The Perfect Christmas

‘It’s better than good!’ cries Faye. ‘I’ve been dying to tell you! Davie was really impressed with what you’d done, Robs, and borrowed our wedding album. Apparently Saffron has been dating a music producer – Fergus Mason – for a couple of years now—’

I roll my eyes at Faye. ‘I know that. Everyone knows that. Don’t you read the gossip mags?’ Faye looks blank so I fill her in. ‘They met when she was interviewing Madonna and he was producing Madonna’s album. Apparently, Madonna was delayed with a childcare crisis and they started chatting. And, well, the rest is history.’

‘I forgot you had your finger on the pulse.’ She laughs. ‘Anyway … Saffron and Fergus are about to announce their engagement.’

‘That’s great! Whenever they get papped they look so loved up.’ It was thrilling to hear this news first-hand, rather than via the media.

‘They’re planning a December wedding – and are looking for a wedding planner. So Davie showed her our photos …’

I think I can guess where she’s going with this, but I’m not letting the words sink in yet.

‘She loved what you did for us,’ Faye continues, ‘and wants you to pitch for the job of planning her wedding!’

It’s just as well I’m sitting down because my legs have gone wobbly. This could be it! A chance to break into the big time and plan the kinds of weddings that I only dream of. And a Christmas wedding too! I love Christmas so much and already my mind is racing.

‘Saffron Scott wants Perfect Day to pitch for her wedding?’ I ask, to check that I have not slipped into a dream.

‘She certainly does.’ Faye rummages in her huge shoulder bag and plucks out a card, handing it to me with a flourish. ‘She wants you to call her.’

Oh. My. God.

I can’t believe it. This could be it, the life-changing opportunity that I’ve been waiting for. My dreams are so close to coming true that I can almost taste them.

I gaze at the card but I don’t see it because I’m visualising the fabulous wedding that I could organise for Saffron. White roses, red velvet bridesmaids’ dresses, holly and ivy twined around the pews …

My stomach seesaws in excitement. This is my golden opportunity to show the world exactly what I can do.

‘Remember me when you’re hired to arrange Prince Harry’s wedding,’ says Faye, beaming with pride.

‘I’ll call her as soon as I get home,’ I promise, wondering how I’ll manage to contain myself until then. ‘Thanks, Faye. I owe you one.’

‘You certainly do.’ Faye looks serious. ‘I’m fully intending to call in this favour.’

‘Anything,’ I promise, and then wonder what I’m letting myself in for. The last favour I did for Faye was attending one of her dinner parties where I spent a dismal few hours swigging wine while all the couples talked about catchment areas and breast pumps. I’d rather fold another thousand paper cranes than go through that again!

‘Don’t look so scared.’ Faye opens a cupboard and pulls out a slab of sponge. ‘It’s not another dinner party.’

Don’t you hate it when your friends can read your mind?

‘It was a great dinner party,’ I say, crossing my toes, fingers and anything else crossable.

‘You always were a useless liar,’ Faye says. ‘Here, take these.’

She hands me a tub full of green goo and a palette knife.

‘What’s this?’ I sniff it.

‘It’s your fee for my networking,’ says Faye. ‘Once we’ve had lunch you are icing the Balamory hillside.’

‘For getting the chance to pitch for Saffron Scott’s wedding I’ll ice twenty hillsides,’ I declare.

‘Excellent,’ grins my friend, flinging open another cupboard to reveal an Everest of containers. ‘By a strange coincidence I seem to have at least twenty more.’

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_040befa9-201d-5e90-8273-c8841a07cbbb)

The next morning I wake up late and it feels as though someone is break-dancing inside my skull. Even though my eyes are tightly shut I can sense the daylight burning through the windows ready to blast me into dust. The churning in my stomach would make even Ellen MacArthur spew.

This is all Gideon’s fault. When he popped in to collect Poppy yesterday evening I was so wound up with excitement after having spoken with Saffron Scott that I was practically nailing myself into the floor. I’d drunk so much coffee that I could have moonlighted as a Pro Plus tablet. My notebook was brimming with sketches and notes, and scraps of fabric for mood boards had drifted onto the carpet like fresh white snow.

‘Christ!’ Gideon exclaimed when I opened the door. ‘What’s happened to you?’

