Page 8 of Paper Roses

“Oh no,” Esme says, her eyes glistening. I don’t know whether she’s really sad or finally feeling the alcohol. “I don’t want that. Leeloveshis mum.”

Cynthia sniffs. “I don’t want that either. I love both of you.”

I’d say that was highly debatable, but I wisely keep my mouth shut.

“I’m sorry I yelled,” Esme says. “And I lied. Your Yorkshire puddings arelovely.”

“And I’m sorry I wore a wedding—” Cynthia hesitates and shoots me a look. “—a white dress to echo and enhance your beauty.”

I nod approvingly as they hug, crying into each other’s necks.

“I’ll send Heather in with her makeup bag,” I announce, and Artie and I make a swift exit.

We both take a deep breath in the corridor. “Fucking hell. That was the closest I ever want to get to in-law drama,” I mutter and Artie snorts. “You may laugh, but I’ve seen things over the years.” I shudder as memories cross my mind. “I’ve seen things,” I say again in a tone more suited to someone on the set ofHouse of Dragons.

He gives me his lovely smile that makes his eyes twinkle. “Well, they’re okay now. Isn’t that nice?”

“I’d say it’s a temporary affair, but what happens after the wedding is thankfully none ofmybusiness.” I give the closed door an assessing look. “Well, at least until their next weddings.” I look up and find him watching me affectionately.

“You’re very cynical,” he observes.

“More a realist. Well done, by the way.”

He raises an eyebrow in query.

“For that interjection,” I explain. “I’d covered Esme with my celebrity-wedding trend, but Cynthia was an unknown quantity.”

“I think they both wanted to make up. They just couldn’t work out how to do it.” He sighs. “Families can be very complicated.”

There’s something in his voice that makes me examine his face closely. His lips are tight, and his eyes look strained. Worry stirs. Artie is usually very content and calm.

“What’s the matter?” I say immediately.

He looks at me, startled, and I take his arm and lead him to a small table in the corner of the bar. I pull out a chair for him, and after he sits, I take the chair across from him, meeting his gaze.

“I know there’s something wrong,” I tell him.

“How?”

I shrug awkwardly. “We work very closely together. I sense things, as can you.”

And I watch you, I add silently.All the bloody time.

He shifts on the chair, and my stomach clenches at the sight of his shadowed eyes.

I lean forward. “Tell me,” I say, filled with the desire to make it right for him. To makeeverythingright for him.

He licks his lips nervously. “I have to get married.”

My heart sinks like a lift plummeting thirty floors.

two

. . .

artie

The bistro in Chelsea is charming. Wisteria grows up the building’s exterior walls, and small iron tables and chairs painted bright colours are set on the pavement. Jed opens the door and ushers me inside. Even at this late hour, it’s busy and the air is full of the scent of good things cooking. My stomach rumbles.

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