She seemed to have permission to go anywhere she pleased, and indeed she did, with her black shadow at her heels. So Cat walked all around the house and gardens, private conference suites and public lounges, bedrooms, bars and dining rooms, like somebody half stunned.
It was all so fabulous she couldn’t take it in.
Fanny bombarded her with questions. Did she like these gorgeous flower arrangements? If she did, they would do something fairly similar on her own big day. Didn’t she just love this Chinese chintz here in the morning room? Or wasn’t chintz her thing?
What about the Grinling Gibbons staircase, didn’t she think it wonderful, my darling? It had been badly damaged in a fire back in the 1930s. But you’d never know it, would you? It had been restored by local craftsmen, and now it looked just perfect, didn’t it?
‘The reception, sweetheart, where do you think you’d like to have it – in the formal dining room or in the orangery?’ she asked, as Cat tried to remember if she had actually seen the orangery.
‘The dining room is rather special, isn’t it, my angel?’ she continued, as she swept into a beautiful, high-ceilinged room which was hung with studio photographs of famous actors, all done in black and white.
‘Golden greats of stage and screen,’ she trilled, pausing for a moment to gaze up at a very handsome man in a tuxedo. ‘Ewan Fraser, darling – do excuse my blushes, but I’ve always had a teeny tiny crush on him.’
As Cat looked at the photographs, she recognised James Mason, Ray Milland and Errol Flynn. She’d never heard of Ewan Fraser. But she had to admit this man was pretty damn attractive.
‘Of course, the red hair made him more than usually delicious,’ added Fanny wistfully. ‘It’s so very gorgeous on a certain sort of man. So anyway, my love, the orangery or the dining room? Do you want white table linen, silver service, finger bowls? Or do you want to go for something more informal? Of course, I don’t mean chicken in a basket, obviously.’
But, to Cat’s relief, Fanny didn’t seem to want intense, in-depth discussion. All she needed was for Cat to nod and to agree that everything was wonderful. Cat didn’t have any trouble doing this because, inside and outside, the Melbury Court Hotel was rather more than wonderful.
It was divine.
The dining room was beautiful, oak-panelled with a quite amazing icing-sugar ceiling. The orangery – she remembered now – was a vaulted vision of stained and patterned glass and intricate Victorian ironwork.
‘Yes, they’re both fantastic,’ Cat said faintly, when Fanny nagged her for a quick decision, because she’d need to tell the hotel management, my sweet, everyone was keen to get things moving right away.
‘The orangery, then,’ said Fanny. ‘Rosie, angel, did you make a note? I think you’ve made a wise decision, Cat. You can get more people into the orangery. Darling, I must press you for a date.’
‘I—I need a bit more time,’ said Cat. ‘I’ll have to ask—’
‘While you’re considering, we’ll pencil in some possibilities, and then you can decide.’
Cat decided she felt very ill.
But, as the day went on, she started to enjoy herself. Well, almost to enjoy herself. She couldn’t shift the nagging, guilty feeling that was making her feel sick.
The hotel had given them a room where Rosie did her face and dressed her up in gorgeous outfits which had clearly cost a lot of money, and Rick took lots of photographs, and Fanny said they were delightful, darlings, that Cat had perfect cheekbones, and her eyes were rather nice, as well.
‘Or a good colour, anyway,’ she added. ‘But you need to dye your eyelashes, and you should sort your eyebrows out as well. A decent pair of tweezers aren’t expensive, so don’t look at me like that.’
If Cat would put her hair up, not have it loose and drooping – you look like some prehistoric hippy, or Neil out of The Young Ones at the moment, darling girl – she would be almost pretty.
‘Cat, don’t be offended,’ whispered Rosie, as her boss moved out of earshot to give Rick more instructions. ‘Almost pretty means you’re really beautiful when Fanny says it – trust me.’
‘What was that, my sweet?’ Fanny turned her laser beam on Rosie. ‘What did you just say?’
‘We’re running late,’ said Rosie. ‘We should have left an hour ago.’
