Gin, Fizz & Tonic

Spiteful Bqsards

On Monday morning, I'm in before Lilah on Monday morning. Her early arrivals in the morning have nothing to do with diligence, but rather with the fact that she lives with her mum, stepdad and several much younger siblings, so if she's in the house in the morning, she gets roped into helping them get them ready for school.

Heaven forbid...

But as I collapse onto my seat, nursing an aching head and wondering how on earth I'm going to conjure up enough enthusiasm and energy for a day spent dealing with DonnaMarie and the other weddings, Dylan storms in, his face screwing up when his eyes alight on me.

"What did I say, what, what?" he shrieks, planting his hands on either side of my desk. A pulse throbs at his temple, and his tie is loose, as if he's wrenched at it, desperate to loosen its chokehold around his neck.

"Don't mess it up, I said! Be professional, I said! I can't afford to lose a single client, I said!"

"What on earth are you talking about?" I ask, pulling back in the chair. He's seriously fierce—spittle flying from his mouth and his jaw set in a taut line, eyes like flint.

"Don't tell me how to behave, you said! I don't need lessons in being a professional, you said! But no, you went to London, you got shit-faced, and now Liam's phoned me up to say he doesn't want us involved in the launch of his restaurant, and you know how much I need every client!"

Wait, what? I stare back at him, flummoxed, wondering afresh at Liam. That's nasty. Fine, so we slept together, so it was the best sex I've ever had, and I'm quite sure he enjoyed it as well, so things didn't work out afterwards (and yeah, that hurts me every minute) but to take his business away like that...

Wow.

"Dylan! I did not get shit-faced while I was in London. Not a single, solitary drop of booze passed my lips."

The bottles of gin don't count. They were consumed while I was still in Scotland.

"You must have done," he hisses back at me. "Why would he have cancelled us otherwise? You did something while we were down there, I know it!!!! And if you're sitting there tutting because of all the exclamation marks, fuck right off!!"

"I'm-I'm not."

He swoops in and sniffs the air either side of my head. "Were you drinking last night? You can smell it a mile away!"

The door opens, and I turn to face Lilah in relief, the first and only time I've ever welcomed her presence. Her eyes narrow as she takes in the scene.

"You two having a lovers' tiff?" she asks, plonking her bag on her desk, and removing her coat. Last night must have been fake tan application night, for her palms are stained brown and a stale biscuit smell wafts off her.

"Lovers' tiff!" Dylan exclaims. "Even if I was, God forbid, straight, I wouldn't touch this one with a barge pole!!!!"

Blame it on Liam's rejection, on Bella's surprise visit and the revelations that ensued but most of all, blame it on the hangover. I burst into tears. Full-on, noisy sobs.

"Oh for crying out loud!" Lilah exclaims. She exits the office and returns seconds later with a toilet roll, which she dumps in front of me. It rolls off the desk, leaving a long trail of tissue paper in its wake.

With a sneer, she rolls it back up again and shoves it into my hands. "Pull yourself together!"

Dylan lets out a huge sigh. He pats my heaving shoulders awkwardly. "Please stop crying, Ginny. There are the two weddings to finish organising and I need you to write me some more material for the Taste Scotland website. Could you do that, please?"

I nod, wearily and blow my nose. The three of us return our attention to our computer screens, and the rest of the morning passes in silence.

In the afternoon, I spend several hours chasing up all the leads we got when Dylan and I attended the wedding fair. Every phone call I make hits a dead end, each person saying that after careful consideration they have decided they can't afford a wedding planner after all.

I stay at work long after Dylan and Lilah have left for the evening, reluctant to return home and wondering what I can do to make amends to my friend.

What an absolute shambles I've made of everything.

Later that week...

Me: YOU FUCKING SPITEFUL BQSTARD. I had beiliant ireas for your reswarnt launch, but your so spoteful that youv taktren it out on Spat Events and poor Dtlan. Call yourswlf a ftiend... huh, your not.