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The Perfect Christmas
Georgie Carter


All I want for Christmas is you!If you’re a wedding planner it’s best not to have affairs with married men. This is one cardinal rule that Robyn always abides by. But then she meets Jonathan…After a delicious dalliance in the dance studio, Robyn and Jonathan fall truly, madly, deeply in love. Jonathan justifies his actions because his wife is a workaholic, while Robyn finds the glamour – free from any mundane concerns – thrilling.But then the pressure mounts up: the guilt; the lies; the strain of it all. With the festive season approaching, can Robyn make this the best holiday ever or will it be the nightmare before Christmas?This is the perfect winter read for fans of Milly Johnson and Kate Harrison.









Georgie Carter

The Perfect Christmas










Copyright (#ulink_ee846079-deb2-56ae-a766-a31019ed0a02)


AVON

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THE PERFECT CHRISTMAS. Copyright © Working Partners Two 2011.

Working Partners Two 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, down-loaded, 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.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9781847562937

Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2011 ISBN: 9781847562944

Version: 2018-07-25




Dedication (#ulink_1b85f56b-9cce-518f-acd5-3a2bb3d1c173)


To all my wonderful family and friends

who have supported me every step of the way


Contents

Cover (#u047444ba-92da-5027-b465-12966e22f5df)

Title Page

Copyright (#u1b3d390a-1591-5845-8fbb-c7ebb6acf213)

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Ten Top Tips On How To Create the Perfect Christmas

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




PROLOGUE (#ulink_e96c4852-f704-5e25-94fa-d3c25cf8e737)


Christmas Day

Is it possible? Have I managed to sort my life out, after all?

Curling my fingers around a warm mug brimming with mulled wine, I gaze thoughtfully at the small cylindrical present in my lap. I can’t quite bring myself to open it yet.

Instead, I take my time and stare into the peaceful garden. Although it’s still early afternoon the sun is already fading from the sky and shadows are pooling across the neat gravel, intersected by the yellowy glow that spills from the French windows. Multi coloured fairy lights strung between the old peach tree and the trellis throw trembling jewelled beams into the twilight. A plump and very seasonal robin investigates the bird table hoping for scraps before vanishing into the scarlet-speckled holly bush. It’s the perfect Christmassy setting for what is – unexpectedly – turning out to be a perfect Christmas.

The occasional car passes in the street, driving to see relatives and loved ones, but not the steady hum of traffic this is so typical of London suburbs. Quiet. Peaceful. As Christmas should be.

‘I don’t like Brussels sprouts!’

I can hear Faye in the kitchen. She’s laughing.

‘Nobody likes Brussels sprouts!’ replies Simon. ‘But you have to eat them, by law. It’s not Christmas otherwise.’

My dearest friends Faye and Simon are cleaning up after Christmas dinner. Carols are playing in the background, the soothing time-honoured words interrupted only by the occasional pop of another champagne cork or the rattle of utensils.

What a contrast to last Christmas! I shake my head in disbelief at how totally and utterly twelve short months can alter your world. Last year I stood in this exact same spot but rather than my stomach turning in delicious cartwheels of anticipation, it was knotted with misery, and my throat was clotted with sadness. While my lovely friends did their best to cheer me, nothing could soothe the ache of loss or take away the bitter sting of regret.

Pat broke my heart. Could it be that it’s finally mended?

As I sip my drink, the riot of cinnamon, citrus and cloves dances across my taste buds and whizzes me back in time to last December with such speed I feel giddy. Same place, same friends, same drink – but a very different me … and one extra place setting at the table. Back then I had dabbed my eyes and blinked back the sadness before forcing myself to stitch on a smile and join in the festivities. This year excitement is fizzing through me like champagne bubbles and I feel like a child again as I can’t wait to open this present.

Last Christmas I’d made myself a stern promise that this year I would sort out my life. I’d make a list; no aspect was to be spared! I was taking a broom to every dusty cobwebby corner. My finances, my career and my love life were all going to be given a thorough makeover and made to shine. I’d be like Gok Wan – only without the control pants – and by this Christmas, I’d promised myself my life would be sorted. There would be light at the end of my tunnel – and this time it wouldn’t be a train!

And today, although I hardly dare believe it, it seems as though my Christmas promise is coming true …

‘Happy Christmas, Robyn,’ says Faye, joining me at the French doors and clinking her mug against mine.

‘That’s just what I was thinking,’ I say. ‘It’s a very happy Christmas.’

‘Any special reason why it’s such a happy Christmas?’ she asks with a raised eyebrow. ‘Anything you want to share with your best friend?’

I laugh. Faye is about as subtle as Wile E. Coyote tipping an Acme anvil onto the Road Runner.

‘Come on, Robs! Are you thinking about you know who in there?’

‘I was just thinking what a crazy year it’s been,’ I say, sidestepping the you know who comment.

‘I’ll say,’ Faye agrees.

Her blue eyes meet mine in the reflection of the glass door. I lean my head against her shoulder, soft in the palest cream cashmere.

‘You’re a dark horse keeping him to yourself. He’s gorgeous! How long have you two been an item?’

I laugh. ‘No comment.’

‘There’s so much chemistry I practically get an A-level just watching you both.’

My cheeks are possibly the same colour as my mulled wine. Faye’s right; the man who’s accompanied me to this Christmas party is great. In fact, he’s better than great. He’s funny, kind, thoughtful and every time I catch his eye my knees turn to melted butter. Lob into the mix a fit muscular body, merry dancing eyes and a sexy curly mouth and there he is – the perfect package.

Speaking of packages … I look down at the package in my hand. The paper is red with white reindeers and glittery stars, and the wrapping is … bad, like a two-year-old put it together. But it’s the thought that counts.

As if reading my mind, Faye motions to the gift. ‘Are you going to open that?’

‘What? Now?’ I say, with a cheeky grin.

‘It’s traditional to open gifts on Christmas Day, isn’t it?’

I hesitate, and I’m not sure why. Then I tear into the wrapping to reveal … a can of bug spray.

Instantly, I burst out laughing.

‘What kind of present is that?!’ yelps Faye, a horrified look on her face. ‘Where’s the romance?’

I smile to myself. ‘I think it’s pretty perfect, actually.’

‘Robyn?’ Faye asks. ‘Be honest. You like him a lot, don’t you?’

I swallow. In the steam on the window I trace a heart with my forefinger before wiping the pattern away. When I sense his gaze on me all the nerve endings in my body fizz as though they’ve been dipped in Alka Seltzer. I almost combusted when he accidentally touched my elbow on the way into Faye’s lime green front door. It’s nothing short of a miracle all that’s left of me isn’t a pair of smoking L.K. Bennetts.

‘Yes,’ I say softly, admitting it to myself as much as her. ‘I like him. I really like him.’

‘Then take a chance,’ Faye advises. ‘Tell him how you feel.’

Should I take Faye’s advice and go for it?

‘I’ve got some mistletoe, if that would help,’ she adds.

One by one I’ve been crossing off all the items on my list … here is something I haven’t crossed off yet.

Am I brave enough to take a chance and see if this really could be the perfect Christmas?




CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_de0026cc-9d7d-53ea-8ab2-007bfd4b2847)


April (Eight Months Earlier)

I have always loved weddings. As a kid I used to spend ages wrapping my Barbie up in loo roll and conducting long, intricate ceremonies in which poor Barbie was joined in holy matrimony to the cross-eyed Action Man I’d picked up at a jumble sale. Barbie always looked distinctly unimpressed with her groom, whom, I seem to recall, didn’t have a willy. No wonder Barbie was fed up. These days, in my book, lacking that particular body part makes Action Man a strong contender for the title of Ideal Husband. My ex-fiancé, Patrick, would have been a lot less trouble without that particular part of his anatomy.

That’s why I made the promise to myself last Christmas. My Christmas wish list which covers all aspects of my life – career, finances and love – all perfect by next Christmas. I gave myself twelve months to turn it all around. Including, most importantly, forgetting about Patrick McNicolas.

Unfortunately, that’s not possible today. He is one of the ushers at Adam and Samantha’s wedding.

It’s because of him that I’m in hiding. OK, not hiding exactly, actively avoiding describes it better, but the end result is hopefully the same.

Maybe behind a potted bay tree at the reception isn’t the best hiding place. I breathe in and turn sideways. Hmm. I’m not convinced this helps. The plant is a gigantic specimen but my fuchsia pink dress doesn’t blend in. I couldn’t stick out more if I jumped out naked and started to dance the can-can.

Why didn’t I wear my emerald outfit? At least I’d have been camouflaged. There’s so much greenery in this room that I could have taken my pick of plants and avoided Patrick all evening. I could even stroll out onto the terrace and blend into the shrubbery if I really had the urge.

Looking around, the answer is obvious. As wedding planner, I’m officially responsible for the pinkest wedding reception in the history of the colour pink. From the balloons to the flowers to the bridesmaids’ dresses, everything is pink. I’ve even included myself in the colour scheme, great for matching the table decorations but not quite so great for going unnoticed.

I will talk to Patrick later, I tell myself, ducking my head when he turns around. I’ll paste on a smile and talk about trivia. But it won’t be easy: he’s seen my wobbly bits for heaven’s sake! Not to mention that he’s the man I nearly took to be my lawful wedded husband – until he decided to play away, that is. I’m not sure if I’m up to discussing the weather with him just yet.

Not that Pat will want to discuss the weather. He probably can’t wait to gloat about – I mean, introduce me to – the slim redhead who is the ‘plus one’ on his invitation.

Getting over Pat by Christmas is going to be hard. Maybe I should push it back to the next millennium.

I’m really not in the mood for his games. Not when I’ve got a missing DJ and a confetti-eating flower girl to contend with. Besides, I don’t know if I’m ready to meet the latest member of the Patrick McNicolas fan club. I cancelled my subscription long ago.

Pat’s a stand-up comedian, which I used to find romantic, especially when he proposed to me on stage. His combination of intelligence verging on geekiness, and lilting Irish accent was seriously appealing, and I found myself accepting, much to the delight of the audience. I suspect Patrick was thrilled as much by the laughter and applause as he was by my saying yes.

Here we are, one cancelled wedding and one broken heart later, and I’m doing better. Yes, I’m hiding behind a tree, but I’m not ripping off his gonads and stuffing them down his throat.

This is progress.

It’s a constant relief to me that I still adore weddings, despite having my own special day wrecked in spectacular fashion. Becoming a cynic would have been career suicide. But right now I’m not here to discuss my personal life. I’m here to work and I want everything kept on a professional footing.

I peek through the foliage and feel a glow of pride at the perfect scene. I’ve pulled it off. Even if I do say so myself, this wedding reception is looking pretty damn professional. Well done me.

The elegant drawing room of Taply Manor is festooned with pink and white fairy lights. The tables are draped with crisp white cloths, freckled with pink confetti and set off with deep pink damask napkins. The centrepiece of each table is a vase crammed with waxy white lilies, fat pink roses and bright pink teddy bears with ‘Adam and Samantha’ embroidered across their tummies. The bride insisted upon this particular detail even though I wasn’t convinced. But, as my best friend Faye pointed out, it is their wedding. And Sam was right, the bears actually suit the whole fluffy pink theme. Phew!

The (pink) salmon has been demolished and the scraping of cutlery against china suggests that every mouthful has been savoured. Patrick is busy entertaining his companions, which means the coast is clear for me to give the caterers the go-ahead to serve the dessert.

I whiz around for a good ten minutes giving instructions to the waitresses. Then I check that the wedding cake is ready to be wheeled out and that the champagne is chilled for the toast. One of the bridesmaids has a headache so I fetch some headache tablets from my emergency wedding kit. (You name it and I bet I have it: from spare tights and safety pins, to spare wedding rings – because, yes, it has been known to happen!) And when the DJ calls in a panic because he’s still lost, I become a human sat nav system and guide him to the reception venue. Once all this is done and everyone’s tucking into their puddings, I treat myself to a glass of Moët and retreat back behind the trusty bay tree for a few minutes.

Deciding to take advantage of the peace, I put down the emergency wedding kit to take out my phone from my smaller clutch bag and call my friend Simon. Si’s been one of my closest friends for so long that dinosaurs were roaming Ladbroke Grove when we first met. OK, that’s a slight exaggeration but you get the gist. We actually met at uni as terrified freshers while we were settling into our rooms in a truly gruesome 1960s tower block.

‘This is shit!’ Si had groaned, as with arms full of the obligatory pot plants, biscuit tins and posters, we squeezed into the creaky lift and pressed the button for floor eleven. ‘Still, at least if the course is dire, suicide will be easy!’ And he’d thrown back his head and laughed. Two packets of biscuits, a bucket of coffee and discussion of our A-Level grades later, and we were well on our way to being firm friends.

West Granite House was indeed shit. Built in the early sixties, it dominated the skyline like the proverbial sore thumb, only this thumb wasn’t so much sore as gangrenous and in desperate need of amputation. The lifts conked out on a regular basis, the rooms were little more than glorified cupboards, and as for the toilets … well, I’d rather forget about those.

Lots of people assumed Si and I were a couple but this couldn’t have been further from the truth. I love Si, but I don’t fancy him. At all. He’s just my big rugby-playing, beer-swilling comfort blanket of a mate. I don’t care about all the When Harry Met Sally hype: men and women can be just friends. When Si met Faye, the stunning blonde he later married, I couldn’t have been happier for him. And although Faye was a little cool at first, it didn’t take long before she realised I really wasn’t a threat.

It’s strange but in many ways I’m probably closer to Faye now than I am to Si. Si has a really high-powered job as a barrister and works all the hours that God sends, plus a few more. Lately he’s more elusive than the Scarlet Pimpernel which means I’ve seen far more of Faye. But no matter how hard Simon works, it’s tradition that I call him from my weddings with an update. It’s payback for all the rugby matches I’ve had to watch over the years.

‘Robyn!’ Si answers promptly. ‘One minute.’ I hear the hiss of a ring-pull followed by the silencing of the rugby. ‘How’s it going? Did Samantha dye her poor sod of a fiancé pink as well?’

‘Not yet,’ I giggle.

This is my sixth wedding (not bad for someone who’s not yet halfway through her thirties) – and sixth running commentary. In spite of all my father’s misgivings about my starting up a business slap bang in the middle of a recession, last summer was full of weddings and I hardly had a minute to myself. Looking back, this was probably a good thing because not only did it get Perfect Day off to a flying start but it also kept me far too busy to brood about Pat, and therefore rescued my nearest and dearest from months of suicide watch. The winter’s been slower, of course, but I’m on track to have it all sorted by Christmas. Six weddings is a great start and, just like the song says, things can only get better …

OK. So the six weddings aren’t technically mine but when I think back to my own almost wedding, I’m pretty sure that I prefer arranging my clients’ special days. Other people’s weddings are a lot less heartache.

‘Paint me the picture,’ he says.

