A Wedding at Leopard Tree Lodge / Three Times A Bridesmaid…: A Wedding at Leopard Tree Lodge

With no estimate of how long that might be.

Connie had put it rather more bluntly with her ‘…stop running’.

Well, that was why he was here. To stop running. He’d had offers for the Lodge in the past—offers that his board had urged him to take so that they could invest in newer, growing markets. He’d resisted the pressure. It had been his first capital investment. A symbol. An everlasting ache…

‘Are there any messages, Francis?’ he asked.

‘Just one, Rra.’ He set down the breakfast tray on the low table beside him, took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and, with his left hand supporting his right wrist, he offered it to him with traditional politeness. ‘It is a reply from your office.’ Before he could read it, he said, ‘It says that Mr Matt Benson has flown to Argentina in your place so you have no need to worry. Just do exactly what the doctor has told you and rest.’ He beamed happily. ‘It says that you must take as long as you need.’

Gideon bit back an expletive. Francis didn’t understand. No one understood.

Matt was a good man but he hadn’t spent every minute of the last fifteen years building a global empire out of the untapped market for challenging, high risk adventure holidays for the active and daring of all ages.

Developing small, exclusive retreats off the beaten track that offered privacy, luxury, the unusual for those who could afford to pay for it.

Matt, like all his staff, was keen, dedicated, but at the end of the day he went home to his real life. His wife. His children. His dog.

There was nothing for him to go home for.

For him, this company, the empire he’d built from the ruins of the failing family business, was all he had. It was his life.

‘Can I get you anything else, Rra?’

‘Out of here?’ he said as he followed the path of a small aircraft that was banking over the river, watched it turn and head south. It had been a mistake to come here and he wanted to be on board that plane. Moving.

The thought intensified the pain in his lower back.

After a second night, fuming at the inactivity, he’d swallowed enough painkillers to get him to the shower, determined to leave even if he had to crawl on his hands and knees to Reception and summon the local air taxi to pick him up.

He’d made it as far as the steps down to the tree bridge. Francis, arriving with an early morning tray, had found him hanging onto the guard rail, on his feet but unable to move up or down.

Given the choice of being taken by helicopter to the local hospital for bed rest, or remaining in the comfort and shade at Leopard Tree Lodge where he was at least notionally in control, had been a no-brainer.

Maybe the quack was right. He had been pushing it very hard for the last couple of years. He could spare a couple of days.

‘Is that someone arriving or leaving?’ he asked.

‘Arriving,’ Francis said, clearly relieved to change the subject. ‘It is the wedding lady. She will be your neighbour. She is from London, too, Rra. Maybe you will know her?’

‘Maybe,’ he agreed. Francis came from a very small town where he knew everyone and Gideon had long ago learned that it was pointless trying to explain how many people lived in London. Then, ‘Wedding lady?’ He frowned. ‘What wedding?’

‘It is a great secret but Mr Tal Newman, the world’s greatest footballer, is marrying his beautiful girlfriend, Miss Crystal Blaize, here at Leopard Tree Lodge, Rra. Many famous people are coming. The pictures are going to be in a magazine.’

As shock overcame inertia and he peeled himself off the lounger, pain scythed through him, taking his breath away. Francis made an anxious move to help him but he waved him away as he fell back. That was a mistake too, but whether the word that finally escaped him as he collapsed against the backrest was in response to the pain or a comment on whoever had permitted this travesty of everything his company stood for was a moot point.

‘Shall I pour your tea, Rra?’ Francis asked anxiously.

‘I wanted coffee,’ he snapped.

‘The doctor said that you must not have…’

‘I know what he said!’

No caffeine, no stress.

Pity he wasn’t here right now.

He encouraged his staff to think laterally when it came to promoting his resorts but the Lodge was supposed to be a haven of peace and tranquillity for those who could afford to enjoy the wilderness experience in comfort.

The very last thing his guests would expect, or want, was the jamboree of a celebrity wedding scaring away the wildlife.

The last thing he wanted. Not here…

If that damn quack could see just how much stress even the thought of a wedding was causing him he’d ban that too, but having prescribed total rest and restricted his diet to the bland and boring he’d retired to the safety of Maun.

‘Tell David that I want to see him.’

‘Yes, Rra.’

‘And see if you can find me a newspaper.’ He was going out of his mind with boredom.

‘The latest edition of the Mmegi should have arrived on the plane. I will go and fetch it for you.’

He’d been hoping for an abandoned copy of the Financial Times brought by a visitor, but that had probably been banned too and while it was possible that by this evening he would be desperate enough for anything, he hadn’t got to that point yet.

‘There’s no hurry.’

CHAPTER TWO

Luxurious surroundings will add to the bride and groom’s enjoyment of their special day.

—The Perfect Wedding by Serafina

March

JOSIE, despite her many misgivings, was impressed.

Leopard Tree Lodge had been all but invisible from the air as the small aircraft had circled over the river, skimming the trees to announce their arrival.

And the dirt runway on which they’d landed, leaving a plume of dust behind them, hadn’t exactly inspired confidence either. By the time they’d taxied to a halt, however, a muscular four-wheel drive was waiting to pick up both her and the cartons of wedding paraphernalia she’d brought with her. ‘Just a few extras…’ Marji had assured her. All the linens and paper goods had been sent on by Serafina before she had been taken ill.

The manager was waiting to greet her at the impressive main building. Circular, thatched, open-sided, it contained a lounge with a central fireplace that overlooked the river on one side. On the other, a lavish buffet where guests—kitted uniformly in safari gear and hung with cameras—helped themselves to breakfast that they carried out onto a shady, flower-decked terrace set above a swimming pool.

‘David Kebalakile, Miss Fowler. Welcome to Leopard Tree Lodge. I hope you had a good journey.’

‘Yes, thank you, Mr Kebalakile.’

It had felt endless, and she was exhausted, but she’d arrived in one piece. In her book that was as good as twenty-four hours and three planes, the last with only four seats and one engine, was going to get.