The Wedding Date

Will you…date me?

Delilah James, singleton and smoothie-addict, has six months to find a date for her oldest friend’s wedding. Oh, and to prove to her ex, best man Ben, that she has totally moved on since he dumped her out-of-the-blue nine months, eight days and seventeen hours ago…

So, with her two BFFs playing Cupid, Delilah launches herself into the high-tech, fast-paced and frankly terrifying world of dating. Luckily there’s the hot new guy at work, Adam Sinclair, to practice her flirting on – even if, as a colleague, he’s strictly off-limits!

Yet time’s running out and date after disastrous date forces Delilah to tell a little white lie – and invent a fake boyfriend! But will her secret crush on Adam ruin everything? Does she even care about Ben anymore? And is it too late to untangle her web of lies and take a real date to the wedding…?

A laugh-out-loud, feel-good romantic comedy perfect for fans of Jane Costello and Mandy Baggot!

Also by Jennifer Joyce:

The Mince Pie Mix-Up

The Wedding Date

Jennifer Joyce

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016

Copyright © Jennifer Joyce 2016

Jennifer Joyce asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9781474047449

Version date: 2018-07-23

JENNIFER JOYCE

is a writer of romantic comedies. She’s been scribbling down bits of stories for as long as she can remember, graduating from a pen to a typewriter and then an electronic typewriter. And she felt like the bee’s knees typing on THAT. She now writes her books on a laptop (which has a proper delete button and everything). Jennifer lives in Oldham, Greater Manchester with her husband Chris and their two daughters, Rianne and Isobel, plus their bunnies Cinnamon and Leah and Jack Russell Luna. When she isn’t writing, Jennifer likes to make things – she’ll use any excuse to get her craft box out! She spends far too much time on Twitter, Pinterest and Instagram. You can find out more about Jennifer on her blog at jenniferjoycewrites.co.uk, on Twitter at @writer_jenn and on Facebook at facebook.com/jenniferjoycewrites

Thank you to my family for all your support, especially my mum, June and sister, Michelle, who have been patiently listening to me waffle about my writing for quite some time now. I’m not saying I’m going to stop waffling or anything, but thank you.

My husband, Chris is another waffle-listener, so massive thanks to him, especially as he rescued me from dating hell back in 2001. Thank you to our daughters, Rianne and Isobel, just for being you. Thank you to Charlotte Mursell and the HQ Digital UK team for helping me to make The Wedding Date into an actual, readable book.

Thank you to the wonderful people I’ve met through social media: Team Novelicious, the authors who take the time to chat to aspiring writers and offer encouragement (it means A LOT. Seriously) and all the book bloggers and book nerds who love to share their enthusiasm for reading.

Finally, thank you to all the readers who have taken a chance on my books. I still can’t quite believe people have plucked my book from all the squillions of books on offer. I only hope you enjoy The Wedding Date as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it.

For Chris, dating-hell-rescuer, and our daughters, Rianne and Isobel

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Epilogue

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Delilah

Text Message:

Ryan: My, my, my Delilah. Why, why, why Delilah?

Delilah: Bog off, Ryan

Ryan: You and your pussy cat lips!

Delilah: That’s the wrong song, you dweeb

I hitch up my skirt – why oh why did I choose to wear the tightest pencil skirt known to man this morning? – and scuttle along the pavement as the bus trundles towards the bus stop ahead. At least I’m wearing my ballet flats, as even attempting to run in heels would have been impossible. If I’m honest, the flat shoes weren’t part of a logical, well-thought-out plan. I didn’t know I’d be pelting along the main road, eyes fixed on the quickly approaching bus, as I’d dragged on my pencil skirt this morning, my toothbrush poking out of my mouth as I multi-tasked my getting-ready-for-work. Ah yes. That’s why I’d chosen the pencil skirt. It was the first thing my fingers made contact with as I stuck a hand in the wardrobe, fumbling for an outfit – any outfit – as I brushed my teeth with the other hand. I’d slept through my alarm (not my fault. Totally the responsibility of Dan the Barman for supplying me with drink after drink the night before. I mean, the guy was just doing his job and everything, but he should have known the consequences, really). So I was running late. Majorly late. And the ballet flats were just there, their sequins twinkling at me from the shoe rack. I’d shoved them on my feet before hurling my body into the bathroom to spit (in the sink), rinse and dump my toothbrush in the pot on the side.

So the ballet flats were quite a fortunate choice as I find myself running (as best as I can in the damn pencil skirt) towards the bus stop. I’m almost there. I can make it. As long as the driver isn’t a complete bum-wipe and puts his foot down, I can make it. I just need to –

Waaaah! Wonky pavement! I’m stumbling. Nope, I’m full-on falling. Arms flailing, strangled cry, thud. I’m on the ground. My knee is throbbing like a mother fudger and the bus is sailing past. I look up in time to see the smile twitching at the corner of the driver’s mouth, his eyes glinting in a mean-scumbag kind of way.