‘Right,’ I say. By now I’m very familiar with the procedure for this update phone call. ‘Imagine the scene: the top table’s laughter is floating up and popping like the Moët bubbles fizzing in the champagne flutes. The bride and groom are feeding each other great spoonfuls of raspberry crème brûlée.’

Simon sucks in a mock gasp because he knows me so well.

‘I know,’ I reply. ‘I’m holding my breath in case a big splat of garish pink syrup lands on the delicate silk wedding dress.’

I’ll want to strangle myself with the streamers if anything happens to that dress. The bride and I had to trawl practically every wedding emporium and design studio in London for it, howling in desperation when each dress turned out to be just slightly wrong. Some dresses were too white, some were not quite white enough, some were too plain and some were too fussy. It was the wedding dress equivalent of Goldilocks’ porridge-tasting. I’d almost lost the will to live when Samantha finally declared that the final dress was just right.

‘I will not let her wreck that dress before their first dance.’

‘Get on the case, Wedding Planner Woman!’ Simon orders.

I’m just on the brink of snapping shut my mobile and snatching the dangerous dessert away when the groom leans forward and gently wipes a smudge of brûlée from the corner of his new wife’s mouth. The tenderness and pride in his eyes when he smiles at her stop me in my tracks. I feel my eyes begin to moisten.

‘What?’ Si asks when I go quiet.

‘It’s so romantic,’ I gulp. ‘Adam’s spoonfeeding Samantha.’

Simon makes vomiting sounds. ‘Is this the same Samantha you said was so self-absorbed that if she was cut in half the word “me” would run through her like seaside rock?’

Did I say that? It must have been after the marathon wedding dress hunt. Looking at Samantha now, all smiles and Swarovski crystals, I know every stressful minute has been worthwhile.

‘She looks beautiful,’ I whisper, watching the happy couple share a lingering kiss. ‘I love weddings, Si, I really do.’

‘That’s because you’re a hopeless romantic,’ Simon says indulgently. ‘One in three marriages end in divorce, remember?’

‘Says you, the most happily married man I know.’

Now Simon’s end of the line goes quiet. I wonder if he’s got distracted by the rugby in the background, but then he adds soberly, ‘It’s not all moonlight and roses, Robs. Marriage is bloody hard work. It’s about who’s bought the milk and who’s picking up the dirty socks. But, yes, I am lucky.’

‘Faye deserves a medal for picking up your socks.’ I shudder. ‘I still have nightmares about that pair that grew mould.’

‘OK,’ grumbles Si, ‘dig up the past, why don’t you?’

‘I had to dig up your socks from the carpet!’

‘You exaggerate about that,’ Simon laughs. ‘But the point is that marriage is about mundane stuff most of the time.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I agree. ‘I should know how hard marriage really is. My parents have hardly set the best example.’

My parents’ marriage survived for about six years and I can’t remember the last time they had a civil word to say to each other. I try not to focus on this, concentrating instead on creating perfect wedding days for other people. At least I can get that right. The happily-ever-after bit I leave to my clients. I can’t believe that I still well up like this at the idea of true love because I’ve experienced all kinds of emotions since Pat and I split up, seesawing wildly from total disillusionment to a fervent optimism that true love can still overcome all.

So long as there are no comedy circuit groupies around, obviously.

Blast. Sometimes disillusionment wins.

‘Introspection over,’ I inform Si, who expresses his relief. ‘My pragmatic head is now firmly back in place and … oh God,’ I add, my heart sinking when I see who is coming my way. ‘Not a minute too soon either. I’ll call you back, Si.’

So much for my cunning hiding place.

It’s Patrick. And he’s making a beeline for me.

Here we go.




CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_744a6836-76d3-5c6b-a648-6613421afd92)


My ex-fiancé is looking ridiculously handsome in his morning suit. The thick chestnut curls, which I used to love threading my fingers through, are longer than I remember, but the lopsided smile and twinkling eyes haven’t changed one bit. He broke my heart and totally humiliated me. I will not still find him attractive.

I take a deep breath and prepare myself for a game of social chess.

Snapping the phone shut, I paste a bright ‘I’m fine’ smile onto my face. No girl wants her ex to see her teary-eyed at a wedding. Patrick would be bound to think I’m blubbing over him and, let’s be honest, he’s certainly given me enough cause to cry in the past.

‘Hello, Robyn,’ smiles Patrick, his peat brown eyes twinkling. ‘You’re looking lovely, so you are. How’s it going?’

Patrick is a born flirt. He probably drew his first breath and then started chatting up the midwife. With his dark good looks, razor-sharp wit and that Irish blarney, he’s pretty irresistible. Or so he thinks. Believe me, I’m resisting these days.

‘Fine, thanks.’ My smile is so forced it feels as though my skin is going to rip. I don’t love Patrick any more but I’m not sure if I’m over him, and I’m a long way off from forgiving him. That’s what the Christmas wish list is all about.

Faye says that I have issues to resolve. Simon says that Pat’s a tosser.

No prizes for guessing that I’m with Si on this one.

‘I haven’t seen you for ages,’ he continues, loosening his tie and raising an eyebrow Roger Moore style. The suave effect of the gesture rather is ruined because I know he practises it in the mirror. ‘Have you been away?’

Patrick may not have seen me for several months but unfortunately I’ve been seeing an awful lot of him and so has the rest of Britain. I haven’t encountered him in the flesh but there’s no escaping Patrick on the telly. Judging by the expensive haircut and the perfectly manicured nails, Patrick McNicolas has come a long way from the impoverished stand-up comedian/bookshop assistant that I used to know. His agent must have made a pact with Satan or something because now Pat has a lead part in the cult BBC 3 cooking sitcom Nosh! and regularly appears to make smart-alec comments on shows like Have I Got News for You. He’s also started to feature in the tabloids for his exploits out and about with other celebrities, while kids the length and breadth of Britain are driving their parents insane with his catchphrase ‘Jaysus!’

It’s a catchphrase I feel like uttering right now as I face my wedding-wrecking ex-fiancé and try to hold back from punching him on the nose.

Maybe Faye has a point about issues.

‘I’m fine, thanks, Pat,’ I say, delighted that my voice is calm and low. ‘I’ve been really busy with the wedding planning business. It’s doing OK. More than OK, actually.’

If the mention of weddings embarrasses Pat then he does a good job of hiding it. Instead he nods approvingly and helps himself to a flute of champagne from a passing waiter.

‘Adam said that this was one of your dos.’ Pat glances around the room before turning the charm back onto me, his eyes lazily sweeping my body in that old familiar way. ‘It looks amazing, Robs. And so do you. I love that dress. Very, very sexy.’

‘Thank you,’ I say.

Is there anything more awkward than trying to make small talk with a man who once had you in positions that yoga teachers baulk at? Fortunately I’ve been anticipating this encounter ever since I noticed that Patrick was on the guest list, and I’ve had weeks to psych myself up for it. I’m determined to look gorgeous and be every bit the successful business woman. I don’t want Patrick back, but there’s no harm in showing him exactly what he’s missing, is there? And I know that I’m looking good today. My vintage 1950s prom-style dress nips my waist in to a hand’s span and flares out over my hips, the black netting underneath holding the skirt out ballerina style and drawing attention to my legs, which are actually looking slender as they taper into delicate strappy sandals. The bodice of the dress is strapless and boned and pushes up my boobs in a frankly amazing manner, and it’s all topped off with a cashmere shrug which magically hides my upper arms. Wow! I must patent these optical illusions.

‘Is there a Merry Man with you, Miss Hood?’ asks Patrick. He always did love to play on the fact that my name is Robyn Hood. Yes, that’s right, as in green tights, Sherwood Forest and the Sheriff of Nottingham. School was a right barrel of laughs, saddled with this moniker. Another thing to thank Mum and Dad for.

‘I’m working, Pat,’ I point out coolly. ‘I’m not here to socialise.’

‘Jo’s with me,’ continues Pat, gesturing towards the redhead who is hovering by the stack of pink iced fairy cakes.

My mouth drops open.

‘Jo?’ I parrot. ‘That’s the Jo?’

Pat nods. ‘You must remember Jo, Robs?’

Duh. Of course I do. Only Pat could be this tactless. Thank God I don’t have an open wound; he’d be shovelling salt into it by now. ‘She was worried about introducing herself; worried about your reaction,’ he continues. ‘I told her not to be a sissy, that everything between us is fine now, but she still isn’t sure. Come and say hello.’

Patrick has all the sensitivity of a bull rampaging through the china department of Liberty’s. Since Jo is the Comedy Store groupie that he was shagging behind my back, presumably while the ink was drying on our wedding invitations, it wouldn’t take Einstein to suss out that we are not destined to be best friends. Does the man really have such little self-awareness? I refrain from throttling him since that would ruin the whole ‘over him by Christmas’ thing. Part of me wishes that he was on his knees pleading for a second chance just so that I could have the pleasure of turning him down.

Hmm. In my dreams. If Pat had groupies before he was famous then I dread to imagine what it’s like now. He hardly needs to beg girls to be with him. I stare at Jo, who looks so pale and worried, and feel nothing but relief that I’m not in her Jimmy Choos.

‘Sure,’ I say airily, even though just thinking about the engagement-wrecking woman makes me feel as though crocodiles are having a good old munch on my intestines. ‘Why not?’

Patrick drains his champagne and leads me towards Jo. Her pale skin blanches as we approach, and I wonder quite what Pat has told her about me.

‘Hi, Jo.’ I hold out my hand. ‘Good to meet you. Finally.’

‘Robyn, hi.’ Jo’s green eyes can hardly bear to meet mine and instead she seems to find her scarlet toenails fascinating. ‘Er, you too.’

‘Thanks for taking Patrick off my hands,’ I add. ‘I owe you.’

Patrick puts his arm around Jo and pulls her close, dropping a kiss onto the top of her head. ‘See!’ he laughs. ‘I told you that Robyn was fine about us. She knows what a lucky escape she’s had. You did her a favour, darlin’!’

‘You certainly did,’ I agree, suddenly realising that I mean it. Much as I adored Pat, dashing around after him was shattering. For most of the time we were together I wasn’t self-employed and gave so much energy to my demanding boss, Hester Dunnaway, that there wasn’t much left for shoring up Pat’s ego. Once I had to fold one thousand paper cranes for a Chinese-themed wedding, a job which would have made even Sisyphus tremble. Pat had moaned constantly because I wasn’t able to come out with him. I was ignoring him, he’d said sulkily, as though I’d preferred wrestling with endless fiddly sheets of paper to watching him perform. When I did eventually set up on my own Pat mistakenly believed that I was just dossing round the house all day, watching Jeremy Kyle and Homes Under the Hammer, and was therefore free to follow him around the country with a baby balanced on each hip. I actually lost count of the rows we had about this. I used to grind my teeth so hard each time he airily implied Perfect Day was just a hobby that it’s a miracle I’m not left with stumps.

Jo looks like a girl whose sole aim in life is to please her man, exactly what Pat has always dreamt of. He made no secret of the fact that he wanted his wife to give him babies and stay dutifully at home while he went out to hunt and gather. Looking back, maybe I really did have a lucky escape.

‘Actually, Robs, I’m glad we bumped into you today,’ Pat is saying. Is it me or does he look a little bit shifty? The way he always did when he came home three hours late and told me some long and involved yarn about his whereabouts. Instantly, I’m on red alert. ‘There’s something I – we – wanted to tell you. We thought it was better if you heard it from us first.’

‘I’m intrigued.’ I raise my eyebrow too. It always annoyed Pat that I could out-Roger-Moore him. ‘Go on then, what is it? A new show?’

But Pat is shaking his glossy head and pulling Jo against him. One of his big, and now beautifully manicured, hands rests protectively on her stomach. Her gently rounded stomach …

‘It’s a million times better than a new show. Jo and I are having a baby!’ Pat says, and his voice brims with excitement and pride. ‘Can you believe it, Robs? I’m going to be a daddy, so I am! Isn’t it fantastic?’

‘Fantastic,’ I echo dutifully, but my entire blood supply feels as though it’s taken a really fast elevator to my feet and for a hideous moment I feel faint. ‘And we’re getting married too, before this little one puts in an appearance,’ he adds.

I stare at him. ‘Really?’

‘Jaysus, Mammy would throttle me otherwise! What would the priest think?’ Pat laughs, his peat brown eyes sparkling down at Jo and belying the casual words. He raises her hand to his lips and kisses it gallantly. ‘Aren’t I lucky that this lovely woman’s agreed to take me on?’

‘Very,’ I say, but Pat’s too busy telling me his plans for an August wedding in Ireland to notice that my smile is a little stiff and that I’m clutching my clutch so hard it might pop. Finally, though, he runs out of steam and turns his attention back to a much less exciting topic – namely me.

‘So, Robyn Hood,’ grins Pat, ‘why were you skulking behind a pot plant? Was it the nearest thing to Sherwood Forest you could find?’

‘I wasn’t skulking.’

Up goes the famous eyebrow. ‘Not planning to shoot me with your bow and arrows then?’

‘No,’ I say, ‘Bows and arrows are far too good for you. I thought I’d just rip your head off and hit you with the soggy end.’

Actually I don’t say this but I’d like to. What I actually say is, ‘No. I was … err … distance wedding planning.’

‘Distance wedding planning?’

‘Yes,’ I warm to my theme. ‘It’s wedding planning but—’

‘From a distance?’ Pat finishes for me.

‘Exactly.’

‘And always behind a plant?’

‘Plants are optional,’ I tell him.

‘I’ll remember that, so I will,’ Pat nods. ‘Next time I’m up to something I shouldn’t be I’ll just tuck myself behind a plant.’ He grins, ‘Jaysus! I’d better buy up Kew Gardens!’

When Pat laughs at himself I remember why I liked him so much as a friend long before we became romantically involved. Before shared bank accounts and children’s names and the tiny stifling cottage in the country came up. Should I be glad that Jo – the groupie who took it all away from me – has turned out to be a significant relationship? Would it have been worse to have gone through all that heartbreak over a meaningless fumble in the dressing room?

‘Here, give me one of your business cards, Robs,’ says Pat. ‘You never know, it might come in useful.’

God this man can be insensitive! But opting to save face, I peel back my fingers from my clutch and take out a card.

‘Pat!’ gasps Jo, looking horrified. ‘God, you can be insensitive! I’m sure the last thing Robyn wants to do is plan our wedding!’

Planning my cheating ex-fiance’s wedding is right up there with all my other favourite jobs, like putting out the bins and root canal surgery. But there’s no way I want to agree with Jo, so I just smile.

‘No, no,’ I say. ‘It’s absolutely fine. It’s great, actually.’

I’ll have to go and punch a pillow later or something.

Time to make my excuses and tend to Adam and Samantha’s guests. Several of them are looking rather pink in the face and it may be a nice idea to open a window.

‘Isn’t it warm?’ I fan my face with my hand. ‘I think that I’d better let some air in before somebody passes out. Good to see you again, Pat. Nice to meet you, Jo.’ And I hurry away.

