“I quit.” I slouch further back into my sofa, pulling my dressing gown as tightly over me as possible and clutching a fluffy pink hot-water bottle to my chest.
“Now, darling, let’s not be hasty,” Mum says, on FaceTime, busily looking through some files as she talks to me at her desk.
My phone is propped up on my coffee table by a pile of wedding magazines. Resting the hot-water bottle on my stomach, I wrap my hands round a mug of hot chocolate, wondering if I’ll ever feel warm again.
“I’m not being hasty. I’ve thought about it and I’m done. She wins. I quit.”
“I know whoever this bride is, she’s a little tricky—”
“Ha! A little tricky?” I cut in, snorting. “Mum, because of her, I was forced into St. James’s Park’s lake in a pair of leaking waders and shouted, ‘Kaw kaw kaw,’ like some kind of moron!”
Mum tries desperately not to laugh. I narrow my eyes at the screen. “It is not funny.”
“No, course not, darling, and I’ve told your father that several times.”
“Brilliant.”
“Oh, Sophie, it must have been awful. I really am sorry.”
“It was awful.” I sniff, taking a sip of hot chocolate and feeling very sorry for myself. “But it was also eye-opening. I’m done taking orders from her. I’m done doing whatever she says, blindly following her…” I hesitate, my sentence trailing off. “She was right all along. I’m a sheep. A pathetic sheep.”
“You’re not a sheep, darling. You were doing your job! Everyone who works has to follow orders from someone.”
“First thing in the morning, I’m going to call her mother and officially hand in my notice.”
“But I thought you said this wedding was important to you.”
“It was! It was very important to me.” I sigh, thinking of Dashwell Hall and how magical the wedding would have been. “But I can’t take a moment more. I’m done.”
“Mmm.”
“She can sod off. She paid an actor to pretend to be a swan whisperer. Who does that?”
“It’s very cruel.”
“Why did I fall for it? What is wrong with me? I should have known! Swans are dangerous birds! Being a swan whisperer is not a thing. You know he filmed it? I’ve checked online but it’s not there, thank goodness. But I know he would have sent that video to her so she could have a good laugh at my expense. That would have been part of her deal when she hired him. Make sure he gets the full thing on camera so she could watch my humiliation. This is the person I’m working for.” I shake my head, my heart beating fast with rage. “I’ve never met anyone so horrible.”
Except, I think, Annabel. In fact, it’s a wonder they’re not friends. They really are as bad as each other. I have no sympathy for Cordelia anymore and the way that Annabel was speaking to her. She deserved it.
“Anyway,” I continue, “she’s finally got her way. I quit.”
“Do you want that, though?” Mum asks calmly.
“Yes. I never want to see her again.”
“But do you really want her to win?” Mum turns away from the camera to accept a cup of tea from Dad.
“Hello, Sophie!” Dad says cheerily, appearing on the screen. “I hear you’ve had a bad day.”
“The worst.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. It’s all very unusual.”
“Yes. It was.”
“I wondered whether you’d mind if I use it for the book?”
Mum groans.
“I’ve been wanting to add a little comic relief into a recent scene,” he explains, “and I thought it might perk things up to have one of the junior detectives find himself in waders in the middle of St. James’s Park. Would that be all right?”
“I’m not sure now’s the time to ask,” Mum says, through gritted teeth.
“You can use it, Dad. You might as well. The whole world will be laughing at me once the video is up on YouTube, so the incident might as well be used for something good.”
“Thank you! You’re excellent inspiration, Sophie!”
“All right, off you go,” Mum says, shooing him away. “Sorry about that, darling. Now, where were we? Ah, yes. I was asking you if you really wanted to let her win.”
“Yes, Mum. I do,” I say firmly. “If it means getting out of this toxic job, then I’m very happy to let her win.”
“Has it been that bad? Last time we spoke, you were very enthusiastic about some of the ideas you’d had.”
“Anything good about this wedding has been squashed by what happened today. And all the horrible things she’s done before.”
