The Perfect Christmas

Just need a booking to design it for.

Poppy pogos in excitement when Faye answers the door. Like me, she loves coming to visit her. There are the spaniels to play with and Faye always has something tasty for her to eat.

‘Robyn!’ The door swings open and Faye throws her arms around me. ‘It’s so good to see you!’

‘Poppy’s really muddy,’ I warn.

‘Don’t worry about mud,’ laughs Faye, as though expensive carpets don’t matter a jot. ‘I’ll put Poppy with my dogs.’

Amazingly, Poppy transforms from the lunatic hound that hauled me through the undergrowth into a meek and obedient dog. I follow Faye into the boot room, listening to her chatting about her latest cake idea.

‘Honestly,’ she exclaims, ‘I’ve even started dreaming about this cake.’

‘Tell me about it!’ I say. ‘Last night I dreamt about the hideous time Hester forced me to take the pollen off every flower because the bride might suddenly contract hay fever.’

Faye tried not to giggle. ‘But don’t you get hay fever?’

‘Yes! I’d sneezed until I thought my nose would fall off and had to mainline Piriton for a week!’

Now Faye laughed openly. ‘Poor you! I’d take Heston Blumenthal over Hester Dunnaway any day of the week.’

Food is Faye’s passion as well as her livelihood. She creates amazing novelty cakes and is the writer of the bestselling children’s cookery book, Kidz Kan Kook! As well as professional success, Faye has a beautiful Victorian house just off the Heath and the kind of figure that supermodels envy.

Just as well I love her so much.

‘Sit, Gordon! Sit, Nigella! Sit, Poppy!’ Faye takes three chews from a cupboard and gives them to the delighted dogs. ‘You enjoy those. We’re going to have a nice glass of wine.’

‘We are?’

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ says Faye, tucking her arm through mine and leading the way down the stairs to the basement kitchen. ‘If you’d spent the best part of four hours trying to make a lump of chocolate sponge look like Balamory you’d need a drink too.’

In Faye’s kitchen, which I always think looks like something out of Country Living magazine, the most amazing cake takes up at least half of the table. I’ve worked from home long enough to recognise the set of Balamory, which is arranged in various chunks of pastel butter-iced cottages around a fondant-icing harbour. It’s incredible.

‘Please, please make wedding cakes,’ I beg, imagining the fantastic creations that Faye could dream up. ‘And work exclusively for me!’

Faye shudders. ‘No, thanks. Adults are far too critical. I’ll stick to children. They’re a much more appreciative audience.’ She darts to the Aga and stirs a pan before opening the fridge and fishing out a bottle of Chablis.

‘This must have taken forever.’

‘It did,’ Faye agrees, while pouring the wine. ‘But it should lead to greater things, with any luck. It’s a major client with brilliant connections which is why I asked you to lunch.’

‘Really?’ Intrigued, I take a seat at the table. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Saffron Scott, the editor of Scorching!’ cries Faye, and her eyes sparkle with excitement.

I’m impressed. Scorching! is the only celebrity gossip magazine worth reading. Celebs practically queue up to give it interviews, probably due to the fact that Saffron Scott is herself no stranger to the world of fame. The only daughter of sixties rock star Davie Scott, Saffron has lived most of her life in the public eye. She spent the late years of the nineties being photographed in various drunken states, taking a cocktail of drugs and having a spectacular nervous breakdown. After a spell in the Priory, Saffron reinvented herself as a showbiz correspondent on This Morning before eventually landing the job of editor at Scorching! In her late twenties now, she’s still frequently papped lunching with celebrities.

‘Wow,’ I say.

‘Davie Scott has been a client of Simon’s for years. He’s called upon Simon’s services so many times that they’ve struck up a bit of a friendship,’ explains Faye. ‘He put her in touch with me.’

I take a sip of Chablis and the biscuity flavour bursts across my tongue. Simon’s taste in wine has certainly improved since we used to swill Liebfraumilch out of mugs at college.

‘That’s great, hon.’ I’m pleased for Faye; she works so hard and is so talented. ‘She’ll be able to get you millions of commissions.’

‘Probably,’ Faye agrees. ‘But I’ve got quite enough on my plate right now.’

We both look at the cake and then laugh at our old joke.

‘Literally,’ smiles Faye. ‘But I did have contacts in mind, only not for me but for you …’

‘Me? I can’t cook.’

‘You may burn water,’ Faye says, rolling her eyes, ‘but you can plan the most fantastic weddings. Davie Scott was admiring the wedding photo on Si’s desk. Si told Davie what a fantastic wedding planner you are.’

‘Good,’ I say.

