Wedding Season

by Katie Fforde

  ‘Now dear, have you got any make-up on? Good, saves me having to take it off,' said Hilary.

  ‘I can't wait to see you in some colour, darling,' said Vanessa. 'Black is quite wrong for you, don't you agree, Hilary?'

  ‘Possibly, but first we've got to discuss what the right colours do for you.' Hilary paused, making sure everyone was paying attention. 'When you look at an attractive, well-put-together woman, you don't think, Wow, look at that jacket-'

  ‘Don't you?' asked Bron. 'I quite often think that.' She glanced at Vanessa. Embarrassingly, Vanessa noticed. 'Oh God, don't tell me I've got this wrong!' She tugged at what she was wearing under her gown. 'I love this jacket! I was absolutely sure it was fine for me.’

  Hilary started to laugh. 'It is fine, Vanessa. Really. It's perfect for you.' She turned to Bron and Elsa. 'Vanessa is a wonderful client. She really took it seriously. She's the only woman I know who actually threw out everything in her wardrobe that wasn't on the colour swatch.'

  ‘Wow,' said Bron, out loud this time, but very quietly.

  ‘I didn't throw it away, I gave it to a charity shop,' said Vanessa.

  ‘And she keeps her swatches in her bag when she's buying anything new,' Hilary said triumphantly. 'Well, there's no point in paying for the specialist help and not following the advice, is there? Now, can we get on with Elsa?' Despite her outgoing personality, Vanessa obviously didn't really like being held up as a shining example.

  ‘OK.' Hilary got everyone's attention again. 'What I was trying to say was that we should see the woman before the individual items of clothing, so we say, "she's attractive -oh, what a nice jacket," not, "what a fabulous jacket," without noticing the woman wearing it.'

  ‘I think I follow you,' said Elsa, 'but I'd prefer not to be noticed at all. Are there colours I could wear so I'd just fade into the background?'

  ‘Certainly not!' said Vanessa. 'And if there are, you're not allowed to wear them. Why should an attractive girl like you want to disappear?'

  ‘Well…' Elsa began, knowing she didn't really have an answer.

  Seeing her discomfort, Hilary moved on. 'Vanessa can wear that very strong colour because it's geranium, not pillar-box red.' She made a face. 'I expect you think I'm mad making those small distinctions.'

  ‘No,' said Elsa, her attention finally caught. 'I know exactly what you mean. I deal with that sort of difference all the time.' She sat up in her chair, suddenly a great deal more engaged in the whole process.

  ‘I know what you mean too,' said Bron. 'When you're getting the right hair colour, just a shade one way or the other can be fatal! It can be twenty years on or off!' She paused. 'Sasha is rubbish at it.’

  Hilary glanced at her. 'OK, Elsa, now wait there while we try a few things.'

  ‘When we've got your colours sorted,' said Vanessa, 'we're going to talk about style. It's a crying shame that someone who makes such lovely garments wears tatty black trousers all the time.'

  ‘But these are my best trousers!' protested Elsa.

  ‘Why don't you go and pick out some nice jewellery,' said Hilary to Vanessa, who obediently took herself off to the other side of the room.

  ‘Gold and silver. Everyone can wear either, you know.' Hilary turned to Elsa. 'But you have to understand what they do for you. Then, if you're good, you can try on the hats. And there are some wigs in the second drawer down.'

  ‘Can I stay if I promise not to say anything?' asked Bron softly.

  Elsa nodded. 'As long as you tell me what on earth happened at the salon when you went in this morning.’

  ‘But not now,' said Hilary firmly. 'We're here to work.’

  She picked up a swatch of fabric and laid it on Elsa's shoulder. 'What do you think?’

  Elsa looked at it. 'I like that.' She did.

  ‘Good, so do I,' said Hilary. 'What about this?’

  Colour after colour was laid on Elsa's shoulder. Then the colours were layered, one on top of each other. Some combinations looked terrible, others brought Elsa's face to life. She was paying attention – and to her horror and surprise she was having fun. She realised that she didn't need to fight it any more. Perhaps there was more to this colours lark than she'd thought.

  `Do put some make-up on her,' said Vanessa, who arrived at Elsa's side garlanded with necklaces, belts and chains. 'I'm just dying to see those eyes look even bigger. She's a potential mankiller, you know,' she said to Bron. 'Laurence, the best man at the wedding, is mad for her.’

