‘This smoked salmon and fresh crayfish starter,’ Bex suggested, as she ran a perfect scarlet nail down the list, ‘followed by rack of lamb with new potatoes – wilted greens – Beaujolais and cranberry reduction – and to finish off, the triple chocolate soufflé with chocolate and almond petits fours.’ Bex looked up and grinned. ‘All sorted – yes?’
‘No, it’s damn well not,’ retorted Tess. ‘What about us vegetarians? If this menu’s planned around you carnivores, we veggies will be given rubbish that’s been in their freezer since Jesus was in Pampers. Nasty quiches full of greyish leeks, boring pasta something, glutinous risotto. You should begin with goat’s cheese tartlets, Cat, and then go on to aubergine and pumpkin gratin topped with saffron custard. Or zucchini parmigiana, that looks good as well. You can keep your soufflé, Bex, but what about this loganberry panna cotta as a second choice?’
‘It’s my wedding,’ Cat reminded them.
‘Oh, you’ve found a bridegroom, then?’ Bex twirled an ash-blonde strand around one finger and scowled down at the vegetarian options, which Cat was inclined to think looked dull. They were mostly based on cheese, and whereas cheese was fine for rats and mice—
‘The bridegroom’s in development,’ said Tess.
‘Omigod, don’t tell me Jack’s been sighted?’
‘No,’ admitted Tess. ‘But there are several other options. Quite a few, in fact.’
‘Online dating, eh? Desperate of Leyton seeks anything in trousers?’
‘Shut up, Bex,’ said Tess.
‘The Royal Marines Commando Challenge, extreme sports weekends, bungee jumping off tall buildings, right? That’s a sure-fire way to meet some guys, doing something really stupid, preferably wearing awful clothes and looking like a mutant from a Steven Spielberg movie. What if you break your neck?’
‘Shut up, Bex,’ said Cat.
‘Mail order, that’s another possibility. What about some guy from Indonesia or Sudan? Or an asylum seeker – there are lots of them about, and maybe one would marry you?’
‘Bex, could you go and put the kettle on?’ suggested Tess. ‘Cat and I are having a serious conversation here. Cat, I think zucchini parmigiana – don’t forget.’
‘Rack of lamb,’ called Bex, as she turned on the kitchen tap and started rattling mugs about.
After Tess and Bex had gone, Cat had Fanny on the phone again.
God, this woman works ridiculous hours, she thought, as she realised who was speaking – it was nearly midnight.
But there was no escaping Fanny now, and so Cat went for gold. She could almost hear the soundtrack from that movie Chariots of Fire as she lied her socks off.
Yes, she was really looking forward to meeting Fanny and the team from Supadoop Promotions at the Melbury Court Hotel. No, getting down to Dorset wouldn’t be a problem. Yes, she’d already checked up on the trains. Yes, this coming weekend would be fine.
‘As it happens,’ she continued glibly, ‘Jack’s away on business at the moment. But I’m sure you’d like to get things moving, so I’ll come to Dorset by myself.’
‘We were rather hoping we could meet you and Jack,’ said Fanny Gregory briskly – or was it suspiciously? ‘What’s his line of business, angel?’
‘He does stand-up comedy.’ Then Cat crossed the fingers of one hand behind her back and crossed her eyes as well. ‘He’s just beginning to make his name in pubs and clubs in Manchester and Liverpool. So he couldn’t miss an opportunity which came up this week.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Fanny. ‘What’s his name again?’
‘Jack Benson,’ Cat replied.
‘I’m googling him now.’
‘He—he’s not famous yet!’
‘Maybe not, my darling, but Google ought to find him.’
Okay, Cat told herself, come clean. Tell Fanny Whatserface Jack’s disappeared, the wedding’s off, and say the runner-up can have the prize.
But then she thought – I don’t want Fanny Gregory to think I’m some sad loser who invented a fiancé just so I could win a competition. When I filled in that entry form, I did it in good faith. I did have a fiancé, and the photographs I sent, they were of Jack and me.
‘You’ll need to know his stage name,’ she told Fanny. ‘He’s on Twitter, Facebook, all that stuff, as Zackie Banter.’