“All right, well, if it’s making you unhappy then you must, of course, get out. You can’t let someone like that make you miserable.”
“Thank you.”
“But there is another option you may want to consider.”
“If you say anything about killing her with kindness, or however that phrase goes, I’m going to hang up.”
“No, not with kindness.” She smiles, knocking the phone as she moves something on the desk. “With brilliance.”
I throw back my head. “Why do I get the feeling that that’s going to be much the same?”
“I don’t know what it is with this bride, Sophie, but you seem desperate to get her to like you. You’ve never been like this with anyone else.”
“That’s because everyone else does like me!” I wail.
“Not everyone in life will like you, darling. That’s just how it is. My goodness, the number of people who don’t like me…”
“There are hundreds!” Dad’s voice calls, from another room.
“Thank you for that,” she calls back sternly, then softens her voice to talk to me again. “My point is, let that go. She doesn’t like you. So what?”
“She thinks I don’t take risks.”
“You’re very sensible, darling. You always have been.”
“Yes, but she thinks it’s a bad thing,” I stress. “And—and maybe it is. Maybe they’re right.”
Mum frowns. “What do you mean? Who’s ‘they’?”
I exhale. I could explain that Daniel said something very similar and that’s why it’s bugging me, but I know she’d go off on one if Daniel came into the conversation.
“She’s mean,” I say instead. “I can’t work with her.”
“She’s not asking you to.”
I frown at the phone. “I’m confused. What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that an excellent form of revenge is success. You could quit tomorrow. Or you could get out there, take pride in your amazing work, and tick all those jobs off her list. Didn’t you say you got the photographer she wanted?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“And how did she react to that?”
I think back on when I told her about Clio Vaughn at Dashwell. “She was speechless.”
“There you are!” Mum says, so enthusiastically that her tea slops over the side of her mug. “She had nothing to say because you did what she didn’t expect. You won, not her.”
“It’s a good idea, Mum, but you should hear some of the stuff on her list. I mean, think of the swans…”
“That’s nonsense.” Mum dismisses it with a wave of her hand. “And you should have told her so from the start. You were trying to please her by agreeing to things that were stupid, and she was asking you to do stupid things to make you quit. You’ve got to know her a little, haven’t you? Do you really think she wants swans at her wedding?”
“No.”
“What would she want?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Well, think about it. You would for your other brides. You’ve been trying so hard to get her to like you that you’ve been forgetting about the job. Remember what I told you about doctors?” She clicks her fingers. “What happened with that bride last year, the one who wanted the lanterns?”
“Eleanor? Oh, that was nothing and it was all sorted in the end.”
“Tell me again?”
“She wanted guests to have those lanterns you let off into the sky when they left the venue, but she was also a big animal lover so I told her they pose a lot of danger to wildlife. I suggested she stick to sparklers instead.”
“And was she happy about it?”
“Yeah, course. She had no idea about those lanterns and was pleased I’d warned her. And in the end the sparklers photo was so good, they used it on the front of their thank-you cards.”
“There you have it,” Mum says excitedly, as though it’s all become clear even though I’m still very confused. “You carefully and respectfully told her what she shouldn’t do and pointed her in the right direction. When this new bride of yours said she wanted swans, why didn’t you do the same?”
“Because there was no arguing with her.”
“There is always arguing with everyone,” Mum retorts. “You simply need to work out how. You’re much stronger than you think, Sophie.”
“I don’t know,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “This seems like a lost cause.”
“We support whatever you want to do, of course, darling. But I’ve never known you to quit before, and I’m not sure the person you’re working for deserves to get her way. Her mum hired you for a reason. From the sound of it, they could afford a wedding planner or an assistant for her daughter. But she didn’t hire anyone else. She hired you.”
At first, I think Mum is just being Mum. In her eyes, I can do anything if I put my mind to it, and since she’s a solution-finder herself, quitting is never really an option in her world.
But what she’s saying makes sense. It would be easier to quit tomorrow and go back to my normal life, working for grateful, wonderful brides and grooms who are desperate for my expertise and don’t go out of their way to humiliate and insult me.