‘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

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!’

The man looks at me as though I’m insane. ‘It’s an adult education centre,’ he points out.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I want to do swing dancing. I’m going to learn to jive – or I am if I ever get in to put my name down. I can’t wait to start. I love all that 1950s dancing. Apparently it’s brilliant exercise and really good for keeping fit and …’

Normally I’m such an energetic talker that you could wire me to the National Grid and use me to power Britain, but the man is looking at me really strangely, his amazing blue eyes trained on my face in a powerful gaze, and my words peter away. Staring back at him, I’m shocked to find myself thinking how plump and kissable his lips are. He looks rather familiar too. Maybe we’ve met before. Is that why he’s staring at me? Or maybe this is what love at first sight feels like.

Just my luck that I meet the most attractive man in months when I look as though I’ve swum here from Ladbroke Grove. In a novel he would be captivated by my soggy beauty and offer to shelter me under his raincoat rather than continuing to stare.

Just as I turn to make a run for it his hand reaches out and brushes my arm. ‘You’re Robyn, aren’t you? Robyn Hood?’

Oh. It wasn’t love at first sight. Just plain old small world.

I nod, wracking my brains to place him.

‘We’ve met before,’ he continues, and now that he’s forgotten to be angry about the adult education centre he’s smiling, a cute dimple playing hide and seek in his cheek. ‘At the Harveys’ dinner party?’

Good old Faye and her dinner parties.

‘And you remember my name, right?’ I sigh. It’s annoying when a random decision by your parents becomes your defining feature.

‘I remember you,’ says the man, his eyes warmer now and the lashes starry from the rain. ‘You’re the wedding planner who had to dash off to a comedy gig in the middle of the beef Wellington.’

Those were the days.

‘I’m Jonathan Broadhead.’

The memory is hazy but it’s coming back to me slowly. I met Jonathan at one of Faye’s dinner parties last March and we were thrown together because our partners were both absent. We’d chatted for a while and I’d told him about the wedding Hester and I were planning for a glamour model. The bride’s beloved Chihuahua was going to be the ring bearer and Hester had kindly designated me to be the trainer. Never in the history of pampered pooches had there been a more spoiled neurotic dog. Its snapping teeth put Jaws to shame and I lived in fear of losing my fingers every time I attempted to place the ring in the pink velvet pouch that hung on its diamanté collar. As for escaping, believe me, that dog was the Houdini of the canine world. By the time of the dinner party I’d chased the disobedient mutt so many times I could have taken on Ussain Bolt and won! Still, at least Faye’s guests had been entertained by my tales of woe and for at least five minutes the conversation had turned from house prices and au pairs. Gazing up at him I realise how much I must have loved Patrick and how focused I must have been on the wedding not to have been struck dumb by how incredibly handsome Jonathan is. He has the sort of face that makes you want to take a second look and then a third and maybe even a fourth.

‘You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?’ I recall. ‘You work with Simon.’

He laughs. ‘That makes me sound really dull. I wish I’d dropped out of school and joined the circus.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Erin Brockovich’s life was pretty interesting.’

‘I’m no Erin Brockovich.’ He shakes his head seriously. ‘I look ridiculous in short skirts.’

‘Knee length is more your style,’ I nod, and then the ice is broken and we’re laughing.

‘Look,’ says Jonathan finally, ‘I don’t know about you but I think it might be a good idea to go inside until this rain stops. Pleasant as the view is,’ he inclines his head in the direction of the lingerie shop, ‘I don’t think that I can really follow you in there.’

‘Do you buy your fishnet stockings elsewhere then?’ I tease, liking the way that his eyes crinkle when he laughs.

‘I’m more M&S than S&M,’ Jonathan says. ‘Come on, let’s get in the warm somewhere, grab a coffee and dry out.’

I’m trembling like a whippet, partly because I’m soaked right through to my knickers, and partly because I’m not in the habit of going for coffee with strangers, especially ones this attractive. I hardly know Jonathan Broadhead. It makes more sense to go home for a hot shower and try to sign up for swing dancing another day. But sometimes fate likes to pull a moonie at me and today is no exception. Just as I’m telling Jonathan that I’m going back to Ladbroke Grove, a lorry thunders past and showers us both with cold, dirty water. I splutter and the chilly rivulets trickle down my cheeks like tears. I certainly feel like sobbing because my lovely dress is wrecked. Beaten, I sway wearily on the pavement.

‘Right, that’s it,’ says Jonathan firmly, his hand steadying me. ‘I’m taking you to Starbucks to thaw you out. It was very brave of you to wear such a lovely summery dress in early May—’

‘I think you mean stupid rather than brave,’ I sigh.

