‘It’ll be next summer,’ I said, flapping them away. ‘Now, if you don’t mind …’
Flora and Julia Thornbury were due at ten o’clock, but as per Dom’s cunning suggestion, I’d told Joe to meet me in the ballroom at half past ten. It wasn’t a completely mean thing to do; after all, what was he going to contribute to the discussion about supermodel dresses and celebrity guests? He hated all that ‘celebrity shit’, as he insisted on calling it, despite having lived virtually next door to LA for years.
Gemma dashed in, her eyes shining. She was wearing her favourite bride-interview outfit, a pale-blue cashmere cardigan over a tweedy miniskirt, powder blue Mary Janes, and a cream silk corsage. She looked about ready to pop with excitement.
Actually, I might have thought that because she was making agitated little up-and-down gestures with her hands, as if she were trying to dry her nail varnish in a rush.
‘She’s here!’ she whispered. ‘Flora! She’s in reception! Oh my God, she is so beautiful! I couldn’t stop looking at her. And she’s wearing jeans.’
I glanced at my watch. ‘But it’s only quarter to. She’s a model. They’re never early. They’re usually about four hours late.’
‘I know. But there was a lot of noise outside, and some flashing, and we thought there was another to-do with the police, but it was just a photographer, and now she’s in reception, talking to Laurence.’ Gemma starfished her fingers and opened her eyes very wide. ‘Well, her mother’s talking to Laurence. Do they know each other?’
‘Yes, they’re old friends.’
‘I thought so,’ said Gemma. ‘He was patting her arm.’ She demonstrated. ‘Like she was a horse.’
Good, I thought, I could pass that on to Caroline as a positive sign. Mrs Thornbury, according to the swift internet research I’d done, was divorced from Flora’s father, a wealthy property developer. She had two houses, one of which was in Switzerland, very close to one of Laurence’s favourite clinics. Only a Echinacea farm could make her more perfect.
‘Shall I send her in here?’ Gemma asked.
‘Of course not, no, I’ll come through to reception,’ I said, gathering my files and notebooks together. ‘Have you seen Joe this morning?’
It was more a safety check than a genuine question, since if Joe was doing what I’d specifically asked him to do by email last night, he’d be in Berry Brothers wine merchants, but there was always the chance that he hadn’t actually read his emails yet.
Gemma hesitated, as if she was worried about dropping him in it, then seemed to change her mind and said, ‘No.’
‘Good. I mean, oh. Oh dear.’
‘Should I go and see where he is? Or …’ She put on her innocent face. ‘Maybe there should just be two of us in the meeting? Don’t want to crowd Flora. And it’s not as if Joe’s going to be able to explain what the hotel has to offer, whereas I can take notes while you talk and maybe suggest ideas …’
Gemma had tactics, I’d give her that.
‘That’s a good point,’ I said. ‘But just make sure he’s not lurking around, will you? And then if you could get back onto the florist for the Montpelier wedding – they still haven’t called to say when they’re dropping off the table decorations. Go round there if you have to, they’re only in Mount Street.’
‘Mount Street? What about the meeting? I won’t be able to get there and back in time.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ I said, pushing her firmly towards the foyer. To be honest, I didn’t want Gemma or Joe in this meeting, not until I’d worked out what it was that Flora Thornbury wanted, and how best I could persuade her that the Bonneville Hotel, and only the Bonneville Hotel, could provide the wedding of her wildest – but still tasteful – dreams.
*
I met plenty of beautiful brides in the course of my job, but Flora Thornbury was an entire league of beautiful above the norm.
Even in skinny jeans and a white T-shirt, she looked as if she were made from the same translucent fine bone china as the special Georgian family tea service I only offered to brides I adjudged to have very careful relatives. Her skin glowed without make-up, her lovely long blonde hair fell in a soft fringe over her small nose, and when she smiled as I approached, it was with the whitest, most even teeth I’d ever seen.
Many brides looked almost as lovely as this, but only after about eighteen months of a really intensive improvement programme. I wondered, hopefully, if Flora had been one of those gawky, brace-faced teenagers who’d suddenly blossomed into a gorgeous swan at seventeen, but the way she was standing – half-warding off attention, half-expecting it – made me suspect that she’d probably always been like this.