‘Oh, for fu–’

‘Are you all right, lovey?’ There’s a hand on my shoulder, which only makes the whole situation worse. Oh yes, it can get worse. Not only am I late for work (and now running even later), I’ve fallen to the ground with a witness. Not only have I hurt my knee (which really is stinging, FYI), I’ve also hurt my pride, which everybody knows is much more painful.

‘Yes. Thank you.’ I’m willing the owner of the voice to leave. Just go. Take your concern and skedaddle. Nothing to see here, ma’am. Nobody fell and humiliated themselves. ‘I’m fine. Ow!’ I’ve attempted to stand but it turns out hurt pride isn’t more painful than physical injury after all. I stumble as pain shoots from my knee, causing a little bit of swearing to escape my lips. But sod it. This hurts.

‘Come on, lovey. Come and sit down for a minute.’ A hand on my elbow steadies me and guides me towards the bus stop (which is only a tiny little hobble away. I would have made it if I hadn’t tripped over the chuffing pavement). ‘Oh dear. You’ve cut yourself.’

I look down at my knee. She’s right. My tights have ripped at the knee, displaying a bloody patch. My knee starts to sting even more now that I’ve seen the damage.

‘Let me see if I have a plaster.’

My Good Samaritan is an elderly lady with wispy white hair and sagging jowls. She must be at least ninety and it takes her a good thirty seconds just to pop the clasp on her handbag with her gnarly fingers. She smiles at me as the bag opens and it’s a kind smile. As witnesses to my mortifying pavement-hugging go, it could have been worse. A lot worse. What if it had been Katey-Louise who’d seen me fall? She wouldn’t have helped me up and she wouldn’t have been rifling through her handbag for a plaster. At this moment in time, she’d have been busily uploading the footage from her phone to YouTube.

‘Hmm, let’s see.’ Items are removed from the handbag and placed on the bench in between us: a navy blue umbrella with white polka dots, neatly folded and secured with the Velcro tab, half a packet of Polo mints, a mini pot of Nivea cream. ‘I’m sure I have some. You never know when you’ll need a plaster.’ Keys, jangling with a million keyrings, a mobile (blimey, it’s an iPhone. Go, super-tech Granny), a hairbrush with wispy white hair caught up in the bristles. ‘I’m sure…’ A bingo marker (red) and a biro (blue). ‘No, sorry, lovey. No plasters. I don’t even have a clean tissue for you.’

‘It’s ok. Really.’ I stretch out my leg, wincing and gritting my teeth with the pain that follows. Blood is oozing onto the non-ruined part of my tights. ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Are you sure? That was quite a nasty fall.’

Like I need reminding. I was there. It hurt. A lot.

‘I’m sure. But thank you.’ I feel a bit bad for being so grumpy. It isn’t this sweet old lady’s fault I’m such a doofus. ‘Would you like me to put your things back into your bag for you?’

‘Thank you, lovey.’ She smiles at me again. ‘My hands aren’t so good any more.’

I put the items back into the handbag carefully, not throwing them in like I would with my own. The old lady chats away as I do so, introducing herself as Maude and telling me about her three cats, Daisy, Fluffy and Pickle. Which reminds me. I should probably introduce myself to you. I’d have done it sooner but I was a bit caught up with the whole bus-run-splat saga. You know. You were there.

So, I’m Delilah James, middle child of Raymond and Nancy James. I’m twenty-four and, for reasons beyond my control (mostly financial), I still live at home with my parents and younger brother, Justin. I meant to move out, really I did. I couldn’t wait to spread my wings and fly the nest, but life doesn’t always work out the way you planned it. For example, when I was ten my life plan was to audition for Pop Idol when I was old enough, win (obviously), become a famous pop singer and marry Mark from Westlife. Which didn’t work out at all because:

a) I hurt my own ears when I sing;

b) The show stopped after two series; and

c) Mark from Westlife is gay, which is the only reason he wouldn’t marry me, obviously.

Still, you pick yourself up and move on. Or not, in the case of my residential status.

I was supposed to move out of Mum and Dad’s as soon as I left school. My best friend Lauren (more about her later, I promise) and I had it all planned out. We’d get part-time jobs to fit around college and we’d move into a little flat together. It would be so much fun. There would be no boring old parents to boss us around and tell us to eat vegetables and stuff. We could laze around in our pyjamas all day (when we weren’t at college, obviously) and have Friends marathons every weekend. And, best of all, I wouldn’t live with my annoying little dweeb of a brother.

Perfect!

