The Perfect Christmas

Faye says that I have issues to resolve. Simon says that Pat’s a tosser.

No prizes for guessing that I’m with Si on this one.

‘I haven’t seen you for ages,’ he continues, loosening his tie and raising an eyebrow Roger Moore style. The suave effect of the gesture rather is ruined because I know he practises it in the mirror. ‘Have you been away?’

Patrick may not have seen me for several months but unfortunately I’ve been seeing an awful lot of him and so has the rest of Britain. I haven’t encountered him in the flesh but there’s no escaping Patrick on the telly. Judging by the expensive haircut and the perfectly manicured nails, Patrick McNicolas has come a long way from the impoverished stand-up comedian/bookshop assistant that I used to know. His agent must have made a pact with Satan or something because now Pat has a lead part in the cult BBC 3 cooking sitcom Nosh! and regularly appears to make smart-alec comments on shows like Have I Got News for You. He’s also started to feature in the tabloids for his exploits out and about with other celebrities, while kids the length and breadth of Britain are driving their parents insane with his catchphrase ‘Jaysus!’

It’s a catchphrase I feel like uttering right now as I face my wedding-wrecking ex-fiancé and try to hold back from punching him on the nose.

Maybe Faye has a point about issues.

‘I’m fine, thanks, Pat,’ I say, delighted that my voice is calm and low. ‘I’ve been really busy with the wedding planning business. It’s doing OK. More than OK, actually.’

If the mention of weddings embarrasses Pat then he does a good job of hiding it. Instead he nods approvingly and helps himself to a flute of champagne from a passing waiter.

‘Adam said that this was one of your dos.’ Pat glances around the room before turning the charm back onto me, his eyes lazily sweeping my body in that old familiar way. ‘It looks amazing, Robs. And so do you. I love that dress. Very, very sexy.’

‘Thank you,’ I say.

Is there anything more awkward than trying to make small talk with a man who once had you in positions that yoga teachers baulk at? Fortunately I’ve been anticipating this encounter ever since I noticed that Patrick was on the guest list, and I’ve had weeks to psych myself up for it. I’m determined to look gorgeous and be every bit the successful business woman. I don’t want Patrick back, but there’s no harm in showing him exactly what he’s missing, is there? And I know that I’m looking good today. My vintage 1950s prom-style dress nips my waist in to a hand’s span and flares out over my hips, the black netting underneath holding the skirt out ballerina style and drawing attention to my legs, which are actually looking slender as they taper into delicate strappy sandals. The bodice of the dress is strapless and boned and pushes up my boobs in a frankly amazing manner, and it’s all topped off with a cashmere shrug which magically hides my upper arms. Wow! I must patent these optical illusions.

‘Is there a Merry Man with you, Miss Hood?’ asks Patrick. He always did love to play on the fact that my name is Robyn Hood. Yes, that’s right, as in green tights, Sherwood Forest and the Sheriff of Nottingham. School was a right barrel of laughs, saddled with this moniker. Another thing to thank Mum and Dad for.

‘I’m working, Pat,’ I point out coolly. ‘I’m not here to socialise.’

‘Jo’s with me,’ continues Pat, gesturing towards the redhead who is hovering by the stack of pink iced fairy cakes.

My mouth drops open.

‘Jo?’ I parrot. ‘That’s the Jo?’

Pat nods. ‘You must remember Jo, Robs?’

Duh. Of course I do. Only Pat could be this tactless. Thank God I don’t have an open wound; he’d be shovelling salt into it by now. ‘She was worried about introducing herself; worried about your reaction,’ he continues. ‘I told her not to be a sissy, that everything between us is fine now, but she still isn’t sure. Come and say hello.’

Patrick has all the sensitivity of a bull rampaging through the china department of Liberty’s. Since Jo is the Comedy Store groupie that he was shagging behind my back, presumably while the ink was drying on our wedding invitations, it wouldn’t take Einstein to suss out that we are not destined to be best friends. Does the man really have such little self-awareness? I refrain from throttling him since that would ruin the whole ‘over him by Christmas’ thing. Part of me wishes that he was on his knees pleading for a second chance just so that I could have the pleasure of turning him down.

Hmm. In my dreams. If Pat had groupies before he was famous then I dread to imagine what it’s like now. He hardly needs to beg girls to be with him. I stare at Jo, who looks so pale and worried, and feel nothing but relief that I’m not in her Jimmy Choos.