‘Hello, Flora, Julia, I’m Rosie,’ I said, holding out my hand to her, and then her mother.
‘Hey, Rosie, it’s lovely to meet you.’ Flora had a feathery handshake and smelled of gardenias. Julia Thornbury had a much firmer handshake and smelled of Chanel No. 5 and spaniels. If Flora was fine bone china, Julia was more your rounded Denby-ware; Flora’s face was like hers – pretty nose, blue eyes, pink cheeks – but set in a much longer, finer framework.
‘I thought we could have a quick tour of the rooms, then sit down for a proper chat in the Palm Court,’ I said, gesturing towards the double doors with the looping arcs of stained glass. ‘It’s one of our smaller function rooms – we use it for more intimate wedding receptions. And of course for our famous afternoon tea.’
‘Why is it famous?’ asked Mrs Thornbury.
‘Because it’s an exact replica of the tea that the hotel was famous for in the thirties. Our pâtisserie chef makes the same beautiful tiny cakes that our original French chef created for the Bonneville, and we serve it on the same tableware, with champagne or cocktails or tea. It’s like stepping back in time.’ I smiled. ‘Pop in one afternoon – quite a few of our brides are planning tea-party weddings. We can mix a unique cocktail, just for your event.’
‘’Mazing,’ said Flora.
After a sweep of the main function rooms, and a peek into the dining room, where Helen gave them a mouthwatering overview of the catering options, I settled Flora and Julia into the sofa by the windows and tucked myself into the chair opposite; they had a view of the gardens, and I had a very good view of the double doors and, more importantly, the foyer, where various staff were lurking. I signalled one of them to come and deal with the tea, and a fight nearly broke out before Luisa, of the very sharp elbows, broke free.
While I sorted out the Thornburys’ refreshment requirements (one herbal tea, one English breakfast; I could have guessed), I spotted that Julia was carrying a very thick, old school leather Filofax with a pen stuck in it, while Flora just had a simple notebook. As far as I could see, she didn’t seem to have the standard bridal accessory of a gigantic file of ‘ideas’. From experience, this might be a good thing or a bad thing. Either Flora had no idea what she wanted but was open to my suggestions (good), or she had no idea what she wanted but needed me to run through every possible permutation until I hit on something she liked by process of elimination (bad). Or she had a whole website of ideas on a laptop she hadn’t even brought out yet (very bad).
It turned out to be somewhere in between, although it took us two cups of tea and a lot of roundabout discussion of flowers and vague ‘’Mazing!’s from Flora to get there. If it hadn’t been for the enormous sugar-cube-sized diamond on her finger, I’d have wondered if Flora wasn’t just one of those girls who booked wedding meetings for the sheer pleasure of discussing where to get lilacs in December. I’d had more than one of those over the past year.
‘So, tell me about your dress,’ I said eventually in desperation, and Flora abruptly focused as if I’d just turned on a light.
‘My dress, okay, well, I’m talking to a couple of designers – I’m thinking about lace, and a sort of vintage feel.’ She made a few gestures around her skinny shoulders. ‘Satin, definitely. I want to look like one of those amazing film stars with marcel waves and diamonds.
’
‘But you’re not cutting your hair,’ Julia reminded her.
Flora rolled her eyes. ‘No, Mummy, I’m not cutting my hair. I just want that feel.’
‘Well, vintage glamour is very us.’ I smiled. ‘As you can see.’ I gestured at the Art Deco lounge, resplendent with palms and stars, and picked up my fountain pen. ‘And is that your starting point for the whole wedding?’
‘Yah, I want something quite traditional,’ Flora sighed in her soft King’s Road drawl. ‘My fiancé, Milo—’
‘Milo McKnight,’ added Julia. ‘He’s one of the shipping McKnights.’
‘Mmm?’ I nodded. I knew Milo – not personally, of course, but through the stacks of society magazines Gemma and I read on a monthly basis to keep up-to-date with who was who and where and with whom, and who might turn up after hours in our discreet hotel bar. The Honourable Milo didn’t actually do any shipping himself, but his great-grandfather’s efforts had provided enough family money for Milo to have his own art gallery in Mayfair. I’d walked by it a couple of times, but it was quite hard to work out what was art and what was wall. Also who was a customer and who was staff.