‘Oh, my angel girl, why didn’t you tell me?’ Fanny’s bright blue eyes were narrowed now and the boy photographer looked scared.
But Rosie didn’t seem fazed at all, and Cat was well impressed.
They were hurrying back towards the forecourt, Rosie tapping on her keypad, Fanny firing questions, comments and instructions like an AK-47 and Cat still feeling sick, when they all collided with a man in faded jeans, a blue checked shirt and workman’s heavy boots. He had been carrying an armful of rolled-up plans and drawings, and now he dropped the lot.
They stopped to help him pick them up. As Fanny and Rosie piled the stuff into his arms, he turned to glance at Cat.
‘Oh,’ he said and frowned. ‘It is you, isn’t it – the girl from Chapman’s yard? You’re a long way from home.’
Cat stared for half a moment. But then she remembered. It was the surly guy who’d bought those tiles. What was his name? Lawson, Langley, Longley? No, hang on – it was Lawley – Adam Lawley.
What was he doing here? She thought he’d said the place that he was working on – where was it? She wished she could remember! She was almost sure it wasn’t Dorset. He wouldn’t have needed Cotswold tiles in Dorset.
Fanny was staring at the man and very obviously assessing him. ‘So you two know each other?’ she demanded, speculation glittering in her eyes.
‘N-no, not really,’ stammered Cat. ‘A week or two ago, Mr Lawley bought some tiles from where I work, for a house in – Gloucestershire!’
‘But now you’re working here in Dorset, Mr Lawley?’ Fanny asked him, smirking as her eyes peeled off his shirt.
‘Yes, I’m project-managing the rebuilding and conversion of the stables,’ Adam Lawley said. ‘They’re going to become a health club complex with treatment rooms and plunge pools, tanning salons, saunas – all that stuff. I’m not here every day. This is a flying visit to check on work in progress.’
‘So you do renovation, restoration, all that kind of thing?’
‘Yes, but I—’
‘I knew it – serendipity!’ cried Fanny. ‘I’ve just bought this old flint barn in Surrey. It has outline planning permission for conversion to a six or seven bedroom house with triple garage. Perhaps I’ll have a swimming pool, as well.’
Now she was eyeing Adam like a vixen might eye a handsome cockerel she meant to have for dinner. ‘Do you project-manage things like that?’
‘Sometimes,’ Adam said. ‘But I’m a builder, not an architect, and it sounds to me as if you need an architect right now. What I do would come afterwards, working from the plans.’
‘So could you recommend an architect?’ asked Fanny, baring sharp white teeth in a big smile and flicking her pink tongue across her scarlet lip-glossed lips. ‘If you and an architect—’
‘We’d have to talk about it.’ All his plans and drawings now cradled in the crook of his left arm, Adam fished in the pocket of his shirt and found a business card. He handed it to Fanny, absentmindedly stroked Caspar on his sleek, dark head, and then he turned to Cat again. ‘What brings you here, Miss Aston?’
‘Oh, Cat’s the lucky winner of our fabulous competition!’ said Fanny Gregory brightly, handing him her own much posher, heavily embossed and gilded card. ‘She and her fiancé will be having the most fantastic wedding here later on this year. Or maybe early next year – I don’t think she’s quite decided yet. But what she’s seen today has knocked her sideways. She’s totally bedazzled, aren’t you, sweet?’
Cat found she couldn’t mana
ge a reply.
‘Congratulations,’ Adam Lawley said, and then he smiled the sort of smile that looks like it’s been shrunk, it was so tight.
She met his gaze, and there she saw – what was it, curiosity? Or was it disbelief? It wasn’t congratulations, anyway.
‘Th-thank you, Mr Lawley.’ Cat realised she was blushing furiously, and told herself to stop imagining things.
Adam hurried on towards the Georgian stables which were round the back of Melbury Court, fifty yards or so from the hotel. They’d been far enough away to have escaped the fire which had badly damaged the original Melbury House, as it had been known before it was reborn as a hotel.
