by Della Galton
It was just before eight a.m. when she reached the Bluebell. The lighthouse looked like a cream monolith rising up from the clifftop. The hotel looked dazzlingly white with the morning sunshine sparkling off its many windows. They had decorated the main door with red and gold flowers, which were the bride’s autumn colour scheme, and the silver birches in the bluebell woods scattered a few more leaves every time there was a gust of wind, like so much bronze and gold confetti.
The photos were going to be amazing. Clara imagined Isobel and her new husband, James, racing up the spiral staircase of the lighthouse to the honeymoon suite, which was what they’d be doing at the end of today and she felt a little glow of pride.
They were a lovely couple. She had liked them both when she had met them at the rehearsal. That was another positive thing. At least the Bluebell’s first wedding didn’t have a bridezilla in the starring role. Everything was going to be perfect, she told herself once more.
She parked in a disabled bay because there was someone in her usual one. She wasn’t surprised. Most of this week’s guests would be gone by the time the wedding party arrived, but just to be on the safe side, yesterday they had coned off a lot of spaces for them, so parking was in short supply. Someone was in Zoe’s usual space too, she noticed, as she walked across the car park.
It wasn’t until she got closer to the hotel that she overheard raised voices coming from the back entrance of the kitchen.
‘You cannot leave them in garden. It is not good – is not hygienic.’ It sounded like Jakob’s voice, Clara thought, pausing to listen.
‘They’re fine. They’re not causing any trouble. What’s it got to do with you anyway? They’re not in the restaurant, are they?’
‘They are not fine. NO.’ Jakob was getting more agitated. ‘They are beasts. Security risqué beasts.’
What on earth were they talking about? Clara headed round to the back entrance and saw that Jakob was standing outside, next to a young kitchen assistant who was carrying one of the baskets that they used to gather herbs from the garden. Jakob was arguing with Mr B, who was still inside the kitchen.
‘We cannot leave this…’ He stopped speaking abruptly as Clara appeared at the doorway.
‘Good morning, gentlemen.’ She glanced from one to the other. ‘Is everything OK?’
Mr B looked heated beneath his chef’s hat, although that could have been the temperature of the kitchen. Even with the door open, it was steamy.
Jakob looked red-faced and flustered. In the management hierarchy, he ranked below Mr B and actually reported to him, but he clearly had something on his mind.
They both nodded in her direction.
‘Everything’s under control, boss,’ said Mr B.
‘It doesn’t sound like it is.’ She frowned at him. ‘What exactly is a security risqué beast?’
Mr B looked shifty.
Jakob, clearly couldn’t contain his angst any more, even if it did mean dropping his boss in it. ‘I show you,’ he said. ‘Come. This way. Please.’
‘They’re temporary,’ Mr B shouted after them. ‘Watch that pan,’ he called to one of his staff, as Clara followed Jakob towards the vegetable garden, which was only a few hundred metres from the kitchen and was open to guests, if they wanted to browse, but was fenced off and accessed by a five-bar gate at the side.
When they got to the gate, Jakob didn’t open it, but he paused and leaned his white shirted forearms on the top bar. ‘Here…’ he said, with a gesture that turned into a flourish. ‘Security risqué beasts!’
For a moment, Clara wasn’t sure what she was looking at. All seemed normal in the garden. Then she saw them. Two brown and black spotted creatures not much bigger than Foxy were snuffling about on the ground on the other side of the potato patch.
‘What on earth are they?’ she asked Jakob, as Foxy stuck her snout through the gate and sniffed interestedly.
He screwed up his face and gestured with his hands, obviously struggling for the right word. ‘Porkers? Porkers crispy bacon?’ He glanced over his shoulder. Both Mr B and the kitchen assistant with the basket were hurrying to catch up.
‘They’re not crispy bacon.’ Mr B arrived first, slightly out of breath. ‘They’re kunekune pigs. They’re not supposed to be here. I am going to move them. I just haven’t had the chance.’ He gave the kitchen assistant a shove. ‘Go and get the parsley like I told you. Portia and Prudence won’t hurt you.’