It did feel good, though, when I told the Swann family that I had managed to pin down a world-famous photographer for the wedding. Cordelia looked blown away by the news, and excited by it. I felt like I really achieved something she didn’t think I could do. And maybe Mum was right about me letting Cordelia get away with things because I wanted to be on her good side.
Would I feel happy about quitting? Would I feel good about myself?
That night, I lie in bed wide awake, unable to think about anything else, ideas beginning to bubble in my brain. If I push the horrible persona of Cordelia aside for a moment and think about her simply as a bride, there are some pretty amazing things I could do to add some personality to her wedding. I turn my bedroom light on and reach for a pen and paper.
The next day, Mum phones at about 10:00 A.M. I’ve been up since four thirty.
“Have you called the bride and her mother?”
“I haven’t. No need.”
“Oh?”
“I’m not quitting after all. And sorry, Mum, but I have to go. I’m in the middle of ticking off one of the jobs from her list.”
“That’s my girl,” she says, and I can hear her smiling down the phone.
We meet at the Ritz.
I considered Lady Meade’s offer to come to their Grosvenor Crescent house, but I politely suggested that a more central location would be better for me. I haven’t seen her or Cordelia for a few weeks and I’ve been gearing up for this meeting for a while. I’ve never felt more nervous and powerful at the same time. This could be a complete disaster. But at least I can say I’ve tried.
They’re already at the table when I arrive, ordering some drinks. They’re sitting in the main gallery of the hotel, on a cluster of sofas just outside the Rivoli Bar. The hotel is in full countdown-to-Christmas mode, with elegant red and gold decorations hanging among the glittering chandeliers and in the spectacular Palm Court bustling with afternoon-tea tourists, taking selfies with their finger sandwiches and melt-in-the-mouth scones.
I remind myself of what I’m here to do—I’m a professional, not a friend—and walk toward them confidently, extending my hand as I approach them.
“Good afternoon, Lady Meade,” I say, as she stands up to greet me, looking surprised at the handshake. “Good afternoon, Lady Cordelia.”
I’ve purposely used her formal title. There’s no need to pretend we’re friends with no guests or family members present.
“Good afternoon, Emily,” Lady Meade says, taken aback. “How have you been?”
“Very well, thank you,” I reply, sitting down opposite them.
Cordelia is watching me curiously. We haven’t spoken since the swan incident. I assume she knows I realized it was all a setup. Jimmy must have told her what happened. But I decided it would be best to pretend it never took place, rather than send her a text full of expletives, cursing her until the end of time, like I wanted. I haven’t messaged, asking her about the wedding and how it’s getting on, and she hasn’t messaged me to tell me anything willingly. I’ve had some updates from Lady Meade, so I’ve been able to keep on top of things, but there’s been no other reason to be in touch.
I place my folder on the table and smooth my skirt, noticing Cordelia look me up and down as she examines my outfit. I’ve come dressed for a business meeting today, in a cream blouse and a black pencil skirt with heels. Cordelia is more casual, in a red roll-neck woolen jumper that’s tucked into black trousers, and her black Chelsea boots. Her hair is tied in a messy ponytail and she’s wearing minimal makeup.
I, on the other hand, went for full-on eyeliner today as though I was applying war paint.
“Would you like a glass of champagne?” Lady Meade offers, as the waiter reappears with a bottle and three glasses.
“No, thank you, not while I’m at work.” I smile at the waiter. “Please may I have a glass of sparkling water?”
“Of course,” he says, pouring champagne for the others.
I wait until he’s placed the bottle in the ice bucket and left before launching straight into the conversation.
“Thank you for making the time to see me today. I won’t keep you long. I’m aware we all have places to be.” I open the folder on the table and start organizing the documents inside. “If you’re happy, I’ll go ahead and tell you everything I’ve done in the last week or so. You can let me know your thoughts, then tell me anything else that needs doing and I’ll get onto it.”
Lady Meade and Cordelia share a look.
