Читать книгу Bombshell For The Boss: The Bride's Baby - Jackie Braun, Nicola Marsh - Страница 7

JOSIE FOWLER flung herself full length into the sofa that had, at considerable expense, been provided for the comfort of their clients. With her feet dangling over the arm and her arm shielding her eyes, she groaned.

‘Late night?’ Sylvie asked.

‘Late and then some. I have to tell you that you are, without doubt, a world class fantasy wedding planner.’

‘Event planner,’ Sylvie said, pulling a face. She was so off weddings. ‘We are SDS Events, Jo. Fantasy or otherwise, weddings are no different from any other job.’ Cue, hollow laughter … ‘I take it from your reaction that everything went according to plan yesterday?’

In other words, please tell me that the bride didn’t have second thoughts …

‘Pleease!’ Josie, in full drama queen mode—despite her eighteen-hole Doc Martens and punk hair-do, both of them purple—clutched both hands to her heart. ‘What SDS event would dare to deviate from “the plan”?’

‘According to my grandfather,’ she said in an effort not to think about the Harcourt/McFarlane debacle—she’d promised herself she wouldn’t think about that nightmare, or the Tom McFarlane effect, more than three times a day and she was already over budget—’the first casualty of battle is always “the plan”.’

She laid her hand over the child growing beneath her heart—living proof of that little homily.

‘That would be your Colonel-in-Chief of the regiment grandfather, right?’

‘It certainly wasn’t my party-throwing playboy grandfather. His idea of “a plan” was to order enough champagne to float a battleship and leave everything else for someone else to worry about.’ Including the final bill. And the sweetest man on earth. ‘As you’ll learn, when emotions are involved anything can happen,’ she continued as, letter in hand, she carefully placed a tick on one of the plans that decorated every available inch of wall space.

This one was for a silver wedding celebration. She felt safe with a silver wedding. Then, hand on her back, she straightened carefully.

‘Are you okay?’ Josie asked. Then, ‘Sit down, I can do that.’

‘It’s done,’ she said, waving away her concern. ‘Don’t fuss.’ Then, ‘Tell me about the wedding.’

‘I have told you. It was fabulous.’ Then, ‘You’re not still smarting over the bride who got away, are you?’

‘No!’ Her legendary calm slipped a notch and not just because of the wedding that never was. ‘No,’ she repeated, getting a grip. ‘The one thing I can’t be held responsible for is the bride getting cold feet. Even if she chose to warm them on one of my staff.’

‘You are not responsible! For heaven’s sake, it was more than six months ago. Even the groom will have got over it by now.’

‘I couldn’t say.’ All she knew was that he hadn’t responded to her letter. ‘Can we please just concentrate on yesterday’s wedding?’ she said, jerking her mind away from that long afternoon she’d spent with Tom McFarlane. The solidity of his shoulders beneath her hands. The way his hands had felt against her skin. That raw, overwhelming need as he’d looked down at her, touched her …

The only thing on his mind had been instant gratification with the first woman to cross his path. It had been nothing more than a reaction to being dumped, she knew. A wholly masculine need to have his ego restored. With maybe a little tit-for-tat payback thrown in for good measure. Just in case she needed to feel any worse about herself.

‘Look, if you don’t trust me, Sylvie, maybe you should find someone—’

Jerked back from the danger of slipping into self-pity, she said, ‘Oh, Josie … Of course I trust you! I wouldn’t leave such a major event to anyone in whom I didn’t have the utmost faith. Besides, I knew you’d rather be coordinating a wedding in the Cotswolds than babysitting a women’s rights conference in London. Sensible woman that you are.’ Then, with determined brightness, ‘So, not a single hiccup, then? There’ll be no comebacks when I send the bride’s papa the final account?’

‘Anyone who didn’t know you better, Sylvie, would think you only cared about the money.’

‘I promise you, I don’t do this for fun,’ she replied.

‘Oh, right. As if you didn’t work yourself to a standstill to ensure that every little detail was perfect so that the bride has a day she’ll never forget.’

‘That’s just good business, Jo. I apply exactly the same standards to every event.’

‘You’re a perfectionist, no doubt about it. But you do always seem to go the extra mile for weddings.’

