CHAPTER TWO
‘What can I get you?’ the bartender asks as I reach the front of the queue after a long wait.
‘Two glasses of champagne, please.’ I say politely, handing over our empty glasses. He takes them away and pulls out two fresh flutes, popping the cork on a new bottle of fizz. ‘And can you fill them right the way to the top, so I don’t have to queue again for a while?’
The barman pauses pouring, looks at me.
‘I’m not joking,’ I say. ‘No half-measures.’
His eyes widen and he continues to pour. ‘Fair enough.’
‘Thirsty?’ the man queuing next to me asks as I watch the bartender pour.
‘They’re not both for me,’ I reply, turning to him.
‘No, I meant … all the way up to the top. Never mind,’ he says, blinking away his comment.
‘Oh, I see what you mean. I’ve just queued for what feels like for ever,’ I tell him, ‘and I don’t want to have to go through it all again in twenty minutes.’
‘That’s a good plan,’ he agrees thoughtfully. ‘I might steal that idea.’
‘Especially since the drinks are free,’ I whisper.
‘They’re not free any more,’ he says. ‘They hit the limit behind the bar a little while ago, and now it’s every man for himself. I didn’t manage to get a refill in time, either.’
‘Oh, shit,’ I say as the bartender presents the glasses to me and tells me the astronomical sum I’m expected to magic up now for two glasses of the most expensive champagne ever. I’ve turned cold at the thought of my next credit card statement. I produce my card and hold it out to tap.
‘Sorry, it’s not gone through,’ the bartender tells me. ‘Do you have another card?’
‘No,’ I say ever so quietly.
The man next to me sees my concern. ‘I’ll get these,’ he says smoothly.
‘There’s no need,’ I protest. ‘I’m sure I can …’ But I’ve hit my credit limit. I can’t do anything.
The guy continues to look at me, waiting for an instruction as he holds out his card. I can’t pay. Oh God, this is so embarrassing. I nod reluctantly and he turns to the bartender. ‘Can you put two pints of Guinness on there too, before I forget the reason I’m queuing here in the first place.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘um …?’
‘Josh,’ he says. ‘You were asking my name, right?’
‘I was. I am. Thank you, Josh.’ We stand for a few seconds and I realise this man is wearing the same-colour suit as Chris and is sporting the same yellow flower in his buttonhole. But he’s wearing that suit very differently. He’s both well spoken and well built, like a rugby player. His eyes are blue, speckled with lines of grey and a hint of amusement.
‘This is the bit where you tell me your name,’ he prompts, when I don’t immediately speak.
‘Lexie.’ I reply, preoccupied by my mission and the stubble around his jawline. He has dark hair, lighter than Chris’s, but I venture, ‘Are you the best man?’
He nods.
My eyes widen, while internally I silently shout, Yes! Yes!
‘I made a speech for about five minutes, which I’m guessing wasn’t very memorable,’ he says, putting on a pretend insulted face.
‘The speech was memorable,’ I fib.
‘But I wasn’t?’ Josh teases, and I smile.
‘You’re memorable now .’
He chuckles as two pints of Guinness are put in front of him. ‘Is that because I came to your rescue?’
‘It is,’ I reply. ‘If there’s anything I can do for you in return, other than transfer you some money, obviously …’
‘No need,’ he says softly. ‘Honestly.’
‘Really? I feel bad now.’
Behind us the DJ announces, ‘Now it’s time for the bride and groom to have their first dance. And,’ he looks down at the note he’s reading, ‘they request you to join them on the dance floor as soon as possible, because the groom is nervous and doesn’t dance in public.’
A few laughs and rumbles of ‘Aaah’ and ‘Oh, isn’t that sweet’ emanate around the room. It is actually quite sweet.
‘Dance with me?’ Josh asks, looking nervous, as if he can’t believe he’s just said it out loud.
‘Sorry?’ I say.
He nods his head towards the dance floor as the bride and groom cling to each other, shuffling their feet.
‘Shall we save them? One good turn deserves another and all that,’ he points out.
‘You mean you saved me, so now I need to help save them?’
‘Exactly,’ he replies, his blue eyes connecting with mine. ‘What do you say?’
The DJ helps the newly-weds slow-dance together, reiterating his request for couples to join the dance floor.
Josh holds out his hand. ‘Shall we?’
Chris! Oh my word, I suddenly remember Chris. I’ve left him out there, waiting for a drink and my return, and neither of these things has happened. I’ve lost track of my mission.
Although, now I think about it, my mission is to get off with the best man, who is standing in front of me, asking me to dance. If I pursue that, I win the game and my financial woes are gently alleviated for a very brief period of time, as I won’t have to fork out for a pair of expensive shoes. I also get a spa day. I’m torn. I should turn, make polite apologies to Josh, take Chris’s drink to him and continue enjoying our time together, no matter how brief it’s going to be. Because it is going to be short-lived. He lives in New York. I live here. Though there’s something about him.
‘Are you single?’ I ask Josh, cutting to the chase because there’s no point prioritising this gamble if he’s not.
He blinks, laughs in shock at the directness of my question. ‘Yeah. Are you?’
‘Yeah.’ His stubble gives him that I might have shaved this morning, I might not have, devil-may-care look I’ve always liked. I don’t know what to do. I’m not the kind to stand up a man. And there’s a connection with Chris. I feel it. It’s tangible, despite having spent only a fraction of time with him. I know it’s real. I know it’s there. But he lives so far away and … Josh, well I don’t know where he lives, but I’ll be honest with myself: wherever it is, it has to be closer than sodding New York.
‘I …’ I trail off, glance at the two champagne flutes still on the bar, the bubbles rising to the surface, condensation trickling gently towards the base of each glass.
‘We can leave them there. I think they’ll be fine, if we ask the bartender to keep an eye on them?’ Josh points out helpfully as my gaze settles on the drinks while I debate what to do.
Couples are making their way onto the dance floor, and the bride and groom look relieved that help has finally arrived.
Josh’s hand is still outstretched, his hopeful expression cutting into me. I can’t leave him hanging any more, so I take his hand and let him guide me onto the dance floor.
The space is popular, as nearly everyone jostles on to support the couple, and Josh and I are pushed together as he holds me and we sway to Taylor Swift’s ‘Gold Rush’. It has quite the beat, so is easy to move to. Josh is polite; one hand remains in the small of my back and he never once tries to move it south. He glances down and smiles at me briefly as we move to the music. If I wanted to snog him and win, now would be the time, even though it might be a bit inappropriate and out of the blue. He swirls me around and pulls me back towards him. He’s getting into the groove, and so am I. But after three minutes the song comes to an end, and we join in with a round of applause for the bride and groom.
‘Thanks,’ he says.
‘You’re welcome. You’re quite the dancer.’
We stand for a moment and then, feeling so pulled back towards Chris, I say, ‘I’m really sorry, but I have to get that drink to someone.’
‘Of course. Yeah.’ Josh lifts his hand to wave and then follows a little behind me on the way to the bar, so he can scoop his drinks up and head back to the dance floor.
I’ve been gone so long, I really hope Chris is still outside.