Heart in the Right Home

by Lisa Hill

  ‘To the north of that cul-de-sac, opposite the school, Rosefields, is it?’

  Rebecca frowned. ‘That land’s adjacent to Clunderton Hall, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yep,’ James grinned. ‘Fancy gate-crashing a wedding?’

  Rebecca’s hand shot straight to her mouth before they both burst out giggling. ‘And come face-to-face with your Mum too? Not on your life!’

  Chapter Three

  The piano tinkled, champagne flutes chinked, and guests quaffed and giggled, whilst Louise Edwards shifted her blouse sleeves further up her forearms and wiped dripping sweat from her brow.

  She paused from plating up the desserts in the little makeshift kitchen, an off-shoot of the main marquee in the grounds of Clunderton Hall, and watched through the tunnel connecting the two to see Johnnie, her husband, in his chef’s whites, laughing and joking with Hilary Preston-Jones – the local Leader of the WI, Chair of the Parish Council and all-round busy body – as he necked back champagne.

  Charming.

  Ever since they had agreed to do the catering for this wedding, Johnnie had had his head so far up his own arse, Louise wondered if he could actually remember he had a wife and two daughters; the ones keeping this show on the road.

  ‘Are those plates ready to go, Mum?’ Megan, their eldest daughter, asked, looking effortlessly chic and calm without a bead of sweat on her.

  ‘Let me get this batch plated up and then they can go out together.’

  ‘Okay, only these quenelles are beginning to lose their egg shape.’

  ‘Oh, heck!’ Louise sped up. ‘You take those then, that’s a table’s worth, and Cerys can take these as soon as she gets back.’

  She could swing for Johnnie. He had promised her, faithfully, that this gig was not too big for them. Johnnie and Louise ran the local Village Stores together. They had done for the past seven years, when Johnnie, who was eight years older than Louise, had hit forty and decided that he had had enough of the rat race in London and wanted a different pace of life. What this had actually entailed was them selling their Pimlico townhouse and moving two hundred miles up the M1 to take over the running of a run-down, dilapidated Post-Office-cum-Corner-Shop. But by buying the cottage next door, they had converted the two properties, living in a spacious flat upstairs, whilst the downstairs comprised the Village Stores, Post Office and an extension at the back, which was Louise’s domain; the tearooms.

  She admired Johnnie for everything he had achieved, she really did, but there were days when she really missed her old, boring life; being a London housewife where the most challenging event of the day was two loads of washing on top of getting the girls to gymnastics after school.

  Life had changed a lot.

  ‘Those ready to go, Mum?’ Cerys appeared at the serving pass, ready to take another tray of pecan shortbreads served with raspberries, clotted cream mousse, raspberry jus and a garnish of mint leaves.

  Louise looked up at her youngest daughter and smiled. My, how she was growing. Blossoming in fact. She was about to embark on her GCSE exams and Megan on her A-Levels. The house was fraught with tension - most of it revision stress - but also the feuding between Johnnie and Louise; she had felt the girls could do with revising this weekend and not catering a wedding.

  ‘Yes, thanks love,’ Louise said, pushing the tray towards Cerys. ‘Phew, just one more to go!’ she said, sounding brighter than she felt.

  ‘Need a hand?’ The smooth Scottish accent of Duncan Campbell, the landlord of the Clunderton Arms, asked.

  ‘Hmmm?’ Louise turned around to see him standing there, reassured to see he looked as hot and flustered as she did. ‘Oh, um, do you mind?’ she asked, touched that someone was offering her help. ‘Haven’t you got drinks to serve?’

  ‘All under control with my staff. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Well, if I quenelle the mousse you could drizzle the jus on; it’s in this bottle look, it just needs to have a bit of artistic flair.’

  ‘I grew up in the Gorbals of Glasgow, I’m not sure we were blessed with an artistic gene.’

  ‘I’ve tried some of your desserts in the pub, Duncan, don’t fool me that you can’t make it look pretty.’

  ‘Well, I’ll try my best.’

  Louise knew Duncan had a chef at the pub, but he often knocked up the desserts himself to assist the skeleton kitchen staff he employed.

  Louise sighed. ‘I thought this would be fun.’