  Elsa laughed. 'No he's not! He just wants someone to go to a ball with him.'

  ‘Same thing, darling, trust me, I know.' Vanessa held an earring up to her ear. 'Too much of a chandelier? I love big earrings.'

  ‘But I've only ever seen you in close-fitting ones,' said Elsa, forgetting to be shy.

  Vanessa shrugged. 'I know. I do have to restrain myself a bit. But these are heaven!'

  ‘Go away and play, Vanessa,' said Hilary, 'I haven't finished with Elsa yet. So, Elsa, what sort of make-up do you usually wear?'

  ‘Um, not much. The usual. Bit of mascara, lip-gloss. I have got some eye-shadow somewhere.'

  ‘Colour?'

  ‘Brown.’

  Hilary shook her head. 'Do you want to look as if you've been in a fight or haven't slept for three days? No, don't answer, you're not allowed to say yes.' She looked enquiringly at Elsa. 'But at least you didn't say you match your eye-shadow to what you're wearing.'

  ‘If brown makes her look rough, what would black do?' said Bron, teasingly.

  Hilary ignored this. 'Can I do your make-up?'

  ‘Do say yes,' said Bron. 'This is so interesting.’

  Elsa sighed. 'Might as well, I suppose.' She remembered how Bron had made her look at the wedding; she wouldn't let Hilary do anything too outlandish.

  Twenty minutes later the white gown was whisked away and Elsa was revealed. 'Oh my God, I never knew I could look like that! It's amazing!' She suddenly felt that with her new haircut, beautifully made-up and dressed in one of her creations she might just possibly be ready to go to the ball.

  ‘I've made a note of everything I used-' Hilary began.

  ‘We'll have one of everything,' said Vanessa, currently wearing a long platinum wig and a Stetson-style hat. 'I don't trust Elsa to buy it for herself. I may have to take her shopping one day soon.'

  ‘Or I could,' said Bron. 'Please don't be offended but I probably know shops more suited to Elsa's budget.' Nobly, Bron was leaping in to prevent Elsa being dragged off to Harrods where either she would only be able to buy a pair of knickers, or Vanessa would insist on paying. She knew Elsa would absolutely hate that.

  ‘Much better idea,' said Vanessa. 'I always come away with the wrong size when I go to Primark.’

  If Vanessa was pleased with the effect this revelation had on her audience, she didn't allow it to show.

  Chapter Twenty

  Sarah had picked up the phone without thinking. It was eleven o'clock on Monday morning and she'd been on the go since seven-thirty. One minute after nine she'd hit the phones. With luck, this was someone coming back with some positive news.

  Hugo's drawl startled her so much she nearly dropped the phone. Coincidentally, she'd caught sight of his name as she went through her address book for possible kitchens for Bron to make Carrie's cake in and hadn't been able to stop thinking about him.

  ‘I want you to come out with me for a day,' he said, unaware that Sarah had broken into a light sweat of panic. 'To look at a venue,' he added.

  Sarah cleared her throat. 'For Carrie?'

  ‘Uh huh. The one I mentioned before. It could be perfect.’

  Back under control now, Sarah was brisk. 'Has it got the clipped yews, the manicured grass, the ancient gravestones – preferably with lichen – and the lych-gate?' Sarah knew the answer would be no, or even if it were yes, the venue wouldn't be available on the day.

  He laughed. 'No. It's a private house, with a chapel. It doesn't tick all those boxes but it's really o
riginal and I think Carrie will love it. Even if she doesn't, I still think you should have a look.’

  Sarah was about to refuse – her sense of self-preservation on full alert – but a private chapel might be the very thing.

  It wouldn't be the same as a traditional country church, but it could be just as appealing.

  ‘You must see it, Sarah,' said Hugo, suddenly a great deal less drawly. 'Even if it's not right for Carrie you need to meet the people. They're not at all sure about the whole wedding thing but if they met you, you could reassure them and probably use them in the future. It would be a really exclusive location for your top clients.’

  Sarah felt she couldn't miss this opportunity and accepted, albeit a little reluctantly. 'When were you thinking of going?'

  ‘In about half an hour. Come on, you need to get out of the office sometimes.’