‘You’re an optimist and that’s a great quality to have,’ Jonathan says warmly. ‘Now, Miss Hood, no arguments,’ he adds when I open my mouth to protest. ‘Simon will never forgive me if I let his best friend get hypothermia. Here, come under my coat and get out of the rain.’

He’s offering to shelter me under his raincoat! I’m so bowled over by the sheer romance of this that I forget to protest and seconds later he’s pulling me close against his side and gently draping the fabric across me. His hand grazes my cheek and then I’m snuggled beneath his arm, breathing in the delicious tang of his skin while the rain pitter-patters on the coat.

‘OK?’ asks Jonathan.

Even though my goosebumps have got goosebumps and my favourite dress is ruined I haven’t felt this OK for a very, very long time. We venture into the street, laughing as we dodge puddles and cannon off one another while we try to walk in a straight line. Somehow we make it into Starbucks without stumbling from the kerb and falling under a bus. I’m almost sorry to enter the warm fug of the coffee shop because it’s such fun being huddled under his raincoat.

Nothing to do with the fact that it’s nice to be held by an attractive man, of course.

‘We made it.’ Jonathan releases me and shrugs off his coat. His dark hair is beaded with raindrops but he doesn’t seem to care. The cross expression of earlier has been replaced by a smile of incredible sweetness and that cute dimple is back too.

‘What would you like?’ he asks. ‘Coffee? Cake?’

Now there’s the one million dollar question. I peer up at the menu board and then into the cabinet of yummy pastries. What I’d like is a big wedge of carrot cake washed down with syrupy white mocha latte, extra cream and about a zillion calories. What I ask for will, of course, be another matter entirely.

‘Skinny latte, please,’ I say. ‘Nothing to eat, thanks.’

Jonathan rolls his eyes. ‘You women! Why are you always dieting? My wife, Anita, is exactly the same.’

His wife? Ten bums in row! Typical of my Swiss-cheese memory to forget that little snippet.

‘I can’t speak for your wife,’ I say with a smile, ‘but maybe we look lovely because we’re careful about what we eat?’

‘It’s a shame.’ Jonathan shakes his head, ‘Take a seat, Robyn. I’ll bring these over.’

What a gentleman! See, it’s always the good ones who are taken.

I find a couple of battered armchairs and bag them for us. While I peel off my soggy cardigan and rearrange my hair by peering in the display of my phone, I try to dredge up anything that I might have once known about Jonathan Broadhead. He has a wife but she wasn’t at Faye and Simon’s dinner party. I seem to remember that she was held up at work and does something really high powered. Merchant banker? Neurosurgeon? Astronaut?

Oh dear, I really can’t remember. In my defence, we last met at around the time things were going pear-shaped (or should I say Jo-shaped) with Pat. Maybe I can wing it?

‘Here we go,’ Jonathan places the coffees and a large piece of carrot cake onto the table. ‘Get warmed up.’

Carrot cake. The man has excellent taste.

‘Thanks,’ I wrap my hands around the mug and instantly the warmth starts to thaw my frozen fingers.

‘What a shame about your shoes,’ Jonathan remarks. ‘Will they dry out?’

‘I hope so.’ I look sadly at my poor shoes. ‘They are fifties Dior; quite my favourite thing. Collecting vintage clothes is one of my passions.’

‘What are the others?’ he asks, smiling at me.

I think about this. ‘Weddings, obviously! I love all things fifties too. And,’ I smile back at him, ‘carrot cake!’

Jonathan pushes the cake into the centre of the table. ‘I suspected as much,’ he says with mock seriousness. ‘Which is why I brought two forks.’

I laugh. ‘Wow. A mind reader. What talent.’

Jonathan helps himself to a forkful. ‘I totally get the fifties thing. I love the music. Frank Sinatra. Dean Martin. Elvis. Actually, I’ve just spent an embarrassingly large amount of money on a genuine fifties juke box which is now my pride and joy.’

‘Worth every penny though,’ I say. ‘I feel the same about my vintage shoes.’

We chat happily for a while about all things fifties. It’s great to meet a kindred spirit. Gideon can’t bear the ‘clutter’ in my flat, being more a chrome and black marble minimalist, and Faye tries hard not to wince at the very thought of second-hand shoes. Jonathan totally gets it though and we talk for so long that I fetch more coffees because we’re hogging the table.

‘So,’ Jonathan tips sugar into his second latte, ‘how’s life treating you? Your comedian chap’s doing well, isn’t he? I was reading in the paper that he’s been given his own all-male discussion show.’