It’s painful to think that while Pat is all cosied up with Jo, I’m well and truly up on the shelf and gathering dust. Where are all the eligible men anyway? All the half-decent ones are already married and as for the rest … Well, let’s not go there. What a depressing thought. The nearest I’ll probably ever get to sex now will be walking past Ann Summers.

With a sigh, I throw open the French windows. The cool evening air soothes my hot cheeks and lifts the tablecloths. But it isn’t just the breeze that drifts into the room but also the unmistakable undertones of a row on the terrace.

‘I’ve had enough!’ hisses a woman’s voice.

Arguing at a wedding? Honestly, some people have no manners.

‘This marriage is nothing but a farce!’ she continues. ‘I should have left you years ago!’

Is fate trying to convince me that all relationships end in tears?

Tutting to myself, I’m about to fasten back the doors when I feel a horrible prickling nausea of the variety known only to wedding planners who have just made an enormous error of judgement.

I think I know that voice. And from the looks of it, some of the guests know it too.




CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_2bb9cd12-6544-5778-b81c-77fa651faf78)


‘I’ve had enough, Geoffrey!’

I do know that voice! I know it because it’s been berating/thanking/bossing me around for the past six months. These not-so-dulcet tones belong to none other than Susan Ellis, mother of the bride.

Not good.

I peep around the French windows and sure enough there she is, hands on hips and mouth wide open, out of sight of the top table but now louder and, unfortunately, within earshot.

‘Do you hear me? Enough!’ Susan yells at her husband, drowning out his muttered response. ‘Our marriage is over!’

The guests nearest the windows hear every word. Those seated further away notice the unease of the faces of the bride and groom and fall silent. Even the musicians in the string quartet sense the atmosphere, their instruments scraping to a discordant halt. The absence of the beautiful music highlights the ugly words slicing through the stillness.

I’m mortified. What’s the etiquette in such a situation? Do I go outside and tell them to keep it down, or do I shut the windows quickly and hope that we are all English enough to pretend that this isn’t happening? Deciding on the latter, I start to wrestle with the windows.

Oh no. The doors are stuck. And Susan Ellis is yelling with more volume than a 747 taking off.

‘I’ve kept quiet because I didn’t want to ruin our Samantha’s big day,’ she hollers. ‘But she’s married now so I don’t have to lie any longer. And neither do you.’

A mumbled response from Geoffrey Ellis, that none of us can hear.

‘I know you’re sleeping with Marion from next door!’

I turn to look at the audience – I mean, the guests – and a large woman dressed in violent magenta linen blushes the same colour as her frock: Marion from next door.

Oh, God. It’s my worst dream come true. My lovely wedding, Sam and Adam’s perfect day, has turned into The Jerry Springer Show.

‘I’m not wasting another minute with you!’ shouts Susan and then, just in case Geoffrey misses the point, ‘I want a divorce!’

A gasp of shock/outrage/callous enjoyment ripples through the guests. Samantha squeals in horror and for one awful moment I think she’s going to faint. I run for my emergency wedding kit and start to rummage for the smelling salts.

Susan Ellis steps into the room with a fake smile pasted on her face and tears in her eyes. But once she realises that everyone’s looking at her, the smile drops and she looks confused. Then she notices the open windows and gasps.

‘Sam!’ she yelps, realising too late that every ugly word has been overheard. ‘Oh, darling!’

‘Sweetheart,’ Geoffrey Ellis is right behind her. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Not half as sorry as me, Daddy,’ Sam sobs. ‘How could you? It’s my wedding day!’

‘Darling …’ Susan reaches out to Sam who recoils furiously.

‘Don’t touch me! I hate you, both of you! You’ve ruined my wedding! I’ll never forgive you!’

Leaping up from her seat, Sam flees from the room, sobbing wretchedly, while her groom and the guests look on in stunned horror. The chief bridesmaid bunches her skirts up into her fists and follows.

Susan glares at her husband. ‘This is your fault, Geoffrey.’

‘My fault?’ he echoes, ‘Why is everything always my fault?’

‘Because it is, that’s why! I’m sick of this marriage!’

‘That makes two of us,’ he retorts. ‘Thirty years of being stuck with you. People get less for murder!’

No! Stop! This isn’t the way that it is supposed to go. Weddings are supposed to be the happiest days of people’s lives. This is a disaster.

Scooping up my emergency wedding bag I follow the bride, whose sobbing can still be heard. I’ll do my best to sort this somehow, but I think it might take more than headache tablets and a sewing kit.

Sam has locked herself in the bathroom of the honeymoon suite.

‘Sam,’ I tap on the door, ‘it’s Robyn. Let me in, please.’

‘It’s no good.’ The bridesmaid shakes her head. ‘She won’t listen.’

But I am Miss Fix-it Extraordinaire. A superhero. Wedding Planner Woman. As well as knowing where to find the best antique lace or freshest flowers, I also have peace-keeping skills that would land me a job at the UN.

Luckily.

‘Sam, this is your special day,’ I say, through the door. ‘Yours and Adam’s. You are the bride. Everyone is looking at you, not your parents.’

There’s another sob.

‘The guests are taking their cue from you,’ I continue. ‘If you dry your eyes and come back down they’ll think it’s all blown over, I promise. Honey, it’s up to you: you can stay here and I’ll send the guests away, or you can dry your eyes and join poor Adam. He’s your husband now and he really needs you down there.’

‘Really?’ she says. Or at least I think she does. It’s hard to tell because her voice is so clotted with tears.

‘Really,’ I say firmly. ‘It’s your call, Sam.’ I cross my fingers and hold my breath.

There’s the sound of a key turning and the door swings open. Sam, bottom lip wobbling, make-up smeared all over her face, is perched on the edge of the bath.

‘I’m a mess,’ she hiccups. ‘My face is ruined.’

‘Nothing we can’t fix.’ I take her chin between my thumb and forefinger and gently wipe the tears away with a face wipe from my magic box of wedding-saving tricks. Once her face is clean I pull out my emergency make-up bag. ‘I’ll have you looking as good as new, I promise.’

Sam takes a shaky breath. ‘Thanks, Robyn. What would I have done without you today?’

‘All part of the service, hon,’ I say.

I squeeze tinted moisturiser onto a sponge and set to work. Thanks to Pat and his antics I’m an expert at restoring tear-stained cheeks to peachy glory.

After ten minutes Sam feels brave enough to venture back to the reception. Luckily everything seems to have calmed down. The DJ has arrived and is playing a selection of upbeat 80s tunes. Fortunately, the Ellis seniors are nowhere to be seen. Sam, every inch the dignified bride again, rejoins Adam with a tender kiss, while the caterers whiz around filling champagne flutes for the toast. Helping myself to one I gulp it gratefully, relief and alcohol hitting my bloodstream in equal measure.

Next time I need an adrenalin rush I’ll take up something more sedate than wedding planning, like bungee jumping or white-water rafting.

From across the room Patrick catches my eye, grins at me and raises that trademark eyebrow.

‘Jaysus!’ he mouths.

And I must admit, I couldn’t have put it better myself.




CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_33b956dd-7bc5-50e9-ba55-b55c49e2e0ab)


May

‘Welcome to Swing Heaven!

The place to be if you’re passionate about swing dancing!’

At last, I think, scrolling down the advertisement. My internet quest to locate a swing dancing course has certainly opened my eyes. I’ve not exactly led a sheltered life but some of the websites that popped up on my computer practically turned the monitor blue.

Maybe I was asking for trouble typing ‘swing’ into the search engine.

‘I want to Lindy Hop,’ I mutter, ‘not bed hop.’

Swing Heaven is a great way to keep fit. Come along and begin a love affair with the 1950s dance craze.

My love affair with the 1950s began ages ago. It’s more like an obsession.

I scan the details: the class takes place in an adult education centre only a few streets away from my favourite bespoke lace shop. Making a mental note to sign up the next time I’m in the area, I exit the advert and surf for a bit; anything to distract me from the fact that I’m a freelance wedding planner with no weddings in sight. So much for having my career sorted out by Christmas!

With mammoth self-control I log out without checking eBay. Once I land some really big clients I’ll bid away on vintage goods to my heart’s content. When Perfect Day is right up there with major players, like Hester Dunnaway’s Catch the Bouquet, I’ll treat myself to something really special. And I’ll be a major player by Christmas. Well, that’s the plan …

I shut down the computer and spin around in my wheelie chair, chewing thoughtfully on my pencil. Despite being friends with my mum, Hester hasn’t taken particularly well to my leaving her employment to set up my own wedding agency. Probably because now she has to do her own dirty work, like tracking down errant grooms who have disappeared in Magaluf; dragging a six foot four male by the elbow was the least fun I have ever had in a bar! Defecting Russian spies probably get a warmer reaction from the KGB than I do from Hester these days. Luckily she operates out of her plush office in Fulham while I’m working from my kitchen in Ladbroke Grove so our paths haven’t crossed much. But she’s let it be known to mutual contacts that I’m no threat to someone with her experience and connections. Unfortunately she seems to be right because so far only friends of friends and family have employed Perfect Day to arrange their weddings. The A-list celebrities have yet to call.

‘What I really need,’ I say aloud, ‘is a really high-profile wedding to put Perfect Day on the map.’

Of course there’s nobody to reply apart from Poppy, Gideon’s dog, and she is fast asleep under my desk. I’m not sure how it’s happened but since I began to work from home I’ve become an unofficial dog-sitter. Gideon and James work long hours so it’s become a daily routine to drop Poppy off with me when they set off for work. So as well as being Wedding Planner Woman, I’m also Doggy Day Care Girl! But I don’t mind. Gideon, the finance director of the high-class homeware company, Impressions, has been brilliant in helping me set up the business. I’ve picked his brains for months and he’s spent hours helping me with my business plan and accounts. Dog-sitting is the least I can do.

I haul myself out of my chair and fill the kettle. While it boils I lean on the window sill and watch the world outside. I love my flat in Ladbroke Grove. Gideon and James have the garden flat and I rent the top one from them. It’s expensive, but the hike up the four flights of stairs is more than compensated for by the roof terrace and views over the treetops towards Portobello Road and Notting Hill. I’ve yet to bump into Hugh Grant but a girl can live in hope, can’t she?

‘Come on,’ I say to Poppy, ‘Wake up. If you’re lucky you might even get a walk on the Heath.’

At the word ‘walk’ Poppy comes to life. She thumps her tail, knocking a vase onto the floor.

‘Why didn’t Gideon get a Paris Hilton handbag dog?’ I groan, wrinkling my nose at the stench of the water. But Gideon and James like Staffordshire bull terriers.

Sighing, I mop up the water, wrestle Poppy into her harness and prepare for battle.



It’s a beautiful morning. The birds are singing away and a fried-egg sun sparkles on the ground crunching under my boots. I ram my cute cloche hat onto my head, snuggle into my suede driving coat and clamber into the car. Then Poppy and I stomp round Hampstead Heath for an hour. Sunny-faced primroses beam up at me from the hedgerows and bluebells huddle beneath the trees, heads clustered together like old women having a lovely gossip. I even think I spot a swallow which cheers me up no end. The arrival of swallows hints that summer’s well and truly on the way and summer means only one thing for me these days – weddings!

By the time we turn into Faye’s road I feel glowing and healthy from the exercise. OK, my shoulder may be dislocated thanks to Poppy’s enthusiasm, but being away from my desk has done wonders for my creativity. In my bag are assorted leaves, spring flowers and greenery that I’ve collected for colour matches on a spring/summer mood board. As I ring Faye’s doorbell I’m thinking about designing the perfect summer wedding.

Just need a booking to design it for.

Poppy pogos in excitement when Faye answers the door. Like me, she loves coming to visit her. There are the spaniels to play with and Faye always has something tasty for her to eat.

‘Robyn!’ The door swings open and Faye throws her arms around me. ‘It’s so good to see you!’

‘Poppy’s really muddy,’ I warn.

‘Don’t worry about mud,’ laughs Faye, as though expensive carpets don’t matter a jot. ‘I’ll put Poppy with my dogs.’

Amazingly, Poppy transforms from the lunatic hound that hauled me through the undergrowth into a meek and obedient dog. I follow Faye into the boot room, listening to her chatting about her latest cake idea.

‘Honestly,’ she exclaims, ‘I’ve even started dreaming about this cake.’

‘Tell me about it!’ I say. ‘Last night I dreamt about the hideous time Hester forced me to take the pollen off every flower because the bride might suddenly contract hay fever.’

Faye tried not to giggle. ‘But don’t you get hay fever?’

‘Yes! I’d sneezed until I thought my nose would fall off and had to mainline Piriton for a week!’

Now Faye laughed openly. ‘Poor you! I’d take Heston Blumenthal over Hester Dunnaway any day of the week.’

Food is Faye’s passion as well as her livelihood. She creates amazing novelty cakes and is the writer of the bestselling children’s cookery book, Kidz Kan Kook! As well as professional success, Faye has a beautiful Victorian house just off the Heath and the kind of figure that supermodels envy.

Just as well I love her so much.

‘Sit, Gordon! Sit, Nigella! Sit, Poppy!’ Faye takes three chews from a cupboard and gives them to the delighted dogs. ‘You enjoy those. We’re going to have a nice glass of wine.’

‘We are?’

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ says Faye, tucking her arm through mine and leading the way down the stairs to the basement kitchen. ‘If you’d spent the best part of four hours trying to make a lump of chocolate sponge look like Balamory you’d need a drink too.’

In Faye’s kitchen, which I always think looks like something out of Country Living magazine, the most amazing cake takes up at least half of the table. I’ve worked from home long enough to recognise the set of Balamory, which is arranged in various chunks of pastel butter-iced cottages around a fondant-icing harbour. It’s incredible.

‘Please, please make wedding cakes,’ I beg, imagining the fantastic creations that Faye could dream up. ‘And work exclusively for me!’

Faye shudders. ‘No, thanks. Adults are far too critical. I’ll stick to children. They’re a much more appreciative audience.’ She darts to the Aga and stirs a pan before opening the fridge and fishing out a bottle of Chablis.

‘This must have taken forever.’

‘It did,’ Faye agrees, while pouring the wine. ‘But it should lead to greater things, with any luck. It’s a major client with brilliant connections which is why I asked you to lunch.’

‘Really?’ Intrigued, I take a seat at the table. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Saffron Scott, the editor of Scorching!’ cries Faye, and her eyes sparkle with excitement.

I’m impressed. Scorching! is the only celebrity gossip magazine worth reading. Celebs practically queue up to give it interviews, probably due to the fact that Saffron Scott is herself no stranger to the world of fame. The only daughter of sixties rock star Davie Scott, Saffron has lived most of her life in the public eye. She spent the late years of the nineties being photographed in various drunken states, taking a cocktail of drugs and having a spectacular nervous breakdown. After a spell in the Priory, Saffron reinvented herself as a showbiz correspondent on This Morning before eventually landing the job of editor at Scorching! In her late twenties now, she’s still frequently papped lunching with celebrities.