‘I just worry more. It’s not quite like a conference or some company event, is it? For the two people involved it’s a once in a lifetime occasion. If it goes wrong they aren’t going to say, “Oh, well, never mind. We’ll have the fireworks next time.” At least I hope not!’

‘I knew it! You’re just like the rest of us. Beneath that ice-cool exterior beats a heart of pure mush.’

‘Rubbish. Mush, let me tell you, doesn’t pay the bills,’ she said crisply. It certainly hadn’t been ‘mush’ she’d felt …

No. She was overdrawn on thinking about Tom McFarlane. Overdrawn and heading for bankruptcy.

‘So?’ she continued a touch desperately. ‘Did we do good?’

‘We did great,’ Josie said, lowering her feet to the floor and joining her at the wall plan. ‘It was perfection from the moment the bride arrived in her fairy tale coach until the last firework faded in the midnight sky.’ She sighed. ‘You were absolutely right, by the way, to resist the bride’s plea for bows on the tails of the horses.’

‘You didn’t say that when she had hysterics in the office,’ Sylvie reminded her. ‘As I recall, your exact words were, “Give the silly cow what she wants …”‘

‘I just don’t have your class, Sylvie.’

‘It’s easy to get carried away.’ To lose sight of what a wedding actually meant in the pressure to indulge in every over-the-top frill. ‘When in doubt just think of it as a feathers-and-curls situation. If you have feathers in your hat, who’s going to notice the curls?’

‘You see? I would go for both every time. I guess that’s the difference between Benenden and a sink estate comprehensive school …’

‘Not necessarily.’

It certainly hadn’t stopped Candy Harcourt from going for the feathers, the curls and every other frippery known to womankind. But then she’d had a big empty gap to fill, one that had taken all the frippery she could get her hands on, and it still hadn’t been enough.

When it had been the real thing, Candy had only needed the man she loved and a couple of witnesses. Of course that might have been because his family would have done everything they could to stop it if they’d had advance warning.

They’d sent her a photograph that someone had taken of them after the ceremony, along with a note from Candy apologising for leaving her to deal with the fallout and one from Quentin tendering his resignation.

It had been plain that he was hoping that she’d beg him to come back but she’d managed to resist the temptation and, to her relief, he’d already been snapped up by one of her competitors.

‘Besides,’ she said, doing her utmost to banish Candy and Quentin and their somewhat unexpected happy ever after from her memory, ‘you have the street smarts, Jo. One look from you and everyone thinks twice about giving us the run-around.’

Tom McFarlane wouldn’t have given Josie a moment’s trouble, she thought.

‘And no one is better at keeping everything running behind the scenes on the big day,’ she continued. ‘Taking you on was the best day’s work I ever did.’

Which was, despite the many warnings she’d received to the contrary, absolutely true.

Josie looked at her, swallowed and muttered, ‘Thanks.’ And, in an attempt to cover her confusion, bent to see what she’d been doing. ‘Hey, you’ve found another piper!’

‘Let’s hope this one doesn’t take a notion to do a spot of mountaineering and break something vital before the big day.’ She stood back. ‘Now all I need is for the happy couple to finalise the menu and, since the Rolling Stones are a little out of the budget for this affair, an RS tribute band so that the guests can revisit their ill-spent youth in a night of rock and roll.’ Then, ‘Did those new caterers do the business?’

‘For goodness’ sake, Sylvie! I told you it was perfect!’

‘There’s no such thing as perfect,’ she said, but with a smile. ‘Just find me some little thing and I’ll stop worrying.’

‘Idiot.’ Then, ‘Okay, the horses pooped in front of the church, hence my change of heart about the ribbons. Will that do?’

‘That is perfect,’ she said. Sylvie knew it was stupid, but there was always something; it was like waiting for the other shoe to drop. ‘You made sure it was cleaned up?’

Josie grinned. ‘I got lucky. The church warden was hoping for a donation for his roses and he was all ready with a bucket and shovel.’

‘You both got lucky, then.’

‘Too right. And, to put your mind totally at rest, the flowers were out of this world,’ Josie said, holding up her hand and ticking the items off one by one. ‘The choir were angelic. The food was amazing, those caterers are definitely a find. The string quartet, as far as I could tell—that is soooo not my kind of music—played in tune. Even the sun shone.’ Having run out of fingers, she shrugged. ‘What else is there?’

