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“I don’t mind dancing,” I reply, unease settling between my shoulders, as it isn’t beyond Alice to have decided to set up a staff line dancing class on our lunch breaks.

“That’s great,” she gushes.

“It is?”

Where the hell is this going?

“Of course it is. Who doesn’t love a good dance now and then? And therein lies the problem. There’s nowhere to dance these days unless you want to go to a club—and I don’t know about you, but clubs are the last place I want to go. I haven’t been to a club for years.” She rolls her eyes far too dramatically. “The music’s too loud, the floor too sticky, the hands of the people in there too grabby, and I just feel so old now with all the teenagers in there with hardly any clothes on. So, where does that leave us for places to have a good dance?”

I’m staring. I can feel it. But all I can hear is “Achy Breaky Heart” blasting in my head, coupled with the image of cowboy boots and lumberjack shirts. Is she talking about line dancing? Because I could absolutely see Alice line dancing.

“Do you want me to answer that?”

“No. Yes. No.” She sort of deflates, as if all those words were pent up inside her, and now she’s released them, there’s nothing left. “Look, I’m just going to come out and say this, as there’s no other way around it. But, you see, I did something completely ridiculous—said something I shouldn’t have—and now it’s got me into a predicament I can’t get out of without looking like a complete fool, and I don’t want to look like a fool. I’ve only just met up with Sydney again, and I don’t want her to think I’m still the ditzy blonde she went to school with, and now I’ve gone and said something that the ditzy blonde would’ve said all those years ago, and I don’t know how to get out of what I’ve done or⁠—”

She’s inflating again. Words spewing from her mouth in a fit of panic. Words that tell me nothing. She seriously needs to stop before she starts hyperventilating.

“Alice.” I sound harsh, I think, but the sharpness of my voice works, as she stops mid-sentence and stares at me.

“Why don’t you sit down?” I gesture to the oak bench that stands neatly by the eight-seater farmhouse dining table.

She slumps down and places her hand over her face. I want nothing more than to pull it away.

“Sydney asked me if I was seeing someone,” Alice begins in a serious tone she adopts when she’s talking to customers about worktops or explaining kitchen design features. “I said yes even though I’m not. I didn’t want her to think I was still single after all these years, and I didn’t see the harm in it.”

She isn’t looking at me, her eyes resting on the large range cooker.

“Until she invited me and my imaginary boyfriend to her wedding. She got out an invite and asked for his name.”

“Okay.” I’m still a little lost in her plight, relieved it appears to have nothing to do with line dancing.

She looks at me.

“I don’t know why, or how,” Alice continues. “Maybe it was because I spoke to you last week about meeting up with her, or maybe it was just my infernal brain running away with itself, which wouldn’t be the first time. Or maybe it was because I thought you would match perfectly with the dress I’m planning on wearing because you always look so damn smart and would be a great accessory on anyone’s arm, but—” She stops and takes a moment, which in Alice’s world is a rarity.

Something warms inside me as I picture Alice in a colourful dress, her arm draped over mine as I sport a perfectly tailored Armani suit. No one has ever told me I would make a good accessory or that I dress “so damn smart,” and I can’t help but like that she’s noticed this.

She remains silent, as if she can’t quite bring herself to say the rest of the words, so I crouch down so I’m level with her and rest my arms on my bent knees, because Alice has unintentionally provided enough information for me to reach a conclusion.

“You told her your imaginary boyfriend was called Owen,” I deduce.

She looks up. “Sort of.” Her face scrunches up cutely. “Yes,” she admits. “I told her he was called Owen, and he works with me at Kitchen City as a kitchen designer, and that Owen is incredibly handsome and sophisticated.”

“I see your problem. You now have to find someone called Owen who works as a kitchen designer at Kitchen City and is incredibly handsome and sophisticated?” I say, hoping she picks up on my wit and doesn’t genuinely think I’m puzzled by this.

She softens, just a little.

“You see, that isn’t my problem, because I already know a guy called Owen who works as a kitchen designer at Kitchen City, and he’s kind of handsome and a little bit sophisticated.” She smirks as I raise my eyebrow in mock offence. Then her smile quickly fades, and I feel a shiver of cold. “The problem is that he’s going to have to come with me to a wedding that’s in four weeks and pretend to be my boyfriend.”

“I see.” I scratch my chin because what she’s suggesting is ridiculous.

There’s nothing I hate more than weddings. A room full of people celebrating a relationship that will, statistically, end in resentment and passive-aggressive text messages and divorce lawyers. It’s my idea of hell.

And pretending to be someone’s boyfriend? I have neither the skill set nor the desire to perform romance on command.

So why am I considering this?

Because of Smithy.