‘Wow,’ I say.

‘Davie Scott has been a client of Simon’s for years. He’s called upon Simon’s services so many times that they’ve struck up a bit of a friendship,’ explains Faye. ‘He put her in touch with me.’

I take a sip of Chablis and the biscuity flavour bursts across my tongue. Simon’s taste in wine has certainly improved since we used to swill Liebfraumilch out of mugs at college.

‘That’s great, hon.’ I’m pleased for Faye; she works so hard and is so talented. ‘She’ll be able to get you millions of commissions.’

‘Probably,’ Faye agrees. ‘But I’ve got quite enough on my plate right now.’

We both look at the cake and then laugh at our old joke.

‘Literally,’ smiles Faye. ‘But I did have contacts in mind, only not for me but for you …’

‘Me? I can’t cook.’

‘You may burn water,’ Faye says, rolling her eyes, ‘but you can plan the most fantastic weddings. Davie Scott was admiring the wedding photo on Si’s desk. Si told Davie what a fantastic wedding planner you are.’

‘Good,’ I say.

‘It’s better than good!’ cries Faye. ‘I’ve been dying to tell you! Davie was really impressed with what you’d done, Robs, and borrowed our wedding album. Apparently Saffron has been dating a music producer – Fergus Mason – for a couple of years now—’

I roll my eyes at Faye. ‘I know that. Everyone knows that. Don’t you read the gossip mags?’ Faye looks blank so I fill her in. ‘They met when she was interviewing Madonna and he was producing Madonna’s album. Apparently, Madonna was delayed with a childcare crisis and they started chatting. And, well, the rest is history.’

‘I forgot you had your finger on the pulse.’ She laughs. ‘Anyway … Saffron and Fergus are about to announce their engagement.’

‘That’s great! Whenever they get papped they look so loved up.’ It was thrilling to hear this news first-hand, rather than via the media.

‘They’re planning a December wedding – and are looking for a wedding planner. So Davie showed her our photos …’

I think I can guess where she’s going with this, but I’m not letting the words sink in yet.

‘She loved what you did for us,’ Faye continues, ‘and wants you to pitch for the job of planning her wedding!’

It’s just as well I’m sitting down because my legs have gone wobbly. This could be it! A chance to break into the big time and plan the kinds of weddings that I only dream of. And a Christmas wedding too! I love Christmas so much and already my mind is racing.

‘Saffron Scott wants Perfect Day to pitch for her wedding?’ I ask, to check that I have not slipped into a dream.

‘She certainly does.’ Faye rummages in her huge shoulder bag and plucks out a card, handing it to me with a flourish. ‘She wants you to call her.’

Oh. My. God.

I can’t believe it. This could be it, the life-changing opportunity that I’ve been waiting for. My dreams are so close to coming true that I can almost taste them.

I gaze at the card but I don’t see it because I’m visualising the fabulous wedding that I could organise for Saffron. White roses, red velvet bridesmaids’ dresses, holly and ivy twined around the pews …

My stomach seesaws in excitement. This is my golden opportunity to show the world exactly what I can do.

‘Remember me when you’re hired to arrange Prince Harry’s wedding,’ says Faye, beaming with pride.

‘I’ll call her as soon as I get home,’ I promise, wondering how I’ll manage to contain myself until then. ‘Thanks, Faye. I owe you one.’

‘You certainly do.’ Faye looks serious. ‘I’m fully intending to call in this favour.’

‘Anything,’ I promise, and then wonder what I’m letting myself in for. The last favour I did for Faye was attending one of her dinner parties where I spent a dismal few hours swigging wine while all the couples talked about catchment areas and breast pumps. I’d rather fold another thousand paper cranes than go through that again!

‘Don’t look so scared.’ Faye opens a cupboard and pulls out a slab of sponge. ‘It’s not another dinner party.’

Don’t you hate it when your friends can read your mind?

‘It was a great dinner party,’ I say, crossing my toes, fingers and anything else crossable.

‘You always were a useless liar,’ Faye says. ‘Here, take these.’

She hands me a tub full of green goo and a palette knife.

‘What’s this?’ I sniff it.

‘It’s your fee for my networking,’ says Faye. ‘Once we’ve had lunch you are icing the Balamory hillside.’

‘For getting the chance to pitch for Saffron Scott’s wedding I’ll ice twenty hillsides,’ I declare.

‘Excellent,’ grins my friend, flinging open another cupboard to reveal an Everest of containers. ‘By a strange coincidence I seem to have at least twenty more.’




CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_040befa9-201d-5e90-8273-c8841a07cbbb)


The next morning I wake up late and it feels as though someone is break-dancing inside my skull. Even though my eyes are tightly shut I can sense the daylight burning through the windows ready to blast me into dust. The churning in my stomach would make even Ellen MacArthur spew.

This is all Gideon’s fault. When he popped in to collect Poppy yesterday evening I was so wound up with excitement after having spoken with Saffron Scott that I was practically nailing myself into the floor. I’d drunk so much coffee that I could have moonlighted as a Pro Plus tablet. My notebook was brimming with sketches and notes, and scraps of fabric for mood boards had drifted onto the carpet like fresh white snow.

‘Christ!’ Gideon exclaimed when I opened the door. ‘What’s happened to you?’

Glimpsing in the mirror I saw a pink-cheeked woman with glittering eyes and a mass of curly dark hair pinned up with a biro.

I looked manic.

‘Something really exciting,’ I’d said, inviting Gideon in. His eyes were like saucers when I mentioned Saffron Scott – he adores Scorching! – and he was almost as excited as I was by the thought that I could be planning a wedding where the likes of Posh and Becks would be guests.

‘We have got to celebrate,’ Gideon declared, pulling me into his arms and waltzing around the kitchen. ‘This is it, Robs!’

‘I haven’t got the job yet,’ I pointed out, but to Gideon this was a minor detail. He dragged me down the stairs to his place where I ended up sampling James’ whisky collection until the small hours.

I may have sampled his wine and spirit collection too …

Ouch! I open my poor eyes but needles of light stab my retinas and my brain swivels inside my skull. I stagger to the bathroom, slosh cold water onto my face and wince when I glance in the mirror. Then I drag myself into the shower and blast my body with hot water, rinsing the hangover away. Several coffees and two paracetamol later I’m almost human again. Now the mirror reveals that, although not perfect, I won’t scare small children if I venture outside.

The bright May sunlight pokes through the blinds and I decide to go out and get some fresh air, or what passes for it in London. I need to visit the lace shop to pick up some samples so on my way I’ll sign up for that swing dancing class.

Putting up my hair into a loose ponytail and hitching my Chloé bag onto my shoulder, I prepare to face the world. To give myself a boost I decide against wearing my flip-flops and plump instead for a really cute pair of low-heeled character shoes in a pale pink to match my lovely vintage summer dress and fluffy cardigan. OK, so it’s not quite warm enough for it – but I’m an optimist, remember?

It’s just past noon when I leave the flat. The sunshine is starting to fade a little and the sky is filling with wispy clouds. A breeze rustles through the green leaves on the trees and spots of rain patter on the bin bags. Experience tells me there’ll soon be a spring shower of the type only found in London, where the rain leaves the skin gritty, the cars hiss through puddles, and people scuttle by with their heads bowed. Typical. I pull my cardigan closer and hurry towards the station, glad to hide underground for a few stops.

When I surface the rain is falling in earnest, big dollops that splat onto the soft suede of my coat and pool into large puddles. Soon my lovely shoes bleed pink dye everywhere and my feet look as though a vertically challenged vampire has popped in for lunch. By the time I arrive at the adult education centre my hair, so carefully straightened after my shower, is springing back into ringlets and my makeup is sliding down my cheeks.

I think I should have stayed in bed.

When I try to push open the door of the centre and discover that it’s locked, I know I should have stayed in bed.

‘Closed for lunch,’ I read, while the rain plasters my hair to my head and turns my dress into a damp rag. ‘Fan-flipping-tastic.’

I back into a shop doorway in a feeble attempt to get some shelter – pointless really because I’m so wet now that you could wring me out – and decide to wait. The small shop sells the most amazing lingerie, all pink satins, peach ribbons and frothing cream lace. I stare at the pretty bras and French knickers like a Dickensian pauper staring at buns, and feel rather sorry for myself. These are exactly the sort of underwear that I used to hope Patrick would buy me one day. Not that it would have occurred to my ex to buy me underwear. For the last birthday that we were together he’d proudly presented me with a state-of-the-art food processor. What a sexless present! Was that really how little my fiancé knew me? In the kitchen I’m not so much Raymond Blanc as totally blank, but he said it would come in useful for pureeing baby food. I forced a smile to my face at the time but I remember thinking, baby food? I haven’t mastered plant food yet!

I’m trying to mop up the water dripping down my neck when a man appears beside me and attempts to enter the building. It would be hard not to notice him because not only is he tall and ridiculously handsome with glossy dark hair and sapphire eyes, but he is hammering on the door so hard that the glass panes rattle.

‘It’s closed,’ I tell him, rather unhelpfully since he’s probably figured this out. ‘Lunchtime.’

‘What sort of place closes at lunchtime?’ growls the man, giving the door another bash. From the expensive cut of his suit and the Rolex on his wrist, he’s probably one of those city types who think lunch is for wimps.

I must be a wimp because my tummy is growling. To cover the unladylike noises I say brightly, ‘I’m here to sign up for a course!’

The man looks at me as though I’m insane. ‘It’s an adult education centre,’ he points out.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I want to do swing dancing. I’m going to learn to jive – or I am if I ever get in to put my name down. I can’t wait to start. I love all that 1950s dancing. Apparently it’s brilliant exercise and really good for keeping fit and …’

Normally I’m such an energetic talker that you could wire me to the National Grid and use me to power Britain, but the man is looking at me really strangely, his amazing blue eyes trained on my face in a powerful gaze, and my words peter away. Staring back at him, I’m shocked to find myself thinking how plump and kissable his lips are. He looks rather familiar too. Maybe we’ve met before. Is that why he’s staring at me? Or maybe this is what love at first sight feels like.

Just my luck that I meet the most attractive man in months when I look as though I’ve swum here from Ladbroke Grove. In a novel he would be captivated by my soggy beauty and offer to shelter me under his raincoat rather than continuing to stare.

Just as I turn to make a run for it his hand reaches out and brushes my arm. ‘You’re Robyn, aren’t you? Robyn Hood?’

Oh. It wasn’t love at first sight. Just plain old small world.

I nod, wracking my brains to place him.

‘We’ve met before,’ he continues, and now that he’s forgotten to be angry about the adult education centre he’s smiling, a cute dimple playing hide and seek in his cheek. ‘At the Harveys’ dinner party?’

Good old Faye and her dinner parties.

‘And you remember my name, right?’ I sigh. It’s annoying when a random decision by your parents becomes your defining feature.

‘I remember you,’ says the man, his eyes warmer now and the lashes starry from the rain. ‘You’re the wedding planner who had to dash off to a comedy gig in the middle of the beef Wellington.’

Those were the days.

‘I’m Jonathan Broadhead.’

The memory is hazy but it’s coming back to me slowly. I met Jonathan at one of Faye’s dinner parties last March and we were thrown together because our partners were both absent. We’d chatted for a while and I’d told him about the wedding Hester and I were planning for a glamour model. The bride’s beloved Chihuahua was going to be the ring bearer and Hester had kindly designated me to be the trainer. Never in the history of pampered pooches had there been a more spoiled neurotic dog. Its snapping teeth put Jaws to shame and I lived in fear of losing my fingers every time I attempted to place the ring in the pink velvet pouch that hung on its diamanté collar. As for escaping, believe me, that dog was the Houdini of the canine world. By the time of the dinner party I’d chased the disobedient mutt so many times I could have taken on Ussain Bolt and won! Still, at least Faye’s guests had been entertained by my tales of woe and for at least five minutes the conversation had turned from house prices and au pairs. Gazing up at him I realise how much I must have loved Patrick and how focused I must have been on the wedding not to have been struck dumb by how incredibly handsome Jonathan is. He has the sort of face that makes you want to take a second look and then a third and maybe even a fourth.

‘You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?’ I recall. ‘You work with Simon.’

He laughs. ‘That makes me sound really dull. I wish I’d dropped out of school and joined the circus.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Erin Brockovich’s life was pretty interesting.’

‘I’m no Erin Brockovich.’ He shakes his head seriously. ‘I look ridiculous in short skirts.’

‘Knee length is more your style,’ I nod, and then the ice is broken and we’re laughing.

‘Look,’ says Jonathan finally, ‘I don’t know about you but I think it might be a good idea to go inside until this rain stops. Pleasant as the view is,’ he inclines his head in the direction of the lingerie shop, ‘I don’t think that I can really follow you in there.’

‘Do you buy your fishnet stockings elsewhere then?’ I tease, liking the way that his eyes crinkle when he laughs.

‘I’m more M&S than S&M,’ Jonathan says. ‘Come on, let’s get in the warm somewhere, grab a coffee and dry out.’

I’m trembling like a whippet, partly because I’m soaked right through to my knickers, and partly because I’m not in the habit of going for coffee with strangers, especially ones this attractive. I hardly know Jonathan Broadhead. It makes more sense to go home for a hot shower and try to sign up for swing dancing another day. But sometimes fate likes to pull a moonie at me and today is no exception. Just as I’m telling Jonathan that I’m going back to Ladbroke Grove, a lorry thunders past and showers us both with cold, dirty water. I splutter and the chilly rivulets trickle down my cheeks like tears. I certainly feel like sobbing because my lovely dress is wrecked. Beaten, I sway wearily on the pavement.

‘Right, that’s it,’ says Jonathan firmly, his hand steadying me. ‘I’m taking you to Starbucks to thaw you out. It was very brave of you to wear such a lovely summery dress in early May—’

‘I think you mean stupid rather than brave,’ I sigh.

‘You’re an optimist and that’s a great quality to have,’ Jonathan says warmly. ‘Now, Miss Hood, no arguments,’ he adds when I open my mouth to protest. ‘Simon will never forgive me if I let his best friend get hypothermia. Here, come under my coat and get out of the rain.’

He’s offering to shelter me under his raincoat! I’m so bowled over by the sheer romance of this that I forget to protest and seconds later he’s pulling me close against his side and gently draping the fabric across me. His hand grazes my cheek and then I’m snuggled beneath his arm, breathing in the delicious tang of his skin while the rain pitter-patters on the coat.

‘OK?’ asks Jonathan.

Even though my goosebumps have got goosebumps and my favourite dress is ruined I haven’t felt this OK for a very, very long time. We venture into the street, laughing as we dodge puddles and cannon off one another while we try to walk in a straight line. Somehow we make it into Starbucks without stumbling from the kerb and falling under a bus. I’m almost sorry to enter the warm fug of the coffee shop because it’s such fun being huddled under his raincoat.

Nothing to do with the fact that it’s nice to be held by an attractive man, of course.

