Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(2)
“Well, I woke him up before I rang you to talk about the cake, and he was very nasty.”
I’m not Gerald’s biggest fan, but I can’t say I blame him.
“I’m sure he wasn’t aware of what he was saying. It is the middle of the night,” I say delicately.
“Well, he seemed in command of his tongue when he asked whether it was normal to want to divorce your wife before you’re even married. Then he threatened to stick the cake up my arse and turned over and went back to sleep.”
I bite my lip to stop a snort of laughter. “Oh dear. Well, that wasn’t very nice, Sally, but weddings are very stressful, darling.”
“Which would be fine if it was me having a strop, but as Gerald’s main contribution to this wedding has been his five-day stag week in Prague which resulted in some very unusual credit-card activity, I’m afraid I’m not very sympathetic.”
“Oh no. You’re so kind, too,” I coo. “Come on. Tell Joe all about it.”
And off she goes. I listen, adding in the odd yes and no, but really that’s all that’s required of me. I hold the phone away and grab a Twix from the packet on my bedside table. Becoming aware that her voice has stopped, I bring the phone back.
“Oh dear. That’s terrible.”
“What? Why is Mummy going on a Caribbean cruise terrible?”
“Oh.” I search frantically for an answer. “Just that it will deprive Europe of her personality.”
“You’re so right, Joe. No wonder you’re so popular.”
And she’s off again. Twenty minutes later, I say goodnight and throw my phone back on the table.
I look around the room and wince at the mess. The wardrobe doors are open, displaying clothes hanging halfway off their hangers, and the chair in the corner is covered in discarded clothing. My treadmill has become the repository for my dry cleaning which is the most use I’ve got out of the fucking thing since I bought it.
It’s probably a good job that my ex isn’t here, and not just because of the mess which would have brought him out in hives. If Lachlan was here now, he’d be rolling his eyes and treating me to a lecture on client boundaries and how taking phone calls at all hours of the day and night is not the way to do business. I’d have also been treated to a truly excellent shag, but that’s neither here nor there now.
He never understood the wedding-planning business. Hardly surprising, as he didn’t exactly get the whole being-married bit either. He seemed to view the fact that I earned more than most wedding planners as some sort of a lucky chance. As if a pixie just wandered past and sprinkled me with magic marital dust. The truth is that I’m booked solid, as is the rest of the agency I work for, because we always go the extra mile. Or ten if you’re listening to Sally.
A weight hits the end of the bed, and I smile as my cat Lord Humphrey pads towards me. He miaows and butts my head with his own.
“Hey, baby,” I say, rubbing his ear. “How are you?”
He settles next to me on the bed and observes me with disapproving golden eyes.
“Why are you looking like that? I had to take the call.” I sigh. “You’re worse than Lachlan. Ouch!” I say as he bites my nose. “That was uncalled for.”
He springs off the bed and marches out of the room.
“You didn’t even like him when I met him,” I shout. “So how come he’s now your favourite person? He doesn’t fill your food bowl and empty your litter tray. And make note of the fact that I never mix up the two.”
Humphrey doesn’t answer. It’s one of life’s great ironies that my disdainful cat fell in love with my husband and followed him everywhere, much to Lachlan’s puzzlement. It was cute when we were married. Now, not so much.
I consider switching off the light and trying to get more sleep but it’s half four now. There isn’t any point. I slide out of bed and wander into my flat’s tiny kitchen. It’s a good job I can’t cook, because I couldn’t toss a salad in here, let alone a pancake.
It’s a far cry from Lachlan’s palatial house in Knightsbridge, but at least this feels like home, unlike that mansion. And it had welcomed me back after our split, like a little nest where I could lick my wounds. Lachlan had told me to stay in his house, but I don’t think he meant for the rest of my life, and my pride wouldn’t allow it, so I took the flat off the market and moved back in. It had been a very depressing afternoon.
I switch on the coffee maker by instinct. Lachlan is addicted to coffee. If he could have it in a drip and walk around all day, he’d be happy. When we were together, I’d enjoyed searching out different beans and varieties and testing them out on him. He’d give his crooked smile, and his grey eyes would be full of a wry amusement that had warmed me, even though I never knew whether the humour was directed at me or him.
I sigh and switch the machine off. It seems ridiculous to be going to all this faff when it’s just me drinking it and there’s a Starbucks up the road. Instead, I grab a can of Coke out of the fridge, making a mental note to go shopping. The fridge is empty probably because, since our split, I’ve embarked on a largely liquid diet of rum, cocktails, and best of all, rum cocktails. All that’s in there is a pack of butter, some sugared almonds in their pretty pink paper, and a piece of cheesecake that I pinched from a wedding a week ago. Even Jamie Oliver would struggle to make something of that.