when the time came.
‘It’s a very routine-based life and a massive tie,’ he said. ‘Up at four-thirty every day of the week for milking. Massive emphasis on cleanliness so major daily hygiene routines to keep to. Hard graft that doesn’t end until early evening and on top of that the constant battle for income with milk prices being driven down. It’s not an easy life.’ She looked slightly surprised at his outburst and he paused, aware that this stream of justification for his decision was still as much for himself as for anyone else. ‘I’m not afraid of hard work but that just wasn’t for me.’
‘Hard work doesn’t have to mean backbreaking physical graft,’ Amy remarked, opening a carton of orange juice and filling a few glasses. She knew that only too well. The hospitality industry was no picnic. She was constantly on her feet, the hours were unsociable and she was dealing with Joe Public, who could never see the bigger picture. If they’d paid for a weekend away, or a wedding or an event, they couldn’t care less if your supplier let you down, or a car was delayed, or if there’d been a double booking by an inept minion of a receptionist. Over Owen’s shoulder she signalled to a nearby waitress to come and refresh her dwindling drinks tray. ‘It can’t have been easy to launch a business from scratch but you’ve obviously made a success of it.’
‘The hours can be tough, I’ll admit,’ he said. ‘This weekend is a bit of an exception for me. I’d normally check out at least one of the bars, making sure everything’s running to plan. I’ve got managers in place but I’m forever on call.’ He glanced at his phone on the edge of the bar, never far from his reach. So far it had been silent. ‘It’s been ages since I’ve taken this much time out actually. I kind of feel constantly like I should be somewhere, as if I’m missing something. It’s ridiculous. I’ve spent so long building the business up that it becomes impossible to switch off. May I?’
She stared as he reached for the carton of orange juice and topped up his champagne glass with it.
‘Bucks Fizz,’ he said, as she raised eyebrows. ‘Very eighties, but what can I do? You rejected my peach Bellini idea.’
He’d managed to elicit a smile, even if it was an exasperated one. He noticed that her eyes sparkled when she did that.
‘Since you mention being forever on call, there’s a hundred things I ought to be doing right now instead of chatting to you,’ she said.
He leaned in close to her.
‘So let’s play truant together,’ he said.
She smiled at him, tilting her chin up a little as she did so. It gave her a very cute expression that made his pulse pick up lightly.
‘I’ll let you into a secret,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘I only started working here a week ago. The previous wedding manager was sacked and they needed someone to take over at short notice. I happen to know one of the senior staff here and they suggested me. Big break, right?’ She didn’t wait for him to reply. ‘At least it will be if I can pull off the trial period.’
‘You’re on probation?’
She nodded.
‘Yup. For a couple of months. They don’t put the word ‘probation’ or ‘on trial’ on your name badge – it makes the guests nervous. But all the same, the job isn’t really mine. Not yet. I know how the industry works. I need to make a great impression from the outset or the post will be put out to agencies before I can turn round. I need this weekend to be a raging success because all eyes are on me.’ She straightened her jacket and nodded at him. ‘And playing truant with you would be madness.’
He shrugged and picked up his glass again.
‘Sometimes a moment of madness makes life interesting, don’t you think? All that work and no play. And other clichés…’
He held her gaze in his own and her stomach gave a very slow and delicious, and extremely ill-judged flip. Probably because a moment of madness had absolutely no place in her life. Amy Wilson did not do madness. She did organisation, conscientiousness and hard graft. She’d learned at the age of seven that she couldn’t rely on other people to provide her with security. If she wanted a steady and worry-free life that wouldn’t be snatched away from her when she least expected it, she would have to get it herself.
She swallowed hard and took a deep breath while the stomach skipping subsided. He really had flirting down as an art form. Then again, she supposed if you spent the majority of your life keeping customers happy from behind a bar, flirting was probably as natural to him as breathing.
‘Tempting though it is to just chat with you all day, I need to get back to it,’ she said. ‘I have to check in with the kitchen and make sure the honeymoon suite is all set before Sabrina makes her way up there.’
It was the oddest detached sensation, talking about Luke’s wedding to someone else. As if their time together had happened to someone else. She glanced at the happy couple across the room, Luke looking like some kind of stereotypical rock god, a drink in one hand and his stick-thin model wife in the other.
Think of them as just any other random couple, that was the way to do it. Think rationally, not emotionally. Remove any partiality and just get on with the job.
She took a deep breath and turned to head for the lobby.
Owen experienced an unexpected faint twist of disappointment as she walked away. He was old hat at conversations in bars – it was part of the job. The key being to listen and let your customer talk about themselves. He realised as he looked after her that for once he’d failed on that front - she knew more about him after ten minutes than he did about her. How had that happened? Bloody hell, was he so starved of interaction that wasn’t work-related that he’d blabbed his life story to the first person who asked?
He liked her. She was funny. And she was also work-obsessed. Maybe that was it - God knew he could relate to that. Without any support from his family, setting up his business from scratch really had been a solitary hard graft. He glanced around the lounge at Luke’s social circle, of whom he knew perhaps ten. His parents hadn’t been invited. Ditto any friends he remembered from his childhood. The room was full of music industry wannabes, models and hangers-on. The kind of people he was happy to have as clientele in his bars. That didn’t mean he wanted to pass the time of day with them. The weekend suddenly yawned dully ahead of him.
‘Have a drink with me later,’ he called after Amy on impulse. ‘We can toast independent workaholism.’
She turned to smile back at him.
‘I would. But I’ll most likely be working.’
A half-hour discussion with the chef responsible for tomorrow’s wedding breakfast and Amy headed for the stairs confident that all was on track in the kitchen, and thinking through all the plans in place for tonight. This evening the wedding party would split into stag and hen groups. Sabrina and her girlfriends would spend the evening being pampered in the Lavington’s lavish spa. According to her predecessor’s notes, the groom had elected to organise his own stag night, off the premises, simply returning to the hotel at the end of the night. At least that was one thing less to worry about.
More guests were due to arrive tomorrow for the ceremony.
