Chapter Twelve #2
“Stop calling her my friend. Her name is Imogen, as you already know. And I’m honestly not sure.
” There was no denying what she and Imogen had was special.
But with such a big obstacle standing in their way, would Imogen ever be able to get past it?
Which reminded Amelia, “It’s a secret,” she told Bridget.
“Imogen and me. She doesn’t want anyone to find out that we’re dating. ”
“How do you feel about that?”
Amelia hadn’t really thought about it. She had known it was the only way not to lose Imogen, and she did honestly value privacy herself.
But would her life really end if the world found out she had met an amazing woman?
No. Still, she was okay with staying in their own little bubble for a while.
Bubbles were nice. Safe. “I’m fine with it. ”
Bridget pursed her lips. “I’d hate to be someone’s dirty secret.”
“It’s not like that. It’s complicated. Some people don’t want to be dragged into this crazy world we’re in.”
“More fool them.”
Amelia rolled her eyes. “Will you just not tell anyone?”
“Please. Working in this business, do you think I don’t know how to keep things to myself?”
Oh, Amelia was sure that Bridget Clemonte had plenty of skeletons. “Thanks.”
“Are you bringing her to the party this weekend?”
Amelia had forgotten all about the party.
The studio had organised an evening for all the cast and crew at the hotel.
Dinner. Maybe some dancing. Free bar. The press would be allowed in for an allotted time—before things got messy—to take photos and circulate them online to promote the movie.
“I just told you, we’re keeping things a secret.
” And she was positive that Imogen would definitely not want to come.
Maybe she would skip it too and just go to Imogen’s instead.
Though she vaguely remembered a notice going around saying that all cast had to be there.
“You don’t have to fuck her in the middle of the dance floor. You could say that she’s your friend.”
Amelia didn’t hold back from giving Bridget a dirty look this time.
Bridget remained unfazed and held her hands up. “It was only a suggestion. I heard some people are bringing people.”
“Are you?”
“No.” At Amelia’s expectant look, she continued apathetically. “Anyone I would want to bring is back in the States.”
Amelia grinned. “I suppose you always have Gabe.”
Bridget looked thoroughly unimpressed.
They rounded the corner and approached the old farmhouse where the crew had already set up for filming.
It was being used as the B&B where Eve and Scarlett were staying with the other bridesmaids.
The cottage itself was cute—white-painted stone, red shutters, a thatched roof, all surrounded by greenery.
Imogen would love it. She pulled out her phone, took a quick snap, and sent it to Imogen asking if she’d ever been there before.
She liked being able to share things with Imogen—even the little things.
Amelia began to consider Bridget’s suggestion she had dismissed so quickly.
Would it be such a bad idea to ask Imogen to the party?
Everyone working on Always the Bridesmaid was really nice—present company excluded, perhaps.
Though even Bridget and Amelia’s relationship had… progressed, one could say.
There would be a load of people there. And they didn’t have to attend as a couple. She and Imogen could go to the party strictly as friends. No hand-holding or flirty looks. Maybe it would be a good opportunity to show Imogen that her world wasn’t as terrible as she thought it was.
The truth was, Amelia was fine with keeping things under wraps.
But like Helen had said on the phone, it was going to come out eventually.
So, what if Amelia could give Imogen a taste of her world before then?
A look behind the curtain of her preconceived ideas.
Then maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t go running for the hills if things did go public.
It was a long shot. She knew that. And Imogen was very likely to say no anyway.
But there was no harm in asking, was there?
“Table seven needs refills,” Niamh said chirpily as she set a handful of empty glasses into the large stainless-steel sink.
They didn’t actually wash them there—it was just the staging area where the glasses had a little rest before eventually being loaded into the dishwasher, which did all the real work.
Piper spun around from the fridge she was in the middle of restocking with colourful alcopops that no doubt turned a person’s insides fluorescent when consumed. “Where the hell is table seven?”
“It’s the one by the fire,” Niamh replied to her like it was obvious. All that was missing was a duh on the end.
Piper stuck her hands on her hips. “The one by the fire.” She turned to Imogen. “Did you know there was a table seven by the fire?”