“All right.” Lady Meade nods. “Please do fill us in.”
I start with Clio Vaughn. Our meeting had gone brilliantly, despite (or perhaps because of) Cordelia not being present. It turns out that renowned photographers aren’t necessarily terrifying in person, as I’d been expecting. Clio was shy, smiley, and extremely modest. She explained that she was interested in being involved in Cordelia’s wedding because, although she wasn’t a typical event photographer, her main focus was people and this wedding was, no doubt, going to include some rather high-profile faces. She was fascinating to talk to and we ended up getting on very well.
“I told her the new date for the wedding and she says she’ll move things. She is a confirmed yes, if you would like her to be your official photographer,” I say to Cordelia, looking her directly in the eye. “Can you confirm yes or no now? I should be getting back to her at the latest this evening and she’d like to meet you soon if it’s a yes.”
Cordelia receives a sharp nod from her mother, then speaks: “Yes. I would like Clio.”
“Great. I’ll book in a meeting for you to chat immediately. You can send me your schedule for next week and I’ll get that sorted. With regard to the nine other photographers you wanted—”
“Nine?” Lady Meade is stunned, turning to Cordelia. “You asked for nine more photographers?”
“It’s a large wedding.” Cordelia shrugs, refusing to be embarrassed by her outlandish request.
“Clio can provide three assistants. I’ve made a list for you of all other photographers I know or who have been recommended,” I say, sliding the list across the table for her to pick up and examine. “Everyone on that list is available on the wedding day. I was sure to check. Although they’re all brilliant wedding photographers in their own right, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind taking instruction from Clio on the day if necessary, but we should run it past them first to be sure.”
“This is wonderful, Emily, thank you, but I can’t see us needing nine,” Lady Meade says, frowning as she takes the piece of paper. “We can discuss this with your father, Cordelia, and then contact however many we need.”
“On to the next point,” I say, keeping things moving as planned. The less opportunity I give Cordelia to take control, the better. “You asked for peacocks to adorn the ceiling of the banquet hall while your guests dined.”
“I beg your pardon?” Lady Meade says, but I don’t let her distract me. I’m on a mission.
“I would strongly recommend that you didn’t try to create something that might be cruel to animals,” I explain calmly. “When I was lucky enough to visit Dashwell Hall, I noted that the ceiling of the banquet hall is richly painted with biblical scenes and, having done some further research, I’ve learned the paintings are from the seventeenth century. It is absolutely not my decision, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t suggest you leave the ceiling as it is for guests to enjoy a magnificent piece of history.”
“Cordelia, honestly, what is all this about peacocks?” Lady Meade asks her daughter wearily.
“However, if you are still keen on the peacock idea,” I continue, when Cordelia purses her lips, unwilling to answer, “I’ve found a couple of extraordinary luxury-event companies who have assured me they will be able to create a ceiling of peacock feathers. They’ve sent over ideas on how they’d do it.”
I pass the designs across the table.
“I’m impressed with how creative they’ve been, actually. So, have a look at those and tell me if you’d like me to follow up with any of them. And speaking of decorating the hall, the four thousand candles you wanted aren’t a problem. I’ve included a list of companies I’ve contacted that can supply that many candles in time—” I hand Lady Meade the list. “—and I’ve also noted down the color of the candles next to the company details, as you’ll see there. I wasn’t sure if you wanted a certain color, like red as it’s Christmas, or whether you wanted a white theme. The only worry I’d have, personally, is that so many candles may be a major fire hazard in Dashwell. Do correct me if I’m wrong.”
“This is outrageous,” Lady Meade says sternly, as Cordelia takes a sip of champagne. “We can’t have that many candles, Cordelia! Do you want the house to burn down?”
“You can let me know how you want to move forward on that,” I say, shuffling some papers around, preparing for the next point on my agenda. “I’d need to know fairly quickly, though, as the date really is just round the corner.”
“I can tell you the decision now,” Lady Meade says, looking at Cordelia with great disapproval. “No need to order any candles. I already have someone decorating the house for the wedding. She’s in charge of all that.”