At least it would have been perfect if we’d managed to find jobs to fit around college. Who knew there was so much work involved in A Levels? Plus, people can be pretty snooty about hiring sixteen-year-olds and paying them a fair wage. Lauren and I decided to postpone out flat share until after college. It was the proper, grown-up thing to do. Except Lauren went one step further in the proper, grown-up decisions and went off to university, leaving me – and our flat share plans – behind. She returned of course, but by then I was loved up with Ben (more about him later, unfortunately) and I assumed we’d do the whole getting-married-and-living-together thing. We didn’t and yet I’m still living at home with the parents instead of flat sharing with Lauren. And why? Because I’m a fool, that’s why. Ben and I split up nine months ago but there’s a stupid part of me that’s still clinging onto the hope that sometime soon he’ll come to his senses, realise he’s been a complete pea-brained imbecile in dumping me and we’ll get back together and live happily ever after.

So, that’s me in a nutshell. I could tell you that I have scarily inadequate general knowledge, that I adore musicals and have a slight addiction to smoothies, but you’ll figure all that out soon enough anyway.

Chapter 2

The Office

Text Message:

Delilah: I’m dying, Lauren. Really, truly dying. I can’t face work when I’m this hungover

Lauren: You can’t face work when you’re not hungover

Delilah: That’s so true. Rescue me, pleeeeeease

Lauren: I would but I’m at work too. I’ll treat you to a smoothie tonight

Delilah: You’re the best!

I hobble off the bus, waving to Maude as it pulls away again. She gives a gnarly-fingered wave back, smiling that kind, sweet smile as she disappears from view. We had to wait twenty minutes for another bus, so I’m majorly, majorly late for work now. Trying not to cry (both from the pain in my knee and the fact that I’m hobbling to work, hungover, on a Monday morning), I make way across to the business park, hobbling towards the uninspiring concrete block that is Brinkley’s – my place of work.

Brinkley’s is a biscuit factory, but don’t get too excited. Working at a biscuit factory isn’t nearly as delicious as it sounds, at least not when you work for Neville Brinkley. When I applied for the position of office junior after my A Levels, I assumed I’d be up to my eyeballs in free biscuits. Sampling the products had to be a perk of the job!

Wrong.

There are no perks at Brinkley’s, unless you count bitchy co-workers and nepotism. Which any sane person wouldn’t.

I make my way past the factory to the Portakabin that houses Brinkley’s office staff. It’s ugly and grey with tiny, useless windows that don’t seem to let in any natural light at all. We have to have the strip lighting on at all times – even during the height of summer – which isn’t good when you’ve got a raging hangover from a night at the pub with your mates.

‘What time do you call this?’

I’ve pushed open the door (reluctantly) and stepped into the office, only to be shrieked at by Katey-Louise. My ears can’t handle her at the best of times, so they aren’t best pleased right now. If they could, my ears would pop off the sides of my skull and bog off home to my bed.

‘You’re late.’ Katey-Louise stalks across the office and stands right in front of me with her hands on her hips. I’d love nothing more than to reach out and place my palm across her stupid little face and push her away. She’s invading my space and I don’t like it. I don’t like her.

Katey-Louise screws up her mouth. ‘I’m reporting you.’

Snitching little witch.

‘Give her a break, Katey-Louise. She’s obviously had an accident.’ My colleague Adam – the only colleague I actually like – gets up from his desk and manoeuvres Katey-Louise out of my personal space and leads me towards my desk, slowly. ‘What happened? Are you ok?’

I want to be brave, really I do. But I’d also quite like a bit of sympathy and a valid excuse for being late (having a hangover doesn’t cut it, apparently). So I sniffle a bit and wince as I sit in my chair. I may be overegging it slightly, but my knee does hurt and there is quite a bit of congealing blood.

‘I was pushed over.’ Not entirely true, but it’s better than admitting I tripped over an uneven bit of pavement. Especially with Katey-Louise hovering.

‘Pushed over?’ Katey-Louise snorts. Which is fitting as she’s a snide little pig. ‘Who by? A school kid? Did they try to steal your dinner money?’

‘No.’ I stick my chin in the air. ‘It wasn’t a school kid. It was a bloke. A big bloke.’ I stretch my arms wide to demonstrate. ‘And he didn’t try to steal my dinner money. He tried to steal my handbag.’

‘You mean that one?’ Katey-Louise juts a finger towards the handbag still hooked over my shoulder.

‘Yes, this one. I said he tried to steal it. But I fought back.’

‘That was very brave.’ Adam crouches down and lifts my leg slightly to get a closer look. I hiss, and not for added drama this time. ‘But you got hurt. Next time just give them your bag.’

No chance. I’ve got my phone in there with the photos from The Saturdays concert Lauren and I went to. I should really get them printed off but I never get round to it. Until I do, the muggers can jog on.

