The Perfect Christmas

Alone, that’s where, unlike Gideon and Faye, both of whom will be going home tonight to their partners.

Totally alone.

CHAPTER EIGHT

By half ten I’ve drunk my way through a bottle of Blossom Hill, the table is littered with crisp packets and Bradley’s becoming more and more attractive by the sip. OK, so he can’t discuss Chekhov and once said that his greatest fantasy was Jordan naked on a trampoline, but you can’t have everything.

And, anyway, with a body like that who cares about conversation?

I knock back the last of my wine. I’m going to ask him to come home with me. This is what feminists burned their bras for!

I am strong! I am woman!

And maybe a teeny bit pissed?

‘Darling,’ Gideon says, shrugging on his coat. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come with us? I’m going to walk Faye to the tube and then head home for tea and toast.’

At the mention of toast my stomach rumbles, but I ignore it. Gideon and James will cosy up and I’ll feel like a spare part. They see quite enough of me as it is.

‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll stay here and chat to Bradley.’

‘Can’t say I blame you,’ sighs Gideon.

Faye gives me a hug. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ she promises. ‘We can have a chat about some ideas for Saffron Scott before your meeting on Friday. I’ll ask Si if Davie has dropped any hints.’

‘Thanks, babes.’

‘And Robyn,’ she whispers. ‘Give him one from me!’

Blushing to the ends of my hair I hoist myself onto a bar stool, wishing that I had the kind of endless legs I could cross elegantly rather than short ones that just dangle in mid-air. Catching sight of my flushed face in the chrome beer pumps I decide to order Diet Coke from now on.

‘Diet Coke?’ echoes Bradley, when I place my order. ‘With Bacardi?’

‘No!’ I laugh.

As Bradley serves and chats, I’m distracted by the enormous flatscreen TV at the end of the bar. It’s showing one of those late evening chat shows and Patrick has just loped across the studio and is shaking the host’s hand. I still get a little jolt whenever I see him. It’s weird to be close to someone, to have shared their life in every way, and then be relegated to the position of stranger. I know Pat always cleans his toothbrush under the hot tap and likes the left side of the bed, but none of the other viewers are privy to these details.

Although, knowing Pat, maybe I shouldn’t bet on this.

Repositioning my bar stool so I’m spared watching Patrick charm the socks off the audience, I turn my attention back to Bradley. Physically he looks nothing like Pat. Bradley’s tall with sun-bleached hair and so gym-honed that even his muscles have muscles, whereas Pat’s tall and rangy and hasn’t been to the gym in his life. Running a double love life is enough to keep him fit. Both guys have green eyes but Bradley’s are like rock pools, clear and honest, whereas Patrick’s are the shadowy hue of his beloved Irish peat bogs.

I’m through with complicated men. Who wants to discuss Yeats in bed when they could be having amazing sex?

Time to see if Bradley’s in the mood for a coffee …

‘How was your trip home?’ I ask.

Bradley runs a hand through his thick blond mane. ‘Awesome! I’d almost forgotten what it was like to feel warm.’

I flick my hair back from my face. ‘So are you sad that you’re back?’

‘No. There’s lots to keep me here.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘Such as?’ I’m more pissed than I thought.

But Bradley just smiles his dazzlingly white smile. ‘It sounds really lame but I came back because of a Sheila.’

A Sheila? Isn’t that Australian for a girl?

‘I was thinking about staying in Brisbane but she’s here and I’m useless without her.’

My chardonnay-saturated brain is a bit slow but I think he’s just told me that he’s come back because he wants to be with someone. Someone who lives in England …

Oh. My. God.

I clutch the bar because I’m in serious danger of falling off my stool.

‘You’ve come back to be with a girl?’

Bradley’s cheeks are as pink as my Cath Kidston mobile. ‘Yep. She’s right here. In this pub.’

‘She is?’ I stall for time. Is my Christmas wish list about to get one item shorter?

Bradley nods. ‘Over there.’ And rather than peering deeply into my eyes and dropping a bombshell, he points towards the blonde Australian barmaid who’d joked with me earlier. ‘Her name’s Julia.’

Oh.

‘I’ve known Jules for years,’ Bradley says, as he pulls a tray of glasses from the dishwasher. ‘She was dating a mate of mine so I never dreamed we could be anything else. But when I went home she was single and,’ he looks bashful, ‘we kind of got it together, you know?’

I’ve got it together with Bradley a few times myself so, yes, I know.

‘But Jules was about to go travelling,’ he continues, ‘and I couldn’t bear to lose her so she persuaded me to go traveling with her.’

Julia looks over and smiles at him, a smile of such joy that it lights up the room.

‘Isn’t she great?’