“Perfect,” I say, making a note to cross that off my list. “Now, on to flowers.”
“We have a few people in mind,” Lady Meade begins. “I’ve already contacted some of them.”
“Wonderful. Well, just in case, I phoned Beth earlier this week and had a great chat with her. Beth from Paxton Flowers. I think you know her, Lady Cordelia?”
Cordelia’s expression softens. “You spoke to Beth?”
“Tom introduced us when I was in Paxton and I thought she was really something. She spoke about you and I had the idea that she might just be the perfect florist for your wedding. It’s amazing how, when the supplier knows the couple, they can bring their personalities into the flowers. And I find that using a local supplier is always a win for everyone involved. She’s very passionate about you and your family, and Dashwell Hall.”
“Beth is truly talented and a friend of the family,” Lady Meade acknowledges. “But she’s a very small business. I’d worry that she’d struggle with a wedding for four hundred people.”
“I already thought of that and discussed it with her. She’s reached out to all the other florists she knows and trusts in the area and is ready with a small army of them to help if you’d like her services. She’d be in charge creatively, once she’s discussed everything you and Jonathan want, Lady Cordelia, but she’d have plenty of people ready to help.” I hesitate, wondering whether to say the next bit. “I mentioned to her that you were thinking a white bouquet, then discussed black with Nicole Percy”—Cordelia shifts in her seat—“and Beth said that of course she’d be able to do whatever you wanted, but she did remember that when you worked at the shop you were very fond of big arrangements with splashes of color. Apparently you used to say those arrangements were your favorite because they were both classic and bold. A bit like you.” I pause. “Her words, not mine.”
Cordelia can’t help but smile. “I can’t believe she remembers that.”
I move on swiftly, not wanting to involve any kind of emotion. “I’ve warned her that you’ll have contacted other florists and may already have entered into a contract with them, so if you don’t want to go with her, it’s no problem. It was just an idea, something a bit more personal and local to Dashwell Hall.”
“It’s a lovely idea, Emily,” Lady Meade says sincerely. “We’ll discuss it with my husband, then be sure to let you and her know as soon as possible.”
“Thank you. Now, the last thing on my list that I wanted to discuss with you today.”
I pull out a glossy photograph from the file and place it carefully on the table facing them.
“Lady Cordelia, we’d previously discussed how you wanted Queen Alexandra’s Kokoshnik Tiara to wear on the day…”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Lady Meade mutters, closing her eyes in exasperation.
“I know we talked about it and you decided not to go in that direction, but I remember you saying you thought it was important that a bride wear a special piece of jewelry on their wedding day. I had an idea and thought you might be interested.”
I nod to the photograph on the table. “This is known as Lucky Blue,” I say, looking at the photograph proudly. “It’s a spectacular sapphire and diamond horseshoe brooch. The diamonds are estimated to weigh four point six carats in total, and the sapphires are estimated at five point eight carats. The jeweler is Bentley and Skinner, just down the road from here, actually. You can go to see it in person after this meeting.”
“It’s beautiful,” Lady Meade says, smiling at the picture.
I watch Cordelia as she looks intensely at the photograph of the brooch. She’s trying not to give anything away, but her eyes can’t hide it. She’s already fallen in love with it.
“I’ve spoken to Bentley and Skinner, and they’re happy to loan it to you for the day, rather than you having to buy it. That way, I thought it could be your something borrowed and your something blue. And something old,” I add. “It’s from the nineteen-twenties.”
Cordelia lifts her eyes to meet mine. “How did you find this?”
“I thought I’d look for unique jewelry that reflected your love of horses and came across this,” I explain casually. “I know animals are a big part of your life, especially Tony. You looked so happy when you were riding. It seemed important to bring horses into the wedding somehow.”
“How thoughtful,” Lady Meade says gently.
Having given them the documents they need, I close my file, lifting it onto my lap. “I think that’s it. Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?”
Cordelia’s eyes fall back on the photograph of the brooch. She doesn’t say anything.
