The Wedding Diary (Choc Lit) (5 page)

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 photographer 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.

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.