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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!’