‘Sure,’ I say airily, even though just thinking about the engagement-wrecking woman makes me feel as though crocodiles are having a good old munch on my intestines. ‘Why not?’

Patrick drains his champagne and leads me towards Jo. Her pale skin blanches as we approach, and I wonder quite what Pat has told her about me.

‘Hi, Jo.’ I hold out my hand. ‘Good to meet you. Finally.’

‘Robyn, hi.’ Jo’s green eyes can hardly bear to meet mine and instead she seems to find her scarlet toenails fascinating. ‘Er, you too.’

‘Thanks for taking Patrick off my hands,’ I add. ‘I owe you.’

Patrick puts his arm around Jo and pulls her close, dropping a kiss onto the top of her head. ‘See!’ he laughs. ‘I told you that Robyn was fine about us. She knows what a lucky escape she’s had. You did her a favour, darlin’!’

‘You certainly did,’ I agree, suddenly realising that I mean it. Much as I adored Pat, dashing around after him was shattering. For most of the time we were together I wasn’t self-employed and gave so much energy to my demanding boss, Hester Dunnaway, that there wasn’t much left for shoring up Pat’s ego. Once I had to fold one thousand paper cranes for a Chinese-themed wedding, a job which would have made even Sisyphus tremble. Pat had moaned constantly because I wasn’t able to come out with him. I was ignoring him, he’d said sulkily, as though I’d preferred wrestling with endless fiddly sheets of paper to watching him perform. When I did eventually set up on my own Pat mistakenly believed that I was just dossing round the house all day, watching Jeremy Kyle and Homes Under the Hammer, and was therefore free to follow him around the country with a baby balanced on each hip. I actually lost count of the rows we had about this. I used to grind my teeth so hard each time he airily implied Perfect Day was just a hobby that it’s a miracle I’m not left with stumps.

Jo looks like a girl whose sole aim in life is to please her man, exactly what Pat has always dreamt of. He made no secret of the fact that he wanted his wife to give him babies and stay dutifully at home while he went out to hunt and gather. Looking back, maybe I really did have a lucky escape.

‘Actually, Robs, I’m glad we bumped into you today,’ Pat is saying. Is it me or does he look a little bit shifty? The way he always did when he came home three hours late and told me some long and involved yarn about his whereabouts. Instantly, I’m on red alert. ‘There’s something I – we – wanted to tell you. We thought it was better if you heard it from us first.’

‘I’m intrigued.’ I raise my eyebrow too. It always annoyed Pat that I could out-Roger-Moore him. ‘Go on then, what is it? A new show?’

But Pat is shaking his glossy head and pulling Jo against him. One of his big, and now beautifully manicured, hands rests protectively on her stomach. Her gently rounded stomach …

‘It’s a million times better than a new show. Jo and I are having a baby!’ Pat says, and his voice brims with excitement and pride. ‘Can you believe it, Robs? I’m going to be a daddy, so I am! Isn’t it fantastic?’

‘Fantastic,’ I echo dutifully, but my entire blood supply feels as though it’s taken a really fast elevator to my feet and for a hideous moment I feel faint. ‘And we’re getting married too, before this little one puts in an appearance,’ he adds.

I stare at him. ‘Really?’

‘Jaysus, Mammy would throttle me otherwise! What would the priest think?’ Pat laughs, his peat brown eyes sparkling down at Jo and belying the casual words. He raises her hand to his lips and kisses it gallantly. ‘Aren’t I lucky that this lovely woman’s agreed to take me on?’

‘Very,’ I say, but Pat’s too busy telling me his plans for an August wedding in Ireland to notice that my smile is a little stiff and that I’m clutching my clutch so hard it might pop. Finally, though, he runs out of steam and turns his attention back to a much less exciting topic – namely me.

‘So, Robyn Hood,’ grins Pat, ‘why were you skulking behind a pot plant? Was it the nearest thing to Sherwood Forest you could find?’

‘I wasn’t skulking.’

Up goes the famous eyebrow. ‘Not planning to shoot me with your bow and arrows then?’

‘No,’ I say, ‘Bows and arrows are far too good for you. I thought I’d just rip your head off and hit you with the soggy end.’

Actually I don’t say this but I’d like to. What I actually say is, ‘No. I was … err … distance wedding planning.’

‘Distance wedding planning?’

‘Yes,’ I warm to my theme. ‘It’s wedding planning but—’

‘From a distance?’ Pat finishes for me.

‘Exactly.’

‘And always behind a plant?’