“You’ve covered a lot, Emily,” Lady Meade says, beaming at me. “You’ve certainly been very busy. We can’t thank you enough.”
“It’s a pleasure,” I say, putting my file away in my bag. “Consider everything I’ve said and let me know any decisions when you can, so I can contact anyone you need. If you get a schedule sent across to me, I can book in meetings.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you for your time and I’ll be in touch soon,” I say, standing up. “If you could send me any other jobs by email, I’ll be sure to get those done.”
“You’re leaving?” Lady Meade stands up, too. “You won’t join us for a drink? We’re in no rush. Cordelia had a fitting this morning for her wedding dress. Perhaps, Cordelia, you’d like to tell Emily about it? It really is exquisite.”
“I imagine it is, but I have another client to meet,” I lie. “So, unless there’s anything about the dress that I can help with, or any other tasks you’d like to discuss, I should be going. But thank you very much for such a kind invitation, Lady Meade, and thank you again for your time.”
“Thank you for everything. Really.”
“Just doing my job. Thank you, Lady Cordelia,” I say, nodding to her.
Cordelia looks up from the photograph and gives me a knowing smile. “Thank you, Sophie.”
I leave them to it and walk back through the gallery, thanking the porter in the top hat and tails who bids me goodbye as I go through the revolving doors out into the cold air, grinning from ear to ear. Mum was right. That felt a lot better than quitting.
I’m on the escalator in the tube station when I realize that Cordelia called me Sophie, not Emily.
A couple of weeks ago, I’d have analyzed it, elated that it was perhaps a hint of her personally connecting with me as a friend. Today I brush it aside and forget about it almost immediately.
You are cordially invited to the wedding of
Scarlett Wilson and Emmanuel Adeyemi
27 November 2021
“Be careful!” I call to Adam. “Watch where you’re going!”
Adam is one of the ushers and has enthusiastically offered to take a photo of all the bridesmaids together outside the church.
Scarlett and Emmanuel are busy with photos by the car after their lovely service, during which the flower girl shouted, “I’ve done a wee-wee, Auntie Scarlett!” right after the vows.
It was a beautiful moment.
They’re now on their way to the reception, where they will be greeted by a surprise Nigerian band playing traditional Yoruba music. Emmanuel’s mother booked them secretly as their wedding present after the couple mentioned they’d love to have one, and I helped her with the arrangements. I can’t wait to see their faces, so I’m eager to get this spontaneous photo shoot out of the way and arrive at the venue.
“Get in closer,” Adam instructs, waving at us as he walks backward.
“Seriously, Adam,” I say, panicking. “Please watch where you’re going!”
“Huddle in, everyone! And now on the count of—AAAH!”
There’s a collective gasp from the bridesmaids as Adam disappears, toppling backward into an open grave. We all run forward and, gathering around the rectangular hole in the ground, peer over the edge.
Adam is sprawled on the soil, phone still in his hand. He blinks up at us. “I’m OK!” he yells, scrabbling around to get to his feet. “Didn’t see that one coming!”
Now that we know he’s not hurt, the giggles are uncontrollable and some of the bridesmaids are bent double, tears streaming down their faces.
“What’s going on over here?” another usher asks, approaching us to see what all the fuss is about. “What the … Adam!” He shrieks with laughter, turning to wave at the other ushers. “Guys, you need to see this!”
“Uh … actually, mate,” Adam coughs, “if we could keep this on the down-low—”
“EVERYONE! Everyone, come over here! Adam’s fallen into a grave!”
As a horde of guests runs over, I’m glad the bride and groom have already set off in the car for the reception venue and, at least, will be blissfully unaware of such a thunder-stealing scene until later.
“Can someone give him a hand to get out?” I ask the ushers.
“Sure,” one replies. “Once I’ve taken a few photos and uploaded them to Instagram.”
“It’s not that funny,” Adam grumbles, appealing to the crowd gathered on the other side of him. “It actually hurt.”
“Look, everyone!” the usher next to me cries out hysterically. “Adam’s turning in his grave!”