  Where had that come from?

  ‘Aye, well, you know what it’s like in catering; everyone else has the fun, you’re just there to provide it.’

  She was sorely tempted to complain about Johnnie but thought better of it. The village was a hot bed of gossip. Poor Lottie had been an outcast after photos of a lunch date with Tom had appeared in a national newspaper last year, when they literally were just having lunch together.

  ‘I’m just glad I’m not the only one who looks hot, it’s roasting in here. The girls seem unaffected; I was beginning to think I was going through the change but I’m only forty-one!’

  Duncan laughed. ‘It does seem a little over the top to have the connection between the marquees covered-up, but Tom’s got a tunnel from the chapel to the marquee too. To be fair I’ve seen a couple of drones and he was determined no-one saw Jude’s wedding dress as they’ve sold the pictures to Hi! Magazine. How the other half live, eh?’

  Louise stopped what she was doing and thought again about her life in London, where she didn’t get up at five in the morning to make fresh scones for the tearooms and wasn’t mopping floors at seven in the evening, every day, before ascending the stairs to start on that night’s dinner for the family.

  ‘Indeed,’ she said, quietly.

  ‘Jack,’ Pamela said, in hushed tones. She’d been fidgeting in her seat all through the wedding breakfast like an excited five-year-old.

  ‘Yes, and yes.’ Jack said. ‘But you are not to mention it to anyone here today. It’s Tom and Jude’s day, not ours.’

  ‘Ohhh!’ She embraced him in her usual Chanel scented hug. ‘Thank you, but you will do it properly too, won’t you, down on one knee?’

  Jack grinned as they pulled away from each other. Fifteen months ago, this sort of pushy behaviour from her would have completely pushed his buttons, but a lot had changed since then. Then, Pamela was just Lottie’s interfering mother-in-law. Now she was his best friend. He wasn’t sure if she’d changed or he had really, but either way, the result was a happy one.

  ‘I will,’ he said in hushed tones. ‘We’ll go and choose a ring and do it properly, all in good time, but you have to promise me one thing.’

  The smile on Pamela’s face fell. ‘What?’

  ‘You let me tell Lottie.’ Thankfully, it hadn’t come as a surprise to Lottie when Jack had announced his intentions to leave Church End – his little cottage, annexed to Church Cottage where Lottie and Drew lived – to go and live with Pamela in the Old Rectory. Lottie had been preoccupied with helping Pamela’s mother, Audrey, move out of her retirement home, in Harrogate, and into Jack’s cottage. In fact, given the less than harmonious history between his beloved daughter and her mother-in-law, it had been Jack who had been left surprised at how well Lottie had taken the news. Exactly how well she was going to take the news that her mother-in-law was soon to become her step-mother was another matter entirely.

  ‘Well, that’s a relief, I can go along with that.’ She pointed a finger at Jack. ‘As long as you don’t drag your heels over telling her!’

  ‘I think you’ve had too much champagne, my love.’ He winked at his beautiful bride-to-be.

  ‘Perhaps the fizz has loosened my tongue, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I thought you were going to insist I contacted Edward.’

  Ah, the elephant in the room.

  ‘I thought that went without saying?’ Jack said, squeezing her hand. ‘You can’t marry me until you’re divorced.’

  ‘Lottie.’ Jude sidled up to Lottie carryin
g a champagne flute, looking more concerned than Lottie felt a woman who had just married a minted, A-list celebrity really should.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Lottie asked, taking a swig of her Bolly.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ Jude said, voice also full of concern.

  ‘Yes, there is.’ Lottie narrowed her eyes. ‘Spill.’

  ‘Well, it’s probably nothing but there’s a chap at the gate insisting he’s family to the bride but he hasn’t got an invite, so security won’t let him in. What if it’s Phil?’

  Lottie rolled her eyes and handed her champagne flute over to Jude. ‘If it’s Phil, security won’t need their muscle power to get rid of him; I’m more than capable of kicking his arse into next week. I’ll go.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Jude said, looking relieved.

  ‘Go and enjoy your new husband.’ Lottie kissed Jude on the cheek before slinking off in her heels and dress, with a split practically up to her unmentionables, towards the marquee entrance.