‘Plants are optional,’ I tell him.

‘I’ll remember that, so I will,’ Pat nods. ‘Next time I’m up to something I shouldn’t be I’ll just tuck myself behind a plant.’ He grins, ‘Jaysus! I’d better buy up Kew Gardens!’

When Pat laughs at himself I remember why I liked him so much as a friend long before we became romantically involved. Before shared bank accounts and children’s names and the tiny stifling cottage in the country came up. Should I be glad that Jo – the groupie who took it all away from me – has turned out to be a significant relationship? Would it have been worse to have gone through all that heartbreak over a meaningless fumble in the dressing room?

‘Here, give me one of your business cards, Robs,’ says Pat. ‘You never know, it might come in useful.’

God this man can be insensitive! But opting to save face, I peel back my fingers from my clutch and take out a card.

‘Pat!’ gasps Jo, looking horrified. ‘God, you can be insensitive! I’m sure the last thing Robyn wants to do is plan our wedding!’

Planning my cheating ex-fiance’s wedding is right up there with all my other favourite jobs, like putting out the bins and root canal surgery. But there’s no way I want to agree with Jo, so I just smile.

‘No, no,’ I say. ‘It’s absolutely fine. It’s great, actually.’

I’ll have to go and punch a pillow later or something.

Time to make my excuses and tend to Adam and Samantha’s guests. Several of them are looking rather pink in the face and it may be a nice idea to open a window.

‘Isn’t it warm?’ I fan my face with my hand. ‘I think that I’d better let some air in before somebody passes out. Good to see you again, Pat. Nice to meet you, Jo.’ And I hurry away.

It’s painful to think that while Pat is all cosied up with Jo, I’m well and truly up on the shelf and gathering dust. Where are all the eligible men anyway? All the half-decent ones are already married and as for the rest … Well, let’s not go there. What a depressing thought. The nearest I’ll probably ever get to sex now will be walking past Ann Summers.

With a sigh, I throw open the French windows. The cool evening air soothes my hot cheeks and lifts the tablecloths. But it isn’t just the breeze that drifts into the room but also the unmistakable undertones of a row on the terrace.

‘I’ve had enough!’ hisses a woman’s voice.

Arguing at a wedding? Honestly, some people have no manners.

‘This marriage is nothing but a farce!’ she continues. ‘I should have left you years ago!’

Is fate trying to convince me that all relationships end in tears?

Tutting to myself, I’m about to fasten back the doors when I feel a horrible prickling nausea of the variety known only to wedding planners who have just made an enormous error of judgement.

I think I know that voice. And from the looks of it, some of the guests know it too.

CHAPTER THREE

‘I’ve had enough, Geoffrey!’

I do know that voice! I know it because it’s been berating/thanking/bossing me around for the past six months. These not-so-dulcet tones belong to none other than Susan Ellis, mother of the bride.

Not good.

I peep around the French windows and sure enough there she is, hands on hips and mouth wide open, out of sight of the top table but now louder and, unfortunately, within earshot.

‘Do you hear me? Enough!’ Susan yells at her husband, drowning out his muttered response. ‘Our marriage is over!’

The guests nearest the windows hear every word. Those seated further away notice the unease of the faces of the bride and groom and fall silent. Even the musicians in the string quartet sense the atmosphere, their instruments scraping to a discordant halt. The absence of the beautiful music highlights the ugly words slicing through the stillness.

I’m mortified. What’s the etiquette in such a situation? Do I go outside and tell them to keep it down, or do I shut the windows quickly and hope that we are all English enough to pretend that this isn’t happening? Deciding on the latter, I start to wrestle with the windows.

Oh no. The doors are stuck. And Susan Ellis is yelling with more volume than a 747 taking off.

‘I’ve kept quiet because I didn’t want to ruin our Samantha’s big day,’ she hollers. ‘But she’s married now so I don’t have to lie any longer. And neither do you.’

A mumbled response from Geoffrey Ellis, that none of us can hear.

‘I know you’re sleeping with Marion from next door!’

I turn to look at the audience – I mean, the guests – and a large woman dressed in violent magenta linen blushes the same colour as her frock: Marion from next door.

Oh, God. It’s my worst dream come true. My lovely wedding, Sam and Adam’s perfect day, has turned into The Jerry Springer Show.

‘I’m not wasting another minute with you!’ shouts Susan and then, just in case Geoffrey misses the point, ‘I want a divorce!’