‘We made it.’ Jonathan releases me and shrugs off his coat. His dark hair is beaded with raindrops but he doesn’t seem to care. The cross expression of earlier has been replaced by a smile of incredible sweetness and that cute dimple is back too.

‘What would you like?’ he asks. ‘Coffee? Cake?’

Now there’s the one million dollar question. I peer up at the menu board and then into the cabinet of yummy pastries. What I’d like is a big wedge of carrot cake washed down with syrupy white mocha latte, extra cream and about a zillion calories. What I ask for will, of course, be another matter entirely.

‘Skinny latte, please,’ I say. ‘Nothing to eat, thanks.’

Jonathan rolls his eyes. ‘You women! Why are you always dieting? My wife, Anita, is exactly the same.’

His wife? Ten bums in row! Typical of my Swiss-cheese memory to forget that little snippet.

‘I can’t speak for your wife,’ I say with a smile, ‘but maybe we look lovely because we’re careful about what we eat?’

‘It’s a shame.’ Jonathan shakes his head, ‘Take a seat, Robyn. I’ll bring these over.’

What a gentleman! See, it’s always the good ones who are taken.

I find a couple of battered armchairs and bag them for us. While I peel off my soggy cardigan and rearrange my hair by peering in the display of my phone, I try to dredge up anything that I might have once known about Jonathan Broadhead. He has a wife but she wasn’t at Faye and Simon’s dinner party. I seem to remember that she was held up at work and does something really high powered. Merchant banker? Neurosurgeon? Astronaut?

Oh dear, I really can’t remember. In my defence, we last met at around the time things were going pear-shaped (or should I say Jo-shaped) with Pat. Maybe I can wing it?

‘Here we go,’ Jonathan places the coffees and a large piece of carrot cake onto the table. ‘Get warmed up.’

Carrot cake. The man has excellent taste.

‘Thanks,’ I wrap my hands around the mug and instantly the warmth starts to thaw my frozen fingers.

‘What a shame about your shoes,’ Jonathan remarks. ‘Will they dry out?’

‘I hope so.’ I look sadly at my poor shoes. ‘They are fifties Dior; quite my favourite thing. Collecting vintage clothes is one of my passions.’

‘What are the others?’ he asks, smiling at me.

I think about this. ‘Weddings, obviously! I love all things fifties too. And,’ I smile back at him, ‘carrot cake!’

Jonathan pushes the cake into the centre of the table. ‘I suspected as much,’ he says with mock seriousness. ‘Which is why I brought two forks.’

I laugh. ‘Wow. A mind reader. What talent.’

Jonathan helps himself to a forkful. ‘I totally get the fifties thing. I love the music. Frank Sinatra. Dean Martin. Elvis. Actually, I’ve just spent an embarrassingly large amount of money on a genuine fifties juke box which is now my pride and joy.’

‘Worth every penny though,’ I say. ‘I feel the same about my vintage shoes.’

We chat happily for a while about all things fifties. It’s great to meet a kindred spirit. Gideon can’t bear the ‘clutter’ in my flat, being more a chrome and black marble minimalist, and Faye tries hard not to wince at the very thought of second-hand shoes. Jonathan totally gets it though and we talk for so long that I fetch more coffees because we’re hogging the table.

‘So,’ Jonathan tips sugar into his second latte, ‘how’s life treating you? Your comedian chap’s doing well, isn’t he? I was reading in the paper that he’s been given his own all-male discussion show.’

I read that too. Apparently it’s called Talking Boll*


ks. Need I say more?

‘We’re not together any more,’ I say, stabbing at the carrot cake with my fork so he can’t see my face. ‘He’s with somebody else now.’

And she’s pregnant. And they’re getting married.

Stab. Stab. Stab.

‘I’m sorry, Robyn.’ Jonathan places his hand over mine, halting the destruction. ‘I didn’t mean to be nosey.’

‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘It was nearly a year ago. I’m fine about it.’

Jonathan doesn’t move his hand. It remains covering mine, warm, strong and oddly comforting. It’s a friendly gesture.

‘It’s not easy though, is it?’ he sighs.

I slide my hand out from under his.

‘How is Anita? Is she still a … um …’

‘A biochemist?’ He pulls a face. ‘Yeah, ’fraid so.’

I’m not sure quite what a biochemist does exactly but I’m sure it’s really important and I tell him so.

‘It is important,’ he agrees, and now it’s his turn to attack the cake by mashing it with his fork.

I say nothing.

‘And I try to be understanding, really.’ I can tell he’s wrestling with something. ‘Like, last night, we had plans to catch a movie. I was making ’Nita supper when she called to cancel with some excuse to do with single-handedly revolutionising stem cell research. What could I say to that? “Well, you try resuscitating the carbohydrates in a dried-out lasagne.”’ Jonathan smiles weakly at his joke. ‘Of course I didn’t say that. Instead, I said, “OK, honey, I understand”, and then moped around feeling sorry for myself.’ Jonathan laughs, awkwardly. ‘God, sorry! I’m doing it again.’

‘We all do,’ I say. ‘I’m the world’s expert.’

By the time that I’ve finished telling Jonathan about the time Pat popped out for tea bags and ended up in Paris with a supermodel (‘Nothing happened, Robs, so it didn’t, I swear on my mammy’s life!’) Jonathan is laughing so hard that other shoppers are casting disapproving looks our way. I’m laughing too because looking back these stories are really funny. And telling them no longer hurts quite as much, so hurrah! I really am over Patrick! My Christmas wish list is right on track; just need a new man to replace him. Such a shame that it won’t be Jonathan.

‘Christ!’ Jonathan exclaims, looking at his watch. ‘It’s nearly three! I’d better be going. My secretary’s probably sent a search party out for me. At least the rain’s stopped.’

‘Oh yeah,’ I say, peering out at the sunshine which had replaced the rain in that way that only ever happens in England in spring. ‘When did that happen?’

‘No idea,’ Jonathan shrugs. ‘I was having far too much fun to notice. Thanks, Robyn, I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard.’

My sides are hurting from giggling. ‘Neither can I,’ I tell him.

He smiles, and I notice that his teeth are absolutely perfect. Does this man have any flaws?

‘You’ve snapped me out of my bad mood so I owe you one. How about I come back tomorrow and sign us both up for our classes – me for Business French and you for swing dancing? If you give me your mobile number, I’ll text you to let you know it’s done.’

I would have hesitated, but Jonathan is so upfront and so genuine that I reel it off straight away.

‘Great.’ Jonathan saves my number and pockets his phone, then he leans forward and kisses me on the cheek, a kiss as soft and delicious as a buttery croissant. ‘It’s been wonderful catching up with you. I feel like I’ve made a new friend.’

I can still feel the brush of his lips and I have to sit on my hands to stop myself touching my cheek.

‘Me too,’ I nod. ‘Me too.’

‘I’ll text you,’ promises Jonathan, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, and then he’s gone, a tall broad-shouldered figure striding through the crowd.

My hand slowly traces the place where his lips rested only seconds before.

Why, oh why, are the good ones always spoken for?




CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_3b6a7122-39a3-5dcf-a433-399c6352c24f)


OK, Robyn, count to ten.

One … You are not going to let her wind you up.

Two … You’re thirty-four, with your own flat, your own business and your own overdraft.

Three … You do not answer to your mother!

Four … Remember that yoga course you did with Faye? Exhale stress and inhale tranquillity.

Five … And repeat slowly, ‘I will not let my mother get to me.’

Six … I’m a natural!

Or at least I am for all of seven seconds before my mother pushes her designer glasses up her nose and gives an exaggerated sigh. When she shuffles the papers and shakes her head for the fiftieth time my yogic calm is shattered.

Maybe I should have gone to more than two classes.

‘What’s wrong, Mum?’

My mother looks up from perusing my accounts. ‘Oh nothing, darling. Just ignore me.’

It would easier to ignore a herd of wildebeest rampaging through my flat.

‘It’s obviously not nothing. You’ve been groaning for the last hour. What’s up?’

‘Your overdraft limit! Perfect Day’s hardly making any profit.’

‘Mum! Perfect Day’s breaking even after its first year, which is excellent, even despite the difficult winter and the small matter of a global recession!’

‘Darling, there’s nothing coming in this month and your VAT is due. We’re coming up to the summer wedding season and you don’t have anything planned for May. I don’t see how you can even draw a wage.’

I’ve had a few sleepless nights on this score actually but there’s no way I’m telling my mother that. She’s likely to drag me kicking and screaming back to her friend, Hester Dunnaway. It’ll be paper cranes, missing grooms and misery before you can say Chihuahua. Things aren’t that bad.

Yet.

‘There are weddings in the pipeline,’ I say firmly. ‘Saffron Scott’s asked me to pitch for her wedding. I’m meeting her on Friday.’

‘The Saffron Scott? Robyn! That’s wonderful!’

‘So stop worrying,’ I say. ‘Things will be fine.’

My mother checks her Cartier watch. ‘I’ll never get through these accounts before lunch. I promised Hester we’d try the new place off Henrietta Street.’

‘Leave them, Mum.’

‘Leave them?’ Her eyebrows shoot into her hairline. ‘That’s what caused the problems! Why don’t you have an accountant?’

‘Because I can’t afford one.’ I lean over and shut the books. ‘Anyway, Gideon’s more than happy to help.’

And he’s less critical than you, I add under my breath. Mum can’t help interfering with Perfect Day. She runs her own interior design company, and she got me my first job with Hester hoping that I’d have my own business one day. Now that I’ve achieved it, she thinks it gives her the right to ‘help’. I know she means well but I could really do without it.

‘Fine,’ she huffs. ‘I thought you’d jump at the opportunity of having someone with my business experience cast an eye over the figures. But if you don’t think I’m good enough … I’ve only built up my own design empire over the last twenty-five years …’

I grit my teeth so hard my fillings rattle. ‘You are good enough, Mum.’

‘You never were a very good liar.’ She pauses. ‘Unlike your father.’

Here we go. According to my mother, Dad could knock Satan into a cocked hat for pure evil. I pretend to listen to Mum complaining about my father while I tend to the Gaggia machine that Si got me for my birthday. The way she goes on you’d think Dad had left yesterday.

‘Did I tell you he’s bought her a brand new Range Rover?’ says my mother. ‘And all those years he let us struggle with a clapped-out old banger.’

By ‘her’, Mum means Charmaine, Dad’s new wife. Actually, hardly new since they’ve been married for eleven years and have ten-year-old twins. But as far as Mum’s concerned, Charmaine is a parvenu interloper.

‘Dad did his best,’ I say, rummaging in the fridge for milk.

‘That’s right,’ she snaps. ‘Stick up for him as usual.’

‘Do you want a biscuit?’ I interrupt. I open the Marilyn Monroe barrel that I found on eBay and help myself to a couple. Hopefully munching digestives will keep her quiet for a few minutes.

‘Have you got a slice of ham?’ Mum asks. ‘I’m doing no carbs!’ She pats her stomach. ‘Hester swears by it.’

Hester is a professional food Nazi so this is no surprise. And wherever her food fads take her – from the grapefruit diet to the boiled egg plan (believe me, it was not pleasant in the office during that phase) – Mum is sure to follow.

‘Do you know how many calories are in those?’ Mum snatches the biscuit barrel from me.

‘I’m starving!’

‘You are not.’ Mum tips the contents into the bin. ‘Children in Africa are starving. Have an apple.’

‘Who eats apples rather than biscuits?’

‘A girl who’s single, childless, and over thirty,’

‘Mum! You’ve just been telling me how crap men are!’

‘Well, yes,’ she agrees. ‘But I’ve seen the sweetest hat in Philip Treacey. It’s perfect for the mother of the bride. And there was the cutest little baby’s bonnet. You know how much I want grandchildren. Time’s a ticking.’ She tapped her watch as if it was my biological clock on her wrist.

I slosh coffee into spotty Emma Bridgewater mugs. ‘It’s not even a year since Patrick and I broke up.’

Mum places a hand on her heart. ‘I still have nightmares about having to return all those presents. Great Auntie Ethel was really upset.’

Sod Auntie Ethel. I was pretty upset myself.

‘I’m not ready for a relationship yet,’ I say. But I plan to be in one by Christmas, I add silently. What could be better than holding hands with someone special while listening to carol singers and watching the snowflakes drift to earth? That’s my idea of heaven.

My mother tuts. ‘When you fall off the horse, what do you do, Robyn?’

‘Call an ambulance?’ I say with a wicked grin.

‘Darling. Do try and make an effort. You get back in the saddle, of course! And at your age, you get back asap. And refuse to sign a pre-nup. Just like I do.’

This is no exaggeration. My mother, currently Anna Dexter, has been married and divorced no less than three times. To my great relief she’s taking a break from nuptials recently, preferring to go on luxury cruises where she’s wooed by men called Luigi who have Tango tans, hairy chests, and large wallets. She’s the only person I know who finds Michael Winner attractive.

So I think I can be forgiven for not taking relationship advice from her.

For a moment, I think about meeting Jonathan Broadhead yesterday. I see again those amazing hyacinth eyes framed by inky lashes all starry with rain and feel the hard contours of his body when he pulled me beneath his raincoat. He was definitely attractive and not a hint of fake tan.

He was also married.

More proof that all the good ones really are taken.

I’m saved from discussing my love life any further by Hester Dunnaway attacking the intercom. I buzz her in without a word and my stomach seesaws as I prepare to greet my former boss.

Imagine Cruella De Vil’s meaner older sister and you’ve got a pretty good picture of Hester Dunnaway. Groomed and plucked and waxed and suctioned to within an inch of her life, she looks like a desiccated skeleton; albeit one dressed in Prada and with Chanel-tipped talons. It costs a lot of money to look this well preserved so it’s just as well Hester is one of the most successful wedding planners in the country. And luckily she always has a keen junior to do the donkey work because keeping her aging body embalmed is a full-time occupation.

I should know. I may have learned an awful lot from working with Hester but she certainly got her money’s worth. You haven’t known telephone hell until you’ve spent six hours calling every zoo in Europe to secure the services of twenty pink flamingos. Way more than a year on and I still have the strongest Pavlovian impulse to jump to my feet and grab the telephone when in her presence.

‘Hello, Robyn,’ says Hester, looking me up and down. ‘How are you?’

‘Good, thanks,’ I smile. ‘And you?’

‘Never busier. My latest wedding’s going to feature in Hello! It’s very high profile and totally secret.’

There’s a pause while she waits for me to ask whose it is. No way am I going to give her the satisfaction. I’d rather eat Poppy’s dog food.

But my mother has no such restraint. ‘Who?’

‘I really can’t divulge, darling, but suffice it to say that the budget’s hundreds of thousands.’

A poisoned arrow of envy scores a bullseye in my heart. What I wouldn’t give to have that kind of money to play with. What a fantastic wedding I could plan!

And not a flipping flamingo in sight either.

‘Any big weddings coming up?’ Hester asks me.

