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We weren’t any of those things but don’t you for a second try to tell me we weren’t in love. I loved him more than anything and at the end of everything, it’s all we had and it did not persevere. It failed.
The reception’s at the Royal Hospital Chelsea — beautiful, of course.
I make the rounds — put in some face time with my godfather, as well as Bridget’s. (Graham Norton. I know, I’m jealous of that too.) Lots of people flew in from America. Chris Martin, the Timberlakes, Usher. The whole thing’s shamefully star-studded, but Marsaili and my father look pleased, so that’s good I suppose. If we insist on looking on the brighter side, I suppose it’s good they’re happy... They’re just gross old people in love now. They don’t like it when I tell them that though. “Save something for the speech, darling.” My father gave his new bride a look.
“Oh, I’m not giving a speech,” I say. “The Shit One is.”
“Would you stop calling her that?” Marsaili huffs. “That’s my sister.”
My father gives her a look. “She is a little bit shit though…”
“Harley!” Marsaili growls.
“Question—” I interrupt, giving them both a look. “Arrie Parks is here…”
I stare over at my mother who is dressed in the brightest outfit at the whole reception: two-tone pink floor-length dress by Carolina Herrera. Marsaili gives me an impatient look. “That’s not a question, Magnolia.”
“Bit of a sticky wicket, her being here, no?” I glance between them.
“No,” Marsaili says at the same time my dad says, “Absolutely.”
We all stare over at her arse being squeezed by Enzo like it’s a fucking lemon in the back corner of a reception there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that he shouldn’t be at.
Marsaili waves her hand through the air. “It would’ve been rude not to—”
“Would it?” my father and I say at the same time and I don’t care for the synchronisation.
And then there’s a tap on my shoulder.
I’m nervous to turn around but I do it anyway because I’m brave like that, but I should have known from the tap it wasn’t him.
I’d feel it if it was.
It is someone else I love though.
“Well,” grins Gus Waterhouse. “If it isn’t my favourite heartbreaker…”
I frown at him playfully. “Mean.”
He gives me a look. “True.”
I roll my eyes at him.
“You holding up okay?” he asks tentatively.
“It’s not my best day.” I shrug breezily. “It’s not my worst either though—”
Gus nods. “Seen him?”
“No.”
He tilts his head. “Intentionally?”
I give him a look because he’s annoying like this. “Yes.”
He gives me a small smile, pleased his assessment was correct.
I take the drink from his hand and sip at it. “How’s Tom?”