A gasp of shock/outrage/callous enjoyment ripples through the guests. Samantha squeals in horror and for one awful moment I think she’s going to faint. I run for my emergency wedding kit and start to rummage for the smelling salts.

Susan Ellis steps into the room with a fake smile pasted on her face and tears in her eyes. But once she realises that everyone’s looking at her, the smile drops and she looks confused. Then she notices the open windows and gasps.

‘Sam!’ she yelps, realising too late that every ugly word has been overheard. ‘Oh, darling!’

‘Sweetheart,’ Geoffrey Ellis is right behind her. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Not half as sorry as me, Daddy,’ Sam sobs. ‘How could you? It’s my wedding day!’

‘Darling …’ Susan reaches out to Sam who recoils furiously.

‘Don’t touch me! I hate you, both of you! You’ve ruined my wedding! I’ll never forgive you!’

Leaping up from her seat, Sam flees from the room, sobbing wretchedly, while her groom and the guests look on in stunned horror. The chief bridesmaid bunches her skirts up into her fists and follows.

Susan glares at her husband. ‘This is your fault, Geoffrey.’

‘My fault?’ he echoes, ‘Why is everything always my fault?’

‘Because it is, that’s why! I’m sick of this marriage!’

‘That makes two of us,’ he retorts. ‘Thirty years of being stuck with you. People get less for murder!’

No! Stop! This isn’t the way that it is supposed to go. Weddings are supposed to be the happiest days of people’s lives. This is a disaster.

Scooping up my emergency wedding bag I follow the bride, whose sobbing can still be heard. I’ll do my best to sort this somehow, but I think it might take more than headache tablets and a sewing kit.

Sam has locked herself in the bathroom of the honeymoon suite.

‘Sam,’ I tap on the door, ‘it’s Robyn. Let me in, please.’

‘It’s no good.’ The bridesmaid shakes her head. ‘She won’t listen.’

But I am Miss Fix-it Extraordinaire. A superhero. Wedding Planner Woman. As well as knowing where to find the best antique lace or freshest flowers, I also have peace-keeping skills that would land me a job at the UN.

Luckily.

‘Sam, this is your special day,’ I say, through the door. ‘Yours and Adam’s. You are the bride. Everyone is looking at you, not your parents.’

There’s another sob.

‘The guests are taking their cue from you,’ I continue. ‘If you dry your eyes and come back down they’ll think it’s all blown over, I promise. Honey, it’s up to you: you can stay here and I’ll send the guests away, or you can dry your eyes and join poor Adam. He’s your husband now and he really needs you down there.’

‘Really?’ she says. Or at least I think she does. It’s hard to tell because her voice is so clotted with tears.

‘Really,’ I say firmly. ‘It’s your call, Sam.’ I cross my fingers and hold my breath.

There’s the sound of a key turning and the door swings open. Sam, bottom lip wobbling, make-up smeared all over her face, is perched on the edge of the bath.

‘I’m a mess,’ she hiccups. ‘My face is ruined.’

‘Nothing we can’t fix.’ I take her chin between my thumb and forefinger and gently wipe the tears away with a face wipe from my magic box of wedding-saving tricks. Once her face is clean I pull out my emergency make-up bag. ‘I’ll have you looking as good as new, I promise.’

Sam takes a shaky breath. ‘Thanks, Robyn. What would I have done without you today?’

‘All part of the service, hon,’ I say.

I squeeze tinted moisturiser onto a sponge and set to work. Thanks to Pat and his antics I’m an expert at restoring tear-stained cheeks to peachy glory.

After ten minutes Sam feels brave enough to venture back to the reception. Luckily everything seems to have calmed down. The DJ has arrived and is playing a selection of upbeat 80s tunes. Fortunately, the Ellis seniors are nowhere to be seen. Sam, every inch the dignified bride again, rejoins Adam with a tender kiss, while the caterers whiz around filling champagne flutes for the toast. Helping myself to one I gulp it gratefully, relief and alcohol hitting my bloodstream in equal measure.

Next time I need an adrenalin rush I’ll take up something more sedate than wedding planning, like bungee jumping or white-water rafting.

From across the room Patrick catches my eye, grins at me and raises that trademark eyebrow.

‘Jaysus!’ he mouths.

And I must admit, I couldn’t have put it better myself.

CHAPTER FOUR

May

‘Welcome to Swing Heaven!

The place to be if you’re passionate about swing dancing!’