This is where I’d love to say that every WAG in England is beating a path to my door but she’ll know I’m fibbing.

‘Nothing huge,’ I hedge. ‘Yet.’

‘Oh dear,’ sighs Hester. ‘I did warn you. You have some lovely ideas, Robyn, but you’re hardly in the same league as Catch the Bouquet. Still, I’m sure there’s some satisfaction in helping people with tight budgets.’

‘Robyn’s really modest,’ my mother pipes up. ‘She’s meeting Saffron Scott on Friday to pitch for the job of planning her wedding.’

Hester tears her attention away from admiring her reflection in my Brabantia bin and gives me a patronising smile. ‘Oh, how sweet of them to ask you. It will be a fantastic wedding. I can hardly wait to discuss my plans with Saffron and Fergus.’

‘You’re pitching too?’ I ask, my heart sinking.

‘Of course.’ Hester is triumphant.

Oh God, how can I compete with Hester? I’ll never get the job now.

‘The pitch will be wonderful experience for you, Robyn,’ she continues. ‘But don’t get your hopes up too much. The Scotts can afford the very best.’

‘So I’ll have to convince them I’m the best,’ I say, dodging her insult.

Hester smiles. The smile of a crocodile before it gobbles you up.

‘Your ideas are sweet, darling, and I’ve taught you a lot. But don’t think you can run before you can walk. And don’t think that your ideas will be better than mine.’

I am about to stick up for myself but the discussion is over as far as she’s concerned, and Hester turns to my mother. ‘Ready, Anna? I’ve booked the table for twelve-thirty.’

I stand seething by the window long after they zoom off in Hester’s pink Mercedes. Suddenly all my ideas for Saffron’s wedding seem trite and clumsy. The mood boards are clichéd, the themes are too obvious. How can I possibly compete with someone who flies in flamingos? She’ll probably come up with some amazing winter scenario complete with an ice palace the size of Windsor Castle and Jack Frost to officiate.

But I can do better than that. I know I can.




CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_84f6b811-1c8f-52ff-adfa-3f68405a71cf)


‘Two glasses of dry white wine and a packet of pork scratchings.’ Gideon deposits the spoils of his trip to the bar onto the table. ‘So what’s going on? You drag me to the Feathers on a week night, swig wine like there’s about to be a world shortage and look like shit.’

‘I thought gay men were supposed to be sensitive?’

‘Only in Sex and the City, darling. But I am sensitive enough to see something’s up. Care to share?’

‘I’m totally stuck for ideas to pitch for Saffron’s wedding,’ I sigh. ‘And, worse than that, Hester’s pitching too and she’s bound to have something incredible up her sleeve.’ I take another swig.

‘Bollocks,’ says Gideon.

‘Bollocks indeed.’

Even after chomping through an entire bar of Dairy Milk and watching two Doris Day movies I remained uninspired. I stared at my blank sketch pad until I’d gone cross-eyed before giving up and going to find Gideon. I’ve got the wedding planner’s version of writer’s block and since it’s a truth universally acknowledged that a girl who cannot be cheered up by chocolate must be in want of alcohol, I’ve dragged him out and left a message inviting Faye to join us.

‘When’s the pitch?’ asks Gideon.

‘Friday. I can’t possibly compete with Hester’s extravagant ideas.’

‘Maybe that’s the problem?’ says Gideon thoughtfully. ‘Competing, I mean. You’re not Hester Dunnaway so do something totally different. Be understated and elegant. Classy not tacky. You’ve got bags of style, darling. Not everyone wants Cinderella carriages, thrones and a hundred white doves.’

‘They were flamingos, not doves,’ I say. ‘But you’re right, Gids.’ This is where I’ve been going wrong! I’ve been trying too hard to think like Hester and come up with ideas that would make Jordan’s weddings look understated, when I should have been exploring my own ideas. ‘Gideon, you’re brilliant.’

‘It has been said,’ he says with an immodest shrug.

‘Now you’ve sorted Hester, maybe you could give me some help with my mother? She’s convinced that now I’m over thirty I am destined to be well and truly left on the shelf; alone and forever childless.’

‘Darling, brilliant as I am, I can’t perform miracles!’ laughs Gideon.

‘There you are!’ Faye weaves her way through the tables and beams at us both. ‘It was hell on the tube.’

‘Sorry,’ I say as we hug. ‘I should have met you somewhere more central.’

‘Don’t be daft.’ Faye unwinds a beautiful Hermès scarf and slips out of her velvet coat. ‘This makes a great change. There are only so many themed gastro pubs a girl can take.’

‘Robyn likes it here too.’ Gideon grins. ‘Especially the bar staff!’

‘Gideon!’ I slosh him on the arm.

‘Oh!’ Faye’s eyes widen. ‘Is this where that Aussie barman works?’

‘Sure is,’ nods Gideon. ‘Mr Surf God himself.’

‘Where?’ Faye spins round to check the bar so quickly that she probably gives herself whiplash. ‘That blond guy serving? He’s the one that Robyn—’

‘Hello, guys? I am here, you know!’ I interrupt, waving a hand in front of my friends. ‘He’s called Bradley. And he’s just a friend.’

‘A friend she shags!’ says Gideon, so good at stirring he could double as a teaspoon.

Faye’s bottom jaw is almost on the table. ‘You never told me that!’

‘Some things are private,’ I say, fixing Gideon with a look that in a just world ought to lay him out on the floor. ‘And some people spend too much time spying on their tenants.’

‘Sorry,’ says Gideon, not looking anything of the sort. ‘But how could I ignore something that gorgeous wandering down the stairs?’

Note to self: when Perfect Day is floated on the stock-market, buy a very secluded house, miles away from anyone.

‘He’s lush, Robs,’ says Faye, settling next to me on a stool. ‘Good for you.’ She looks again towards the bar where Bradley is pulling a pint, his tanned forearms strong and corded with muscle. ‘And how was it?’

‘Mind your own business, Faye Harvey!’

‘Sorry,’ says Faye. ‘I’m a sad old married woman who doesn’t get out much. I have to get my excitement vicariously.’ She sneaks a look over her shoulder and winks at me. ‘And that is seriously exciting.’

‘Divine, isn’t he?’ sighs Gideon.

Bradley, sensing that he’s being talked about, catches my eye, beams a big white-toothed Aussie smile and waves. I wave back.

‘He really is just a friend,’ I say. ‘He’s been away for a couple of months too. There isn’t anything going on.’

‘Well, you’re mad not to pursue that,’ says Faye, fanning herself with a bar mat. ‘He’s like something out of Neighbours, and I don’t mean Harold!’

Maybe I should explain myself before you decide that I’m some old slapper who regularly pulls Aussie barmen and drags them home for wild sex. As if. I can probably count my sexual partners on one hand and still have spare finger; not cool these days I know, but that’s just the way I am. Before a man sees my wobbly bits I normally like to know more than his name.

Normally.

But the night I met Bradley was the exception to the rule. To be fair, the circumstances were unusual. It was about five months after Pat and I broke up, and although I was still desperately sad I was past the constant weeping stage.

Or so I’d thought.

I’d had a long day. Mother had been in a vile mood after a row with her latest sugar grandpa, a bridesmaid’s dress had been lost in the post and my computer had crashed, losing most of my files. As I’d dragged myself up the steps from the tube station and wandered down the high street, I’d wanted nothing more than to collapse onto my sofa with a big glass of wine and a trashy magazine. With this aim in mind I’d popped into the corner shop and picked up Scorching! I’d been expecting to see nothing more than the vacuous smiles of the boy band member and his new glamour model wife when a headline leapt from the glossy page and walloped me right between the eyes.



PATRICK MCNICOLAS: BRITAIN’S SEXIEST COMIC INVITES US TO HIS THAMESIDE LOVE NEST



Although I knew this was the psychological equivalent of picking a scab, I couldn’t help flicking through the magazine, gobbling up every purple paragraph and feasting on the glossy pictures of his new apartment. Pat looked so handsome and was obviously incredibly happy, lounging on big squishy sofas with Jo in his arms and clinking champagne glasses with her in a giant hot tub. ‘I’ve never been so in love!’ he bragged. ‘All we need now are the children and our joy will be complete. This is the happiest I’ve ever been.’

Thanks a million, Pat, I’d thought, shoving the magazine back onto the shelf. To have two years of my life dismissed so easily sliced through me like a hot knife through butter. And it wasn’t as though I’d said ‘no’ to the children part, was it? I’d just said ‘not yet’, not while I set up the business. Pat just hadn’t loved me enough to listen.

Blinking away tears of loss and hurt I fled the shop and stumbled into The Feathers, where I’d ordered an enormous glass of wine and downed it in one.

‘Whoa!’ the barman had exclaimed. ‘Looks like you needed that!’ And he’d fetched me another which I’d drunk in a similar fashion. To cut a long story short I’d ended up pouring out my tale of woe to my new best friend, AKA Bradley the Australian barman. Bradley listened sympathetically and told me about breaking up with his girlfriend. And then we’d bonded in that peculiar way you do when bitching about an ex. Eventually the pub closed, Bradley had cleared up and then walked me home.

And the rest you can figure out for yourself.

Anyway, he’s a nice guy and really easy to talk to. He’s not my soulmate but he’s fun and he’s taken my mind off Patrick on several occasions – and it’s not like he’s going to push me into becoming a perfect mother any time soon. There’s nothing more to it than that. Not that you’d ever convince Gideon though. As far as he’s concerned it’s only a matter of time before I book tickets with Qantas and rack off to chuck a few shrimps on the barbie with the sprogs in tow. There’s no way I’m going to mention meeting Jonathan Broadhead yesterday; Gids will die of excitement and Faye will think …

Actually, I don’t know what Faye will think.

‘Let me get you a drink,’ I say to Faye. ‘White wine?’

She nods. ‘The drier the better, please.’

‘Any excuse to see Mr Love God,’ Gideon stage whispers as I thread my way through the evening drinkers.

I roll my eyes.

I walk to the bar and lean against it, trying to catch the eye of the bar staff. Bradley is nowhere to be seen so I wait patiently until a small, tanned woman with a mane of white blonde hair serves me.

‘Hi,’ she says. ‘Sorry to keep you. Where are the men when you need them?’

Another Aussie! What is it with this pub?

‘I ask myself that question most days.’ I smile, counting out my money. ‘Where are all the good men?’

‘Hanging out with the tooth fairy?’ She passes the wine across the bar and takes my change. ‘They must be somewhere. Gotta live in hope.’

‘Or die in despair,’ I sigh, and, balancing drinks and crisps in my hands, rejoin my friends. It’s one thing to joke about the man famine if you’re a twenty-two-year-old gorgeous Aussie surfer babe and quite another if you’re thirty-four and pretty average on a good day, wearing control knickers and your best frock. If all the good ones really are taken then where does that leave me?

Alone, that’s where, unlike Gideon and Faye, both of whom will be going home tonight to their partners.

Totally alone.




CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_b03f5b89-9a9d-54a5-834c-68bcf9c8e74d)


By half ten I’ve drunk my way through a bottle of Blossom Hill, the table is littered with crisp packets and Bradley’s becoming more and more attractive by the sip. OK, so he can’t discuss Chekhov and once said that his greatest fantasy was Jordan naked on a trampoline, but you can’t have everything.

And, anyway, with a body like that who cares about conversation?

I knock back the last of my wine. I’m going to ask him to come home with me. This is what feminists burned their bras for!

I am strong! I am woman!

And maybe a teeny bit pissed?

‘Darling,’ Gideon says, shrugging on his coat. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come with us? I’m going to walk Faye to the tube and then head home for tea and toast.’

At the mention of toast my stomach rumbles, but I ignore it. Gideon and James will cosy up and I’ll feel like a spare part. They see quite enough of me as it is.

‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll stay here and chat to Bradley.’

‘Can’t say I blame you,’ sighs Gideon.

Faye gives me a hug. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ she promises. ‘We can have a chat about some ideas for Saffron Scott before your meeting on Friday. I’ll ask Si if Davie has dropped any hints.’

‘Thanks, babes.’

‘And Robyn,’ she whispers. ‘Give him one from me!’

Blushing to the ends of my hair I hoist myself onto a bar stool, wishing that I had the kind of endless legs I could cross elegantly rather than short ones that just dangle in mid-air. Catching sight of my flushed face in the chrome beer pumps I decide to order Diet Coke from now on.

‘Diet Coke?’ echoes Bradley, when I place my order. ‘With Bacardi?’

‘No!’ I laugh.

As Bradley serves and chats, I’m distracted by the enormous flatscreen TV at the end of the bar. It’s showing one of those late evening chat shows and Patrick has just loped across the studio and is shaking the host’s hand. I still get a little jolt whenever I see him. It’s weird to be close to someone, to have shared their life in every way, and then be relegated to the position of stranger. I know Pat always cleans his toothbrush under the hot tap and likes the left side of the bed, but none of the other viewers are privy to these details.

Although, knowing Pat, maybe I shouldn’t bet on this.

Repositioning my bar stool so I’m spared watching Patrick charm the socks off the audience, I turn my attention back to Bradley. Physically he looks nothing like Pat. Bradley’s tall with sun-bleached hair and so gym-honed that even his muscles have muscles, whereas Pat’s tall and rangy and hasn’t been to the gym in his life. Running a double love life is enough to keep him fit. Both guys have green eyes but Bradley’s are like rock pools, clear and honest, whereas Patrick’s are the shadowy hue of his beloved Irish peat bogs.

I’m through with complicated men. Who wants to discuss Yeats in bed when they could be having amazing sex?

Time to see if Bradley’s in the mood for a coffee …

‘How was your trip home?’ I ask.

Bradley runs a hand through his thick blond mane. ‘Awesome! I’d almost forgotten what it was like to feel warm.’

I flick my hair back from my face. ‘So are you sad that you’re back?’

‘No. There’s lots to keep me here.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘Such as?’ I’m more pissed than I thought.

But Bradley just smiles his dazzlingly white smile. ‘It sounds really lame but I came back because of a Sheila.’

A Sheila? Isn’t that Australian for a girl?

‘I was thinking about staying in Brisbane but she’s here and I’m useless without her.’

My chardonnay-saturated brain is a bit slow but I think he’s just told me that he’s come back because he wants to be with someone. Someone who lives in England …

Oh. My. God.

I clutch the bar because I’m in serious danger of falling off my stool.

‘You’ve come back to be with a girl?’

Bradley’s cheeks are as pink as my Cath Kidston mobile. ‘Yep. She’s right here. In this pub.’

‘She is?’ I stall for time. Is my Christmas wish list about to get one item shorter?

Bradley nods. ‘Over there.’ And rather than peering deeply into my eyes and dropping a bombshell, he points towards the blonde Australian barmaid who’d joked with me earlier. ‘Her name’s Julia.’

Oh.

‘I’ve known Jules for years,’ Bradley says, as he pulls a tray of glasses from the dishwasher. ‘She was dating a mate of mine so I never dreamed we could be anything else. But when I went home she was single and,’ he looks bashful, ‘we kind of got it together, you know?’

