The Wedding Planner

Chapter 1

My clients Jane and Gavin are a delight to work with. Jane is gorgeous, she has long brown hair that sits perfectly just above her shoulders, and eyes just as dark. Her lips are plump, buttered with red lip balm that has smudged slightly onto her cheek, to which Gavin wipes away. Throughout my years of work, I have never seen a couple so well matched. He is unable to take his gaze off her, even as she speaks to me about her wedding details he watches her tentatively, in awe of her femininity and she in awe of his masculine presence that towers over her. We sit at the table in a café in Chelsea. I have a stack of pancakes with bacon and maple syrup drizzled on top, a large clump of butter melts and travels in between the pancakes to form a pool on the plate. I mop it up with my pancake. Opposite me sits Jane's healthy avocado and poached egg on toast. The pool of egg yolk as she cuts into it is a much better look than my pool of butter and syrup. She's so healthy, I think to myself, and feel embarrassed at my choice in meal.

As we finish up I am bombarded with 'thank you' and 'we couldn't have done it without you'. I look down at my plate embarrassed, I've never been that good at accepting compliments, maybe because I never get them. As we hug and part ways I can't help but feel a sense of longing. I will miss them, I think to myself. As I reach home the first thing I do is remove the pictures of Jane and Gavin from my wall – I am no longer working with them and it is time to move on. A picture posted to their Instagram that I had printed out is ripped apart on the floor. I look at my cat disapprovingly.

'Twinky!', I shout. He simply looks at me.

Ten photos are removed from my wall, I decided to leave the wedding picture up, along with the pictures from the reception. They sit amongst the other pictures of my clients, positioned right next to Stacey and Milton, one of my first clients. Planning weddings is my pride and joy, and each client I meet with holds a place in my heart. I had never met Milton, only Stacey. She was rude so there is only one photo up from their wedding. As I move to the shredder sat in the hallway I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. A matted, greasy fro, untamed by any amount of Aunt Jackies leave in or Cantu. I decided to let it grow out, but every so often I drag it back into a bun. My edges stick out stubbornly as I try to brush them, then give up, exhausted by my thick texture. My coarse hands have no grip in them as they slip and slide amongst the oil in a futile attempt to slick back this hair. They ache with soreness, and I meet with my brown doe eyes in the mirror with disappointment. There's a knock at the door, unusual because I didn't expect visitors, nor am I particularly fond of them, as they have a tendency to judge my décor. Perhaps the pictures are overwhelming for the untrained eye, but no one understands how much my job means to me. How much my clients mean to me. I put my pink fluffy slippers on that Twinky had destroyed in my absence.

'Coming!' I yell from across the hallway, still in deep speculation as to who it might be. Perhaps if I was popular, or had somewhat of a social life, I'd have a breadth of people to choose from. It could be my best friend Cassy, or Harriet from work. Unfortunately, I don't know a Cassy, nor do I work with anyone other than myself. The closest I come to human interaction is being the recipient of the demands of which my clients bestow upon me. 'I'd like a traditional wedding,' or 'a fairytale day' replaces 'hi I'd love to get coffee with you.' For some odd reason, when the wedding is over and the honeymoon commences, I never hear back from anyone. I call, I text, but it seems to never go through. My 20's that should be full of fun and momentum instead consist of quiet nights in snuggled up next to Twinky, who I'm sure has even become sick of my company. Would you believe me if I said I'd only been to a nightclub once? That my first and only kiss had been in the wardrobe of a boys house in year 8 who told me that he'd hurt me if I ever told anyone, because he was so ashamed. I've never felt the touch of a man, to be deprived of that touch, robbed of the privilege of feeling someone's embrace and masculine aura is a travesty. The closest I will get to that is the common courtesy of a handshake or kiss on the cheek in greeting. I salvage every moment.

There is another knock. I can sense their impatience; someone is clearly eager to see me. That's a first. Even Twinky senses it too, 'who is coming to see mother?', he asks me. Looking through the peephole, I see a man standing in a brown uniform. A delivery driver, I sigh to myself. How could I be so stupid as to think I was really of interest to someone. I take of the latch separating me and the only male I will encounter for the rest of the week and open the door cautiously. He looks me up and down, in total disgust I presume. I should've sorted this hair out, or put on a better outfit than this shrivelled pink robe. My face is greasy, and I adjust my glasses that sit awkwardly on the cervix of my enlarged nose. I rub my thick lips together in anxiousness and bite the skin that is dangling off my lower lip. How dare he look at me so disapprovingly, I think to myself, yet if I were him I don't think my gaze would be much better.

'Package for Quinn Worsely,' he announces in his deep voice. Looking at his arms I can't help but take note of how big they are. He's holding a brown package, almost as brown as his uniform, almost as brown as my complexion. The parcel looks heavy almost, but it seems to be no trouble for him, he holds it with ease, flexing his ungodly strength. I see a vein pop out from his big, muscular hands and a sensation rushes through me.

'Yes that's me!' I exclaim, almost too enthusiastically. He looks at me perplexed and hands me an electronic screen and a stylus to sign. I scribble on the screen my signature and accept the package keenly. Just like that he is gone, disappearing into the abyss of the lift in the apartment complex. I sigh in disappointment at yet another missed opportunity. Maybe we will meet again. What he doesn't know is that I have security cameras facing the front door of the apartment, and they were fixated on him the whole time. This footage is linked directly to my phone, and I am watching it on repeat, and have been since he left my company. Freckles blotted all over his face catch my attention, as does the irritated red bumps that sit in between them. Piercing blue eyes are evident even on the footage, and I zoom in to see that they contain a hint of grey. However, perhaps most mesmerizing about him, is how the curves of his mouth raise ever so slightly when I open the door to him. He's teasing me with a smile, he must like me more than I thought. I take a screenshot of this to print out later, in disbelief of how I have been so lucky to meet such a man. I order two more parcels set to come tomorrow, next time I will be prepared.