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‘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.