  Spotting a golf buggy under a tree she headed straight for it; there was no way she was breaking an ankle in these killer heels attempting to walk near-on half-a-mile down the winding driveway of Clunderton Hall to the arched entrance. ‘Bloody Phil,’ she muttered, trying to figure out how to get the buggy to move back and forwards. She discovered the throttle and began to trundle off down the windy, tree-lined driveway. Tom had hired a few buggies to make it easier for the security staff to get around the grounds. Philandering Phil - as Lottie loved to refer to him – was Jude’s ex-husband and father to Jacob and Emily. He was also a total pain the arse, the cause of much hurt and grief – financially and emotionally – for Jude but then, if he hadn’t managed to make himself bankrupt – repossessing Jude’s home in the process – then Jude may not have ended up working for Tom and love might never have blossomed. Lottie didn’t have a clue why he’d be at the gates trying to cadge an invite but what other plausible reason was there for someone claiming to be part of the bride’s family?

  ‘Oh. My. God.’ Lottie took her foot off the accelerator as she neared the hedge and saw the figure pointing his phone at her and laughing fit to burst.

  ‘Come on old lady, give us a smile! I’m going to edit this up with the Benny Hill theme tune!’ James Hardwicke said, before dissolving into laughter.

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ Lottie tried to dismount the buggy, getting tangled up in her long dress and heels, tripping, Miranda-style, into a crumpled heap of silk on the grass.

  ‘Pah, ha, ha!’ James continued to laugh.

  ‘Turn that camera off!’ Lottie struggled to stand up. Composing herself, she wobbled across the lawn, heels now sinking into the soft grass, towards the gaggle of security staff. ‘Excuse me, I know this vagrant looks like paparazzi, but he is in fact, as he claims, family of the bride. Sort of. Either way, could you possibly let him in please?’

  The widest guard eyed her cautiously.

  ‘She’s the Matron of Honour,’ another guard, with a thick Liverpudlian, accent confirmed.

  ‘All right,’ said the first guard, ‘but we’ll have to search him.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ James said, appearing and stretching his arms and legs out wide.

  ‘Okay.’ The guard sniffed. ‘You’re good.’

  ‘Darling girl,’ James said, embracing Lottie in a big hug.

  Lottie liked James. She defied anyone not to. He had Edward’s manicured good looks and charm – yet lacked his dominating and manipulative streak - Drew’s kind heart, and she wasn’t very sure where the wit came from, but he always made her laugh.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ She almost shrieked, feeling as excited as she sounded. As an only child herself, James was like a fully-fledged, big brother to her and just as mischievous. It was over a year since they’d all seen him.

  ‘What else would I be up to but no good, sweetie?’

  Lottie titled her head. ‘Sounds ominous.’

  ‘Depends who you are. So, how does one get an invite to the wedding of the year?’

  ‘That was last year.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Harry and Meghan?’

  ‘Hilarious, as always, Lottie. I meant so I can get in to see Mum and Drew.’

  ‘You’re already in,’ she said. ‘Come on, I’ll give you a lift.’

  ‘In those heels?’ James looked down at Lottie’s feet.

  ‘Okay, you drive.’ She scooted into the passenger side of the buggy as James effortlessly started up the cart.

  He clearly played way too much golf.

  ‘What’s so urgent you need to be a wedding crasher?’ Lottie asked, the feeling of excitement beginning to ebb away, replaced with a flow of anxiety. Phil she could have dealt with. James on a mission on behalf of Edward was something else entirely.

  James shrugged, concentrating on the driveway ahead in his swanky Ray-Bans. ‘Oh, you know, family stuff.’

  ‘I am family,’ Lottie managed through gritted teeth. Honestly, nothing ever changed where the Hardwickes were concerned. Not only was Lottie a Hardwicke, Jack was now living with Pamela and yet they still closed ranks!

  ‘I know, sweetie—’

  Why was James calling her sweetie now beginning to grate on her?

  ‘—I’m going to tell you all together.’

  ‘At a wedding?’

  ‘Time waits for no man, Lottie.’

  ‘Or woman. By which you mean you’re on a mission from Edward.’ Her stomach was churning now. The last thing she needed was James stealing Tom and Jude’s thunder. Which would, of course, be her fault. Inevitably, everything was.

