Page 79 of The Work Husband

The venue’s event planner called to say that there had been a leak and she was having to hire in industrial dehumidifiers to dry the carpet, but hopefully it would be all right the next day.

The booking agent for the string quartet called to tell me that the lead violinist had tennis elbow and was unable to perform, and by that stage I was practically levitating with stress.

‘Can you get someone else?’

‘They’re all off on holiday after the Proms.’

‘Please,’ I begged, ‘call them. All of them. Every violinist you know. We’ll fly them back from their holiday, first class, and then back again. They’ll only miss one night. Offer them triple their usual fee.’

The cost would have to be passed on to Okan, with our usual mark-up, but I was sure that in his current frame of mind, he couldn’t have cared less.

How he’d feel the following evening if his proposal was met with a flat ‘No, thanks’ and he realised he would be faced with a massive bill for nothing was anybody’s guess.

‘Sounds like you’re having a fun day.’ Curiosity had overcome Jamie’s antipathy, at least for now.

‘The best.’ His presence across the desk from me had made me prickle with tension from the moment I’d walked into the office, but thankfully all Okan’s drama had provided a welcome distraction. Knowing what I now knew about him, I could barely stand to be in the same room as him, but for now I had no choice. I managed a wary smile. ‘I love my job.’

‘Enjoy it while you can.’ There was a clear threat in his voice, but I hardly noticed it. I had the knowledge I needed now to defend myself against anything he tried to do to me, although I had no idea how, when or even whether I was going to deploy it.

I turned back to my phone, but Jamie wasn’t done with me yet.

‘So who is she?’

For a second, I thought he meant Ava. Cold sweat broke out on my palms.

‘Okan’s girlfriend,’ he carried on impatiently. ‘The lucky lady who’s going to get the full four-carat diamond treatment, followed by a wedding that I’ll no doubt get roped into organising.’

No you won’t, I thought. Okan’s my client. Then I realised what he was implying – that by the time Okan’s nuptials needed arranging, I would no longer be working at Devereaux Partners, and he still would.

Stay cool, Georgia, I warned myself. Don’t give anything away.

Fortunately, there was nothing I could accidentally reveal to him.

‘I don’t know,’ I said calmly. ‘Okan’s never mentioned her name, and I’ve never spoken to her – I only deal with him. Apparently, they met at uni, but that’s all I’ve got. Sorry.’

‘Interesting.’ Jamie drew the word out to its full four syllables. ‘Well, don’t let me keep you from your work. Better check the ice maker hasn’t gone on the blink – warm alcohol-free fizz could make the difference between “Yes, I’ll marry you” and “I’d rather eat my own hair”.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘But I’m sure it’s all under control. Good chat.’

I quickly texted the venue to make sure there were no ice issues anyway, just in case.

The next day, to my relief, I spent entirely out of the office, helping the event planner set things up while frantically fielding calls from the florist, Okan himself and Cormac Kennedy, who was furious because he’d been bumped from the presidential suite in a Dubai hotel thanks to a last-minute booking by one of the Kardashians. The black trouser suit I’d worn so that I could blend into the background was soon soaked in sweat despite the air conditioning as I dashed here and there, my laptop under my arm and my phone pressed to my ear.

By five o’clock, a full two hours ahead of schedule, we were good to go. The room looked glorious. The arch of peonies perfectly framed the view of London far below, the river snaking lazily through it (it would be high tide in a couple of hours – I’d checked). The glass towers of the City glimmered in the afternoon sun, and a clear blue sky arched above it all. Even the moon was co-operating, scheduled to rise a convenient fifteen minutes after Okan popped the question.

The silver ice bucket was waiting to be filled, flanked by two crystal champagne flutes. The chef had popped his head round the door to reassure me that the blinis and caviar would be freshly made and presented on time. The string quartet had arrived and were tuning their instruments. The ring, which had been delivered by a secure white-glove courier service to the office the previous day and stored in the safe overnight, was ready on a small table next to the floral display, one of the venue’s security staff discreetly guarding it.

All that was missing was Okan and the woman who would hopefully soon become his fiancée.

I paced up and down nervously, sipping iced water until it occurred to me that I might need a wee at the crucial moment. So I stopped sipping and just paced.

At five minutes to seven, my phone buzzed with a text from the reception desk downstairs.

Looks like they’ve arrived. Shall we send them up?

Great, go ahead.

Then a text from Okan himself.