There’s a rustling and the cubicle teeters slightly as we struggle to make room for the dress and three adults. Much cursing follows and Lena has poked me in the ribs with her elbow four times before Daisy says cheerfully, “Okay. I’m done. You can open the door now, Joe.”
“I think I might have to scrape my face off it first,” I mumble, and both women cackle unsympathetically.
With a great deal of groaning, we stumble out of the stall, and Lena and I immediately spin into action, smoothing the dress’s massive skirt and checking Daisy’s hair. Giving us a drunken, sunny smile, she spins out of the bathroom, the door banging closed behind her.
“She has zero chance of avoiding performance issues with Mark,” Lena says conversationally as she washes her hands.
I do the same. “Come again?”
She jerks her head at the door. “Mark, the groom. He’s a terrible shag.”
I stare at her. “And you’d know that because you’ve shagged him?”
“Well, I’d hardly have read about it in The Telegraph, darling. Most of the wedding party had him before he met Daisy.” She grins at me and saunters blithely out of the bathroom.
“Bloody weddings,” I mutter.
The door cracks open and a couple slams into the bathroom, their mouths glued to each other and their hands moving frantically as they shove clothing out of the way.
“Don’t mind me,” I say, but they ignore me.
“It’s been a great day,” I observe, leaning against the sink. “I’m fairly pleased with the outcome, although I’m a little cheesed off that the DJ hasn’t played ‘I Will Survive’ yet. No wedding is complete until we’ve heard a separation song with some real venom in it. What do you think?”
The woman moans loudly.
“No, you’re right. I shouldn’t think of myself. I should be more like Saint Francis of Assisi, although my cat wouldn’t offer me any commendations.”
A zipper sounds, and I shake my head. “I’ll be going, then. Great to meet you both. This has been one of the most satisfying connections I’ve ever made. I’ll remember you forever.”
In the marquee, the reception appears to be approaching scenes last seen at the fall of the Roman Empire. A few hours ago, it had been a beautiful sight, with flowers scenting the air and sunlight sparkling on the crystal and china. Now, the warm wood of the floor is dusty and dirty, and the long sheer curtains flap limply in the summer breeze.
I thread my way through the thinning crowds, wincing at the sight of a man passed out, his head resting on huge carved ice blocks that were supposed to bring to mind the set of Frozen, which is the bride’s favourite film. The scene is beginning to look more like Dumb and Dumber, so I grab the bloke’s shoulders and lean him against the trestle table. He offers me a bleary and rather damp smile and goes straight back to sleep.
I spot Grant, my boss’s nephew. He’s been shadowing me for work experience while on holiday from uni. He’s leaning against the bar, dodging a drunken couple trying and failing to tango.
As I make my way over to him, I pick up a pair of Louboutin shoes from the detritus on the floor and edge past one of the bridesmaids, who seems to be set on attaining full intercourse with another guest while sitting at a table. Picking up a dinner plate and a pair of black lacy knickers, I put them both on the plate, and keep going.
It takes two more stops to get to Grant, and by then, I’ve collected two lacy bras, a designer clutch bag, and three more pairs of knickers. It’s like a wedding version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas”. “Everything okay?” I ask him.
He glances at the items in my hand. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” he breathes reverently. “Someone was having sex under a table an hour ago.”
“Ah, they must have been the more modest members of the group. That activity has gone much more mainstream now.” I tut. “What’s worse is most of the fuckers seem to think it’s okay to put out a cigarette on the floor, or a table, or in the flower arrangements. This is the future of the financial sector, and they can’t even work out how ashtrays work or read the signs directing them to smoke outside.”
“It’s winding down now.”
I look around, expertly gauging the crowd. “About another hour should do it. Don’t forget to lock away the booze. Pop over and ask the manager, Simon. He’s got the key. Sleep with the key tonight, and I’ll meet you in the morning to sort out the tidy up.”
He blinks. “Surely it’s not necessary to lock away alcohol and sleep with the key? It’s not prison.”
“Oh, you poor innocent boy. Don’t worry your sweet little head about it.”
“But this wedding must have cost hundreds of thousands of pounds, and there are bankers galore on the guest list.”
“They’re the worst,” I say knowledgeably. “They’ll take anything that’s not nailed down. Fucking bankers.”
A deep chuckle comes from behind me, and I spin to find a man watching me.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
He gives me a crooked smile laden with a great deal of charm. “Not really. I’m just a poor lonely banker sitting here waiting for my opportunity to commit grand larceny,” he says in a plaintive voice that’s belied by the laughter in his eyes.
“Oh god,” Grant breathes.
I roll my eyes. “Pop over and see the manager,” I instruct him, and he beetles off, obviously glad to get away from any potential social awkwardness.
I turn back to the man. “Pleased to meet you. Tell me, do you have your eyes on the dessert plates, the chandeliers, or the curtains to pinch this evening?”
He holds a hand to his heart. “I swear I do not. I already own sufficient amounts of tableware, and I have all my own light fittings.”
“You sound like John Paul Getty.”
“Didn’t he sing ‘Love is in the Air’?”
I repress a smile. “Well, you must be an anomaly if you’re not going home with your pockets stuffed with contraband.”
He laughs and nods at my hand still holding the plate of underwear and shoes. “The canapés are very exotic here.”
“It’s probably better than the bruschetta we were served earlier.”
He shudders. “That’s the truth.” He holds out his hand. “Lachlan Moore.”
His voice is beautiful—deep and slightly rough—and at first glance, he’s not conventionally handsome. His face is too craggy, and he’s a big, brawny bloke with a stubborn, square chin that’s roughened with stubble. His hair is thick and dark, hitting his collar with a slight hint of a wave, and his full mouth is beautiful, softening his harsh face. Add in wide shoulders, narrow hips, long strong legs, and a wry, almost detached, expression that’s full of a heady charm, and I’m already interested.
I’d noticed him earlier. He’d been with a younger man who’d hung off his words. The young man had been devastatingly handsome, but he hadn’t managed to captivate this one, who’d been at the centre of a big crowd and had hardly paid any attention to him. A couple of times I’d found him watching me, but I’d dismissed it as curiosity. Now I’m not so sure.