Читать книгу The Perfect Christmas - Georgie Carter - Страница 15

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!’