Katie Fforde - Wedding Season

It had been a long time since she'd been this close to a man. Hugo smelt of party: a little alcohol, a touch of tobacco and, underneath that, some very luxurious aftershave. Sarah wished she could dislike it but was grateful she didn't. He held her firmly to him, one hand on her back, the other holding her hand. She put her own free hand on his shoulder and they danced.

Once she thought she felt his cheek on her hair but then dismissed the idea. Why would he do that? But the thought made something in her respond. It was probably because she was a healthy young woman who hadn't been in a relationship for a long time. Her body was bound to respond to a man who held her close. Once she'd sorted this out she relaxed into the dance, and even closed her eyes. This was nice!

‘Hey! Can I cut in?' A large and determined uncle (Sarah recognised him) prised her from Hugo's arms and set off with her forcefully, leaving an amused Hugo behind. 'Didn't know you were part of the party,' he said into her ear. 'Thought you were staff. Damn glad you're not.'

‘Oh, I am staff!' insisted Sarah, delighted that this might make him let her go.

‘No,' said the uncle firmly. 'The precedent's been set. You're on the floor, you're dancing.’

For the remaining minutes of the dance Sarah realised that in spite of being a healthy young woman who hadn't had a relationship for ages, she was not responding to this man clamping her to him. Entirely the reverse, in fact.

Sarah didn't accept any more dances. She worked for the rest of the evening. Now, at nearly midnight, all the wedding party had left and the family had all gone up to their rooms. She was having a final trawl through the room, looking for anything left behind, when Hugo joined her.

‘When do you clock off?'

‘Not until I've made sure there are no abandoned handbags or shawls or shoes, even. I've nearly finished now, though.' She was about to add that she was longing for her bed but stopped herself in time. It would have resulted in a lot of unnecessary banter and it was too late at night for that.

‘Good. The barman is still there and prepared to give us brandy. I think you need it. I know I do.’

Sarah had not kept herself out of relationships for more than four years without knowing how to do it, but her technique relied heavily on 'having to get back', 'not wanting to drink and drive' – simple logistics, in fact. But Hugo already knew she didn't have to go anywhere and he was only offering her a friendly drink. She couldn't deny she'd finished her work and the thought of a brandy was very tempting. Her will power, so necessary to keep a calm and efficient head when on duty, was all spent.

‘Oh, OK,' she muttered.

‘It's all right, no need to sound grateful,' said Hugo, laughing, and steered her towards the bar.

There was a small sofa in the window embrasure with a little table in front of it and a view of the garden beyond. Hugo directed Sarah there and went to the bar.

The barman was Sarah's last hope. If he wanted to go off-duty – and he surely must – Sarah could say so. She could just drink up her brandy and go to bed – she'd sleep like a top.

She sat back and looked at the garden which was lit with occasional flares, making it look exotic, almost foreign. She felt content. The day had gone brilliantly. There was quite a lot of post-wedding administration to do tomorrow, but she could handle that. She didn't have to sort out any major upsets. This was the biggest wedding she'd done so far and she felt very satisfied with herself.

Then Hugo put a bottle of brandy on the table. 'Don't worry, it's nearly empty. I thought it was easier to just buy the lot. Then when the barman's finished setting up for tomorrow he can go to bed.'

‘Oh. I'm quite tired too,' said Sarah, managing not to say the 'b' word.

‘I expect you're completely shattered. Here, drink this. It'll help you unwind.’

Sarah sighed and then sipped the liquid. It felt like molten gold running down her throat. She settled back into the cushions of the sofa.

Hugo sat next to her and sipped from his own glass. 'That is truly delicious brandy,' murmured Sarah sleepily. 'Thank you very much.'

‘It's a pleasure. Have some more.' He tipped some more into her glass.

They settled into the sofa, not talking. The garden in front of them was beautiful and in the distance, from some other room, came some jazz, sensuous and poignant, just perfect. Sarah savoured the stillness after a long day full of bustle and noise. Then her glance caught Hugo's. She couldn't quite read his expression in the soft lighting and for a tiny moment she was confused. And then he smiled. In spite of all her personal barricades, she felt a flutter of anticipation.

He took her glass out of her hand and put it on the table, and then he turned her head and brought his mouth down to hers.

Sarah let herself go. It was just a kiss – and yet what a kiss! Hugo's lips held hers with just the right degree of firmness and later, gently opened her mouth. Brandy, tiredness, relief from stress and possibly years of abstinence caused Sarah to respond to everything his mouth demanded. It went on for ever; dawn could have broken while it continued and Sarah wouldn't have noticed. At last Hugo broke free.

Sarah's eyes opened and at the same moment she realised how very much she had enjoyed kissing him. A long sigh went through her and she cleared her throat. 'I think I'd better go to bed now,' she whispered. Reluctantly, the sensible part of her took charge once more.

Hugo sighed too. 'It's probably wise. There's no need to rush things, after all. I'll take you up.’

Sarah protested, but he took no notice. At the door of her room he kissed her again. Sarah chided herself for letting this happen again and then she thought: Why not? A kiss is just a kiss, after all.

Bron drove home slowly, not really wanting to arrive. She had so enjoyed getting everyone ready for the wedding, especially Elsa. She really had felt like a fairy godmother cutting her hair and putting her make-up on, and even helping with that lovely dress. The end result was fantastic. The fringe had made Elsa look wonderfully waif-like. That, and the make-up, had made a woman who was pleasant and attractive into one who was almost stunning. And she was leaving all that girly fun behind.

There would be a row or possibly a sulk. Roger was a better sulker than he was a fast bowler, or whatever his specialty was, and a row would be almost preferable, except it would end in tears, her tears, as it had when she had left that morning.

The trouble was, he hated her working at weekends, and weekends were when she could do freelance work, in particular for weddings. He hated her doing freelance work too. He liked her to work regular hours, at the local salon, so she could be at home when he needed her to be. It was fair enough, she realised. Most women would grumble if their husbands worked all week and then freelanced at the weekends, but as Roger played so much cricket, Bron felt she might as well be working. Except that he wanted her to watch him play, and it bored her stupid.

And she hated her day job. She didn't get on with the owner of the salon, which meant she did more hairwashing and less cutting and styling than by rights she should have done. And although she'd told Roger this, explained why she wanted to leave and try her luck as a mobile hairdresser, he just said she should learn to stand up for herself. People often told other people to stand up for themselves, Bron reflected, although they'd be horrified if they stood up to the person telling them to do just that.

Now she pulled her shoulders back as she locked the car and checked her watch. It was four o'clock. She should have a couple of hours before he was home and perhaps, if he'd done really well, he might have forgiven her for not being there to watch him play. She would have to wash his whites, but that was nothing new.