It was the wedding of the season, if you listened to the bride that is. Otherwise it was your standard gropey uncle and pissed best man affair. Not that such trivialities were going to stop Terri Fisher-Coverley from enjoying her day and bragging to anyone and everyone about the frankly enormous cake she'd been able to "secure" through her "contacts" at Waitrose. It was just a pity that said contacts hadn't been able to do something about her hair which was quite possibly bigger than the cake...
Amongst the bizarre selection of guests stood three of the DoSaC's finest who, having exhausted polite wedding chit chat half an hour ago, were now beginning to speculate as to why they had been invited to their erstwhile press secretary's celebrations.
"I mean, it's not as if we even like each other most of the time," said Glenn Cullen, fiddling absentmindedly with his ancient 'special occasions' tie. "I just don't really understand why we're here."
"So we can be wowed by her many powerful John Lewis Partnership friends, I'm guessing," Nicola said.
"More like wow them," Olly interjected. "I mean the fact that you're a minor celebrity might just have a teensy little something to do with it."
Nicola huffed into her champagne flute at being referred to as a "minor celebrity". She was about to open her mouth to remind her advisers that she was the Secretary of State for Social Affairs and Citizenship and not just a Made in Essex (or whatever it was) wannabe when Malcolm Tucker entered the reception...in a kilt.
Despite their best efforts, all three of them dropped their gaze to the offending tartan item being sported by the Glaswegian Voldemort. Of course it was hardly surprising that Malcolm Tucker should be wearing a kilt; it was more the fact that he was at the sodding wedding at all that knocked them for six. (Not just any six either, Glenn thought to himself, this was a Darren-Sammy-out-of-the-ground six).
"What...what the fuck are you doing here?!" stuttered Olly nervously, keen to break the silence.
"Well," said Malcolm. "Someone's got to keep a fucking eye on you lot, haven't they? It might not be anything official but where there's cameras and alcohol, there's trouble."
They had to admit this was true. After a minute or two of politely and definitely not staring at the kilt, Glenn and Olly shuffled surreptitiously away, leaving Nicola alone with her Director of Communications.
"Is the delightful Mr. Murray not gracing us with his presence, then?" Malcolm asked.
Nicola's lip wobbled for the tiniest of moments before she answered: "Afraid not; important work business up in Manchester, I'm told". At least that's what she'd presumed from the hastily scribbled post it note that had been left on the fridge when she got home last night.
"Ah," said Malcolm as he finished his whiskey and tried very hard not to notice Nicola's eyes drifting to his legs. Alcohol beginning to pulse through his veins, he went for the kill-shot: "And what's 'business in Manchester' called, then?"
"Oh fuck off." Nicola started to walk away from him until Malcolm rested a hand gently on her elbow.
"Sorry Nic'la, I didn't mean to upset you," he said. Nicola was shocked to see actual remorse in his expression; until then she had very much been under the impression that the two emotions that Malcolm was capable of feeling were angry and fucking angry.
She sighed. "It's ok. I should have seen it coming, really. Both of us in jobs with mental hours; him being a wanker... Thing is, I daren't bring anything up because- as you well fucking know- it will be plastered over the pissing Mail quicker than you can say 'working mother with no moral values' and-whoops!" she was interrupted mid-spiel by a small child who had run into her and knocked the glass out of her hand.
Luckily for Nicola and her public image the child was well out of earshot by the time she had launched into a long and graphic list of swear words. She didn't really mind- these things happen- it was more of a case of "the straw that broke the camel's back". At least that's what she insisted when Malcolm pointed out the tears trickling down her face.
"Look, Nic'la," he said. "We'll sort something out. If yeh want to leave him I can guarantee the papers won't hear a fucking word, alrigh'?"
Nicola nodded and looked sheepishly down at her feet.
"Thanks Malcolm," she mumbled. "I really appreciate it."
An embarrassed silence descended into the already awkward thirty centimetres between the pair. In the middle of the room, the first dance (Abba's The Winner Takes it All; they had decided not to tell Terri what it was really about) was in full swing; Terri's gravity defying hair was still going strong and Olly had dragged an unsuspecting bridesmaid onto the floor with him.
Nicola started humming along to the tune and it was at about this point that the numerous measures of whiskey that Malcolm had drunk began to properly announce their presence. This, he would firmly insist later, was why he promptly asked her to dance. Not because he felt sorry for her and definitely not because he liked her. Definitely not...