by Lynne Graham
‘You’re employing me for local colour?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t have to. I can’t see me fitting the image of a Carver Salon consultant.’
‘Have you ever met a Carver Salon consultant?’
‘As it happens, I have,’ she said, almost defiantly. ‘A year ago I had a...well, I needed a holiday, and my parents-in-law sent me to Paris. I wandered through your salon, just to see how the other half live. Only of course I wasn’t up to standard. I hadn’t been in the salon for two minutes before I was asked to leave.’
‘If my staff thought you were possible opposition, then...’
‘Now, that’s the funny thing,’ she said. She’d risen and moved over to one of the Christmas trees. The angel on top was askew and she started carefully to adjust it. Then she began to check the lights, twisting each bulb in turn, taking her attention from him. ‘They didn’t even ask why I was there,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I could have been there to talk about my wedding. I could have been there to make enquiries about anything at all. But I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and carrying a small backpack Lorna had given me.’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘The backpack was pink. Anyway, they obviously sorted me as a type they didn’t want. They asked me to leave, and suddenly there was a security guard propelling me onto the pavement.’ She shrugged. ‘Given my opinion of Carver Salons, I should have told you to take your very kind offer to buy this salon and stick it. But of course it’s a very generous offer, and I need the money and the thought of me being in opposition to you is ridiculous.’
There was a moment’s silence then. Guy thought about his Paris staff. They were the best. They ran weddings that were the talk of the world.
They’d kicked this woman out. She must have been humiliated.
Maybe he needed to be a bit more hands-on.
He didn’t like to be hands-on.
He thought suddenly of the first wedding he’d planned. He’d been home from college, where he’d been studying law—a career his parents had thought eminently suitable but which bored him stupid. Christa—the girl he’d been dating since both their mothers had organised them to their first prom—had been managing his social life, and that had bored him, too. Then Christa’s sister had announced her engagement to someone both families thought entirely unsuitable.
Louise had wept on Guy’s shoulder. Without parental support, and with no money of her own, she’d been doomed to have a civil ceremony and go without the party she’d longed for.
Intrigued, Guy had set to work. He’d painted cardboard until his hands were sore, transforming a small local hall into a venue that looked like a SoHo streetscape. He’d organised the local hotdog vendor to set up in a corner. The pretzel seller had come as well—and why wouldn’t he have? An inside venue in the middle of a hot August had been a welcome change. Guy had built and painted a bar, made of plywood, but it had looked fantastic. Guests had had to pay normal price for hot dogs and pretzels and beer, but the wealthy guests had been intrigued rather than offended. He’d persuaded buskers to come, including a rap dancer with a hat out for offerings. He’d been hands-on every step of the way, and he’d loved it.
The bride had been ecstatic. Christa and Guy’s mother had been less so. But when Guy had been approached the following week to do another wedding, and another, they’d been forced to stand by as Guy’s career took off in another direction.
He remembered the family horror—his fledgling company had had to fly by the seat of its pants, and to risk money was unthinkable. Christa had been beside herself with rage. But he’d kept on. It had been fun, and he’d never known what fun was until he’d thrown aside the mantle of family responsibility.
When had he stopped having fun?
He could hardly remember. All he knew was that after Christa had been killed it had become his refuge—organising vast numbers of people in glittering social events that held no personal attachment at all.
His firm had grown, so he was now no longer hands-on. He employed hundreds—staff handpicked for their artistic and business acumen.
Would they have kicked this woman out on the street? He didn’t know, and maybe he shouldn’t care as long as they did their job well. But now he thought back to that first wedding, and remembered Louise’s joy. He looked at Jenny, her face a trifle flushed and more than a trifle defiant, and he thought, Hell, she must have been demoralised.
What had she said?
A year ago I had a...well, I needed a holiday, and my parents-in-law sent me to Paris.
She’d had a what? A breakdown? What had happened to the husband?
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘It wasn’t your fault.’
It was, though, he thought grimly. He took the credit for Carver weddings. He took responsibility for his staff.
‘You don’t really want to employ me,’ she said. ‘Do you?’
‘I’d rather this place was kept open for business during transition. I had hoped to keep the acquisition quiet until I got my staff in place, but now it’s got out... It’s unfortunate, but nothing we can’t handle. I want the place open for queries and future bookings. You need to be the front person. I’ll give you a pricing structure so you can give brides an idea of what we offer. Run the weddings you have now under...’ He hesitated, then said, without bothering to hide his disdain, ‘Under Bridal Fluff. New bookings will be under Carver Salon.’
‘New bookings will be expensive?’
‘We’re exclusive.’
‘You don’t need to tell me that.’ She grimaced, and he was aware of a stab of...regret?
Once upon a time he’d tried to make his functions wonderful because they created joy. He hadn’t heard of the concept of exclusive. He’d lived on a shoestring.
He’d learned the hard way that was nonsense. That last day with Christa... ‘If you loved me you’d keep doing law. Your father’s expecting you to take over the family firm. Your mother’s scared you’re gay. Guy, you play with paints. Paints! And me... How do you think I feel being engaged to a wedding planner?’
