Distraction

Chapter Two

As the assistant to the North West's most celebrated wedding planner, Libby's job was to ensure the venue was prepared and the big day ran smoothly. Stupidly expensive Georgian mansion? Tick. Thousands of elegantly arranged deep plum, Schwartzwalder calla lilies? Tick. Groom's tongue down the Chief-Bridesmaid's throat? Tick. Libby texted the Bride-To-Be to meet her in the wedding breakfast room. Moral code getting the better of Libby Wilde? Tick. Pressing send, she went outside to hide. 

Ten minutes later, the North West's most celebrated wedding planner stalked across the terrace towards Libby, who watched the Bride battering the Groom over the head with one of the elegant Schwartzwalder calla lily arrangements. The guilty Chief-Bridesmaid hovered on the side-lines, presumably trying to decide if she should step in and rescue the Groom or try to apologise to her ex-best friend. The Bride shrieked language most lobster fishermen would blush at, while the North West's most celebrated wedding planner hissed the dreaded phrase, Olivia Wilde, you're fired. Libby had heard those words three times in the last five months, making a grand total of eleven times in three years.  

'So what if he's shagging the bridesmaid? It wasn't your job to tell the bloody bride. It was your job to make sure the flowers looked incredible and they got married. It was your job to make sure I got paid.' 

Seeing little point in arguing her case, Libby welcomed the distraction of the Bride-Not-To-Be throwing open one of the French doors. 

'Thank you for saving me from that lying bastard,' she said. 'He said last time was a mistake. I should've known better. People don't change.'  

Libby walked away with her head held high. She might be unemployed again, but morally, she was doing just fine. 

That evening, the Jumble Bar, a low-key affair tucked away in Manchester's Northern Quarter, lacked Libby's usual boho crowd. Instead the outside tables were filled with corporate types. Women with five inch heels perched at the end of their St Tropez'd pins, sipped agave syrup mojitos while men in striped shirts knocked back pints of cutting edge real ale. This was her regular watering hole, but for the first time, the pink dip-dyed ends to her bleached locks and heavy black eye make-up fit in like a punk at the Proms. At least a few of the men had eyed up her bum as she'd weaved between their tables. They weren't her type, but she welcomed the ego boost after being fired. Again.  

Taking a glass of Chablis from the barman, Libby perched on a stool at the bar and while she waited for her friend, Zoe, flicked through the Evening News until she reached the job ads. Sales, sales, data entry, sales, care home staff, sales, girls wanted... The MEN had sits vac ads for prostitutes? By the time she drained her glass only three ads were circled. Three. So this was what her life had come to. Twenty-four and seriously considering a career in the escort business for lack of other options.  

Arse.  

'Sorry, sorry, sorry, babe.' Zoe's Essex twang filled the bar. 'Can we sit outside? Been a mentally weird day and I could murder a fag.' She led the way to the last empty table, placing two Selfridges carrier bags and a rather lovely looking tan bag on the seat next to her.  

'What,' Libby asked as she lit a cigarette, 'is that?' 

'A Mulberry Bayswater.' Zoe caressed the tote before helping herself to a Marlboro. 

'And what are you doing? You haven't smoked since school.' 

'As I said, weird day. First, Richard texted me to say he's busy tonight, and second, my great-aunt died.' 

'Oh God, that's awful. I mean about your great-aunt. Were you close?' 

'Are you taking the piss? She was a right miserable cow.' Zoe leant forwards. 'But get this. Her and Mum didn't get on, so Maggie only went and left me her house.'