  Sarah was desperately torn. The thought of driving out into the country with Hugo was tempting if unsettling. She suddenly longed to get out. Her ear was scarlet from being pressed to the phone and she was tired of being polite to people. If she went with Hugo she could be rude if she felt like it – he wouldn't mind, he was used to it. She would just have to hope he wasn't too nice to her. That would be much more difficult.

  On the other hand she had so much to do. She'd actually wondered earlier if she needed an assistant, if only to keep control of the paper that so covered her desk she had no space for her coffee mug.

  ‘No one's indispensable,' Hugo went on. 'It's vanity to suppose otherwise.' While Sarah was working this out he went on, 'Pick you up at half eleven, then. It'll just give us time to get there for lunch.’

  Sarah gave in. 'OK.' She put the phone down and realised she probably should have sounded more enthusiastic. She was enthusiastic, sort of, but guilt was having its effect – she should really have continued to work. But supposing this was the perfect venue? She couldn't not check it out – that would be completely unprofessional.

  She stood in front of her wardrobe, scanning it as if for something more than just a clean pair of trousers and a top that didn't need ironing. The trouble was, most of her clothes were smart little suits or tracksuit bottoms so worn they would hardly stay up. There was very little casual but-respectable in between. A suit didn't morph into casual wear once it was a bit tatty, it just remained a tatty suit.

  Like every other woman she knew, she did have the ubiquitous black trousers – if only she could find something to put with them she'd be fine. The jacket from one of her more frivolous jacket-and-skirt combinations – in tan rather than black or navy – would go OK with the trousers. Now it just needed a little top for underneath. She rummaged in her underwear drawer and found a black vest. If she added some exciting jewellery it would look OK. She didn't want to look as if she'd made much effort, after all, even if it was a semi-official trip. She would prefer it if Hugo just thought she'd been wearing that when he rang.

  There was a snakes' nest of beads in a drawer and she disentangled a few. Unable to decide she put on a selection, mixing coral with some fake jet and a couple of strings of seed pearls.

  Now make-up. As this went on more or less automatically she had time to examine her soul on the subject of Hugo Marsters. Despite being absolutely sure she should avoid getting too close to him, and that he could only ever be a friend at most, why did she feel fluttery when she spoke to him? And why did counteracting this make her abrasive and churlish instead of just calm? Why couldn't she behave like everyone else?

  In an effort to stop looking like a wedding planner on a recce she tousled her hair a bit and wore a redder lipstick than usual. Then she wiped it off and replaced it with lip-gloss. She was still changing her mind and her make-up in rapid succession when she heard a car hoot. Typical Hugo – expecting her to rush out the moment he summoned her.

  But she absolved him of any rudeness when she met him on the doorstep. He had planned to ring the doorbell.

  ‘Hello, you,' he said, kissing her cheek in a practised manner. 'You look a bit flushed. Are you OK?’

  The flush was the result of her scrubbing off the bronzer which had made her look like she'd spent a misspent youth in a tanning salon but she wasn't going to tell Hugo this. 'I'm fine!'

  ‘Just checking. Now hop in.’

  He opened the car door for her in a way that counteracted his casual demand. He really was a bit of an enigma, she decided as she did up her seatbelt.

  ‘Right, we're off to the country,' he said, and started the car.

  ‘I hope it's not too far out for Carrie,' said Sarah.

  ‘I thought anywhere in the country was fine as long as it was typically English.'

  ‘In theory, yes, but as my darling sister is getting married the same day, I have to find somewhere reasonably near to where she's arranged to be.'

  ‘Which is?’

  She told him. 'And she's getting married early, so if I can persuade Carrie to have a later time, to segue into cocktails, possibly, I'll be able to manage both events.'

  ‘Sounds as if it'll be a bit tight to me. And cocktails isn't exactly typically English, is it?'

  ‘Royalty has done it,' said Sarah, meaning to sound firm but with desperation edging into her voice.

  ‘Well, you should see this venue anyway. It could be fabulous but, to be honest, it's in need of a bit of titivation. If you booked it for Carrie, you can have input into that.'

  ‘How come?'