Glimpsing in the mirror I saw a pink-cheeked woman with glittering eyes and a mass of curly dark hair pinned up with a biro.

I looked manic.

‘Something really exciting,’ I’d said, inviting Gideon in. His eyes were like saucers when I mentioned Saffron Scott – he adores Scorching! – and he was almost as excited as I was by the thought that I could be planning a wedding where the likes of Posh and Becks would be guests.

‘We have got to celebrate,’ Gideon declared, pulling me into his arms and waltzing around the kitchen. ‘This is it, Robs!’

‘I haven’t got the job yet,’ I pointed out, but to Gideon this was a minor detail. He dragged me down the stairs to his place where I ended up sampling James’ whisky collection until the small hours.

I may have sampled his wine and spirit collection too …

Ouch! I open my poor eyes but needles of light stab my retinas and my brain swivels inside my skull. I stagger to the bathroom, slosh cold water onto my face and wince when I glance in the mirror. Then I drag myself into the shower and blast my body with hot water, rinsing the hangover away. Several coffees and two paracetamol later I’m almost human again. Now the mirror reveals that, although not perfect, I won’t scare small children if I venture outside.

The bright May sunlight pokes through the blinds and I decide to go out and get some fresh air, or what passes for it in London. I need to visit the lace shop to pick up some samples so on my way I’ll sign up for that swing dancing class.

Putting up my hair into a loose ponytail and hitching my Chloé bag onto my shoulder, I prepare to face the world. To give myself a boost I decide against wearing my flip-flops and plump instead for a really cute pair of low-heeled character shoes in a pale pink to match my lovely vintage summer dress and fluffy cardigan. OK, so it’s not quite warm enough for it – but I’m an optimist, remember?

It’s just past noon when I leave the flat. The sunshine is starting to fade a little and the sky is filling with wispy clouds. A breeze rustles through the green leaves on the trees and spots of rain patter on the bin bags. Experience tells me there’ll soon be a spring shower of the type only found in London, where the rain leaves the skin gritty, the cars hiss through puddles, and people scuttle by with their heads bowed. Typical. I pull my cardigan closer and hurry towards the station, glad to hide underground for a few stops.

When I surface the rain is falling in earnest, big dollops that splat onto the soft suede of my coat and pool into large puddles. Soon my lovely shoes bleed pink dye everywhere and my feet look as though a vertically challenged vampire has popped in for lunch. By the time I arrive at the adult education centre my hair, so carefully straightened after my shower, is springing back into ringlets and my makeup is sliding down my cheeks.

I think I should have stayed in bed.

When I try to push open the door of the centre and discover that it’s locked, I know I should have stayed in bed.

‘Closed for lunch,’ I read, while the rain plasters my hair to my head and turns my dress into a damp rag. ‘Fan-flipping-tastic.’

I back into a shop doorway in a feeble attempt to get some shelter – pointless really because I’m so wet now that you could wring me out – and decide to wait. The small shop sells the most amazing lingerie, all pink satins, peach ribbons and frothing cream lace. I stare at the pretty bras and French knickers like a Dickensian pauper staring at buns, and feel rather sorry for myself. These are exactly the sort of underwear that I used to hope Patrick would buy me one day. Not that it would have occurred to my ex to buy me underwear. For the last birthday that we were together he’d proudly presented me with a state-of-the-art food processor. What a sexless present! Was that really how little my fiancé knew me? In the kitchen I’m not so much Raymond Blanc as totally blank, but he said it would come in useful for pureeing baby food. I forced a smile to my face at the time but I remember thinking, baby food? I haven’t mastered plant food yet!

I’m trying to mop up the water dripping down my neck when a man appears beside me and attempts to enter the building. It would be hard not to notice him because not only is he tall and ridiculously handsome with glossy dark hair and sapphire eyes, but he is hammering on the door so hard that the glass panes rattle.

‘It’s closed,’ I tell him, rather unhelpfully since he’s probably figured this out. ‘Lunchtime.’

‘What sort of place closes at lunchtime?’ growls the man, giving the door another bash. From the expensive cut of his suit and the Rolex on his wrist, he’s probably one of those city types who think lunch is for wimps.

I must be a wimp because my tummy is growling. To cover the unladylike noises I say brightly, ‘I’m here to sign up for a course!’