‘Ooh, looks nasty but I think you’ll be ok. We’ll clean it up and put a plaster on.’ Adam smiles at me and I get a bit fluttery in the tummy. Adam Sinclair is more than little bit gorgeous. Before he joined the company as head of social media six months ago, the office was complete dullsville – but it’s funny just how much a handsome face can brighten a place up.

‘You don’t think I need stitches or anything?’ Being patched back together with a needle and thread isn’t a pleasant thought but at least a trip to the hospital will get me out of work for an hour or two. More if A&E’s packed to the rafters.

‘No, I don’t think you’ll need stitches.’ Adam turns to Katey-Louise, who immediately begins fluttering her unnaturally long eyelashes (they really are unnatural. She has them glued to her peepers once a week) and sticks out her chest. Floozy. ‘Can you grab the first aid kit?’

Katey-Louise blinks at him, but in a confused rather than flirtatious manner this time. ‘The first aid kit?’

‘Yep. Green box? Has plasters and bandages in it?’

‘I know what it is.’ Katey-Louise taps Adam playfully on the arm. ‘But where is it?’

‘You don’t know where the first aid kit is?’ Adam rises to his feet, frowning at Katey-Louise when she shakes her head. ‘You’re the office’s first aider. You’re supposed to know where the first aid kit is. It’s your responsibility!’

Katey-Louise steps back, her bottom lip wobbling. ‘Don’t shout at me. It isn’t my fault.’

Adam opens his mouth, then shuts it again. I don’t blame him. There’s no point trying to reason with Katey-Louise. Nothing is ever her fault. Or her responsibility, come to that. As the boss’s daughter, she thinks she can coast through life looking cute and pouting. Which is proving to be true. With no qualifications, experience or knowledge of what the job entails, Katey-Louise is head of marketing at Brinkley’s. It’s a wonder the company hasn’t gone under.

And the nepotism doesn’t stop with Katey-Louise. The whole office – apart from me and Adam – is made up of Brinkleys, from Managing Director Neville Brinkley and his wife Denise, to offspring, Katey-Louise and Jasper. Jasper is head of IT, which is just as laughable as Katey-Louise’s role. Jasper doesn’t know anything IT-related beyond Facebook and Minesweeper. He’s currently sat at his desk, headphones planted over his ears as he clicks away at the Minesweeper grid, grunting every time he clicks on a mine.

I didn’t even realise people still played Minesweeper until Jasper joined our team.

‘Do you know what?’ Adam had stalked across the office, but he’s returning now with the green plastic box. ‘It is your fault. Your dad sent you on that first aid course. The one you asked him to.’

‘That’s because I wanted to go to Liverpool for a few days. One Direction were playing at The Echo Arena and my friend Tansy-Mae managed to get tickets. They were sold out in Manchester.’ Katey-Louise says this as though it explains everything; her dad paying for the course and accommodation (we couldn’t have Katey-Louise travelling there and back daily on the train, could we?) and her return without any first aid knowledge whatsoever.

‘Just make yourself useful and go and make Delilah a cup of tea.’ Adam plonks the green box on my desk and opens it up while Katey-Louise stands there, open-mouthed. I don’t think she knows where the kettle is either.

‘Maybe you could bring me a biscuit too? Sugar is good for shock.’ Yes, I am milking this scraped knee for everything it’s worth. It isn’t every day I’m treated with kindness in the office.

‘Good idea.’ Adam looks at me, his lips twitching. He’s the only decent one in the office. He doesn’t have any authority, which is a shame, but it’s nice having somebody on my side.

‘I think a Fudge Sundae would be best,’ I say. They’re my favourite of the Brinkley’s brand and as rare as hen’s teeth in the Brinkley’s office. Neville is loath to give out freebies – we’re only given a bag of seconds at Christmas.

‘Dad isn’t going to be happy.’ Katey-Louise is calculating whether to do my bidding; to give in and serve me would be humiliating, but the pleasure of telling her dad that I’ve been wolfing the stock is tempting. She decides landing me in it is the better option and slinks away in search of the kettle and biscuits.

‘Where is Neville?’ The office is oddly empty, with only the four of us present (although Jasper may as well not be here). ‘And Denise?’

‘Neville’s gone to that brand-building conference, though I think it’s just an excuse for a jolly.’ Adam lifts a flap of my tights and I hiss again. ‘Sorry. I think I’m going to have to cut away a bit of your tights. You don’t mind, do you?’ I shake my head. They’re ruined anyway. ‘Denise is over at the development kitchen. They’re almost ready with the new line.’

Which means Denise is stuffing herself with delicious new biscuits.

‘Are you ready?’ Adam has a small pair of scissors hovering over my tights. I nod, thankful I shaved my legs before going to the pub last night.