The kitchen assistant, whose name was Elliot and who was only about seventeen, didn’t look convinced. He wrinkled his nose doubtfully. ‘I dunno. Pigs can be aggressive.’
‘Where are they supposed to be?’ Clara asked Mr B. ‘And who authorised them? No one told me we were starting to produce our own meat.’
‘We’re not. They’re pets. They’re my pets.’ Mr B’s expression hovered somewhere between mutiny and shame. They got delivered this morning. They weren’t supposed to come until Monday. I’ve got a paddock booked for Monday, but they’re using it for a dog show this weekend.’
Clara felt as though she had stepped into some surreal alternative reality. ‘Well, Jakob’s right, you can’t keep them there. It’s against regulations. They’re too near the kitchen.’
Jakob stepped back from the gate and folded his arms, a look of self-righteous indignation on his face.
‘Can you put them in the dog kennels?’ Clara said, thinking quickly. ‘That should be far enough away from the kitchens for it not to be a problem.’
‘OK. I will. Thanks.’ Mr B put one foot onto the rung of the five-bar gate and swung his other leg over the top.
There was a shout from the direction of the kitchen. ‘Mr B. You’re needed.’
‘You don’t have to do it now,’ Clara told him. ‘But don’t forget.’
‘I won’t. Get the parsley,’ he yelled at Elliot. ‘Don’t be such a wassock!’
Clara decided to leave them to it. But she felt rattled. It was not a good beginning to a day that was so hugely important.
She wondered if Zoe knew about the pigs. Unlikely, she thought. Mr B presided like a ruling emperor over his domain and usually it ran like clockwork. But then generally his eccentricities didn’t extend further than his latest conspiracy theory.
She headed round to the front of the hotel. Zoe wasn’t on reception and neither was Keith. The front desk computer had gone into sleep mode, which suggested neither of them had been there for a while.
Clara felt a stab of unease. She hadn’t thought anything of it when Zoe’s car hadn’t been in its usual parking space. But now, suddenly, she was worried.
25
She ran back out to the car park so she could have a proper look for Zoe’s car. There was definitely no sign of it. Seriously worried now, Clara tried her phone, but it went straight to voicemail, which meant it was either switched off or in an area where there wasn’t a good signal.
She left a message. Zoe was as reliable as the sunrise. There was no way she wouldn’t have turned up for work on the day of the wedding unless something had happened. But even then she would have told her. Clara tried to recall whether Zoe had said anything about being late – she didn’t think so. Thoughts of the saboteur sprung to mind. She dismissed them. Kidnapping Zoe was a step too far. Tiredness and the shock of seeing kunekune pigs in the vegetable garden must be addling her brain.
Then, to her intense relief, Keith appeared. ‘Good morning, Clara. Apologies for the temporarily unattended reception. I was obliged to make a trip – the missus cooked a curry last night.’ He patted his belly and looked pained.
‘It’s fine. I don’t need the details. Where’s Zoe?’
‘Ah – she’s had to do an emergency dash. Let me explain.’ He flicked through the notes on a pad in front of him and found the one he was looking for. ‘The wedding cake, as you know, is being delivered today by Dean Curtis Caterers.’
‘I thought it was coming yesterday.’ She felt a twirl of panic in her stomach. ‘I spoke to the cate
rers myself.’
‘Yes, that was the original plan. But they had a vehicle mix-up at the eleventh hour apparently and so they were forced to delay delivery until this morning. They assured me that their driver would set off at 7.00 a.m. so that the cake would be here in good time. But unfortunately he broke down en route. So Zoe has gone to pick up the cake.’
Clara groaned.
‘I am more than happy to cover reception until she returns.’ Keith beamed at her. ‘I took the precaution of factoring in some extra time today in order to cover any such unexpected eventualities.’
‘Thank you. That’s much appreciated,’ Clara said, but actually she was thinking about the logistics of Zoe safely transporting a three-tier wedding cake in her car. She could hardly put it on the back seat. Her brain had already begun to catastrophise. What if she had to slam on her brakes? What if the cake got smashed to pieces? How was she going to explain that to the Scargills?
