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When I arrived from Australia, Lenny, an old friend of my father’s, was the first person to offer me a job. He knew it would only be temporary, but hired me regardless. Lenny offered me a place to stay too, but I was so hell bent on supporting myself that I declined the offer, but not the job.
Since I started working at Maude five years ago, I promised Lenny I’d check in every Friday so he knew I was doing okay. Even though we weren’t blood related, he was the closest thing I had to family, so I always made the effort.
After devouring my pizza on the living room floor, I crawled over to my dad’s record collection and ran my finger over the spines. With a long sigh, I checked the time and decided to head to bed instead of my usual routine of listening to music all night. I needed to be on my game the following day, and resist every urge to tell William Harlow what I really thought about him.
***
5
“Move, Luci!” I pushed my giant dog out of the way so I could review my reflection in the mirror. I opted for a traditionally inappropriate little black dress, which hugged my slim frame and gave me some unexpected, but welcomed, cleavage. The colourless number brought out my rainbow underlights, which interwove through my purposely messy bun.
After adding a little more eyeshadow to highlight my coffee coloured eyes, and the tiniest amount of blush along my high cheekbones, I gave myself one last glance. I looked pretty damn nice until I added all my camera gear. Urgh.
A private car picked me up and drove me to the reception venue, where the wedding party were staying. As it pulled up in front of the Plaza Hotel, my mouth gaped in awe. Kevin McCallister has nothing on me.
The wedding planner met me in the foyer and escorted me to the bride’s suite. I manoeuvred through the room of bustling women in teal gowns, until I found the bride fussing over her bright red hair in front of the mirror.
“This isn’t anything like the picture,” she whined, examining the hair piled on top of her head.
As the hairdresser’s lower lip began to quiver, I grabbed the reference photo out of her hand and stood next to Sabrina, facing her reflection.
“You’re right,” I said. She looked down at me with a gasp, but I smiled back at her. “It’s so much better.” She really did look amazing.
Sabrina blinked back tears and smiled. “And you are?”
“Josie Spencer. I’m here to cover your wedding for Maude.”
Her eyes glimmered with excitement and something else. Revenge? “Wonderful,” she said, and her hair was forgotten.
The hairdresser clutched her chest and smiled in relief, mouthing the words ‘thank you’ as I followed the bride to the chaise lounge.
I hated staged photos, but she obviously had her heart set on the arrangement so I went with it. Asking Sabrina questions about her future husband deemed to be a waste of time, because all her answers circled back to herself, making it difficult to take a sincere photograph.
With a sigh, I left the bridal party and headed across the road to Central Park where the ceremony would be held, eager to capture the excitement of the waiting guests and groom.
Knowing Sabrina planned to be fashionably late, I took my time watching the anticipation grow. I focused in on the groom, capturing all the emotions on his face as he waited patiently for his bride. Snap. It was magical. I loved weddings for this reason alone.
Sabrina finally arrived, exactly one hour past start time, looking gorgeous in a dress that was worth more than my apartment. Snap. She made her way down the carpeted aisle to her love. Snap. The groom’s eyes sparkled, not entirely from love, but from the alcohol I’d seen him consume beforehand. Snap. At least it made for a good picture.
After the ceremony, I shadowed the happy couple until the reception began, careful not to get in the way of their official photographer. I was hoping to seize an intimate moment between the two of them, but it never came. Everything was so contrived; I could have vomited.
Knowing I had enough material for my article, I called it quits to enjoy the rest of the evening. Ambling through the magnificent Plaza foyer, I headed to the Grand Ballroom, stopping at the table listing to find my name. I cringed. ‘Josephine Spencer—Table 6’. Argh! Why does everyone assume my real name is Josephine?!
Supposing I would be seated towards the back of the room, I automatically made my way through the sea of white floral arrangements. As I scanned the surrounding tables, I found most of the numbers were well into the thirties. I walked through the twenties, and finally located table six, right next to the dancefloor. These tables were normally reserved for close family and friends. Why on earth would I be placed here?
I moseyed around the table, reading the names of who I was stuck with for the next few hours. All appeared to be male names, except one. Mine. I mentally face palmed. I’d been placed on the singles table. Well at least I’m getting a free meal.
Finding my place card, I leant to my left to see who was next to me. Craig Lauder. Then I checked the one on my right. No. Fucking. Way. The douche himself, William Harlow.
“Let me.”
I startled at a man’s voice and whirled around to find a stocky—and very sure of himself—man pulling out my chair for me.
“Thank you,” I replied and sat down. I placed my bags under the table, but kept my camera hanging around my neck just in case the married couple surprised me with something more…authentic.
He slid into the chair next to me. “So, you must be…” He picked up my place card and grinned. “Josephine.”
“It’s Josie, actually. And you must be Craig.” I held my hand out to shake his, but he turned it over and kissed it. Ick.