‘She’s beautiful,’ I say honestly.

He reaches across the bar. ‘You and me have been really good friends, Robyn, chatting over crappy love lives, so I thought you’d like to know: before we flew here I asked Jules to marry me. And guess what? She said yes!’

‘Wow!’ I say. ‘Congratulations!’

‘Thanks. You really do know when you meet the right one. Everything just falls into place.’

‘I’m really pleased for you,’ I lean across the bar and kiss his cheek, a very different kiss from the last one we shared. ‘You deserve to be really happy.’

Bradley brushes my cheek with the back of his hand. ‘And so do you, Robyn,’ His jerks his head in the direction of the television where Patrick is flirting with a stunning actress. ‘Especially after your narrow escape from that idiot.’

It’s really late by the time I finally leave the pub after buying champagne and listening to Bradley and Julia’s excited plans. She’s lovely, laid-back and funny and we really click. Brad’s obviously told her exactly what our relationship once was because Jules is careful to reassure me that she doesn’t have a problem with any aspect of her fiancé’s past.

‘After all, I was with Shane,’ she says, flicking her blond mane behind her smooth tanned shoulders. ‘It’s not as though Brad and I were together then. The past is past, yeah?’

I gulp. In spite of the fact that they weren’t even together the last time that Brad and I hung out, I still have a horrible sense of guilt. Thanks a lot for sending me to a convent school, mum! How can I show Brad and Jules that I really am genuinely delighted for them? Then I have a brilliant idea.

‘How about I help you plan your wedding?’ I say slowly. ‘Perfect Day at your service. And I’ll do it for free.’

Jules’s eyes widen. ‘Really? You’d do that for us?’

But Brad looks worried, probably thinking that having his ex arrange his wedding is far from normal.

‘You don’t have to do that, Robyn,’ he says.

‘I know I don’t have to,’ I reply. ‘But you were a good friend to me when I had a tough time and I’d like to do something for you both. Seeing a couple as loved up as you guys gives me hope for the future!’

A frown crinkles Bradley’s brow. ‘Are you really sure?’

I nod. ‘Totally. Besides, budget weddings are my speciality. Just ask Hester Dunaway!’

Opening my purse I pluck out a card, which I give to Jules. ‘Give me a call when I’m slightly more sober! Then we can start making plans.’

Jules is grinning from ear to ear. ‘Cool! Thanks, Robyn. You’re a dahl! If only all Brad’s exes were like you.’

‘All?’ I catch Brad’s eye and a blush creeps up his neck. He looks so awkward that I can’t help but start to laugh.

When I leave the bar and head for home the laughter slips away and is replaced by a creeping sense of desolation.

I’ve offered Perfect Day’s services for free as a wedding present and I’m over the moon for them, I really am. The tears that slide silently down my cheeks aren’t because I want Bradley for myself, or wish that I were in Julia’s Uggs. No way. I’m just so sad at always being the one left behind. Everybody is moving on but I’m always left alone, standing on the shore and watching them sail over the horizon to new and exciting lands. I realise I’m not jealous of Bradley and Julia but I am jealous of what they have.

I’m tired of being on my own. Part of me worries that I’ll never meet the right man to settle down and have children with. And another part of me wonders if that’s my fault.

I’m just pushing open the gate to Gideon’s garden, and peering carefully at the path just in case Poppy’s been out for a late night loo visit, when my phone beeps from deep within my bag. I root around and fish it out, trying not to scatter sweet wrappers and fluffy Tampax onto the grass.

That’s strange, I don’t recognise the number.

I open the message and scan it. When the words sink into my wine-sodden brain I’m taken aback because the text is from Jonathan Broadhead. He’s signed me up for the swing dancing course just like he promised.

A thoughtful man who keeps his word too? No wonder he’s married. Who wouldn’t want to keep hold of a man like that?

I unlock the front door and switch on the light. I re-read the message and in spite of myself, I find that I’m smiling.

I may be an old spinster of the parish, gathering dust on her shelf, but things are looking up.

Robyn Hood is going swing dancing!

CHAPTER NINE

It’s Friday. D-day.

The closer the tube gets to Covent Garden the more nervous I feel.

And being nervous is never good, especially when pitching against Hester Dunnaway, a woman so cool that she makes cucumbers appear hot and bothered.

Sighing, I check my reflection in the carriage window. When I planned my outfit I’d plumped for a look with just the right amount of edge, hoping this would sum up the ethos of Perfect Day. I’d imagined sipping coffee while Saffron flicked through my portfolio in a relaxed and friendly fashion in her Chelsea flat. So when her PA changed the location to her Scorching!’s London HQ, I was a bit shaken. I’m not sure what magazine editors wear but I’ve seen The Devil Wears Prada and I’m beginning to worry that I may have got it wrong.

