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 to his prey. The poor Maid of Honour was in for a bit of a hard time but he thought if she wasn't making money at it she should be. She definitely had that well used look and someone really should tell her that she had lipstick all over her teeth.
She was dangerously listing to the left when he decided to move in again and rescue her from possible disgrace. He had caught some caustic looks aimed at Megan from her sister Jen who was definitely not going to let her errant sister spoil her day, so he plucked up his courage and asked her if she would like to go for a wee walk. He had cringed at his rather bad Scottish imitation but it certainly seemed to get a response. He thought it was the wee that had focussed her because she suddenly clutched his arm with one hand and her fanny with the other. He had been quite thrilled at the combination and thought for a second that he really had made a hit until he realised that she was only holding on so as not to fall over as she led them to a large hedge at the far end of the garden. She let him go and disappeared around the back. He had peaked around the hedge only to see that she was squatting down and having the longest pee he had ever witnessed, a man yes, after 10 pints, but this was astonishing. She waved her hand at him and said something like, givushyankie' and then fell headlong into the hedge with her knickers still down around her ankles. He was amazed at the silk knickers, black, very expensive and so unexpected, it was as if he had discovered an ingeniously disguised secret, it sealed his love for her there and then.
He thought that more movement would stave off total collapse and at least give him an excuse to keep his arm around her, so he walked her up and down the furthest boundaries of the large garden. She stopped suddenly, leant heavily against him and earnestly shouted at him dymeetchoobfore', this said an inch from his face, he simply stared back blankly, not understanding but soaking in her strong, classic face that was having such a problem with settling into itself found it very difficult to tear his eyes off her and move on but move on they did until she looked down and shouted ' whachitdoggeedoosh!' holding his supporting arm tighter. It was the stepping in it that decoded it for Oliver. Somebody's dog had been allowed to join the reception and had left his mark right under Oliver's right foot. He hopped around looking for a stick, Megan hung on for dear life but the combination made it impossible to stay upright and they crashed sideways into a fuschia hedge. Megan got a fit of the giggles and hiccups making her attempt at communication even more bizarre.. ah shoorname?' He got that bit and told her his name as he heaved her up and steered her to a chair at a deserted table; he considered beating a retreat when he failed to keep her from sliding under the table but instead helped the parchment coloured Megan into the large and forbidding house passing his ward over into the butler, O'Donovon's capable hands after which Oliver went off in search of a pen and paper. He found some in the library, heavily embossed with English heraldic fancy and wrote a note to his love.
"Dear Megan,
You are without a doubt the most beautiful drunk I have ever met. I would love to know if you speak English and, if so, whether we could possibly meet to discuss the pros and cons of The Betty Ford Clinic. Failing that we could just talk about sex and your absolutely fabulous legs and such like. My phone number is 667 9990Get Back To Me!
Oliver."