  ‘Don’t looked so worried, Lotts,’ James said, pulling up on the grass verge in front of the marquee. ‘I promise to be a good boy,’ he winked at her before descending from the cart.

  ‘You better,’ Lottie said, stalking after him in her heels, looking far more menacing than the security guards had.

  Chapter Four

  The speeches were in full swing and Louise felt it wasn’t just her pace which was ramping up a gear, but her impatience too. Johnnie was still waxing lyrical with the guests whilst she and the girls rushed around like blue-arsed flies, dishing out small pieces of wedding cake to be enjoyed with the toasts.

  It had pained her to watch the cake cut, Louise reflected, as she dashed in between a table of celebrities she vaguely recognised, trying her hardest to appear like she was gracefully placing the fine bone china in front of them, not shoving it under their noses like some harassed school dinner lady. Which was exactly how she felt. She’d made the cake herself. Hours and hours of sketches to meet with Tom and Jude’s approval. They had opted for a five-tier cake to represent the layers of their new family; Tom, Jude, Tom’s daughter, Rori, and Jacob and Emily, Jude’s two children. Jude had been keen to include Tom’s other two grown-up children from his previous marriage, but Tom had insisted it was the five of them, as a nuclear family now. So, Louise had come up with five layers; the foundation layer, reflecting Clunderton Hall, their home, and the countryside surrounding it. The second theme was love, with intricate hearts and iced forget-me-knots, and the third focused on the children, with little figures of them playing in the maze at Clunderton Hall. The fourth reflected both Tom’s and Jude’s careers; hers as a midwife and his as an actor which Louise had found hard to combine. She’d opted for a film set in a hospital, like Casualty, which everyone had laughed at. The top layer was a traditional one of bride and groom, happily nestled together on their wedding day. It had taken Louise so many hours, so much sweat and tears, many trial cakes to get the flavour combinations just right, let alone the time it took to decorate, that she had been at pains to cut it up. It was like cutting the marriage open before it had started; it didn’t seem right, breaking the symbolism of this family apart. She placed the last slice of cake on the table and was about to return to the kitchen to retrieve another tray of sliced cake when she noticed Johnnie stopping to listen to Drew’s Best Man’s speech. She instantly saw red; how dare he just sta
nd there when they were working their backsides off?

  ‘Excuse me,’ said a voice in hushed tones.

  Louise looked down to see a glamorous, fifty-something lady, in a figure-hugging fuchsia pink dress and matching fascinator, looking-up from under her false eyelashes.

  ‘How can I help?’ Louise asked, marvelling at how she had managed to come back down from incandescent to totally cool in less than six seconds.

  ‘Are you the lady who made the cake?’

  ‘I am.’ Louise crouched down, whispering.

  ‘My dear, it’s a work of art! Better than those lot on Choccywoccydoodah.’

  Louise didn’t get to watch much television – probably why she didn’t recognise half the celebrity guests here – but she was aware of the famous cake programme where they made elaborate cakes for celebs and rich socialites.

  ‘Thank you.’ Louise smiled for the first time today. ‘That’s so kind of you to say.’

  ‘Do you have a card?’ asked the lady. ‘My daughter’s getting married next year, and I simply must use you. That cake is going to be featured in Hi! and you’re going to be booked up for months. I need to get in there first.’

  ‘Am I?’ Louise seriously doubted that.

  ‘Yes!’ The lady seemed astonished by Louise’s humility.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t have any business cards,’ Louise said, suddenly feeling embarrassed. When they’d lived in London she wouldn’t have felt so self-conscious, talking to famous people. Living in rural Yorkshire these past eight years had seriously knocked her confidence. ‘We do have a website though,’ she hurried on. ‘We run the local stores, in the village. Clunderton Stores; you’ll find us on the web easily.’

  The lady pulled her cream clutch bag towards her and rummaged inside. ‘Here, have mine,’ she said, handing Louise her card.

  Debbie Newcross, Actor, Louise read.

  ‘Thank you,’ Louise said, recalling that strange sensation it was to feel valued.

  ‘Can you drop me an email and I can get the date booked in with you?’