On a Friday several weeks after Cora and Ed’s wedding, Rosie was due to work late in the deli. It was the night of the private party Rhianne had mentioned back in October, and they closed early so it could be decked out with fairy lights, fresh flowers and a banner that read ‘Congratulations!’.
‘It’s an engagement do,’ Rhianne explained. ‘Though it was originally booked as a birthday party. The woman is …exacting. Clear about what she wants: there’s to be no mention of Christmas, or any remotely festive food, even though it’s December and all right-minded people have boarded the good shipMince Pie.’
‘Oh right,’ Rosie said, immediately nervous.
‘She sent over a whole list of dietary requirements,’ Rhianne went on, ‘so I ended up building the menu around them. Gluten-free this, low-carb that … I’d never have agreed to host it if I’d known she was this difficult upfront. It physically pains me to create a buffet that doesn’t include freshly baked sourdough and burrata.’
‘I guess it’s a case of taking a breath, then thinking about the fee she’s paying?’ Rosie asked.
‘Indeed,’ Rhianne agreed. ‘Though I’d have doubled it if I’d known, to price in this much hassle.’
Yaz and Marcus were sticking around for the evening, too – Marcus manning the drinks station, which was to offer flavoured kombucha and smoothies instead of wine, and Yaz helping Rhianne in the kitchen. Rosie’s job was to fetch, carry and ensure everyone was happy. Guests were due to start arriving from 7 p.m., and by 6.30 the team was ready for them. The deli looked perfect – elegant and romantic – and despite the limitations placed on Rhianne’s culinary creativity, the food smells emanating from her workstation were mouthwatering.
Only minutes after the deli door was unlocked, people began to file in. Couples and small groups of friends gratefully collected their non-alcoholic drinks, then pulled up chairs around the large table that had been assembled in the centre of the room. Everyone looked smart and cool, Rosie thought, though perhaps with a slightly brittle quality. These were successful people with trendy hobbies, designer clothes, exclusive gym memberships and wholefood, plant-based diets; no doubt their lives were highly Instagrammable, but not all of them looked happy about it.
‘Which one is the party organiser?’ Rosie asked Rhianne at just after 7.20.
‘She’s not here yet,’ Rhianne snorted. ‘I guess she’s running deliberately late. She’s the sort who wants her audience in place before she deigns to make an appearance.’
Rosie nodded, then continued handing out canapés, refilling dishes of houmous, tzatziki and baba ganoush and ensuring that everyone had what they needed. Finally, a few minutes after 7.30, the bell above the deli door signalled the arrival of the soon-to-be bride and groom.
Rosie set down the jug of iced water she was carrying, straightened her spine and pulled her shoulders back in preparation for meeting the woman Rhianne had christened ‘a proper fussy fuck’.
Nothing could have prepared her for the sight that greeted her. Rosie’s mouth dropped open in horror, her lips forming an aghast ‘O’ that resisted all attempts at reform. The fussy fuck was Dylan, and the man standing next to her – the man Dylan wasengaged to– was James.
Rooted to the spot, Rosie tried desperately to arrange her face into a neutral, indifferent expression. But her mouth refused to co-operate, remaining stubbornly wide with shock as her unblinking eyeballs turned scratchy and dry.
She had no idea what to do. By any measure, this was mortifying. The man who’d claimed he didn’t want to settle down – who had pulled the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ routine from the arsehole boyfriend playbook – was not only living with another woman. It turned out he’d asked her to marry him.
Rosie felt sick. Suddenly, the sight of Rhianne’s usually irresistible olive tapenade made her want to throw up.
James’s blue eyes found hers, widening in amazement. He turned and whispered in Dylan’s ear, and she looked directly at Rosie – her expression pitying but grimly amused. It was the same look Michael had sometimes worn when, as children, he and Rosie had co-operated on some nefarious scheme that she alone was blamed for.
Not sure what else she could do, Rosie turned and fled for the kitchen.
‘Whoa there, tiger,’ Rhianne said, as Rosie burst through the swing door. ‘I don’t want to end upwearingthis chickpea and feta salad, thank you very much.’
‘Oh god, I’m sorry,’ Rosie panted. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m—’
‘Hey,’ Rhianne said, her tone entirely different now. She put down the large glass dish she’d been holding and took Rosie’s shaking hands in hers. ‘What’s happened?Breathe. Tell me.’
After taking several gulps of fragrant, spicy air, Rosie managed an explanation, upon which Rhianne’s expression turned savage. ‘Say the word and I’ll take my best Santoku knife to his jugular.’
Rosie managed a watery laugh. ‘That won’t be necessary. It pains me to say it, but I don’t think this is James’s fault. He didn’t know I worked here.’
‘Shedid, though,’ Rhianne said, her voice almost a growl. ‘She came by to pay the balance for the room hire a few weeks ago when you were in. It was after your shift, and you were busy chatting with Al and Niamh. I saw her glance over at you.’
‘Wow,’ Rosie said, disbelieving. ‘What a catch. James has clearly done well for himself.’
‘I think you mean, what abitch,’ Rhianne said. ‘D’you want me to chuck her out? Because honestly, I kind of wanted to even before this happened.’
‘No,’ Rosie said, shaking her head emphatically. ‘This is your business – your livelihood – and none of this is your responsibility. I can get through it … Besides, I have the feeling she wants this to be some sort of massive drama. We’ll be playing into her hands if we create a scene.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I am,’ Rosie said, determined. ‘You don’t have to do anything.’
‘The least I can do is swap you and Yaz over,’ Rhianne insisted, squeezing Rosie’s hands before letting them go. ‘You can work in here with me, and Yaz can deal with the fun sponges out there.’