‘You want a list?’ Sylvie held up her own hand, ready to tick off the five legendary worst ever wedding disasters that every planner dreaded. Apart from the bride changing her mind days before the wedding.

Or the wedding planner losing it with the forsaken groom, she thought, forgetting the list as she placed her hand on the growing bulk of the baby she was carrying.

That was an item of gossip that would have made the story into a STORY and she came out in a cold sweat just thinking about what a meal Celebrity would make of it if they ever found out whose baby she was carrying.

Not that they hadn’t tried. Jeremy had been less than amused to be lined up as a possibility and had called her demanding she deny the rumours.

It was cruel not to, and maybe if he hadn’t behaved like such a pompous ass she’d have done it. Not that he’d actually changed, she realised. She was the one who’d done that, but only after wasting ten years …

‘The list?’ Josie prompted, looking at her a little oddly. She might not have believed the official version, that the single mother pregnancy had been planned using a ‘donor’. She hadn’t elaborated and Josie hadn’t pushed it. And, rising thirty with no partner and a ticking biological clock, even her closest friends had let it go without more than a slightly raised eyebrow.

‘Oh, right, the list …’

Before she could begin, the phone rang.

She reached back, glanced at the caller ID and, picking it up, said, ‘Hi, Laura. How are you?’

‘Pretty good, thanks, Sylvie, but, as always, I’m in need of a favour.’

‘Let me guess. You want an “SDS Event” for the silent auction at this year’s Pink Ribbon Club lunch?’

‘No …’ Then, ‘Well, yes, obviously, if you’re offering. We raised a bundle on that last year.’

‘Then it’s yours.’

‘That’s very generous. Thank you. I’ll just write that in …’ She paused, presumably to make a note of it.

‘So?’ Sylvie prompted. ‘What’s the favour?’

‘Oh, yes! It is a big one, although on this occasion I’m in a position to offer you something in return for your efforts.’

‘Oh?’ Laura sounded really excited but not missing the fact that she would be making an ‘effort’, Sylvie sat down and, pulling her notebook towards her, said, ‘Okay, let’s hear it.’

‘You’re not going to believe this, but I’ve just had a phone call from Celebrity magazine. They want to do a feature on the charity and they’re using the Spring Wedding Fayre we’re holding as a backdrop. They’ve even offered us a generous donation for our co-operation.’

‘They have?’ No wonder she was excited. ‘They usually only pay for exclusive coverage,’ she warned. ‘That won’t win you any friends with the local press. Willow Armstrong has been very supportive.’

‘I know, but this won’t affect local coverage. Celebrity are prepared to be generous because we’re pulling out all the stops for the Club’s tenth anniversary. That’s why I approached them in the first place. Your mother was always one of their favourites. All those wonderful parties …’

‘Yes …’

Throwing parties was something of a family tradition. Experience she’d put to profitable use when everything had gone belly-up.

‘So what do you want from me?’

‘Well, your mother founded the charity …’

‘Yes.’

‘And you are our Honorary President.’

Laura’s slow build-up was beginning to make her uneasy. ‘And?’

‘Well, it all just fits together so perfectly, don’t you see? Your mother’s parties. And now you’re the wedding planner at the top of every bride’s wish list.’

‘Event planner, Laura. Weddings are just one part of our business.’

‘I know, I know, but honestly they’ve come up with the most brilliant idea. One that I know you’re going to love.’

‘Really?’

When it came to some ‘brilliant idea’ concocted by the features editor of a gossip magazine, ‘love’ was unlikely to be her first reaction but Sylvie reserved judgement until she heard what it was.

‘Really. They’re going to feature a fantasy wedding, using our exhibitors. That’s going to be their exclusive.’

‘Oh, I see …’ Actually that was a good idea … ‘Well, well done, you.’ Then, ‘You want me to give you some ideas for the fantasy thing, is that it? I’ll be happy to—’

‘No, Sylvie, I want a little bit more than that.’ Laura could scarcely contain herself. ‘A lot more than that, actually. What they want is for you to use the Fayre’s exhibitors to create your own fantasy wedding!’