‘It’s all boxed up,’ Keith added, noticing her alarm. ‘They package them well to travel. It should be fine.’
‘Well, I suppose it’s out of our hands. But please keep me posted. Do you know her ETA?’
‘Not later than nine.’ He took a slug of cold black coffee from his giant mug.
‘Can you please text her and tell her to let me know when she arrives. I’ll send someone out to help with the transport of the cake.’
‘Consider it done,’ Keith said.
‘Thank you.’ Clara went into the office, collected her to-do list, added Zoe’s jobs to it and continued with her checks.
The flowers had just arrived. She went to make sure all was in order. Fortunately the local florist was hugely efficient and already knew exactly what they were supposed to be doing and she and her team could be left to get on with it.
The registrar who was conducting the service had sent Clara a text, as instructed, to confirm his arrival at 11.45, ready for the wedding at 12.30.
So had the pianist who would play the wedding march on the Steinway. The Scargills had vetoed the idea of recorded music when they could have the real thing.
The photographer was arriving at 11.00 so he could get some candid snaps of the groom’s party and be in situ for the arrival of the bride.
Clara went and checked the wedding venue – all was fine. The florist and her assistant were carrying in armfuls of red and gold flowers and were arranging them in the crystal vases.
The order of services’ slips had arrived and someone had put them on a small table by the French doors where the guests and the bride would enter.
Clara bumped into Phil just coming out of the restaurant.
‘All under control?’ she asked.
‘Of course. As soon as we’ve got breakfast cleared – we’ll get laid up for the wedding lunch.’
‘Did you know about Mr B’s pigs?’
‘I heard. Retrospectively.’ He shook his head in disapproval. ‘I think they’ve been taken care of. They’re not in the vegetable garden anyway.’ He put a hand on her arm. ‘You look very tired, Clara. Are you OK?’
‘My grandad had a heart attack yesterday. We were at the hospital much of the night.’
‘Is he all right now? Should you be here?’
‘He’s going to be fine.’ She was touched by the concern in his voice. ‘It was just a long night.’
‘I bet.’
Someone called him from inside the restaurant and he excused himself.
Clara carried on with her checks. Next stop the lighthouse. It hadn’t been used since the emerald anniversary couple last week and had been prepared and checked yesterday for the newly married couple’s first night. But she didn’t want to leave anything to chance. This was probably ridiculous, she thought as she let herself in the front door and began to climb the spiral staircase, but it was amazing what a bit of paranoia and an unknown saboteur could do. She would have hated to be in Mr B’s head – maybe this was how it had started – someone having a go at him once so that he now perceived the whole world through jaundiced eyes.
The lighthouse smelled glorious – in here she had used the same rose and amber incense she had ordered for the wedding venue. She was out of breath when she reached the honeymoon suite, but that looked amazing too. Clara ran her fingers over the crisp white Egyptian cotton pillowcases that were on the bed and adjusted the angle of the single red rose that lay on the coverlet.
Would she ever get married? Fleetingly she wondered what it was like to go from being a Miss to a Mrs. To love and to trust someone enough that you would make a vow to be with him until death do us part. She knew she hadn’t felt that way about Will. Had he felt that way about her until she’d rejected him? She thought about his postcard – the anger in those exclamation marks. Maybe that’s what happened when love had turned in on itself.
She remembered Rosanna’s words, ‘There is no knight in shining armour.’ And her mother’s, ‘Compromise is the key.’ Then she remembered the wobble in Gran’s voice in the car in the early hours of this morning. ‘I can’t imagine life without him. Not permanently. That’s the truth of it.’
That was the kind of love that she wanted, Clara thought, as she opened the fridge to check the champagne was chilling and ran her fingers over the ice bucket to check for dust.
There was a box of luxury truffles on the dressing table. Clara imagined James and Isobel unwrapping them and popping one into each other’s mouths and she caught her breath because that picture of tender coupledom had brought a sharp ache to her heart.