At last, I think, scrolling down the advertisement. My internet quest to locate a swing dancing course has certainly opened my eyes. I’ve not exactly led a sheltered life but some of the websites that popped up on my computer practically turned the monitor blue.

Maybe I was asking for trouble typing ‘swing’ into the search engine.

‘I want to Lindy Hop,’ I mutter, ‘not bed hop.’

Swing Heaven is a great way to keep fit. Come along and begin a love affair with the 1950s dance craze.

My love affair with the 1950s began ages ago. It’s more like an obsession.

I scan the details: the class takes place in an adult education centre only a few streets away from my favourite bespoke lace shop. Making a mental note to sign up the next time I’m in the area, I exit the advert and surf for a bit; anything to distract me from the fact that I’m a freelance wedding planner with no weddings in sight. So much for having my career sorted out by Christmas!

With mammoth self-control I log out without checking eBay. Once I land some really big clients I’ll bid away on vintage goods to my heart’s content. When Perfect Day is right up there with major players, like Hester Dunnaway’s Catch the Bouquet, I’ll treat myself to something really special. And I’ll be a major player by Christmas. Well, that’s the plan …

I shut down the computer and spin around in my wheelie chair, chewing thoughtfully on my pencil. Despite being friends with my mum, Hester hasn’t taken particularly well to my leaving her employment to set up my own wedding agency. Probably because now she has to do her own dirty work, like tracking down errant grooms who have disappeared in Magaluf; dragging a six foot four male by the elbow was the least fun I have ever had in a bar! Defecting Russian spies probably get a warmer reaction from the KGB than I do from Hester these days. Luckily she operates out of her plush office in Fulham while I’m working from my kitchen in Ladbroke Grove so our paths haven’t crossed much. But she’s let it be known to mutual contacts that I’m no threat to someone with her experience and connections. Unfortunately she seems to be right because so far only friends of friends and family have employed Perfect Day to arrange their weddings. The A-list celebrities have yet to call.

‘What I really need,’ I say aloud, ‘is a really high-profile wedding to put Perfect Day on the map.’

Of course there’s nobody to reply apart from Poppy, Gideon’s dog, and she is fast asleep under my desk. I’m not sure how it’s happened but since I began to work from home I’ve become an unofficial dog-sitter. Gideon and James work long hours so it’s become a daily routine to drop Poppy off with me when they set off for work. So as well as being Wedding Planner Woman, I’m also Doggy Day Care Girl! But I don’t mind. Gideon, the finance director of the high-class homeware company, Impressions, has been brilliant in helping me set up the business. I’ve picked his brains for months and he’s spent hours helping me with my business plan and accounts. Dog-sitting is the least I can do.

I haul myself out of my chair and fill the kettle. While it boils I lean on the window sill and watch the world outside. I love my flat in Ladbroke Grove. Gideon and James have the garden flat and I rent the top one from them. It’s expensive, but the hike up the four flights of stairs is more than compensated for by the roof terrace and views over the treetops towards Portobello Road and Notting Hill. I’ve yet to bump into Hugh Grant but a girl can live in hope, can’t she?

‘Come on,’ I say to Poppy, ‘Wake up. If you’re lucky you might even get a walk on the Heath.’

At the word ‘walk’ Poppy comes to life. She thumps her tail, knocking a vase onto the floor.

‘Why didn’t Gideon get a Paris Hilton handbag dog?’ I groan, wrinkling my nose at the stench of the water. But Gideon and James like Staffordshire bull terriers.

Sighing, I mop up the water, wrestle Poppy into her harness and prepare for battle.

It’s a beautiful morning. The birds are singing away and a fried-egg sun sparkles on the ground crunching under my boots. I ram my cute cloche hat onto my head, snuggle into my suede driving coat and clamber into the car. Then Poppy and I stomp round Hampstead Heath for an hour. Sunny-faced primroses beam up at me from the hedgerows and bluebells huddle beneath the trees, heads clustered together like old women having a lovely gossip. I even think I spot a swallow which cheers me up no end. The arrival of swallows hints that summer’s well and truly on the way and summer means only one thing for me these days – weddings!

By the time we turn into Faye’s road I feel glowing and healthy from the exercise. OK, my shoulder may be dislocated thanks to Poppy’s enthusiasm, but being away from my desk has done wonders for my creativity. In my bag are assorted leaves, spring flowers and greenery that I’ve collected for colour matches on a spring/summer mood board. As I ring Faye’s doorbell I’m thinking about designing the perfect summer wedding.