‘Mine? But I’m not getting married.’

Laura gave a little tut as if she were being particularly dim. ‘No, no, no … Don’t you see? You’ve organised so many fabulous weddings for other people that everyone will be agog to know what you’d choose for yourself.’

Oh, confetti!

The Celebrity features editor must have spotted her name on the letterhead and thought all her birthdays had come at once.

‘Bride, groom, two witnesses and the local register office?’ she offered hopefully.

Laura laughed, confident she was being teased. ‘I think Celebrity will want something a little more fairy tale than that!’

Oh, yes. Celebrity would want everything, up to and including her heart on her sleeve, which they were apparently ready to extract with a blunt knife. They couldn’t have been more obvious.

‘Just think what fun it will be,’ Laura continued. ‘Gorgeous clothes, fabulous food, all those special touches you’re so famous for. We’ve got some truly wonderful local exhibitors and you can totally let yourself go—’

‘Laura,’ she said, cutting in before this went any further. ‘I’m sorry, really, but I can’t do that.’

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Laura, stiff now, said, ‘I realise that there won’t be any big London names, Sylvie, but there’s no need to be quite that dismissive.’

Oh, good grief, she’d misunderstood. It wasn’t the exhibitors she was turning down. It was the whole nightmare scenario.

‘No …’ she began, but it was too late.

‘Your mother, if she were still with us—’

Sylvie lowered her head into her hand, knowing what was coming and helpless to stop it.

‘Lady Annika would be very disappointed to think that you’d let us down.’

No! No! No! Sylvie stuffed her fist into her mouth to stop the scream leaking out.

Josie, staring at her, mouthed the word, ‘Trouble?’

She just shook her head, unable to answer. This wasn’t trouble; this was the old girl network in full working order and, if nothing else would do it, the ‘old girls’ would play the guilt card without a second’s thought.

‘You may be an important businesswoman these days, but people still remember your family. Remember you. You’re a local girl and you have a duty to fly the flag for your town.’ As if aware that her attention was drifting, Laura pitched her voice at a level capable of cutting cold steel. ‘Forget your mother’s charity …’ oh, low blow! ‘… these people should be able to count on your support.’

The guilt card swiftly followed by the demands of noblesse oblige. Because, even when the noblesse had gone well and truly down the pan, the oblige just refused to quit.

Guilt and duty. The double whammy.

‘This feature wouldn’t just be fabulous PR for you, it would give some small designers a real chance to get noticed—’

Okay! Enough!

There was no need to lay it on with a trowel. Once the ‘your mother would be disappointed’ gambit had been played, Sylvie knew it was all over bar the shouting and, pulling herself together, she attempted to stem the flow.

‘Laura …’

‘Of course I don’t suppose you need PR these days—’

‘Laura!’

‘And, as for the fee Celebrity are offering the charity, well—’

‘Laura, don’t you ever read Celebrity?’

‘Well, no. It’s not my kind of thing. You won’t tell them, will you?’

‘No, but that’s not the point. If you ever read the thing, you’d know that the reason I can’t possibly do this is because I’m six months pregnant.’

‘Pregnant?’ Then, ‘I didn’t realise. When did you get married?’

Sylvie added ‘hurt’ to the range of expressions in Laura’s voice.

‘I didn’t, Laura. I’m not.’

‘Oh, well, that’s even better. You can really—’

‘No,’ she said quickly, anticipating what was coming next. ‘I can’t. I’m not getting married.’ Could this get any worse? ‘I just wanted a baby.’

Or better.

Because it was true.

Once she’d got over the shock, she’d realised that she did want this little girl. Desperately.

Laura, momentarily stumped, quickly recovered. ‘Oh, well, it doesn’t actually matter, does it? You don’t have to appear in the feature. No one would expect you to actually model something you’d chosen for yourself. Not before the wedding. Bad luck and all that? I’m sure Celebrity can organise a lookalike model.’

‘Do they have to? Couldn’t they find someone a little taller, a little thinner,’ she said, making a joke of it. Trying not to think what Tom McFarlane would make of it.

She’d expected him to call her. What she expected him to say, she didn’t dare think about. But she’d given him the option to walk away and he’d apparently taken it.

