The Wedding Countdown by Ruth Saberton Page B

fast. A seasoned Londoner like Nish would have no problem negotiating the route but I may as well be trying to get to Timbuktu.
    Actually I think I’d have more luck getting there. Why didn’t Eve tell me the journey from Chelsea to Canary Wharf is so complicated?
    After what feels like forever there’s a sudden gust of warm dusty air followed by the arrival of a train. Even though it’s packed I elbow my way in, wedging myself between the glass door and someone’s armpit.
    I’m relieved when several stops later most of the passengers pile out leaving me space to sit down and flick through the latest issue of Heat . I sweep a sheaf of Metro pages onto the floor and settle down onto my seat. The fabric prickles against my legs and for a moment I wonder if I should have stuck to the trouser suit rather than the flimsy shalwar kameez . But it’s too late to worry now. The train’s reached Stratford and I gather my belongings hastily, terrified of missing my stop.
    Once out of the bowels of the earth and blinking like a mole in the sunshine I try to get my bearings. It’s almost nine forty and the crowds have melted away. I rummage around in my bag and eventually locate the map Nish drew for me. The smudged lines suggest Nish is better suited to a career in journalism than cartography but I manage to decipher it enough to gather that the offices of GupShup aren’t very far from the station. Then I look up and start laughing. I don’t need a map! You can see Canary Wharf from miles away.
    I cross the square and head towards the imposing glass building opposite. It glitters in the sunlight. Up the marble steps I tip tap in my heels. Come on saheli ! Don’t be intimidated! This is it. My heart’s thumping and my hands are shaking but in I go. It’s too late to be scared. I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long. This is the start of my brilliant career as a journalist.
    At least I hope it is.
    I launch myself through the door towards an enormous reception desk. Behind it sit two supermodels. Oh hey up, my mistake! I mean receptionists.
    ‘Hello,’ I say brightly to one of them. ‘I’m Amelia Ali. I’m one of the new interns at GupShup . Any road, I was wondering–’
    ‘Eighth floor, second elevator,’ she says without even looking up from her Mac. ‘Turn left.’
    Sheesh . Aren’t Londoners friendly? Not. If this was Bradford we’d be having a good old chinwag by now and discovering that we had loads of friends in common. She’d probably even brew me up a lovely strong cup of Yorkshire tea and pull out some Eccles cake. But this isn’t Bradford and the receptionist doesn’t take her gaze from her typing. Feeling foolish I cross the lonely acres of floor and call the lift.
    ‘Oooh,’ shrieks a voice in my left ear. ‘Those shalwars are gorge! I just adore the way that the neck line sits!’
    ‘Thanks,’ I say.
    I look at the speaker and wish I hadn’t because he’s decked in migraine-inducing finery. His luminous purple pinstripe cords are teamed with a lime-green silk shirt smothered in a busy pattern of orange flowers. Around his neck is a vomit-yellow necktie, above which bobs a prominent Adam’s apple. He’s giving me the exaggerated once-over through trendy red-framed glasses. Normally I’d be horribly intimidated if a strange man scrutinised me so closely but this character is clearly camper than the Cath Kidston tents in Millets and as threatening as candy floss.
    The lift doors swish open and he follows me inside. I wish I’d borrowed Eve’s beloved Gucci shades because I don’t think my eyes can stand this for too long. 
    ‘So tell me where you got those divine shalwars ,’ says the walking migraine.
    ‘My tailor in Bradford made them but they’re my own design. I like to make things a bit individual, you know?’
    He raises a beautifully plucked eyebrow. ‘Darling, don’t I look like a man who has an individual sense of style?’
    ‘Totally,’ I agree, noticing he’s