She’d said the words with such scorn. Then, two hours later, she was dead. If she’d lived he was under no illusion that their relationship would have been over, but he knew that his life decision had killed her. And his father... His father had heard of Christa’s death and it had been as if he’d said goodbye to the son he’d now never have. A wedding planner... Two days later he’d had a stroke, and he’d never recovered.
Guy hadn’t gone back to law. He’d known he’d be good at this, but right there and then he’d vowed that he’d be a corporate success. Their deaths had been crazy and unnecessary. No one was going to throw wedding planner at him as a term of derision.
He worked hard. He kept to himself. He made money and he carefully didn’t know people. His life decisions would never hurt anyone again.
He had become exclusive.
The telephone cut the stillness, and he welcomed it. He motioned Jenny to answer, then picked up a catalogue to flick through while she spoke.
Here were Bridal Fluff weddings over the past few years, catalogued down to the last ghastly feather.
He flicked through. And paused.
One bridal couple smiled out from the pages, dressed like a pair from the set of Cabaret. He looked more closely, taking in details of the setting.
The whole theme was Cabaret.
It was actually rather good. It’d be good even as a Carver Wedding.
He flicked through a bit more. Fluff, fluff... But every now and then something different.
There were just a few weddings in here that showed talent. He glanced up at Jenny, and she was smiling and making hand signals. A second phone lay on the reception desk. She was motioning to him to lift it.
He lifted it and listened.
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‘...be there for Christmas. About three hundred people. Barret’s pulled strings and found someone who’ll marry them, so you don’t need to worry about the licence. All we need you to do is to turn a Christmas feast into a wedding feast. I’ll outline details in my fax. The most important thing is that Anna needs a wedding gown, and she’s caught up on location until she gets on the plane. But she trusts Carver implicitly. If he approves it, it’ll be fine. There’ll be six bridesmaids and six groomsmen. I’ll fax through sizes. Anna’s only stipulation is that she’d like a traditional wedding—the same as she saw at home when she was a little girl.’ The woman hesitated. ‘She said something about pink tulle.’
‘Oh, we can do pink tulle,’ Jenny told her, sounding chirpy and still smiling. ‘Mr Carver’s good at pink tulle.’
Guy stared at Jenny, astounded.
‘You’ve been really lucky,’ Jenny continued, ignoring Guy’s astonishment. ‘Mr Carver had stipulated there’d be no weddings from this salon until his people were in place. But as luck would have it Mr Carver himself arrived here this afternoon. I regret I personally won’t be involved, but I know I’m leaving you in good hands. Sure, it’s fine that you put out a press release. If you could fax us a copy it’ll let us see exactly what tone we need to set. The figure per head is perfectly acceptable. Goodbye.’
And she replaced the receiver with a definite click.
Guy stared at her. Jenny stared straight back, still smiling. Her chin jutted out just a little, and she held his gaze and didn’t break.
‘What the hell have you done?’ he demanded, and she smiled some more, a tight, strained smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
‘I just quit.’
‘You quit?’
‘The contract says my continued employment is optional. If I wish to leave at any time then I can. I know it was put there as a sop, so I’m letting you off the hook. I’m walking out now. Any remaining Bridal Fluff brides will be looked after by me from home. The salon’s yours.’
‘But you’ve just booked a wedding.’
‘I have. It sounds just your style.’
‘What wedding?’
‘You were on the phone. Didn’t you hear?’
‘I heard nothing. Only Barret and Anna...’ He paused as an appalling thought hit. ‘Barret and Anna? You don’t mean...’
‘Barret and Anna,’ she agreed, smiling benignly. ‘Surely you of all people know Barret and Anna? Barret’s just won...is it his second Oscar or his third? And Anna’s on the front cover of this month’s Glamour.’
‘They’re getting married?’ he said stupidly, and she nodded. She walked over to the desk and picked up her handbag. It was of ancient leather, he noticed, his mind settling on details as if they were important. It looked as if it was falling apart.
‘On Christmas Day,’ she said, following his gaze to her handbag, flushing, and putting it behind her. ‘That gives you ten days to organise it. I’ll send my father-in-law to clear the store of my gear. We’ll have it out of here by tomorrow night, so you’ll have a clear run. You’ll need it,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Three hundred people in ten days...’
‘What the...?’
‘It’s a very good idea,’ she said. ‘You know Anna’s a local girl? She’s hardly been home for twenty years, and by local I mean Sydney, but she bought a property here two years back. She and Barret flew in here after Amazon Trek for a break, and the town went nuts. It seems they were planning a Christmas party, but suddenly they’ve decided it would be an excellent time to get married. Only nothing’s organised. A blank canvas, Mr Carver, just how you like it. So now you have your very first Australian Carver Bride raring to go. Three hundred guests on Christmas Day.’ She smiled some more. ‘Ten days. You’ll be very busy. But me... I have a little boy, who’ll have Christmas with his mummy. Which is just as the world should be. Now me and my disreputable handbag will take ourselves out of your life. Good luck, Mr Carver. And goodbye.’