‘How much are Celebrity offering?’ she asked, refusing to dwell on it. Ignoring the hurt. And, certain that she’d won, Laura gave her the figure.

For a clutching-at-straws moment she’d hoped she might be able to cover the sum herself, buy her freedom. But, even as she’d clutched, she’d known that it was never going to happen.

This was about more than money.

It was about raising the profile of the charity that her mother had founded. A chance to show a national audience what they’d achieved, maybe even encourage women to set up branches in other areas; charities, like every other organization, had to grow or die. About giving local artists and craftsmen a national stage on which to air their talent.

And it was for her too. Refusing to hide.

Settled in her mind, Sylvie drew a deep breath and, burning all her boats, said, ‘Actually, Laura, that’s not enough.’

‘What isn’t enough?’

‘The fee Celebrity are offering you. It isn’t enough.’

‘It isn’t?’ Laura asked, surprised out of her disapproval as she was thrown on the defensive. ‘I thought it was very generous.’

‘I’m sure they told you that, but for this feature …’ for Sylvie Duchamp Smith giving a wedding master-class, for another excuse to rake over old bridal coals and speculate on the identity of the father of her child ‘… they’ll pay twice that.’

‘No!’

‘Oh, yes!’ The magazine had picked up the tabs for a couple of the weddings she’d organised and she knew what she was talking about. If they wanted to fill their pages with her personal fantasy, the charity her mother had founded was going to be paid the going rate. ‘You can take my word for it.’

‘Oh, I do,’ Laura assured her, suddenly catching on to the fact that she’d hooked her fish. ‘Maybe, as our Honorary President, you could talk to them? Since you seem to know so much about it.’

She fought down the temptation to remind the charity’s Chairman that the post of ‘Hon Pres’ was supposed to be just that, an honorary one, and said, ‘Leave it to me.’ She could, if nothing else, use the opportunity to ensure that the features editor focused on the fantasy wedding and, for her full co-operation, leave old stories buried. ‘So where is this all going to take place?’

‘I’ve been saving the best until last,’ she said. ‘We’ve been offered the use of Longbourne Court for the Fayre. Back where it all began.’

Longbourne Court.

Sylvie, expected to respond enthusiastically, discovered that her tongue was refusing to connect with the roof of her mouth.

‘Isn’t that just perfect?’ Laura said when Sylvia failed to say it for her.

There was no such thing as perfect …

A slightly flat, ‘Great,’ was the best she could manage.

‘It was bought several months ago by some billionaire businessman and we’ve all been agog, as you can imagine.’

Oh, yes, she could imagine. It would have been the talk of coffee mornings and bridge parties across the county.

‘Obviously, we all hoped he was going to live in it, but he’s instructed Mark Hilliard, the architect …?’ She paused, waiting for her to acknowledge the name.

‘Mmm …’

‘He’s instructed Mark to draw up plans to convert the house into a conference centre.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s a shame, of course,’ she said, finally cottoning on to a lack of enthusiasm from her audience. ‘It’s such a beautiful house. But there you are.’

Yes, indeed, there she was.

‘Since it’s “listed” it’s going to take a while to sort out, but the Celebrity feature will give it one last outing and it’s fitting that its swansong will honour your mother. And that you’ll be part of it.’

‘I hope the planning people won’t be too difficult,’ she said, without commenting on the fittingness or not of her participation in its final moments as a country house. ‘Longbourne has been empty for much too long.’

The rock star who’d bought it originally hadn’t spent more than a weekend or two there and since he’d fallen from the balcony of his New York penthouse, leaving his affairs in a mess, several years ago there had been nothing but gossip and rumour about what would happen to the estate.

Not that she’d been listening. That was all in the past. History.

‘Well, whatever is planned isn’t going to happen until English Heritage have had their say on the subject,’ Laura said. ‘That’s how I heard what was happening; George is on the local committee, you know. That’s when it occurred to me that in the meantime our billionaire might like the opportunity to demonstrate his credentials as a good neighbour.’

‘And he agreed?’

‘I suppose so. I actually spoke to some woman who appears to be in charge of the day-to-day running of the company and she was really enthusiastic about helping the charity. Well, everyone has been touched, haven’t they?’