‘Zackie what?’ drawled Fanny Gregory sarcastically. ‘You’re sure he’s not a circus clown, my sweet? I’m seeing someone in those ghastly flapping shoes, a swivelling bow tie and with electrocuted hair. The sort of man who’s hired for children’s parties by people who live in bungalows in Essex.’
‘He does stand-up comedy,’ repeated Cat. ‘You could try googling Zackie Banter stand-up, that should find him.’
‘Oh, yes – here he is – no tweets for weeks. He should get his act together, shouldn’t he, if he wants to make a good impression on the web? So tell me, darling – what’s his shtick?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘What is he, alternative, political?’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Cat. ‘Alternative, Jack’s definitely alternative. All his stuff is very off the wall.’
Get out now, you idiot, she thought. Stop this insanity, confess, tell Fanny Gregory you can’t meet her in Dorset, tell her why.
‘You say you’ll be in Dorset this coming Saturday morning?’ Fanny said, and Cat could hear her tapping on a keyboard, no doubt looking through her jam-packed diary and slotting people in.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Cat, ‘that will be fine.’
Well, she told herself, there would be no harm in going to have a little look.
Friday, 13 May
‘A little look?’ shrieked Bex, when she and Cat and Tess met in a coffee shop for lunch the following day.
‘Yes, why not?’ asked Cat.
‘You’ve mislaid your fiancé, that’s why not.’ Tess peeled the crinkled paper off her double chocolate, raspberry sprinkles and marshmallow muffin. ‘I think you should call the whole thing off.’
‘So why did we bother to talk about those menus from the Melbury Court Hotel?’ demanded Cat. ‘Last month, you were telling me to find another man and go for it.’
‘But you haven’t found one, have you, dumbo?’ Tess shot back. ‘You haven’t been out anywhere to look.’
‘Jack might come home,’ said Cat.
‘I haven’t noticed any flying bacon.’ Bex glanced through the café’s plate glass window. ‘Tess, do you see anything with wings?’
‘Alas, no angel pigs out there.’
‘So, as Tess has pointed out, you need to call the whole thing off,’ said Bex.
‘Cat, it would be for the best,’ soothed Tess.
‘But I’ll look such a fool,’ objected Cat.
‘You’ll look a bigger fool if you arrange your wedding and you don’t have a bridegroom.’
‘What will you do, rope in a waiter or a cook?’
‘Or will you skip the wedding and go straight to the reception?’
‘That would be rather stupid, wouldn’t it?’
‘Stop going on at me,’ said Cat. ‘Or you two won’t be getting invitations anyway.’
‘You could always marry Tess,’ smirked Bex.
‘Or marry Bex,’ grinned Tess.
‘Yes, okay,’ said Bex. ‘But I want to be the one who wears the wedding gown and carries the bouquet and there’s to be no tongue stuff when we kiss.’
‘Otherwise, it’s off,’ said Tess.
‘Shut up, the pair of you,’ said Cat.
‘Listen, honey, this is getting serious.’ Bex looked hard at Cat. ‘Yeah, we had a lot of fun discussing all those menus and watching all those DVDs. The catering sounds fabulous and we don’t dispute the place looks gorgeous. But we’re your friends, we want what’s be
st for you and we think you should stop this madness now.’
‘We do indeed,’ said Tess. ‘So, bearing that in mind, we’re going to keep you occupied. We’ll stop you mooning round the place like some pathetic adolescent who’s in love with Johnny Depp.’
‘We’re taking you to do some heavy-duty shopping on Saturday afternoon,’ continued Bex. ‘We’ve got three tickets for an Abba tribute gig that evening.’
‘So we’ll have some jolly super fun,’ concluded Tess.
‘But Tess, I always thought you hated Abba?’
‘I do,’ admitted Tess. ‘But I still like them ironically, especially when I’m drunk, and I intend to be extremely drunk. I’m going to work my way through twenty pints of Guinness.’
‘Tess, you’re very silly.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Tess. ‘You should be silly too, once in a while. It might help you loosen up a bit. So – who’s going to be the pretty one?’
