‘Could we meet up to go over your thoughts please, Lucy?’ It was just before dinner on a rain-lashed Monday, and Phyllida was on the phone. Lucy had been trying to catch up with her accounts and updates to the B&B website. Josh, the boy who had mocked Sam’s museum, now seemed to be firmly in favour as he was here again, hammering away on an old xylophone the boys had found in a box of forgotten toys that hadn’t seen the light of day since they’d moved here.
‘Of course, Phyllida,’ Lucy replied, clicking into what she hoped was a professional tone.
‘It would be helpful to know your colour scheme so we can tie in the table settings and canapés, you know?’
Bang-bang went the wooden hammer on the battered old instrument. At eight years old, Sam had mostly passed the stage of wanting to make a god-awful racket just for the hell of it. Shouldn’t Josh be past that too? ‘Josh, please,’ she said with a quick smile. ‘D’you mind …’
As he carried on bashing, Lucy marched out with the phone to the hall. ‘Sorry. Summer holidays,’ she said wryly.
‘Ha, yes …’
‘Erm, I can come over to talk things through,’ Lucy added, ‘no problem.’
‘Great,’ Phyllida said briskly. ‘I wanted to mention, the wedding is being featured in Country Style magazine so they’ll be sending a photographer along.’
Holy cow. ‘Oh, that’s lovely.’
‘Not that I want you to feel pressurised,’ Phyllida chuckled. ‘We’re a family who doesn’t like fuss.’ Lucy grimaced. She had already gathered that ‘doesn’t like fuss’ meant ‘we expect a tremendous palaver’. ‘Could you pop over in the morning?’ Phyllida asked. ‘My daughter and her fiancé are visiting to go through the last-minute arrangements and I know they’d love to talk things over with you.’
‘Yes, that’s fine …’
‘Great. So, we’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early. We’re so looking forward to seeing your ideas!’ With that, Phyllida rang off.
That evening, with panic mounting now, Lucy combed her own garden, taking photographs, making notes and pulling together a doable plan in her mind. She had already assessed the land behind Irene’s house, and while there were abundant shrubs there, she realised now that she would have to venture further afield in order to amass enough fresh greenery that was in peak condition to combine with her own garden flowers.
She thought about calling James to ask if it would be okay to venture onto his father’s land and see what she could find in the woods. He’d fallen into a habit of texting to let her know when he would next be visiting his father, and she loved that. She found him so easy to be with. However, now she looked down at the phone in her hand, and instead of texting him, she called Rikke to ask if she could look after the children for an hour or so next morning. Arrangements made, she pushed her phone back into her bag and decided to leave it for now.
Perhaps she had been seeing too much of James lately. If a visiting eight-year-old boy had imagined that there might be something between them, then it was probably better to give each other some space. After all, the last thing she wanted was for Marnie and Sam to worry, even for an instant, that she would ever consider replacing their dad.
Next morning Phyllida was at the front door of Fordell House before Lucy had even knocked. She beckoned her in, calling out, ‘Emma, our florist is here!’
‘Oh, hello there,’ beamed the reed-slim blonde woman in a pink sweater and jeans as she trotted downstairs. She was closely followed by a young man – presumably her fiancé – in a pale denim shirt, black jeans and sunglasses.
‘Lucy, this is Emma and Dylan,’ Phyllida announced, then cried out: ‘Davide!’ In rushed the short, slim man with a neat beard whom Lucy had met on her last visit. ‘Davide, I think we’re ready for our coffees now,’ Phyllida added with a quick smile.
Lucy watched the butler scuttling off in his russet corduroys and a moss-coloured sweater, his polished shoes clacking against the wooden floor. Phyllida led them all to the drawing room where they had discussed wedding plans on her first visit. He returned within minutes with a tray laden with tiny pastries and coffee for the four of them. ‘Do tuck in,’ Phyllida said as a hovering Davide poured the coffees. ‘Don’t we have any of those pains au chocolat?’ she asked with a small frown. ‘You know Emma loves them.’
‘Mum, it’s fine,’ Emma said, with the kind of impatience Lucy recognised from her recent exchanges with her own mother. She smiled apologetically at Lucy. ‘Thanks so much for coming out here today. I’m sure you’re terribly busy. We could have discussed it by phone.’