‘Milo’s quite a traditional person. And so am I.’ Flora opened her big hazel eyes wide at me, and I tried not to feel starstruck. ‘We came here for drinks one night after an opening, and I just felt as if we were stepping into a film. I can totally imagine myself getting married here.’
‘I can too,’ I said fervently. The exposure would be transformational not the splashy Hello! magazine spread sort, Flora was too classy for that, but the discreet word-of-mouth recommendations that gave priceless cachet to a venue. A real film-star wedding. Laurence would pass out with joy. My three national magazine feature spreads would be in the bag. And if I persuaded Flora to arrange the whole thing here, including a spa weekend for her attendants, most of whom would also be models, I’d guess, and a chic rehearsal dinner in Helen’s restaurant, it would more than make up for the Stephanie Miller cancellation.
I can do this, I told myself. Think like a manager, and you will become a manager.
I smiled across the table at the Thornburys. I’d assumed supermodels would be the worst Bridezillas going, but Flora seemed very content to be led through this process. Julia might not be quite so easy – I could detect a tiny trace of ‘Wedding I Never Had’ – but I’d dealt with much, much worse.
‘So …’ I opened my notebook to a new page. ‘How big a wedding are we talking about? Do you have a rough idea of numbers?’
‘A hundred,’ said Flora at the same time as Julia said, ‘Two hundred and fifty.’
‘Somewhere between the two, then,’ I said easily, as they scowled at each other. ‘Bigger numbers aren’t a problem – we simply create different areas for the main meal, so you get the best of both worlds. Some guests find that a bonus, actually – you can subtly keep various factions apart!’
‘Good,’ said Julia a bit too emphatically.
‘Oh, Mummy …’
I made a coded note of that. Caroline might have some insider goss on exactly who Julia wanted to park in the orangery.
‘And did you have a particular date in mind? We are getting booked up already for next spring – June is looking very busy for us, but then it always is….’
‘We want to get married on the third weekend in June.’ Flora smiled shyly. ‘It’s our anniversary.’
‘Oh, that’s very sweet,’ I said, with growing pleasure. A traditional romantic supermodel – who knew? I could already see the classic shapes of this whole event. A big-budget, totally traditional wedding – my dream assignment.
And then I spotted Joe appearing in the foyer, and my stomach lurched. No. Really no. This wasn’t a good time for him to come in; the last thing I wanted was him dropping another bouncing bomb on my plans: the innocuous comment that got bigger and bigger and finally exploded, destroying everything.
‘And have you thought about photographers?’ I asked quickly. ‘We like to liaise with them well in advance …’
‘I do have one,’ said Julia. ‘No, really, Flora, we have to ask Warren, he’s a very old family friend, he’ll be hurt …’
While Flora and Julia were passive-aggressively disagreeing about Warren’s abilities to photograph a society fashion wedding, I shot a quick but deadly glare at Joe, who was lurking in the foyer asking a chambermaid something. I was good at precision-aimed glares: deadly enough to stun a lecherous usher, quick enough for the bride to miss.
Generally that look could cause an unsuspecting usher to leave the field in shock, but Joe just acknowledged me with a wave and slouched on in. As per my instructions, he was wearing a jacket over his blue shirt and jeans, but in a way that made it look as if an invisible doorman had forced it over his shoulders before he was allowed inside.
‘I think black-and-white photography would be an interesting route to take,’ I said, trying to divert him with my eyes, to no avail.
‘Yes! That would be amazing,’ Flora sipped her herbal tea. ‘It’s like you already know the kind of wedding I want.’ Then she caught the death-ray flicker in my expression, flinched, and turned around to see who on earth I was looking at with such venom.
Joe was looming over them, and I had no choice.
I got up, and directed him to the chair next to mine. ‘I’m so sorry, this is my temporary assistant, Joe. Joe, may I introduce Flora and Julia Thornbury?’
I prayed that he wouldn’t make any cheesy remarks about which one of them was getting married.
‘Hey, ladies.’ Joe raised a laid-back hand.
Flora started to say hi, then leaned forward. ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘Joe Bentley?’
