The Perfect Christmas

‘I really can’t divulge, darling, but suffice it to say that the budget’s hundreds of thousands.’

A poisoned arrow of envy scores a bullseye in my heart. What I wouldn’t give to have that kind of money to play with. What a fantastic wedding I could plan!

And not a flipping flamingo in sight either.

‘Any big weddings coming up?’ Hester asks me.

This is where I’d love to say that every WAG in England is beating a path to my door but she’ll know I’m fibbing.

‘Nothing huge,’ I hedge. ‘Yet.’

‘Oh dear,’ sighs Hester. ‘I did warn you. You have some lovely ideas, Robyn, but you’re hardly in the same league as Catch the Bouquet. Still, I’m sure there’s some satisfaction in helping people with tight budgets.’

‘Robyn’s really modest,’ my mother pipes up. ‘She’s meeting Saffron Scott on Friday to pitch for the job of planning her wedding.’

Hester tears her attention away from admiring her reflection in my Brabantia bin and gives me a patronising smile. ‘Oh, how sweet of them to ask you. It will be a fantastic wedding. I can hardly wait to discuss my plans with Saffron and Fergus.’

‘You’re pitching too?’ I ask, my heart sinking.

‘Of course.’ Hester is triumphant.

Oh God, how can I compete with Hester? I’ll never get the job now.

‘The pitch will be wonderful experience for you, Robyn,’ she continues. ‘But don’t get your hopes up too much. The Scotts can afford the very best.’

‘So I’ll have to convince them I’m the best,’ I say, dodging her insult.

Hester smiles. The smile of a crocodile before it gobbles you up.

‘Your ideas are sweet, darling, and I’ve taught you a lot. But don’t think you can run before you can walk. And don’t think that your ideas will be better than mine.’

I am about to stick up for myself but the discussion is over as far as she’s concerned, and Hester turns to my mother. ‘Ready, Anna? I’ve booked the table for twelve-thirty.’

I stand seething by the window long after they zoom off in Hester’s pink Mercedes. Suddenly all my ideas for Saffron’s wedding seem trite and clumsy. The mood boards are clichéd, the themes are too obvious. How can I possibly compete with someone who flies in flamingos? She’ll probably come up with some amazing winter scenario complete with an ice palace the size of Windsor Castle and Jack Frost to officiate.

But I can do better than that. I know I can.

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_84f6b811-1c8f-52ff-adfa-3f68405a71cf)

‘Two glasses of dry white wine and a packet of pork scratchings.’ Gideon deposits the spoils of his trip to the bar onto the table. ‘So what’s going on? You drag me to the Feathers on a week night, swig wine like there’s about to be a world shortage and look like shit.’

‘I thought gay men were supposed to be sensitive?’

‘Only in Sex and the City, darling. But I am sensitive enough to see something’s up. Care to share?’

‘I’m totally stuck for ideas to pitch for Saffron’s wedding,’ I sigh. ‘And, worse than that, Hester’s pitching too and she’s bound to have something incredible up her sleeve.’ I take another swig.

‘Bollocks,’ says Gideon.

‘Bollocks indeed.’

Even after chomping through an entire bar of Dairy Milk and watching two Doris Day movies I remained uninspired. I stared at my blank sketch pad until I’d gone cross-eyed before giving up and going to find Gideon. I’ve got the wedding planner’s version of writer’s block and since it’s a truth universally acknowledged that a girl who cannot be cheered up by chocolate must be in want of alcohol, I’ve dragged him out and left a message inviting Faye to join us.

‘When’s the pitch?’ asks Gideon.

‘Friday. I can’t possibly compete with Hester’s extravagant ideas.’

‘Maybe that’s the problem?’ says Gideon thoughtfully. ‘Competing, I mean. You’re not Hester Dunnaway so do something totally different. Be understated and elegant. Classy not tacky. You’ve got bags of style, darling. Not everyone wants Cinderella carriages, thrones and a hundred white doves.’

‘They were flamingos, not doves,’ I say. ‘But you’re right, Gids.’ This is where I’ve been going wrong! I’ve been trying too hard to think like Hester and come up with ideas that would make Jordan’s weddings look understated, when I should have been exploring my own ideas. ‘Gideon, you’re brilliant.’

‘It has been said,’ he says with an immodest shrug.

‘Now you’ve sorted Hester, maybe you could give me some help with my mother? She’s convinced that now I’m over thirty I am destined to be well and truly left on the shelf; alone and forever childless.’

‘Darling, brilliant as I am, I can’t perform miracles!’ laughs Gideon.

‘There you are!’ Faye weaves her way through the tables and beams at us both. ‘It was hell on the tube.’

‘Sorry,’ I say as we hug. ‘I should have met you somewhere more central.’

‘Don’t be daft.’ Faye unwinds a beautiful Hermès scarf and slips out of her velvet coat. ‘This makes a great change. There are only so many themed gastro pubs a girl can take.’

‘Robyn likes it here too.’ Gideon grins. ‘Especially the bar staff!’

‘Gideon!’ I slosh him on the arm.

‘Oh!’ Faye’s eyes widen. ‘Is this where that Aussie barman works?’

‘Sure is,’ nods Gideon. ‘Mr Surf God himself.’

‘Where?’ Faye spins round to check the bar so quickly that she probably gives herself whiplash. ‘That blond guy serving? He’s the one that Robyn—’

‘Hello, guys? I am here, you know!’ I interrupt, waving a hand in front of my friends. ‘He’s called Bradley. And he’s just a friend.’

‘A friend she shags!’ says Gideon, so good at stirring he could double as a teaspoon.

Faye’s bottom jaw is almost on the table. ‘You never told me that!’

‘Some things are private,’ I say, fixing Gideon with a look that in a just world ought to lay him out on the floor. ‘And some people spend too much time spying on their tenants.’

‘Sorry,’ says Gideon, not looking anything of the sort. ‘But how could I ignore something that gorgeous wandering down the stairs?’

Note to self: when Perfect Day is floated on the stock-market, buy a very secluded house, miles away from anyone.

‘He’s lush, Robs,’ says Faye, settling next to me on a stool. ‘Good for you.’ She looks again towards the bar where Bradley is pulling a pint, his tanned forearms strong and corded with muscle. ‘And how was it?’

‘Mind your own business, Faye Harvey!’