I’ve got it together with Bradley a few times myself so, yes, I know.

‘But Jules was about to go travelling,’ he continues, ‘and I couldn’t bear to lose her so she persuaded me to go traveling with her.’

Julia looks over and smiles at him, a smile of such joy that it lights up the room.

‘Isn’t she great?’

‘She’s beautiful,’ I say honestly.

He reaches across the bar. ‘You and me have been really good friends, Robyn, chatting over crappy love lives, so I thought you’d like to know: before we flew here I asked Jules to marry me. And guess what? She said yes!’

‘Wow!’ I say. ‘Congratulations!’

‘Thanks. You really do know when you meet the right one. Everything just falls into place.’

‘I’m really pleased for you,’ I lean across the bar and kiss his cheek, a very different kiss from the last one we shared. ‘You deserve to be really happy.’

Bradley brushes my cheek with the back of his hand. ‘And so do you, Robyn,’ His jerks his head in the direction of the television where Patrick is flirting with a stunning actress. ‘Especially after your narrow escape from that idiot.’



It’s really late by the time I finally leave the pub after buying champagne and listening to Bradley and Julia’s excited plans. She’s lovely, laid-back and funny and we really click. Brad’s obviously told her exactly what our relationship once was because Jules is careful to reassure me that she doesn’t have a problem with any aspect of her fiancé’s past.

‘After all, I was with Shane,’ she says, flicking her blond mane behind her smooth tanned shoulders. ‘It’s not as though Brad and I were together then. The past is past, yeah?’

I gulp. In spite of the fact that they weren’t even together the last time that Brad and I hung out, I still have a horrible sense of guilt. Thanks a lot for sending me to a convent school, mum! How can I show Brad and Jules that I really am genuinely delighted for them? Then I have a brilliant idea.

‘How about I help you plan your wedding?’ I say slowly. ‘Perfect Day at your service. And I’ll do it for free.’

Jules’s eyes widen. ‘Really? You’d do that for us?’

But Brad looks worried, probably thinking that having his ex arrange his wedding is far from normal.

‘You don’t have to do that, Robyn,’ he says.

‘I know I don’t have to,’ I reply. ‘But you were a good friend to me when I had a tough time and I’d like to do something for you both. Seeing a couple as loved up as you guys gives me hope for the future!’

A frown crinkles Bradley’s brow. ‘Are you really sure?’

I nod. ‘Totally. Besides, budget weddings are my speciality. Just ask Hester Dunaway!’

Opening my purse I pluck out a card, which I give to Jules. ‘Give me a call when I’m slightly more sober! Then we can start making plans.’

Jules is grinning from ear to ear. ‘Cool! Thanks, Robyn. You’re a dahl! If only all Brad’s exes were like you.’

‘All?’ I catch Brad’s eye and a blush creeps up his neck. He looks so awkward that I can’t help but start to laugh.

When I leave the bar and head for home the laughter slips away and is replaced by a creeping sense of desolation.

I’ve offered Perfect Day’s services for free as a wedding present and I’m over the moon for them, I really am. The tears that slide silently down my cheeks aren’t because I want Bradley for myself, or wish that I were in Julia’s Uggs. No way. I’m just so sad at always being the one left behind. Everybody is moving on but I’m always left alone, standing on the shore and watching them sail over the horizon to new and exciting lands. I realise I’m not jealous of Bradley and Julia but I am jealous of what they have.

I’m tired of being on my own. Part of me worries that I’ll never meet the right man to settle down and have children with. And another part of me wonders if that’s my fault.

I’m just pushing open the gate to Gideon’s garden, and peering carefully at the path just in case Poppy’s been out for a late night loo visit, when my phone beeps from deep within my bag. I root around and fish it out, trying not to scatter sweet wrappers and fluffy Tampax onto the grass.

That’s strange, I don’t recognise the number.

I open the message and scan it. When the words sink into my wine-sodden brain I’m taken aback because the text is from Jonathan Broadhead. He’s signed me up for the swing dancing course just like he promised.

A thoughtful man who keeps his word too? No wonder he’s married. Who wouldn’t want to keep hold of a man like that?

I unlock the front door and switch on the light. I re-read the message and in spite of myself, I find that I’m smiling.

I may be an old spinster of the parish, gathering dust on her shelf, but things are looking up.

Robyn Hood is going swing dancing!




CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_6a1e90e4-4aba-57cc-8058-40f7447e9cf4)


It’s Friday. D-day.

The closer the tube gets to Covent Garden the more nervous I feel.

And being nervous is never good, especially when pitching against Hester Dunnaway, a woman so cool that she makes cucumbers appear hot and bothered.

Sighing, I check my reflection in the carriage window. When I planned my outfit I’d plumped for a look with just the right amount of edge, hoping this would sum up the ethos of Perfect Day. I’d imagined sipping coffee while Saffron flicked through my portfolio in a relaxed and friendly fashion in her Chelsea flat. So when her PA changed the location to her Scorching!’s London HQ, I was a bit shaken. I’m not sure what magazine editors wear but I’ve seen The Devil Wears Prada and I’m beginning to worry that I may have got it wrong.

I’m wearing a black vintage flared skirt with a full net underskirt and red roses appliquéd onto it, a black crossover sweater with a rose corsage and my favourite pillarbox red swing coat and cute velvet scarf. It all looked great when I twirled in front of the mirror and just the thing for a bright May morning. But now I’m just wondering why I decided to wear wedges that are higher than Ben Nevis. They seemed like a really funky statement when I pulled them on but they’re hopeless for negotiating the tube and running through the London crowds. I may as well have worn stilts.

Won’t Hester love it if I’m late?

I dash across the Piazza, ignoring Karen Millen and the human robot man, and locate the cobbles of Floral Street. I find the building that’s home to the hive of celebrity news and gossip that is Scorching! magazine, and throw myself through the doors.

‘Robyn Hood,’ I pant to the glamorous receptionist whose make-up’s such a work of art that the Louvre is probably bidding for it. ‘I have an appointment with Ms Scott at eleven.’

‘Welcome to Scorching!,’ she says, hiding her smirk at my name. ‘Ms Scott’s in a meeting at the moment but she is expecting you. Please take a seat.’

I perch on what appears to be an art installation but is actually a chair and take a deep breath. OK, Robyn, you’ve made it. Calm and relaxed, remember? You can do this.

I glance down at my portfolio. It contains all the designs and plans for Saffron’s wedding that I’ve been slaving over. Gideon’s advice about following my own instincts breached the dam of my wedding planner’s block and for the last three days I’ve been sketching and creating themes from dawn to dusk.

But now my ideas seem so stupid. How did I think I could compete with Hester and plan A-list weddings? The closest I come to designer labels these days is drooling over them on eBay. And they’re all designers from back in the fifties!

I put the folder down, flexing fingers that tingle from holding it so tightly, and decide to check my make-up. I reach into my bag and fish around for my make-up; easier said than done when the bag leaps from my lap to spew its contents all over the floor.

‘Bugger!’ I say. ‘I mean, oops!’

I get on the floor and start cramming the detritus back in my bag, hoping that the reclaimed oak boards don’t ladder my stockings.

‘Robyn, you don’t need to get on your knees in my presence!’ drawls an amused voice.

My gaze travels up past a pair of Christian Louboutin boots, slender ankles and classic black Chanel suit, via this season’s must-have Mulberry bag, to a pair of beady gooseberry green eyes.

‘Hello, Hester,’ I say.

‘Darling,’ Hester drawls, ‘why on earth are you sprawled on the floor in such an unsightly manner?’

I cram the contents of my bag back inside as quickly as I can and scramble to my feet. ‘Yoga,’ I tell her. ‘Just a quick salute to the sun to supple up my mind!’

‘Yoga?’ echoes my ex-boss. ‘How very last season, Robyn. Anyone who is anyone is doing Pilates now. Sienna and Gwyneth both attend my class.’

What sort of world is it where even crawling around on the floor has to be done fashionably?

‘I’m pitching to Saffron,’ I say, smoothing down my skirt and arranging my face into an expression of yogic serenity.

‘Really?’ Hester smiles, or at least I think she does because Botox can do strange things to a woman’s facial expressions. ‘And you’ve dressed up especially. How sweet.’

Luckily for Hester I’m thirty-four, not four, which means that I don’t smack her in the face.

‘And you look very smart,’ I say, because she does.

Hester inclines her blonde head graciously, the hair so bouffant today that she looks like a coneless Mr Whippy. ‘Let me give you some advice,’ she says. Hester opens her portfolio and flips through myriad glossy pictures until settling on one. ‘In this game, experience and contacts are everything. How else would I be able to give people the weddings of their dreams?’

‘Er, by listening to them and giving them what they want?’ I ask.

But Hester isn’t paying attention to insignificant little old me. ‘How else,’ she continues, ‘would I have been able to devise a wedding such as this? A wedding of such grandeur and vision that Saffron was left speechless after my presentation?’

And she shoves the folder under my nose so that I have little choice but to look at the bright images. I’m not surprised that Saffron was speechless. I’m pretty lost for words myself.

The glossy scene before me is of a winter-wonderland-gone-crazy style wedding. It’s kind of like Christmas on 34th Street but even more so. Everyone is in a matching red and green costume with plenty of fur (probably real fox fur, I shudder) lining every possible hem. And the groom is even encased in what looks suspiciously like a Father Christmas outfit. The bride is seated on a reindeer and wearing an angel-wing contraption on her back, on which hundreds and hundreds of diamonds sparkle extravagantly. Dwarfs dressed as elves pass round drinks on trays and turn frozen somersaults. A giant ice sculpture is in pride of place below a ceiling covered with mistletoe and multi-coloured baubles the size of tractor wheels.

Hester has out-flamingoed herself, that’s for sure.

‘Goodness,’ I say weakly, thinking that if Saffron loves this I may as well just go home now. ‘That’s really something else, Hester.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Hester agrees, snapping the folder shut. ‘The angel wings alone are worth one hundred thousand pounds, and, between you and me, HRH is not averse to renting out Windsor Castle for the day. Stella McCartney is desperate to design the dress. Have you got anything planned that can compete with that?’

‘Err …’ I can safely say that I haven’t.

‘Oh, Robyn,’ Hester shakes her head sorrowfully. ‘Did you listen to anything I said when you worked for me? Didn’t I always tell you to stick to the golden rule – always go for the most expensive wedding possible? Nobody wants to be stingy when it comes to their big day.’

I think of the plans in my portfolio where I’ve opted for simplicity and elegance. If Saffron is crazy about Hester’s wild and wacky wedding on heat idea then I’ve blown it. Blown it, but at least kept to my principles, which are that a wedding isn’t about how much cash the planner can make but actually about a couple being in love and celebrating their union.

Maybe this naive notion is why Hester shops in designer boutiques and I’m second hand?

‘Anyway, darling,’ Hester says, ‘I can’t stay chatting all day. I need to source some fur and quinces.’ And, point made, she bids me a swift farewell and sails out of the office. The cloying scent of Poison lingers in her wake, making me feel sick.

At least I think it’s the Poison making me feel sick …

‘Robyn Hood,’ the receptionist calls. ‘Ms Scott will see you now. Go on up. Top of the stairs and first left.’

‘Thanks,’ I croak and I make my way up the stairs, clutching my portfolio in my cold and clammy fingers.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so worried in my life.

And since I was once engaged to Patrick McNicolas, that’s really saying something.

Luckily the text alert from my mobile distracts me from my nerves and flipping it open I see that Jonathan has sent me a message:

Best of luck with the pitch! X

It’s really sweet of him to remember I’m meeting Saffron today and this thoughtful message makes me smile in spite of my nerves. We’ve sent each other several messages since I texted back to thank him for booking the swing dancing class and I’ve come to look forward to his messages. I know he’s married but that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. After all, I’m friends with Si.

I switch off my mobile. Knowing Jonathan’s sending me positive vibes has a wonderful effect on my state of mind and my legs no longer feel like over cooked spaghetti. By the time Saffron’s PA escorts me into the office I’m actually looking forward to making my pitch and giving Hester a run for her money.

Bring it on!

‘Hi, Robyn!’ Saffron crosses her office, a slender figure with a glorious mane of red hair and skin like double cream. ‘Thanks so much for coming over. I’m so sorry about changing the location at the last minute, but Hester insisted she’d never be able to make it to Chelsea for ten.’

I bet she did! Yet she could make it to Covent Garden. Weird, when she works just down the road from Chelsea, in Fulham. If I was paranoid I would think she did it just to mess me around.

‘That’s no problem.’ I shake her hand, noticing the simple but elegant French manicure. ‘I’m just pleased to be here. There was signal trouble on the tube, I thought we were all going to boil alive.’

Saffron shudders. ‘Poor you. Take a seat and I’ll get my PA to fetch you a drink. Water?’

‘That would be great, thanks.’ I’m relieved she’s indicated that I sit on a black leather sofa rather than perching in interview style in front of the desk. Saffron seems really friendly. I love the simple green trouser suit she’s wearing; it compliments her fiery hair and clear blue eyes perfectly and the big platform boots that peek out from beneath the boot leg trousers make a perfect contrast.

By the time my water arrives I’m feeling cooler and much more at ease. Saffron and I chat for a while, laughing over our love of unusual heels, and I’m delighted when she admires my vintage bag.

‘It’s very classic,’ she comments. ‘It reminds me of Donna Reed in my all-time favourite film – It’s a Wonderful Life – all that joy and those beautiful clothes – what’s not to love! I just love Christmas.’

‘Me too!’ I say, delighted to have met a kindred spirit. ‘I know that most people moan when the decorations go up right after Halloween but I’m always really excited! I love the cheesy songs and seeing Oxford Street all lit up.’

Saffron grins. ‘You’re not alone. I think I must be just a big kid at heart! When Fergus proposed I knew straight away that I wanted a magical Christmas wedding – I’ve dreamed about it since I was a little girl.’

We beam at each other.

‘So,’ says Saffron finally. ‘What ideas have you got for me?’

I take a deep breath. ‘I’ll be honest, Saffron, I’ve spent ages thinking up ideas, making mood boards and sketches, but now I’ve actually met you, I don’t think any of my ideas are right.’

Saffron’s mouth is open; she was probably waiting for more hog roasts and jesters.

‘You’re welcome to look at my portfolio,’ I plough on, ‘but I think I’ve just had a better idea. Why don’t we use your love of It’s a Wonderful Life and give your wedding a family Christmas theme? We could even have the wedding on Christmas Eve.’

Saffron stares at me. Whether she’s delighted or horrified I can’t tell but it’s too late in any case because my mouth’s going into overdrive.

‘It could be fantastic! Lots of understated glamour and beautiful 1940s clothes. But with what’s important at the heart of it – your family and friends. The spirit of Christmas.’

Saffron stares at me. She’s totally silent.