‘Me,’ said Bex, ‘because I’ve got the patent leather boots and miniskirt, because I have the longest, blondest hair, and because when we go out together guys all ask if you’re my ugly sisters, anyway.’
Saturday, 14 May
But, in spite of being offered Abba tribute gigs and heavy-duty shopping opportunities, and in spite of Tess and Bex doing their most sarcastic best to talk her out of it, on Saturday Cat caught the train to Dorset.
As she sat there in the grubby carriage with the noisy families, with the teenage lovers plugged into the same iPod, with a million old age pensioners setting off on cut-price day trips, wondering what she’d say to Fanny Gregory and her team, she looked through all the brochures yet again.
The Melbury Court Hotel itself was gorgeous. A square and solid Jacobean mansion, it was four storeys high, it had elaborate window frames which Cat decided must all be original, and it was built of mellow, blush-red brick.
Its gardens were spectacular. There was no other word. Grand herbaceous borders, shaded tree-lined walks, carved and sculpted topiary, Elizabethan love-knots, this place had the lot.
Mum would have a great time pinching cuttings and swiping various sprigs of this and that and letting seed-heads accidentally drop into her William Morris–patterned shopping bag, Cat thought ruefully.
The lawns beyond the formal grounds were dotted here and there with summer houses and little rustic temples, all festooned with honeysuckle, roses and wisteria. In summer, they would make the place a perfumed paradise.
Peacocks strutted on the lawns, ornamental chickens with feathered legs and dappled plumage fussed around looking for worms and grubs, and doves roosted in dovecotes.
As for the garden art – you never saw anything like this in Barry Chapman’s yard. Ancient, period and modern, lichened stone and gleaming steel, there was something to please everyone.
The white marble fountain in the forecourt, with its centrepiece of gods and goddesses and mermaids, with its dolphins, cherubs, nymphs and great, carved cockleshells, must have come from some Italian villa, Cat decided, and would be worth a fortune.
She wondered what it looked like when it played. Or when its jets were petrified and it was festooned with sparkling icicles, all glittering like diamonds in the January sun?
A winter wedding, she thought dreamily.
I’ll have a wedding in the snow.
Does it snow in Dorset?
If it doesn’t, maybe I could hire a snow machine?
I’ll wear a beaded, ice-white velvet gown, a fur lined velvet cloak and silver shoes.
I’ll be a real live Snow Queen with crystals in my hair.
But you’re forgetting something, said the voice inside her head. You don’t have anyone to marry.
I’m working on it, lied her other self.
Supadoop Promotions turned out to be a forty-something woman in a sharp black business suit, a pretty twenty-something girl, a teenage boy photographer with half a dozen cameras round his neck and an extremely elegant and beautiful black greyhound with the most amazing amber eyes.
Cat found them waiting in the station car park, standing by a lovely gleaming purple BMW, the sort of vehicle that was clearly custom-made.
‘You must be Cat. I’m Fanny,’ said the woman in the sharp black business suit. She had bright blue eyes that clearly didn’t miss a thing, immaculately-styled auburn hair, a lovely figure – amazing legs, thought Cat, and what fantastic boobs, I wonder if they’re real or plastic – and she was wearing pretty-near-impossible-to-walk-in high-heeled purple shoes.
‘This is Rosie Denham, my assistant.’ Fanny waved one white, bejewelled hand at the pretty twenty-something girl. ‘Rosie, this is Cat, our lucky winner and radiant bride-to-be. She’s absolutely perfect, isn’t she?’
‘Perfect,’ echoed Rosie and then she shook Cat’s hand. ‘It’s good to meet you, Cat. We’re all looking forward to having lots of fun with you today.’
Omigod, thought Cat.
‘This is darling Caspar.’ Fanny stroked the greyhound’s lovely head. ‘Say hello to Cat, my angel.’
Caspar nosed politely at Cat’s hand and then looked up at Fanny as if to say Cat seemed to be all right.
Then somebody coughed.
‘Oh, poor love – I was forgetting you!’ As Fanny smiled at the teenage boy, Cat found she was reminded of crocodiles and antelopes on natural history programmes in which things went badly for the antelopes.