After half a century of neglect the stables were in disrepair but were now being restored. Their original Grade I listed classical façade had been retained, but inside they were being converted into a luxurious health club with a Turkish theme. This had proved to be a plumbing nightmare, as it so often was with listed buildings, and he had to sort it out today.
He had to go to Gloucestershire on Monday and then come back to Dorset later that same week, because here in Dorset there was the Italian fountain, too. He was looking forward to working on the fountain, even though it promised to be a long, involved and very complicated job.
He meant to start with Venus, who was in a pitiable state, pocked and marked and riddled with what looked like bullet holes, and so cracked and fissured that she was in danger of losing fingers, toes and several petals of the roses which were woven in her hair. Some of these roses were already missing – broken off by accident or deliberately shot away?
Rain was getting in the cracks and threatening to make everything much worse. One more cold and frosty winter would be a disaster, opening these cracks up even further and causing even more bits to fall off.
What stupid, idiot vandals had used a lovely thing like that for target practice?
Drunken, bored aristocrats, perhaps?
Or ditto soldiers?
They should have been shot themselves.
As for lovely things – the girl from Chapman’s yard had looked even more beautiful out in the soft spring sunshine.
Where had he put that woman’s business card?
He patted all his pockets, but he couldn’t find it. But it didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if he needed any work.
He had more than enough of it already, and she could always call him, anyway.
‘What a hottie,’ Fanny said, as she watched Adam Lawley stride away.
She read the details on his business card and then she slipped it into her Versace leather handbag, smirking speculatively.
‘I must get my train,’ said Cat, zipping up her own bag which was made of bright pink canvas and had come from Stead & Simpson.
‘Of course you must, my darling.’ Fanny snapped her fingers, and Rosie and the boy photographer came hurrying up at once.
They all piled into Fanny’s BMW and Fanny zoomed away at Mach 1 speed, churning up the gravel and scattering the rabbits who were venturing out to take their evening promenade.
‘A good day’s work, my angels,’ Fanny told them, as the BMW careened along the narrow country roads. ‘We’ve lots and lots of lovely pix of gorgeous Cat, so darling Lulu’s going to be delighted – don’t you think so, Rosie?’
‘Yes, she should be very pleased,’ said Rosie, who was clearly used to being thrown around in purple BMWs and didn’t seem to mind one little bit. ‘Mummy said to tell you, Fanny – if you’ll let her have a snap or two, she’ll write a little piece for Dorset People. The editor’s a friend, plays golf with Dad.’
‘Excellent,’ said Fanny, honking at some walkers who were cluttering up the road and forcing them to take evasive action in the form of falling in a ditch.
Cat didn’t know what Rosie and her boss were going on about. But she found she didn’t really care. By now she’d had enough of Fanny and her gang and wanted to go home.
As Fanny brought the BMW to a shuddering halt outside the station, she turned to look at Cat. ‘I’m sorry we can’t take you back to London,’ she said crisply. ‘But we have to drive to Solihull.’
‘What’s in Solihull?’ asked Cat, relieved. She didn’t fancy driving back to London with Fanny, Rosie and the boy photographer and being interrogated all the way.
‘We’re seeing a woman who makes sugar flowers and sugar Moses baskets, rocking horses, bootees and the like for christening and wedding cakes,’ said Rosie.
‘She reckons she’s the queen of sugar art,’ continued Fanny. ‘She’s won all sorts of prizes and awards, apparently. Now she wants to move upmarket, sell her stuff to WAGs and supermodels. So she needs my help.’
‘She says she doesn’t mind how much it costs. We think she must be loaded,’ added Rosie.
‘Or maybe she’s delusional,’ drawled Fanny.
She’s not alone, thought Cat.
As soon as she got back to London, she decided, she was going to write to Fanny Gregory. She would say that everything was off, and she was sorry for all the inconvenience she had caused. She hoped the runners-up would have the wedding of a lifetime.
She got out of the BMW. ‘It’s been great to meet you,’ she said insincerely, shaking hands all round and stroking Caspar on his velvet head and hoping the experience of spending time with Fanny would never be repeated.