Imogen laughed. “I vaguely remember numbering the tables a few months ago when we were new and innocently thought we were going to be instantaneously inundated with customers.” Oh, how optimistic they were, fresh in from the city.
In some ways it seemed like a lifetime ago.
If she was still stuck in her routine, living in Belfast, working at Clover, the same amount of time would probably feel like the blink of an eye.
“Well, how am I supposed to remember a few months ago? I barely remember what I had for breakfast.”
“One of those protein yoghurts you’re so obsessed with,” Niamh replied flatly. “And you’re going to have to learn the numbers again. We’re professional bar folk now.”
“Is that the official term?” Imogen asked. Surely there had to be something a bit more professional.
“I’m making it official. PBFs for short.” Niamh gave a firm nod like that settled the whole thing.
PBFs it was. “We do love a good nickname, it’s only right that we should have our own.
” Imogen thought about some of the great names they had doled out over the years, especially when they’d worked in Clover.
Her particular favourites were E.T. Eric who always wanted to go home.
Mastercard Marcus who always took credit for everyone else’s work.
And Wheelbarrow Wendy who only worked when pushed.
Imogen was glad they’d carried on the tradition since the move—the great folk of Ballyluck deserved a good nickname they would hopefully never know about.
Niamh pulled down some fresh glasses and passed them one each. “No more faffing. Table seven. Let’s go. My God, if you two were any more laid-back today you’d be horizontal.”
“Hey! You can take your cheek out on me,” Piper said as they both got to work, simultaneously filling their pint glasses. “But leave Imogen out of it.”
“Thanks, Piper,” Imogen said suspiciously, throwing her a quick side-eye. The other shoe was about to drop. She just knew it.
“Yeah. She can’t be getting much sleep lately with Amelia Whitlock rolling around in her bed every night.” And there it was. Imogen really could read her like a book.
“Shh.” She checked to see if there was anyone within earshot—at least the pub was busy enough for that to be a concern. Fortunately, everyone was laughing and chatting amongst themselves.
“I can’t believe she’s stayed at yours every night.” Niamh set two miniature bottles of wine onto a tray. “We’re like unofficial neighbours with Amelia Whitlock.”
“We need to start borrowing sugar,” Piper said.
“You’d probably get tongue-tied and ask for salt,” Imogen teased her.
Piper flicked her on the arm. “I thought we agreed never to mention my moment of mortification ever again. It was totally out of character.”
“I lied.” Imogen made a face. “It’s too much fun. And you’d do it to me.”
“Oh, in a heartbeat. But just because I can dish it doesn’t mean I can take it.
I’m happy to admit that I’m a hypocrite.
” Piper carefully carried her pint that was filled right to the brim over to the tray.
She brushed her hands together. “Besides, I’ve been punished enough.
Do you not think I would have gate-crashed your apartment already if I hadn’t made such an arse out of myself? ”
Oh, Imogen was sure of it. She was equal parts surprised and relieved that Piper and Niamh had kept their distance so far.
Though, to give them credit, they had been very respectful ever since Amy and her had got things back on track.
They had even kept their fangirling to a minimum.
Piper had only called Amy hot about eight times this week—which was probably half of her usual quota.
Niamh being Niamh had been on her best behaviour.
There had been little looks though—between Niamh and Piper.
Those silent conversations they were so good at.
Imogen hadn’t missed them. But she supposed she had to allow them something.
An unfamiliar ringing sound came from an area near the door to the back hallway.
Piper looked around the bar in confusion, like there was a fly buzzing around and she couldn’t find it. “What is that?”
Niamh paused on her way over to deliver table seven their tray of drinks. “The phone. Well, don’t just stand there. Answer it before it rings off.”
Piper still didn’t move. “We have a phone in here? Like an actual ring-a-ring phone?”
Imogen quickly made her way over to it. In all honesty, she had forgotten it existed too.
No one had ever called them on it. “Most people call them landlines,” she said to Piper before yanking the receiver off the holder.
“Hi, the Wishing Well. How can I help?” Oh look, she still had her Clover voice.
The woman on the other end of the line wanted to book a table for twelve people for the following evening and Imogen’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. They had never received a real-life reservation before, let alone one for twelve whole people. She even preordered some platters.