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‘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!’
