my workshop and stared at the photograph Owen had sent of his grandmother’s restored journal.
Underneath it was his telephone number.
I called before I could persuade myself it was foolish.
“Leah?” he answered, surprised but pleased.
“I have a completely unreasonable favor to ask.”
“That sounds promising.”
“Will you pretend to be my boyfriend at my sister’s wedding?”
Silence.
Then a quiet laugh.
“You really don’t waste time on small talk.”
I explained everything.
Callum.
The seating arrangements.
My mother’s hopes.
My desire to attend Kit’s wedding without spending the weekend defending my relationship status.
Owen listened.
“You can absolutely say no,” I added.
“Are you asking me because you want to make him jealous?”
“No.
I’m asking because I want one weekend where he doesn’t get to decide what I feel.”
His answer came immediately.
“Then yes.”
I was so startled I asked him to repeat it.
“I said yes,” he replied.
“I own a respectable suit, I can dance badly but enthusiastically, and I promise not to embarrass you on purpose.”
We met the following Thursday in a quiet café to establish our story.
Owen arrived with a pen, a small notebook, and the unmistakable expression of someone enjoying an absurd assignment.
“Ground rules,” he announced.
I wrote five on a piece of cream paper.
First, we had met at a railway station.
That was true.
Second, he could take my hand, but only after checking that I wanted him to.
Third, no dramatic scenes that might spoil Kit’s wedding.
Fourth, no promises about anything after Sunday.
Fifth, and most importantly, he was never to tell me he loved me unless he meant it.
Owen read the fifth rule twice.
“That’s an unusual thing to put in a pretend relationship,” he observed.
“It seems sensible.”
“Most people would assume we knew that already.”
“Most people haven’t been engaged to Callum.”
He didn’t laugh.
Instead, he folded the paper neatly and handed it back.
“Fair enough.”
Over the next two weeks, we exchanged practical messages about travel, clothing, and the wedding schedule.
Somehow, our conversations kept wandering.
He asked what book I would rescue from a burning library.
I asked what kind of lighting made an ordinary room beautiful.
He sent me photographs of theater ceilings.
I sent him a picture of a sixteenth-century manuscript I’d spent three hours cleaning.
He remembered that I disliked coriander and always forgot an umbrella.
I learned that he made strong tea, collected old theater programs, and liked walking near the sea before breakfast.
The wedding gradually stopped feeling like a difficult obligation.
I began looking forward to seeing him.
That should have warned me.
We arrived at the glasshouse on Saturday afternoon beneath a sky full of white clouds and restless gulls.
The building stood at the edge of a landscaped garden, its iron framework painted pale green and its glass roof catching the late summer sunlight.
White roses climbed the pillars.
Long tables were dressed with linen, candles, and small arrangements of lavender.
Owen stepped out of the car wearing a charcoal suit and a dark green tie.
For one foolish moment, I forgot my own name.
“What?” he asked, noticing my expression.
“Nothing.
You look…
appropriately formal.”
“The highest compliment I’ve received all year.”
He offered his arm.
“Ready?”