‘Thank you, sweetheart, likewise,’ Fanny said. She arranged her face into a terrifying grin. ‘I’ll finalise some details and then I’ll be in touch. I’ll need firm confirmation very soon, most probably Monday morning.’
‘But, but,’ said Cat, ‘I can’t—’
‘I’ll call you, angel. So mind you keep your phone on all the time.’
Cat watched the BMW zoom away. She knew she wouldn’t write that letter. She didn’t have the nerve. She wondered what the hell she should do now, apart from find a lake and drown herself?
Adam and the foreman on the site sorted out the urgent plumbing problems, so on Monday morning the men could get on with the next phase of the stables project.
Then he made his way back to the car park, mentally clicking through the list of things he had to do and places where he had to go before he went to Italy.
He was looking forward to the Italian trip, because he would be seeing a guy whose father, brothers, cousins, uncles – those who didn’t run restaurants and cafés and let out apartments to Lucca’s summer visitors, anyway – were all involved in building work of some kind, in various restorations and conversions, and who himself was project-managing the total restoration of a sixteenth-century manor house. Or a castello, or palazzo, or whatever Italians called such things.
Sixteenth, seventeenth, eighteenth-century domestic architecture was his own special subject. The one he’d choose if he should ever go on Mastermind, which of course he wouldn’t, because there was no way you’d ever get him sitting in that big black leather chair.
But the thought of working in the warm Italian sunshine, of project-managing restorations for the many well-heeled British who, in spite of the recession, were still buying anything from a castle to a cowshed over there – it had a most definite appeal.
He was working hard on his Italian, listening to CDs as he drove round the country, repeating words and phrases after someone very florid and excitable, someone who used far too many exclamation marks. Andiamo! Pronto! Presto! Arrivederci! Si, Signor, Signora, Signorina!
He got a lot of nervous looks at traffic lights and junctions as he tried to get some brio into what he said and as he attempted to get the accent right.
He had been in e-mail contact with Pietro since last autumn, had told him he’d be coming to Lucca in late spring or early summer, and Pietro said that would be fine – perfetto, ideale, assoluto.
Of course, he’d meant to go with Maddy, to combine a bit of busin
ess with a lot of pleasure. They’d drive around the Tuscan countryside and visit hilltop villages. They’d sit in shady cafés and drink cold Pinot Grigio. They’d make lazy love on linen sheets throughout the warm Italian nights.
He’d wondered if they might find something wonderful themselves, if she would fall in love with some castello or casale. If she’d turn to him and say – this is it, my darling, this is where I want to live, where we’ll bring up our children.
But of course all that had been a fantasy. He wouldn’t be doing any of it now, and this would be a business trip, no fun in it at all.
He thought about the girl he’d seen this afternoon, the pretty, kind and helpful girl from Barry Chapman’s salvage yard, who was getting married at the Melbury Court Hotel.
She hadn’t looked very happy at the prospect. In fact, she’d looked like she had lost a grand and found a penny, and he wondered why. Where was her fiancé, and why hadn’t he been there today? Why did she seem so anxious and so sad?
Then he thought – what’s it to do with you? Why are you so worried about a girl you’re never going to see again?
He made some notes about the stuff he’d done today, he sent some e-mails and then he rang Jules.
‘I’ll be back in London eightish, nineish,’ he began. ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Gwennie’s still at her sister’s, is that right? She’s going straight into work on Monday morning? What do you mean, I don’t sound fine? I’m doing really well today.’
Who am I trying to fool, he asked himself. ‘Jules, old mate,’ he added, ‘do you fancy getting very drunk with me tonight?’
Cat didn’t usually drink spirits.
But, once she was on the train back home, she realised she needed something stronger than rubbish-from-the-trolley instant coffee.
So she bought a shot of vodka and a can of tonic, and drank it in defiance of the sixty-something couple sitting opposite who had a squirming grandchild on each lap and were glaring at her as if she were the living incarnation of the Antichrist.
What was she going to do?
Start an online manhunt, she supposed. Post Jack’s picture all over the world wide web, captioned have you seen this man and offering a reward for information?
The Wedding Diary (Choc Lit) Page 5