The Wedding Guest

Whoever made the seating plan had a cruel sense of humour. Zara found her name card and, next to it, his. Owen Price. Eight years, two cities and one long, bitter silence since she had last said his name aloud.

He arrived late, as always, and stopped dead when he saw her.

'Hello, Zara.'

'Owen.'

They managed the starter with stiff questions about work. They managed the main course with a shared complaint about the speeches. By dessert, against all odds, they were laughing at the best man's terrible jokes, heads tilted together like they used to.

He had stopped drinking coffee after six. She had finally learned to drive. He had a dog called Biscuit. She had a career she loved and a flat with a view. They were, it turned out, rather good company.

When the band started, he held out his hand. 'For old times' sake?'

They danced badly, as they always had, treading on each other's feet. Somewhere in the second song the laughter stopped and they were simply holding each other, swaying, her cheek against his shoulder.

'I'm sorry,' he said quietly. 'For how it ended.'

'Me too.'

They left the party before the cake was cut, walking barefoot across the dewy lawn to the guest cottages, shoes in hand. His was closer. Neither of them was thinking about the past any more.

In the morning the bride found them at breakfast, sharing a plate of pastries, and raised an eyebrow so high it nearly left her face.

'Don't,' said Zara, smiling. 'Not a word.'