‘This is Rick,’ said Fanny. ‘He’s our photographic genius and he’ll be taking lots of gorgeous pix of you today, inside, outside, looking soulful, looking happy, looking like you’ve never been so thrilled in all your life.’
She gave Cat’s chain-store top a vicious tweak and pulled a face. ‘But of course he won’t be snapping you in this, my sweet.’
‘Why, what’s wrong with it?’ asked Cat. She rather liked her pretty lemon-coloured top which was patterned with a paler primrose and had elaborate cutwork on the sleeves.
‘My darling girl, what’s right with it?’ Fanny shook her head. ‘It’s badly made and finished, which is not surprising considering it was probably stitched together by some poor child slave in a benighted Third World country. The pattern’s not been matched. The cut is dreadful – it rides up at the back. It’s a common little garment, you look common in it, and for this promotion we need class, class, class.
‘But don’t worry, angel. Darling Rosie’s brought along some really super outfits. We’re assuming you’re a perfect ten? Or that’s what you put on the entry form. So if you weren’t telling porky pies …’
Cat shook her head and did her best to smile. Since Jack had gone, she’d overdosed on chocolate, custard doughnuts and vanilla cheesecake at a million calories a slice.
But if Fanny Gregory was alarming, Rosie Denham didn’t seem too bad. A tall, slim girl with wild, black curling hair and sprinklings of freckles just like Cat’s across her pretty face, she wore black Converse trainers, Diesel jeans and a top which Cat had seen in Gap last week and almost bought herself.
She thought – if things were different, this girl could be my friend. The dog of course was lovely, and the boy photographer seemed harmless.
As for Fanny, though – as slender as a snake and darting like a stickleback in her smart business suit – looking at Fanny Gregory, Cat felt sick. She knew, without a whisper of a doubt, that people didn’t mess with Fanny Gregory and live to tell their children what they’d done.
They crept into a hole and died instead.
Rosie ushered Cat towards the purple BMW, and Cat resigned herself to going to meet her doom.
They drove along a gravelled road edged with new-mown grass and smart, white palings, Fanny issuing a stream of comments and instructions, Rosie making lots of notes, Caspar sitting quietly looking dignified and gazing through the window, and Rick the boy photogra
pher sniggering at something on his phone.
As they came round a bend they saw the house.
‘There,’ said Fanny, momentarily turning round to shoot a glance at Cat. ‘The perfect setting for a wedding, don’t you think?’
Cat stared at Melbury Court in wonder.
It was even better than she could have imagined, even more amazing than the brochures had suggested, because it had been made out of a dream.
It was all the country houses, Hollywood recreations of old England, gracious living and unending summers magically made one.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she breathed.
‘I’m so relieved you like it.’ Fanny beamed. ‘Well, my angels, they’re expecting us, so let’s get on.’
The manager met them on the gravel sweep outside the house and smiled in welcome, congratulating them on having chosen such a lovely summer day. There was valet parking, he told Fanny, so if she would let him have the keys?
But Fanny said she didn’t trust some idiot Dorset flunky to park her lovely BMW, and couldn’t it stay here on the gravel, sweet? It wasn’t in the way.
As Fanny laid the law down to the manager, Cat glanced at the fountain in the forecourt. The image in the brochure had been doctored, Photoshopped, she realised now, because the actual fountain was in urgent need of restoration.
It wasn’t gleaming white. It was a streaked and mildewed dirty yellow, and bits of it were missing. There were cracks and holes all over it. But if it were restored it could be wonderful. It could be—
‘Come along, my angels, chop, chop, chop!’ Fanny swept her angels into the hotel foyer, was gracious to the housekeeper and brisk with the receptionist. She told them no, there wasn’t time for coffee. She had a tightish schedule and she needed to get on.
Yes, her dog was very well-behaved. Caspar’s manners were much better than most people’s, darling, and he went with his mistress everywhere.
‘Of course, I’ll let you know when we need anything,’ she added, with a charming smile.
The Wedding Diary (Choc Lit) Page 4