Adam Greenwood’s face was suddenly there in her head and it wouldn’t go no matter how hard she tried to dismiss it. Gorgeous Orlando! Oh God, where had that thought come from? He had crept into her mind more and more lately, without her permission, and somewhere along the way she had fallen for him.
Her heart slammed against her ribs at this thunderbolt of realisation. Oh goodness, when had that happened? When had she gone and fallen for Adam Greenwood? The most awful thing was that he wasn’t even aware of it. She certainly wasn’t going to tell him. They were friends, business partners, nothing more.
With a huge effort of will, she forced herself back to the present. Tiredness always made her over emotional. And she was in a wedding boudoir. Even so, she couldn’t deal with this now. Go away, Adam Greenwood.
On her way back down the spiral staircase, she glanced out of the window and felt a rush of relief as she saw Zoe’s car pulling carefully into the car park. Hopefully, the cake was still in one piece then. She watched as she got out of her car, then read the message on her phone, nodded to herself and walked towards the front entrance of the hotel. She obviously wasn’t going to attempt to carry the cake without help. Good.
At 10.50, the photographer and his assistant arrived, swiftly followed by the first few wedding guests. Overseen by Phil, they milled about, some of them in the grounds as it was such a beautiful day and some in the bar area of the restaurant.
At 11.40, Mr B, looking only slightly more harassed than usual, quite some feat when he had a wedding lunch following hot on the heels of breakfast, confirmed with Clara that everything was on schedule for a 3.30 sit-down.
At 11.45, the registrar turned up, closely followed by the pianist. A couple of members of the brass band had arrived too, even though it was ages before they’d be needed.
Clara began to relax.
At 12.15, the wedding guests were herded into the venue by the ushers to wait for the arrival of the bridal party.
At 12.20, Zoe said, ‘Oh my God, the cakes are still in the car. Elliot was coming to help me carry them and then Mr B called him off to do something else. Have we got time to get them in now?’
Clara glanced at her gold watch. Her FunFit which kept better time had been abandoned in favour of something a bit classier today. ‘Yes, if we’re quick. I’ll help you.’
‘Don’t worry, Elliot and Jakob can give me a hand. There are only three boxes.’
Clara nodded. The bride’s mother, the bri
desmaids and the flower girls had just arrived in a white Bentley, which was now parked at the front of the hotel. There were four little girls, dressed in burgundy and cream, and two older ones, as well as the bride’s mum. How on earth had they all fitted into that car, Clara thought as they milled about, the colour of autumn leaves on the soft green of the lawn.
Clara was glad she had waited because Zoe had only just vanished when there was a clip-clop of hooves, heralding the arrival of the horse-drawn carriage that was bringing Isobel and her father to the Bluebell Cliff. It was just coming into the main entrance.
‘That’s pretty spectacular,’ Phil said as the carriage approached. The two white horses, controlled by two footmen who wore black suits but burgundy ties to match the plumes on the horse’s heads, were pulling a Cinderella coach that glittered and shone. Inside it, Clara glimpsed the bride and her father.
‘I know.’ Clara breathed out a huge sigh of relief. ‘Thank goodness they’re here.’
‘The bride not turning up definitely wouldn’t have been our fault,’ Phil said, giving her a quick smile. ‘Although I’m pretty relieved too. Let the party begin, hey!’
The coach drew up at the main entrance and came to a halt just behind the Bentley. The horses stamped and snorted, their breath just visible in the October air, as one of the footmen jumped down to come and assist the bride.
She looked radiant, Clara thought, in a sheaf of cream silk that was surprisingly simple, compared to the lavishness of her wedding, and a delicate lace veil that covered her face, held in place by a diamanté tiara. John Scargill looked happy, albeit flushed and a little awkward as if he wasn’t quite accustomed to his posh dress suit, which maybe he wasn’t. He’d made his fortune in plant hire apparently.
Clara greeted them while Phil spoke to Mrs Scargill who was wearing a full-on gold silk dress and short cream jacket and an enormous beribboned hat with chocolate and cream feathers sprouting from the top – and was that more diamanté? A statement hat, Clara thought blinking.