Mrs Thornbury put her teacup down with a rattle. ‘Joseph?’
Oh God. Please no. I prayed again that Alec hadn’t accidentally set fire to any part of their house during a party, or that Joe hadn’t dumped Flora as a teenager.
‘Hello, Mrs Thornbury, hello, Flora.’ Joe directed a polite smile at the pair of them, shook their hands politely, offered a (single) social kiss to each cheek, and sat down with a thump.
‘So, Joe.’ Mrs Thornbury gave him a firm look and he sat up a bit straighter. ‘How’s your mother? How are Winston and Horatio?’
‘She’s very well, thank you. Winston’s a bit creaky but still doing the rounds.’
(Winston and Horatio were Labradors. Caroline’s friends always asked about dogs before children.)
‘And Alec?’ Mrs Thornbury tilted her head a fraction to the right. ‘Any … news?’
‘No. He’s left the army now.’
‘Good,’ she said emphatically.
Joe slapped his knees and looked at me. ‘So, um, sorry I seem to be late. I was visiting a wine merchant for another of our clients – sorting out some rather special gifts for the ushers!’ He glanced over at me. ‘Perhaps the meeting started a little earlier than advertised?’
Flora’s pretty nose crinkled with amusement. ‘You’re not organizing my wedding, are you, Joe?’
‘No,’ said Joe at the same time as I did.
‘No, Joe’s just … taking notes,’ I said smoothly. ‘He’s sitting in on some events meetings.’
I could tell he was looking at me, but I refused to react.
‘So, where had we got to?’ I wanted to get the meeting wrapped up while the Thornburys were still sounding as if they were about to book it. We’d seen the rooms, we’d talked briefly to Helen, I’d have to skip the bar tour and cocktail chat, but needs must. ‘Would you like to make a date to sample some of our wedding menus? As Helen mentioned earlier, our chef likes to create tailored menus for each couple, but if you had some special favourite dishes or requests …?’
‘Yes,’ said Julia, getting her Filofax out again, but Flora coughed.
‘One idea I did have,’ she said, quite vaguely, ‘was a bridesmaid catwalk?’
‘A bridesmaid catwalk?’ I felt a tiny, ominous frisson.
Joe leaned forward on h
is chair, suddenly interested, and that made my frisson even more ominous.
‘Yah, my friend Lily did one. It’s where you send the bridesmaids down the aisle before the bride, like a fashion show? It was amazing. The bridesmaids all had, like, different styles of dresses on, and they were so good at walking that the guests all clapped. And then when Lily finally came down the aisle it was just … really impactful.’
Flora paused and waited for me to react. When I didn’t, she added, ‘You know Lily Maddox? The fashion designer?’
‘Yes! Of course. Of course I do. She was the … bride?’
‘No, she was the wedding dress designer.’ Flora stared at me. ‘The bride was Olympia Harvill. No, um …’ She frowned. ‘No, wait, it was Jasmine Russell. She came down just after Lily. But I mean, fair dos, Lily deserved a round of applause for the dress. It was just immense.’
Flora flopped back onto the chair, as if depleted of energy. ‘So I thought that could be quite cool?’
‘Um …’ I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t think catwalking your bridesmaids would be ‘quite cool’. I thought it would be quite tacky. And I definitely didn’t think letting the dress designer upstage the bride was a good idea – not that it’d be easy to upstage Flora.
I glanced across at Julia Thornbury to see if I’d get any support there. Luckily, I did.
‘Don’t be silly, Flora,’ she said, briskly. ‘It’s a solemn occasion, not a circus. You’re there to make a commitment—’
‘What about the guys?’ Joe piped up. ‘Do the ushers get to do a catwalk too? Do they all get different outfits?’
‘Ha ha! Of course not,’ I began, but Flora was fully engaged for the first time, and no one heard me.
‘Yah!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why not? Actually, that could be really cool, too. We could make a feature of the ushers. I mean, they don’t have to wear morning suits, do they?’
‘They usually do.’ I tried not to make my voice sound prim, and again glanced at Julia, who was now looking impatient.
‘I rather think they do, darling,’ she said. ‘Your father will want to wear a morning suit.’