trying to figure out whether I’m going to throw up.
“Here we are. Beautiful, isn’t it? My lass would have loved to have got married in a fancy place like this. Course I couldn’t afford it. Congrats to your dad and stepmum.”
“Thanks.”
I get out of the taxi, which pulls away instantly as if the driver is afraid I’m going to throw up after all. The hotel is beautiful, an impressive seventeenth-century Jacobean Manor House. It’s obvious why it’s a popular wedding venue.
With lead in my shoes, I trudge into the building through a double doorway. A sign points the way to Mr and Mrs Hart’s wedding reception. Should I pause at the public bar to grab a shot of something before I go inside? No. Alcohol will make me feel worse and probably make me say things I shouldn’t.
I take a deep breath and—for better or worse—walk into the reception room.
Chapter 6
Archer
It’s a good turnout, considering how last minute the reception was arranged. The room is pretty. White chiffon curtains around the walls hide the fact that it’s a conference room for businesses during the week. Beside the DJ’s mixing desk, giant letters illuminated by fairy lights spell ‘love’. Large round tables with crisp white tablecloths, salmon table runners, and confetti shapes sprinkled on them have been placed around the room, leaving the dance floor empty. The chairs are covered in white with huge bows matching the table runners.
Mum’s dress is gorgeous, if a little over the top. After hours of trudging around bridal shops, getting turned away from most of them, she chose a floral, boho-style lace dress. She even managed to convince a florist to create a bouquet for her, which she’s holding while she and Barry welcome their guests.
I sit at a table, arranging the confetti shapes into kaleidoscopic patterns while the DJ plays a mix of Elvis songs and love songs from the noughties. Mum’s music taste doesn’t blend well with Barry’s.
I tug at my collar, which is strangling me. I’m not a suit person. I prefer jeans and a T-shirt, or a tracksuit. Oh well, it’sonly for one night, and I’ll be able to rid myself of the suffocating shirt and tie the moment I retire to my room.
I don’t know anyone, so it’s going to be a long night.
Wait a sec. I sit upright. Who are Mum and Barry talking to? Is that—? Why is Jacob here? His face is pale and pasty, and he keeps messing with his hair. He looks around the room, a strained smile on his lips. His gaze lands on me, and any remaining colour drains from his face. Is he feeling guilty for jilting me so unceremoniously? Good. So he should. But what the fuck is he doing here? He must know Mum. They’re roughly the same age. Maybe they’re friends from school. Is that why he freaked out?
Why does he have to look so good in a suit? Memories of me loosening his tie and kissing him flash back, and my pulse quickens. Would I lose my self-respect if I forgave him and invited him to my room after the party? I did promise to suck him off, and fuck, I’d love to get my mouth around his cock. I grab the closest menu card and fan myself.
Mum waves me over.