‘It’s no trouble at all,’ Lucy said quickly, and they all tucked into the pastries as Lucy started to outline her plans. When they’d finished, and everything had been whisked away by Davide – Lucy was the only one to thank him, which she did profusely – she brought out her sketchbook and showed Emma and Dylan her copious ideas.
‘So, what I like to do at this time of year is a mixture of fresh garden flowers,’ she explained. ‘I’m thinking of freesias, hollyhocks, sweetpeas, that kind of thing. Fresh, pretty colours with lots of greenery to offset them. It’ll all look quite loose and cottagey, nothing too structured.’
Emma nodded politely, but her hand had wound around Dylan’s – he was jammed up close at her side – and Lucy suspected that perhaps this couple, whom she guessed were in their early thirties, weren’t terribly interested in the specifics of what she planned to do.
‘It all sounds great,’ she said in a whisper when her mother had disappeared from the room, ‘and we’re happy for you to do whatever you think best.’ Emma glanced at Dylan and smiled. ‘But to be honest, this wedding is actually Mum’s project and we decided to just let her run with it. Left to us, we’d have had it in a pie and mash shop in Hackney.’
The couple laughed, and Lucy sensed herself relaxing finally. ‘But don’t tell Phyllida,’ Dylan offered, finally removing his shades and pulling a mock-horrified face. He was classically handsome with sculpted cheekbones and clear blue eyes edged by long dark lashes.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Lucy said with a grin.
‘Also, you must come to the wedding,’ Emma added, touching her hand.
‘Oh, um – you really don’t need to ask me,’ she said hastily. ‘I’m very happy to put everything in place and then leave …’
‘No, we’d really love you to come,’ Emma insisted. ‘Lots of people from the village are invited. We just want to make it a fun event for everyone.’
‘Well, if you’re sure?’ Lucy asked hesitantly. Christ – she wasn’t sure if she was up to attending a wedding yet. Managing run-of-the-mill social occasions had been enough of a challenge over the past eighteen months.
‘Absolutely,’ Emma said. ‘D’you have children?’
‘Yes, er – two.’
‘Bring them along too. There’ll be lots of kids there. Bring your partner too—’
‘Um, it’s just me actually,’ she said quickly.
‘Bring a friend, then.’ Emma beamed at her. ‘Please, it’s just a buffet, very informal, and lots of people from the village are coming. You’ll know them, I’m sure.’ She looked at Dylan. ‘We can’t believe that magazine photographer’s coming.’
Dylan shuddered dramatically. ‘Nothing to do with me!’
‘Oh, you know what Mum’s like—’ Emma broke off as Phyllida reappeared.
‘I told Davide that next time we must have those pains au chocolat.’
‘Please stop going on about them,’ Emma said quickly. ‘Poor Davide.’
‘Poor Davide?’ Phyllida laughed hollowly, then turned to the kitchen and called out: ‘Davide, darling! Come here please.’
Lucy’s mouth fell open as he hurried back into the room. ‘Yes, darling?’
‘Please tell Emma where we’re going for your birthday next weekend.’
He beamed at her – this dapper, much younger Frenchman who, Lucy could see it now, clearly adored her. ‘We are going to Vienna for coffee and cakes.’
Phyllida smiled and reached out to squeeze his hand – but still he didn’t sit down and join the gathering. Perhaps he wasn’t allowed, Lucy mused.
‘We’re very much looking forward to it, aren’t we?’ she asked, as if he were a child.
‘Yes, darling,’ he said, and in a gesture that seemed so sweet and affectionate, he reached out and smoothed down a stray strand of Phyllida’s fine silvery hair. The older woman smiled too, despite his faux pas with the pastries, and it occurred to Lucy that before Ivan died, she might not have even registered such a tiny thing. But it occurred to her now that Ivan used to do things like that all the time: touching her hair and face, picking a hair off her sweater or wandering over and rubbing her shoulders gently while she read.
She pushed the memories away quickly, thanking Emma and Dylan again for the wedding invitation – hoping it sounded as if she was thrilled to be asked – and wondered what the heck she was thinking, agreeing to take this on when her focus should be on getting through the days, one at a time, keeping family life intact.
But still, she’d done it now.