Oh God, I’ve blown it. I should have mentioned flamingos or paper cranes.

Then her mouth curves into a smile.

‘It’s brilliant! I adore it! Do you think we could really pull it off?’

‘Of course we can!’

I’m nearly bursting with ideas for utilising all my experience of rummaging through vintage clothes boutiques and antique stores. ‘We could have so much fun sourcing all the materials and we could make it so cosy and warm. In fact,’ I add, thinking of my favourite little shop in Camden, ‘I know a great place to start. If you want to start, I mean. I don’t want to presume anything. I know Hester had an amazing portfolio.’

‘Yes, she certainly did,’ deadpans Saffron. ‘Absolutely amazing.’ Then she catches my eye, her lips twitch and she convulses with laughter. ‘Sorry! Sorry!’ she gasps. ‘I shouldn’t laugh but can you really imagine me wearing angel wings and an edible chastity belt?’

‘Not really,’ I admit.

‘Or poor Fergus in a Father Christmas outfit?!’

I start to laugh. ‘But what about the banquet? You need to think carefully before you turn down a stuffed swan.’

Saffron shudders. ‘Her ostentatious ideas were such a turn-off. Is that really how people see me?’

‘Not if they know you,’ I tell her. ‘Hester just likes to go to town.’

‘That’s one way of putting it. I wasn’t impressed either when she suggested I delay the date of the wedding until next year so we can really go all out. Fergus would have gone mental.’

‘That’s totally understandable. The whole point of the wedding is so that you can be together; it shouldn’t be keeping you apart!’

‘Caught you! You’re a romantic!’ Saffron cries, clapping her hands. ‘That’s perfect! A wedding planner who actually believes in love and who has brilliant ideas! That does it! Robyn, I’d love you to plan my wedding – if you’d like to?’

‘If I’d like to?’ I parrot, only needing a cage and some seed to complete the look. ‘Of course I’d like to if you’re sure you want me?’

‘Oh, I’m sure,’ says Saffron. ‘Perfect Day is exactly what Fergus and I have been looking for. I can hardly wait to get started.’

‘Nor can I,’ I say, as we shake hands. ‘Nor can I!’




CHAPTER TEN (#ulink_7df15f34-6245-566c-96c3-2f6425be0f00)


June

‘You know what you need to do with this car?’ the AA patrolman says from beneath the bonnet.

‘What?’ I ask, hoping it’ll be something quick and inexpensive.

‘Scrap it and get something new.’ He smiles at his little joke. ‘My missus has got a lovely Fiesta.’

‘Right,’ I say, fighting the impulse to ram his head into the engine. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

‘Besides, we’ve been called out for this car too many times and we’re within our rights to refuse to give you any more assistance.’

‘Maybe I should join the RAC instead?’

‘They’ll only tell you the same. Get rid of this monstrosity and find yourself a car that works.’

‘I love my car!’ I protest. ‘Dolly the Mercedes is a design classic!’

He snorts. ‘If you say so. But you’d be better off with a Fiesta. You’ll never get a baby seat in that contraption. You know, when the time comes.’

I roll my eyes. I’m more likely to grow another head than I am to have a baby. Call me old fashioned but I’d quite like to find a man first and that is proving easier said than done. Thirty-four, single, and with no hope of finding a decent man. It’s a problem that even Stephen Hawking couldn’t solve. Unless he knows the address of the parallel universe where they all live.

Anyway, here I am, a woman on her own at the side of the A4, and my knight of the road turns out to be the same grumpy git who’s attended Dolly the Mercedes’ previous two hissy fits. And I literally mean hissy fits. I haven’t seen this much steam since I last went to the Sanctuary Spa.

While the patrolman delves under the bonnet I fan my face and wish I had my emergency wedding kit with me: sunscreen and a bottle of Evian would be very handy right now.

My ancient Mercedes can be a little temperamental but Dolly’s over twenty years old and probably feels she’s earned the right to have a senior moment from time to time. I’d have sympathy except I wish she’d chosen a better time. A beautiful June evening like this should be spent on the Heath drinking wine, not sitting at the roadside being lectured about my car and the lack of children I have borne.

Am I some kind of bad luck magnet? This morning I had a phone call telling me the beautiful country house hotel Saffron’s had her heart set on for the wedding venue is booked for Christmas Eve, a stern letter arrived from the Inland Revenue, and then Faye cancelled lunch. Add to this realising that it’s a year to the day since Pat and I split and there you have it – a totally crap day.

If my life was a Mills & Boon novel the patrolman attending this breakdown would be some Brad Pitt lookalike, all rippling muscles and six pack under his yellow overalls, working part-time as he studies for his PhD. He’d climb from the cab and we’d take one look at each other before he’d scoop me into his arms and carry me into his low loader. Then he’ll turn out to be the love of my life and we’ll live happily ever after …

Hmm, just my luck that I live in the real world where AA men are bald and grumpy.

And gorgeous, thoughtful men like Jonathan are married.

Maybe I should look on the bright side. After all, there is one sunbeam on an otherwise gloomy horizon and a pretty impressive sunbeam it is too. I can still hardly believe that I’m going to be planning Saffron’s wedding! I’m still pinching myself because I’ve been given the green light to source fabulous designers and tasteful Christmas accessories. I haven’t seen Hester since Saffron made her decision but I know she won’t forgive me in a hurry. She’s furious that Perfect Day has won the tender and, according to Saffron, turned white with disbelief at being pipped at the post by such an amateur outfit. If it was anyone else I’d almost feel sorry for her but this is payback for all the hideous jobs she gave me, especially the time she made me clean up after three vomiting bridesmaids.

I turn my attention back to the car. I wouldn’t put it past Hester to have sabotaged it.

‘Can you fix it?’ I ask the AA man.

‘It looks like the radiator. I’ll do my best to patch it up so you can get home but you’ll probably need to replace it.’

‘Is that expensive?’

‘About two hundred quid.’

Great. My bank manager will need Valium if I go any more overdrawn this month.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ the AA man says, wiping his hands on a rag before delving into the back of his truck. ‘Worse things happen at sea.’

‘I’m not at sea. I’m on the A4,’ I point out.

When my phone buzzes, I take a look at the screen. There’s no name, but the number is ingrained into my memory from repeated and persistent use. Patrick. What do I have to do to get rid of this man?

I flip my phone open.

‘What do you want?’

‘And hello to you too,’ says Patrick cheerfully. ‘Sure, isn’t that a lovely way to greet your friends?’

‘What makes you think you’re my friend?’

Pat laughs. ‘I love your dry sense of humour, so I do.’

I’m not joking.

‘This really isn’t a good time for a social call. Dolly’s broken down.’

‘Jaysus! Not again? How many times is it now? Eight?’

‘No!’ I retort hotly. ‘Only six actually.’

‘Only six?’ Although I can’t see him, I know that Pat’s eyes will be twinkling with mirth. ‘Oh, that’s OK then. Honestly, Robs, it’s time you gave up with that old car and got yourself a newer model.’

‘Like you did?’ I nearly say, and only just stop myself in time. Instead I say, ‘You never did like Dolly, did you?’

‘Robyn, what sort of man wants to be seen in a Barbie car?’

‘Ken?’

Pat laughs. ‘A man with no dick! I rest my case. Anyways, Robs, I haven’t called just to talk dirty, fun though that is. I was wondering if you fancied coming out for lunch sometime? Maybe Wednesday?’

I’ve always known he’s tactless but this doesn’t so much take the biscuit as the entire McVities factory. Our first wedding anniversary would have been next Wednesday. What’s going on? I hope he’s not about to suggest we have sex for old time’s sake or something equally ridiculous. I wouldn’t put anything past Patrick. I barely trusted him when we were together – rightly, as it turned out – and I certainly don’t trust him now.

‘I’m really busy next week. I’ve lots of weddings.’

Weddings. Hint. Hint.

‘Ah, feck,’ Pat sighs. ‘I really wanted to see you. There’s something I need to ask you.’

‘Everything’s OK, isn’t it?’

Pat is silent.

‘Pat? You’re not ill or anything, are you?’

‘Sure, we’re fine!’ he says swiftly. ‘Especially Jo. She’s blooming. Jaysus, Robs! I’m so excited! I’ve always wanted to be a da!’

‘I know you have. You’ll be brilliant, so congratulations.’

And he will be brilliant too. Pat’s always wanted kids and he was fantastic with my half-brothers. It was something of a bone of contention that I wasn’t ready to think about children from the instant that the engagement ring was on my finger.

‘Jo’s excited too. She’s not like you. Family means everything to her.’

His implication being that family doesn’t mean very much to me. I want to be offended, but in a way he’s right. If I’m honest, the idea scared me. But it scares everyone, doesn’t it? Becoming a mother is not a decision to take lightly, so I was right to be cautious.

Or maybe I’m kidding myself.

‘We’re going to move to Ireland too,’ he adds. ‘I’m earning enough now to buy a little cottage in the country. That was always my dream, remember, Robs?’

Oh yes, I remember. Pat always had a longing for the so-called simple life and we spent many hours arguing over the pros and cons of moving to the country. Somehow I couldn’t imagine swapping Jimmy Choos for chickens, and Patrick wouldn’t compromise with a mews house in Primrose Hill. Running Perfect Day from the sticks would have been impossible, and the thought of giving up my business and being dependent on Patrick had made my skin prickle with unease.

I force a light note into my voice when I say, ‘Barefoot and pregnant. Lucky Jo!’

‘I’m pretty traditional,’ admits Pat. ‘We’re going to get married as soon as we can so that we’re Mr and Mrs McNicolas by the time the baby comes. Jaysus! Like I said, I can’t have my child being born a bastard.’

I skip the obvious joke at his expense and say, ‘Look, Pat, this is all great but I really can’t talk. I’m stuck on the A4 and about to be rear-ended.’

‘I always loved your rear end,’ says Patrick, nostalgically. ‘But that isn’t why I phoned. Well – and feel free to say no if you like – but Jo and I were wondering whether you’d consider planning our wedding?’

For a second I’m struck dumb. Did I just hear my ex-fiancé asking me to plan his wedding to the hussy he cheated on me with?

‘You’re going to say no, aren’t you?’ says my perceptive ex when I fail to whoop and screech with rapture. ‘Ah, feck. Jo said you’d say no. I should have listened to her.’

Jo obviously has more sense than I’d given her credit for.

‘She said you probably aren’t over me yet,’ Pat ploughs on.

Or maybe not!

My temper starts to bubble like lava in a volcano. Jo thinks I’m still in love with him? The cheek of it! I’ll show her just how over him I am! I’ll arrange such a fantastic celebrity wedding for my ex and his new fiancée that it’ll make Posh and Becks’ look like a budget do!

I try to laugh lightly but sound instead as though I’ve been strangled. Embarrassed, I hastily turn my laugh into a cough. Better he thinks I’m choking than incoherent with rage.

‘Jaysus, are you all right?’ Pat asks, sounding concerned.

‘Fine! There’s just a lot of pollution here by the roadside,’ I improvise wildly, throwing in a couple more coughs just for good measure. ‘That’s better. I’d love to be your wedding planner!’

‘Ah, that’s great so it is!’ Pat says warmly. ‘Now, I have to be honest. I may have led Hester to believe that she was in with a chance of getting the gig. After all, I know first-hand just how much attention to detail she pays to these things and I did have some very specific ideas!’

My eyes widen. When we were together Pat, witnessed my despair on countless occasions when Hester gave me the worst jobs imaginable. Sometimes we’d laughed when there was a funny side (I’d never forget rescuing a very famous A-lister who’d been naked and handcuffed to a bed on the night before his wedding) but more often than not, Pat had seen me in floods of tears over some awful petty task that Hester had insisted I carry out. And he hadn’t been impressed.

‘Pat, what have you done?’

‘Ah, Robs, it was only a bit of fun,’ said Pat. ‘I’m famous now, so I am, and good old Hester was all of a flutter when I called and expressed an interest in her services. I might have asked her to plan an Irish wedding complete with river dancing leprechauns, buried pot of gold and a machine that makes rainbows.

‘A machine that makes rainbows?’

Pat laughs. ‘Indeed. I was most insistent about the rainbow machine. I swore blind Elton and David used one at their last ball, and good old Hester has promised to sort me one. She’s promised that she won’t rest until she finds exactly what I want!’

What poetic justice that the demanding Hester, who once made me scrub an entire church floor with a nail brush, should now be racing around on a fool’s errand. Pat may have his faults but he’s always hated bullies and many a time had been on the brink of telling Hester exactly what he thought of her. I feel ridiculously touched even if I’m slightly alarmed that I’m now arranging the weddings of two ex lovers!

‘I’ll get Jo to ring you,’ Pat says. ‘She already has loads of ideas and she can’t wait to get started.’

‘Great,’ I say weakly. Am I really up for this?

Pat and Jo’s wedding would dredge up painful memories I’ve spent most of last year trying to bury. The question is though, can I put my feelings aside enough to be professional? Smile brightly when inside I feel like sobbing?

Right now I really don’t know.

‘I’m not sure, Patrick,’ I say. ‘August is a really busy time for me.’

‘Aw, Jaysus, Robs, go on! I’ll give you free rein with the budget and recommend you to all my celeb pals,’ carries on Patrick, who truly was born without an empathy gene. ‘Your career will skyrocket. Jaysus! Just think how that would annoy that old bat Hester – once she’s finally admitted defeat with the rainbow machine!’

I laugh in spite of my shock. ‘I must admit that idea’s very tempting! I’ll think about it and call you in a few days.’

Pat whoops and I picture him punching the air just like he used to when he got a gig at the Comedy Store. When he rings off I sigh, knowing he already considers my arranging his wedding a done deal. It’s not really that surprising. I was never very good at saying no to Patrick.

I close my eyes wearily. The traffic is still tearing past and the patrolman still muttering under Dolly’s bonnet, but I hardly register any of this. Instead Patrick’s words buzz around my brain like insistent wasps.

Part of me – the part that really did love Pat once – wants to throw my head back and scream, Why not me? Why wasn’t I good enough? And worst of all: Is this my fault?

The whole scene dips and swims alarmingly. The headlamps of passing cars shimmer and brake lights are shimmering rubies.

The patrolman stares at me in alarm.

‘Don’t cry, love! It’s only a radiator. If you really want to save this hunk of junk, it can be mended.’

But I can only shake my head. Everything’s changed. Everyone’s found their perfect match; Si, Faye, Gideon and now even Patrick.

I can fix the car, but will my heart ever be properly mended?




CHAPTER ELEVEN (#ulink_d6e25160-b5a3-5863-9240-b517f476ae11)


‘She’s not going to make it! She’s taci-cardic and her stats are dropping!’

I’m curled up on the sofa watching Casualty. Staying in and watching people die is a pretty odd way to spend a Saturday evening but it beats having to think about my own life. As yet another train crash/bomb blast/terrorist attack takes place on screen I try to feel thankful for my own lot. Things could be worse: I could live in Holby.




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