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They had met in Dublin when Megan's father was at the Embassy doing his ambassadorial thing. It was one of those painful English events, wedding on the lawn, bows and frills and silly people that he had only agreed to suffer for Lliam , the groom, who was a drinking buddy from way back. There she was amongst the mayhem of ' Oh dahling how lovely' blah, blah' and Irish fiddles and whistles not to mention speeches only half heard by the elegant, unruly mix of subtle alcoholics. Megan had looked utterly beautiful to Oliver that day and he was convinced that it was love at first sight.

She was wearing boots, black ones with the laces dangling and a pair of black jeans with a skinny little red top that showed off the most wonderful pair of boobs. Her one concession to wedding was an ornate waistcoat that had an Indian look to it with bits of glass that sparkled. It was the sparkle across the garden that had caught his attention. Her hair was long, wild and curly; she had tried to control some of it by means of a chop stick that stuck out sideways; she was the most exotic thing he had ever seen, her legs seemed to go on forever, he knew they would be remarkable.

He had sat at one of the tables in the marquee and stolen glimpses as she moved from table to table. He was desperately jealous of those people she was spilling Champagne over and willed her to notice him. She was studiously ignoring his lustful stares but he finally got his chance. She had just knocked back the last drop from her glass and was looking around for the waiter who happened to be passing Oliver. He swiped two full glasses off the tray and presented her with a fresh one. She swayed silently in front of him and then wandered off again. He wasn't sure she had focused on him or even whether she would recognise him again. He followed her around, pretending to talk to people; he would interrupt well established conversations with completely meaningless comments; "I live in Temple Bar and I hate my job." Or if that didn't work he would try, "Did you know that the Maid of Honour was a highly paid prostitute." He desperately needed to seem to belong just long enough to get close to that exotic creature. These faceless, nameless people were his only means and he needed her to see him as being paid attention to, whatever it took. He did suspect that she was too drunk to notice anything but was quite enjoying the outraged reactions he was getting as he moved from one group to another, getting ever closer

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