Page 32 of Asking For a Friend

“For god’s sake, woman, calm yourself,” my father berates her. He looks Connor and me up and down, his expression giving nothing away. “Orlando. Hello, hello, come on in. Let me introduce you to some of the guests.”

Is he kidding me?

As I walk through the house and gardens with Mrs Hardwick, all I can think about is how much this dreadful show could cost our reputation. I have given her exactly what she asked for, however diabolical I think it is. The customer is always right.

I feel better when I overhear her claim the decorations are all her own doing and why would she need a party planner when her skills are apparent. I manage to catch her eye on her third gushing explanation, her cheeks pink, but she doesn’t change her story. It seems that most of the female guests love the décor, while the men hardly seem to notice.

When someone shrieks, I step forward. Has something gone wrong? Candles are positioned everywhere. Add all the cocktail dresses made of flimsy, flammable fabric, and it’s trouble waiting to happen.

I freeze. All thoughts of fire disappear. Lando. What is he doing here? Then it clicks. Lando Hardwick. He has to be her son. Why didn’t I connect the two before? Probably because the chance of them being related is ridiculous. The idea that this woman has raised him seems unbelievable. He’s so sweet and kind, modest, whereas she is brash and harsh and only thinks of how other people see her.

But here he is, and he looks incredible in a fucking corset that highlights his slim frame and narrow waist. The dark green fabric suits his red hair and warms his skin tone. I want him to turn around. I want to see the laces crisscrossing across his back. A back I’ve kissed every inch of, have leant over as I’ve sunk deep inside his body. I’ve watched it arch in pleasure as sweat bloomed over it.

My memories come crashing down, shattering around my feet like broken glass. He’s holding the hand of a beautiful man who, with his high cheekbones and subtly applied make-up, looks like a model. The matching corsets complement the pair, making them stand out from every other boring tuxedo, including my own.

He hasn’t seen me. He looks uncomfortable as the two hosts approach him. Lando had said he didn’t have anything to do with his parents, that he left before they kicked him out. What’s he doing here, then? By the look on his face, it’s to rub his sexuality in their faces. The Hardwicks have reached him. His mother stretches her arms as if to hug him, but Lando steps back. She drops her arms and stands stiffly next to her husband. His father says something to Lando, who falters, and the fake friendly expression fades. Lando looks pissed off now. Is his father putting on a show? Not wanting to be seen for what they are. Homophobic pricks.

Lando says something back, and his father’s smug look slips. He glances cautiously around at the audience and addresses Lando. If this had been anyone else but Lando, I’d be loving every bit of the showdown. Over the years of planning events, we’ve seen and heard just about everything. Jilted brides, jilted grooms, cheating partners. You name it, we’ve seen it. But tonight, it’s personal, and I hate it. I rock on my heels. The desire to go and stand by Lando’s side is growing by the minute, but the sexy guy next to him is the one holding his hand, keeping him grounded.

Mrs Hardwick looks frantically around as if she can feel the party collapsing around her. When she sees me, she whispers in her husband’s ear, then strides over to me. “We have to change the schedule. I want dinner to be served now.”

I check my watch. The caterers can handle the time change, but I want her to sweat a bit. “Hmm, I’m not sure. I’ll have to check with the kitchen. A full hour earlier may be pushing them a little too much. Let me see what I can do.”

“I’m paying you enough to make it happen, Mr Trent.” She storms away, muttering about ungrateful sons and lost contracts. Ahh, now it makes sense. Lando is a prop, the token gay son, the successful author, someone for his parents to crow about, to show how liberal they are. And I bet that Lando knows it too.

I leave the train crash that’s still going on and walk into the kitchen, where Sharon is instructing the wait staff who are busy loading silver platters with amuse-bouches. I’ve worked with this incredibly talented woman for years. We were both new to the whole event-organising and took a chance on each other. We’ve worked together ever since. With any luck, the food will stop the guests from whispering about Lando and his friend.

“The host wants the dinner to start now.”

A smile spreads over her face as she checks the time. “Who called seven forty-five?”

One of the waitresses pumps the air with her fist. “Yes!”

The others bemoan their bad luck. “I’d forgotten about your sweepstake.” I laugh, shaking my head. “What shall I tell her?”

“Tell her I’ll try my best.” Then to the others. “Get those trays out. That will give them something to focus on.”

“Don’t rush too hard. It’s her fault.”

“What was it, pissed-off mistress?”

“Estranged son.”

“Gay?”

I nod. “Yeah, I know him too. He doesn’t know I’m here, so as soon as it’s all plain sailing, I’m going to hang out here with you.”

“An ex?”

God, Lando is so much more than an ex. He was my everything, my future mapped out with him in the centre. Marriage, children, the whole nine yards. And I fucked it up by keeping a part of my past private, a secret. Lando deserves so much more than gossip, especially after he witnessed my attempt to forget about him that night in The King’s Head. “No, nothing like that.”

I venture back out to find Mrs Hardwick. Of course, she’s hovering by the door. “Well? Can I seat my guests yet?”

“Not just yet, Mrs Hardwick. The staff are offering appetisers now. Chef is trying her best.” I curb the desire to tell her this is what happens when you insist on having the dinner prepared at the venue. Admittedly, it’s not being cooked from scratch. Even though the house is enormous, the kitchen isn’t equipped for that. “Can I help you with anything else?”

“Not unless you can deal with ungrateful, ridiculously dressed sons.” And with that, she turns on her Jimmy Choos, her gaudy, overpriced dress swishing around her ankles as she strides away.

I do as I said and stay in the kitchen for the next few hours. Has Lando remained or walked away with his head held high? Hell, for all I know, he’s upstairs fucking the pretty boy into the mattress of his old bed. The urge to look for Lando, if only to see if he’s all right, takes over my common sense, and I walk back into the main rooms. The guests are talking more loudly after all the alcohol they’ve consumed. I get more than a few appreciative glances from both the men and the women, but I ignore them all. I need to find Lando.

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