Laura’s annoyance.
“See the match on Wednesday?” Yorky asked Jason, in an attempt at bloke-ish comradeship.
“What match?” said Jason.
“Oh…” Yorky said vaguely. “You know. The match. The big game.”
“What, mate?” Jason repeated, scratching his head.
“Anyway, great to see you, mate,” said Yorky, changing tack and banging Jason hard on the shoulder, so that he nearly doubled up. “So, Laura was just saying—Laura? Help me out here.”
Jason gazed at Yorky, perplexed. Laura looked wildly around her, seeking an escape, and then someone over Jason’s shoulder caught her eye.
“Jason split up with Cath two months ago,” Jo hissed in her ear, in a totally unconvincing stage whisper, as Laura gazed into the distance. It was him, of course it was him, she would know him anywhere. “You know he’s living in Highbury now? Laura, you should—”
But Laura was no longer standing next to her; she had turned around to say hello to their friend Dan, who had appeared by her side. Vaguely she heard Jo’s tut-tutting; vaguely she was aware that she should be making an effort.
For Jo hadn’t seen the look on Laura’s face after Dan tapped her on the shoulder. In fact, Jo and Yorky hadn’t been seeing quite a lot of things lately, and if they had, they would have been worried. Especially knowing Laura as they did.
“You had a good evening, then?” Dan was saying to Laura, smiling wickedly at her.
“Yes, thanks,” she replied, looking up at him, into his eyes. “Good speeches.”
“Great,” he said, shifting his weight so that he was exactly facing her. It was a tiny movement, almost imperceptible to Jo, Yorky, or any of the other hundred and fifty people in that room, but it enclosed the two of them together as tightly as if they were in a phone box.
Dan smiled at her again as Laura pulled her shawl over her shoulders, and she smiled back, helplessly, feeling her stomach turn over at his sheer perfectness. His dark blond hair, the boyish crop that curled over his collar. His tanned, strong face, wide cheekbones, blue eyes, lazy smile. He reminded her of a cowboy, a farmhand from the Wild West. He was so relaxed, so easy to be with, so easy to be happy with, and Laura glowed as she gazed up at him, simply exhilarated at the prospect of a whole evening in his company—a whole evening, during which anything could happen. Suddenly she could barely remember whose wedding it was, why those rich people were there—she didn’t care.
He was here. She was here with Dan, and he was hers for the rest of the evening, and for those hours only, she could indulge herself with the secret fantasy that they were a couple who’d been going out for years. Perhaps they were married already. Perhaps Jo and Chris had been the only witnesses at their beach wedding in Barbados two years ago. Dan in a sarong—a sarong would suit him, unlike most men. She in a silk sundress, raspberry pink, her dark blond hair falling loose down her back. Some spontaneous locals and other couples gathered at the seashore, crying with joy at how perfect, how in love they obviously were, totally poleaxed by the strength of their emotion, the purity of their love. Laura and Dan, Dan and Laura. Perhaps—
“Laura!” a voice said sharply. “Listen!”
Laura realized she was being prodded in the ribs. The lovely bubble of daydream in her head burst, and she tore herself away from Dan and looked around to see Yorky glaring at her.
“I was talking to you!” he said, affronted. “I asked you a question four times!”
“I’ll see you later,” Dan murmured, shifting away from her. “Come and find me, yeah?” And he very lightly ran his hand over her bare arm, a tiny gesture, unnoticeable to anyone else, but Laura shuddered, and looked up at him fleetingly, even more sure than ever. As Dan moved off, he raised his glass to her and smiled a regretful smile. Laura screamed inwardly, and turned away from him toward Yorky.