CHAPTER TWO
THIS was no drama. Guy watched her go with mixed feelings. There was a part of him that felt a strange lurch that she should walk away, and it had nothing to do with the bombshell she’d thrown at him. As usual, though, he attempted to shove personal thoughts aside and slip back into business mode.
It was difficult to shove the vision of Jenny away. The way she’d carried her handbag...
Barret and Anna. He had to think.
Barret Travers and Anna Price had a hugely powerful media presence. With Barret in a movie, an immediate box office hit was assured, and Anna’s profile was almost the same. Their impending wedding would turn the eyes of the world right here.
To what? He couldn’t put on a huge, media-circus-type wedding with this much notice. The booking was only five minutes old. He had to cancel, and fast.
That shouldn’t be a problem. He’d phone Malcolm and get contact details straight away. But before he could lift his phone the fax machine on Jenny’s desk hummed into life. Bemused, he watched the feed-out, recognising it for what it was. A press release.
‘Barret and Anna to Wed!’ the caption blared. ‘Wedding to be in Sandpiper Bay, Australia. Guy Carver’s first Australian wedding.’
They’d had it planned before they’d contacted Jenny, he thought. They’d had this press release ready to go.
Why? What could possibly add more media hype to
this pair?
Carver’s first Australian wedding. Guy thought about it, and his heart sank.
Anna had been pilloried in the press for her bad taste. Of course she’d want pink tulle, he thought. Pink tulle would be right in her league.
How to get pink tulle but still be thought cool by the cognoscenti?
Have a Carver wedding.
He had to cancel.
He stared down at the press release. Specifically at the tiny cc...
This was not a press release sent early just as confirmation to him. This was a press release which was simultaneously being read by every media outlet in the western world.
They’d been expecting his yes as perfunctory. Jenny had given them their yes, and they’d told the world.
If he pulled out now...
Carver Event Management pulling out would be news. People knew he was in Australia. Jenny had just confirmed it. So why couldn’t he organise the wedding? No matter how carefully he explained it, Anna would take his refusal as a personal slight, and the world’s press would agree.
Which meant problems for Anna.
The paparazzi spent their life reporting on Anna—and Barret. Barret was a loud-mouthed boor, but he was number one at the box office. In contrast, Anna was struggling a little. A few months ago she’d spent time in drug rehab. and the press had had a field-day. Her life seemed to be together now, but the media still wavered between idolatry and ridicule.
If they knew he’d knocked her back—International Events Organiser Guy Carver Refuses Anna/Barret Wedding—the world’s press would say it served her right. They’d say she’d got what she deserved and the balance might well tip on the side of ridicule.
Which she didn’t deserve.
Damn, he didn’t get emotionally involved. He didn’t.
He was. Right up to his neck.
He thumped the desk with his fist, and a fluffy stuffed dog, endowed for some reason with a disembodied head, started nodding in furious agreement. He stared down at the stupid creature and came close to throwing it through the pink-tinged windows.
Jenny was outside the window.
Over the road was the beach. A group of teenagers were clustered by the side of the road, leaning on their surfboards and chatting to Jenny. She was laughing at something one of them said.
She looked...free.
‘Of course she looks free. You’ve just sacked her.’
Except he hadn’t. She’d walked out on him. The thought was astonishing.
Focus on this wedding. How long did he have? Ten days?
The idea was ridiculous. He went through his top people in his head, trying to figure who could come.
No one could come. Everyone held parties at Christmas. And every event he had in his mental diary was major. There’d be repercussions if he pulled anyone out.
For a wedding like this, at this short notice, he needed local people. He needed...Jenny.
She was climbing into an ancient Ford, a wagon that looked more battered than the decrepit vehicles the surfers were using. While he watched, she backed out of the parking spot, then headed right. Her wagon passed the teenagers and did a backfire that made everyone jump.
‘She’d be hopeless,’ he told no one in particular, and no one in particular was interested.
‘I can’t ask her.’
No one was interested in that, either.
He stared at the fax again and swore. ‘Do I care if the wonderful Anna’s career goes down the toilet?’
He did, he thought. Damn, he did. Two months ago he’d catered for a sensational Hollywood ball. Anyone who was anyone had been present. He recalled a very drunken producer hitting on Anna. When she’d knocked him back he’d lifted her soda water, sniffed it, and thrown it away in disgust.
‘Once a tart, always a tart, love,’ he’d drawled at her. ‘You’re not such a good little actress that you can pretend to be something you’re not for ever.’
Guy had intervened then, handing Anna another soda water, giving her a slight push away and deflecting the creep who’d insulted her by showing signs of investing in his latest project. But he’d seen Anna’s white face, pretence stripped, and he’d also seen how she’d stared into the soda water, taken a deep breath, and then deliberately started to drink it. To change your life took guts—who should know that better than him?
If Anna wanted him to cater for her wedding then he would.
‘Even if it does mean I have to go on bended knee to the Widow Westmere.’