by Laura Briggs
"I'm so glad you're here," said Lady Amanda, with a little gasp of relief. "I thought I was going to be buried under fabric swatches and flower books for the rest of my life!"
Lady Amanda definitely wasn't a dignified lady with a stiff upper lip and strings of pearls. She was ginger-haired, tall, and curvy, wearing a rather worn but beautifully-knit Guernsey style sweater and designer jeans. She greeted me like a long-lost school chum mere minutes after our formal introduction as employer and event planner, ushering me into a little sitting room on Cliffs House's main floor that had been converted into her office, where she managed Cliffs House's image as a public attraction.
"I've been planning events on my own these past two years. Me and the kitchen staff," she continued, flopping down on an antique sofa. "It's exhausting how much I've handled, between that and the public relations work, which is every bit as important. But with the size and scale of these events growing every year — and tourism's on the rise again, thanks to television audiences — I can't possibly handle it on my own. So enter you, Julianne Morgen — chief event planner and coordinator to Cliffs House's growing number of guests."
"I'm flattered," I answered. "I can't tell you how much so, actually." It felt surreal, sitting in this room that felt both historic and modern, surrounded by antiques and the soft colors and clean lines of modern decor. From the overstuffed pink armchair and gleaming, carved walnut desk to the silver floor lamps and Warhol prints, it was comfortable, cozy, and unbelievably elegant after the sterile flowers-in-a-frame-and-sentimental-smiling-brides decor of Design a Dream's workspace.
"You must be planning a lot of events to hire someone full-time," I said. Even though I could see plenty of evidence that Lady Amanda was swamped with work — there were piles of half-printed brochures everywhere, and sketches for a printed tour guide to Cliffs House pinned to her design board, a cloth one covered with a soft print of architectural blueprints.
"I want someone to take my place in the process," she answered. "If you haven't guessed already, event planning wasn't my chosen career."
"Interior design?" I guessed, one eyebrow lifting. I had cast my eye over the books in her shelf while I was admiring her office. Several were on fabric, and on furniture history. "Or architecture?" I had seen the books on London city design and Venice's construction, and the well-marked one on historic Cornwallian building methods.
"Clever girl," said Lady Amanda, sounding impressed. "It was interior design at first, but I had a turn for marketing that persuaded me to change my goals. Hence, my role in promoting tourism both for Cliffs House, and then for Ceffylgwyn itself."
She poured a cup of tea from the silver service on the neighboring table, and passed it to me as she lifted her own. "William's as involved as he can be, given how little time he has between managing the estate's adjacent lands and the financial side of running a modern-day estate," she continued. "So it left us with no choice but to find someone to hire on permanently. Someone who could handle all the details big and small — from food to flowers, to emergencies. Everything but the kitchen sink, you might say."
"Everything?" I echoed. "You mean that you — you don't want a hand in the process?"
"Coaxing clients to choose the garden for a reception, or spending days on the telephone with the vicar of the nice little chapel in the neighboring village, trying to coax him into conducting a wedding service for strangers?" said Lady Amanda. "No, thank you. I am content booking events and greeting the clients as the lovely lady of Cliffs House — I have absolutely no interest in knowing what pattern of china they want for their wedding breakfast, or what Vera Wang designer gown they insist on having shipped here for their engagement party. I'm happy to let you worry about all of those things, and hear the juicy details later from the girls downstairs."
My head was floating above my shoulders now. I wasn't sure if I was scared or elated — after all, I was now in charge of every event planned at Cliffs House. I was the person whom brides of any background or nationality would look to for answers. I took a firm grip on my teacup's saucer and steeled myself for it. I knew what I was doing. I'd spent years studying it, practicing it on a smaller scale at Design a Dream, so what could possibly go wrong that I couldn't deal with?
"Why did you hire me?" I asked. "An American? Surely somebody English would make more sense."
"You'd be surprised how many international guests we host now," said Lady Amanda. "I didn't necessarily need local knowledge or the 'stiff upper lip' image, as you would put it. So many of our visitors are American these days, too — that's television's doing, again." She took another sip of tea. "I interviewed several candidates from Exeter, Oxford, even London. But when your name popped up on a list of employees from a U.S. business that planned a wedding of a friend of mine...well, something about it just seemed right."
Maybe it was kismet, I thought, remembering my grandmother's old-fashioned term for destined good luck. Maybe it was karma, as my spirituality-seeking friend Nate back home in Seattle would say. Or maybe it was destiny, as Lady Amanda suggested. Me finding a place of my own after years of languishing at the bottom of Design a Dream's career ladder.
"There's a list of local resources, businesses that cater, florists, musicians, and so on," said Lady Amanda. "As well as ones available from everywhere from Devon to London — anyone you might need to hire, from chamber orchestras to couture designers — although you look like a bright young woman who knows how to use the internet and a mobile to learn things." Here, Lady Amanda's impish smile returned.
"The staff here is capable of handling quite a bit," she continued. "Dinah is our chef, a graduate of a French cooking academy, and Gemma and Pippa assist her in catering any number of events. We have a hothouse and gardening staff, with quite a selection of flowers, with no small thanks to a brilliant horticulturist currently residing in Cornwall."
"It sounds so elegant," I said. "Like a four-star hotel." I pictured escargot and French pastries alongside a perfectly-carved rib roast, and vases brimming with English roses. Cliffs House was not the size of a manor like Pemberley or a castle from Arthurian legend, but it was such a beautiful, romantic spot. Who wouldn't want to have their wedding near the rugged English moors, overlooking a ribbon of water curving along those ancient cliffs?
"I'll see to it that you're settled properly in the office closest to mine. A former morning parlor, in case you're interested — just shove aside whatever antique andirons and stuffed birds are cluttering up the place."
"I'm sure I'll be very comfortable," I answered, with a grin. "Even if I have to rearrange whatever empty suits of armor are taking up my desk's spot." Lady Amanda hid her smile behind her teacup, but her eyes were still twinkling.
"So let's get to it," said Lady Amanda, after she set aside her tea. "The only event of importance in the diary right now is the Price-Parker - Borroway union, of course. The groom-to-be booked us six months ago after announcing his engagement, and now the bride-to-be will be here to finish planning the reception for the next couple of weeks or so. Starting today, actually." She checked her watch, then sprang up from her chair. "I'll introduce you to the staff, then take you to meet them after I change into something a bit more suitable."
I was amazed. Fifteen minutes of chat, and I was already on my way to meet the celebrity couple. Quickly, I set aside my teacup and rose to my feet, smoothing my charcoal pencil skirt, hoping my hair's loosely-pinned style was sensible enough for whatever standards Cliffs House had for its newest representative. Lady Amanda had forgotten to clue me in on how I should dress, speak, and behave when talking to clients, especially since I was from 'across the pond.'
Her glance fell to my feet as I walked with her to the office door. "Lovely shoes," she said. "Are those Valentino?"
"They are," I admitted.
"Divine," she answered. "That's really my only reason to venture into the boutiques of Truro these days — shoe shopping. I always find that slipping on a perfect pair makes me feel as if I cou
ld conquer the world. But how did you ever find a pair in such an exquisite color?"
I had a feeling that Lady Amanda's standards, whatever they were, would suit me just fine.
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