  ‘It belongs to some old friends of mine. As I said, it's where I had in mind but needed to check they'd actually moved in. It's a wonderful old building that's going to cost them millions to restore. They need it to earn them money ASAP. If you could tell them how it could be more user-friendly, they'd be grateful, and you could have a really fabulous venue you can use at any time, more or less.'

  ‘Hm. I suppose you're right. It's just..

  ‘It's not that far away.' He drove in silence for a bit. 'No chance your sister would change her day – or even her venue?'

  ‘She's not getting married in a venue – it's her parents-in-law's church.'

  ‘Oh.'

  ‘And she can't change the date because she's booked it already.’

  There was a moment's silence. 'Double oh.’

  Sarah found herself laughing.

  ‘Now, lunch,' Hugo went on smoothly. 'Would you like to have it in a pub first, or shall I ring Fen and ask her to give us bread and cheese?'

  ‘Definitely a pub. You can't just ring people up and demand lunch, even if it's bread and cheese. They might not have enough of either!'

  ‘Good point. We don't want to be squabbling over a stale crust and a heel of mousetrap.'

  ‘We don't want to be taking the food from their mouths!' Sarah could imagine the horror of being told that two -well, one really – completely strange people were turning up for lunch with no time to shop or prepare, but smiled at his rejoinder anyway.

  ‘I don't think it would cause a major panic, they're very laid-back. Besides, I warned them we might turn up for lunch, but I do know a nice little gastropub that's very near them.'

  ‘You would,' said Sarah, almost indignant. He would have a sort of internal map with nice little eateries, boutique hotels and places for tea dotted all over it. She'd heard the odd rumour and it was a symptom of his raffish lifestyle. Restaurants with rooms would be his speciality. But then she chided herself: why must she always challenge him? He was being perfectly nice to her.

  ‘Be grateful,' said Hugo. 'Everyone needs to be fed and watered, although in your case I think you need a large Pimm's or a champagne cocktail – something to make you relax.'

  ‘I'm perfectly relaxed!'

  ‘Liar,' he said smoothly.

  Sarah exhaled. He was right: she was extremely tense. She did a few deep-breathing exercises, hoping he wouldn't notice. She glanced down at her chest to see if what she was doing was obvious and realised she was showing a lot more cleavage than usual and hitched up her top, hoping her beads had covered
the worst of it.

  She saw Hugo glance down and knew her action had been spotted. She looked out of the window, determined not to say anything until Hugo did. She was his guest, it was up to him to make her feel comfortable. Then the voice of her mother, long dead, came to her. As his guest, it was up to her to enjoy herself.

  ‘It's a lovely day,' she squeaked.

  Hugo laughed and Sarah wished he hadn't. It was a very sexy laugh, and she didn't need any added complications. It was proving harder to resist his charms each time she saw him, and that seemed to be much more than usual these days. 'Shall I put the radio on?' he suggested. 'It would save us having to make conversation.'

  ‘What a good idea,' she said, trying not to sound too relieved.

  The pub was in a charming place that couldn't decide if it was a large village or a small town. Either way it was idyllic, with lots of buildings with either black beams against whitewashed walls, or silver-brown beams against ancient brick. Sarah's optimism awakened. If Hugo's friends had 'the big house' near here, it was likely to be wonderful, however dilapidated.

  Hugo parked his car round the back of the pub. 'Inside or out?' he asked Sarah as he locked the doors.

  Sarah looked at the pub, low, beamed, surrounded by climbing roses, and made a snap decision. 'Inside, please.’

  Inside it would be dark; if she blushed he might not notice. Outside it would be a dreamy summer day; she might not be able to concentrate on being a businesslike wedding planner. Besides, she'd forgotten her sunglasses and she'd have to spend a lot of time with her eyes screwed up or shut – neither conducive to efficiency.

  She followed Hugo into a building that seemed pitch dark after the brightness of the day. The flagged floor was uneven and ancient, beams threatened Hugo's head, and there seemed to be dozens of little rooms. She stood behind him at the bar.

  ‘Hi, Hugo, mate!' said the barman, who was young and Australian. 'Got your table. It's through in the snug.' As Sarah followed him again she realised he must have booked the table before she'd decided what she wanted to do. Had he successfully second-guessed her? Or was he just thoughtfully making sure he could accommodate her decision? There was definitely a lot more to Hugo than she'd ever suspected.