Woman at the helm or not, she doubted that sentimentality had much to do with the decision.

‘The fact that the proposed conference centre will get acres of free publicity in Celebrity wouldn’t have anything to do with that, I suppose?’

‘Oh, Sylvie! Don’t be so cynical.’

Why, just because she had a reputation for planning fantasy parties and weddings, did everyone think she should be sentimental? It was just business …

‘And even if his company does get something out of it, well, what of it? I know it was your home, Sylvie, but times have changed and the conference centre will provide jobs locally. It’s a win-win-win situation.’

‘I suppose so.’ Sylvie had made a point of staying well clear of her family home since it had been sold lock, stock and barrel, to pay off her grandfather’s creditors, but Laura was right. The publicity would be good for everyone.

The Pink Ribbon Club charity founded by her mother; local designers; the tradesmen who would be employed to work on the conversion as well as local businesses.

In fact, when it came right down to it, the entire Melchester economy apparently rested on what frock she’d choose to wear to her own fantasy wedding.

Fantasy being the operative word. One fantasy in a lifetime was enough and she hadn’t been kidding about the register office.

But, with Longbourne Court in the equation, Celebrity was going to have to stump up vastly more than their original offer. This was big and if they wanted to make themselves look good by clinging on to the trailing pink ribbons of her mother’s charity, they were going to have to pay for the privilege.

Tom McFarlane drew up in front of the tall wrought iron gates of Longbourne Court.

Two things were wrong.

They were standing wide open.

And, decorating each of the central finials, was a large knot of pink ribbons.

He picked up his cellphone and hit fast dial.

‘Tom?’ Unsurprisingly, his CEO was surprised to hear from him. ‘Isn’t it the middle of the night where you are?’

‘Right at this moment I’m at the gates of Longbourne Court, Pam, and I’m looking at pink ribbons. Please tell me that I’m hallucinating.’

‘You’re back in the UK?’ she responded, ignoring his plea. Then, ‘At Longbourne?’

A long blast on an air horn drowned out his reply, which was probably just as well.

‘I’m sorry if I’ve returned in time to spoil the party,’ he said, not stinting on the sarcasm, ‘but I’ve got pink ribbons in front of me and an irate trucker with his radiator an inch from my rear. Just tell me what the hell is going on.’

‘Hi, Pam,’ she prompted, ignoring his question. ‘I’m sorry I’m being a grouch but I’m jet lagged. As soon as I’ve had a decent night’s sleep I’ll hand over the duty-frees, along with the big fat bonus I owe you for taking care of—’

‘I’m not in the mood,’ he warned.

‘No? Well, it’s a lovely day and maybe by the time you reach the house you’ll have remembered where you mislaid your manners,’ she replied, completely unperturbed. ‘When you do, you’ll find me in the library running your company.’

‘You’re here?’ he demanded. Stupid question. Pink ribbons and trucks didn’t appear without someone to organise them. Pam obviously thought so too, since her only response was the dialling tone.

The truck driver sounded off for the second time and, resisting the temptation to swear at the man—he was only trying to do his job, whatever that was—he tossed the phone on the seat beside him and drove through the gates.

The trees were breaking out in new leaf and the parkland surrounding Longbourne Court had the timeless look of a set for some boobs-and-breeches costume drama, an illusion rudely shattered as he crested the rise.

The house was standing golden and square in the bright sunshine, just as it had for the best part of three centuries, but the only horsepower on show was of the twenty-first century variety. Trucks, cars, vans.

The nearest belonged to a confectioner who, according to the signage on her faux vintage vehicle, proclaimed to the world in copperplate script that she specialized in bespoke wedding cakes. One glance confirmed that there were caterers, photographers, florists—in fact, anything you could think of—ditto.

The kind of scene he’d so narrowly avoided six months ago, when Candy had decided that mere money wasn’t enough to compensate for his lack of breeding and had traded up to a title. Not that ‘Hon’ was that big a deal but if she hung in there she’d make it to Lady eventually.

She could, with advantage, have taken lessons from her good friend Sylvie Smith. She hadn’t messed about, she’d gone straight for the big one; she’d made damn sure that the ‘childhood sweetheart’, the one who’d make her a countess, didn’t get away a second time.