I’m wearing a black vintage flared skirt with a full net underskirt and red roses appliquéd onto it, a black crossover sweater with a rose corsage and my favourite pillarbox red swing coat and cute velvet scarf. It all looked great when I twirled in front of the mirror and just the thing for a bright May morning. But now I’m just wondering why I decided to wear wedges that are higher than Ben Nevis. They seemed like a really funky statement when I pulled them on but they’re hopeless for negotiating the tube and running through the London crowds. I may as well have worn stilts.

Won’t Hester love it if I’m late?

I dash across the Piazza, ignoring Karen Millen and the human robot man, and locate the cobbles of Floral Street. I find the building that’s home to the hive of celebrity news and gossip that is Scorching! magazine, and throw myself through the doors.

‘Robyn Hood,’ I pant to the glamorous receptionist whose make-up’s such a work of art that the Louvre is probably bidding for it. ‘I have an appointment with Ms Scott at eleven.’

‘Welcome to Scorching!,’ she says, hiding her smirk at my name. ‘Ms Scott’s in a meeting at the moment but she is expecting you. Please take a seat.’

I perch on what appears to be an art installation but is actually a chair and take a deep breath. OK, Robyn, you’ve made it. Calm and relaxed, remember? You can do this.

I glance down at my portfolio. It contains all the designs and plans for Saffron’s wedding that I’ve been slaving over. Gideon’s advice about following my own instincts breached the dam of my wedding planner’s block and for the last three days I’ve been sketching and creating themes from dawn to dusk.

But now my ideas seem so stupid. How did I think I could compete with Hester and plan A-list weddings? The closest I come to designer labels these days is drooling over them on eBay. And they’re all designers from back in the fifties!

I put the folder down, flexing fingers that tingle from holding it so tightly, and decide to check my make-up. I reach into my bag and fish around for my make-up; easier said than done when the bag leaps from my lap to spew its contents all over the floor.

‘Bugger!’ I say. ‘I mean, oops!’

I get on the floor and start cramming the detritus back in my bag, hoping that the reclaimed oak boards don’t ladder my stockings.

‘Robyn, you don’t need to get on your knees in my presence!’ drawls an amused voice.

My gaze travels up past a pair of Christian Louboutin boots, slender ankles and classic black Chanel suit, via this season’s must-have Mulberry bag, to a pair of beady gooseberry green eyes.

‘Hello, Hester,’ I say.

‘Darling,’ Hester drawls, ‘why on earth are you sprawled on the floor in such an unsightly manner?’

I cram the contents of my bag back inside as quickly as I can and scramble to my feet. ‘Yoga,’ I tell her. ‘Just a quick salute to the sun to supple up my mind!’

‘Yoga?’ echoes my ex-boss. ‘How very last season, Robyn. Anyone who is anyone is doing Pilates now. Sienna and Gwyneth both attend my class.’

What sort of world is it where even crawling around on the floor has to be done fashionably?

‘I’m pitching to Saffron,’ I say, smoothing down my skirt and arranging my face into an expression of yogic serenity.

‘Really?’ Hester smiles, or at least I think she does because Botox can do strange things to a woman’s facial expressions. ‘And you’ve dressed up especially. How sweet.’

Luckily for Hester I’m thirty-four, not four, which means that I don’t smack her in the face.

‘And you look very smart,’ I say, because she does.

Hester inclines her blonde head graciously, the hair so bouffant today that she looks like a coneless Mr Whippy. ‘Let me give you some advice,’ she says. Hester opens her portfolio and flips through myriad glossy pictures until settling on one. ‘In this game, experience and contacts are everything. How else would I be able to give people the weddings of their dreams?’

‘Er, by listening to them and giving them what they want?’ I ask.

But Hester isn’t paying attention to insignificant little old me. ‘How else,’ she continues, ‘would I have been able to devise a wedding such as this? A wedding of such grandeur and vision that Saffron was left speechless after my presentation?’

And she shoves the folder under my nose so that I have little choice but to look at the bright images. I’m not surprised that Saffron was speechless. I’m pretty lost for words myself.

The glossy scene before me is of a winter-wonderland-gone-crazy style wedding. It’s kind of like Christmas on 34th Street but even more so. Everyone is in a matching red and green costume with plenty of fur (probably real fox fur, I shudder) lining every possible hem. And the groom is even encased in what looks suspiciously like a Father Christmas outfit. The bride is seated on a reindeer and wearing an angel-wing contraption on her back, on which hundreds and hundreds of diamonds sparkle extravagantly. Dwarfs dressed as elves pass round drinks on trays and turn frozen somersaults. A giant ice sculpture is in pride of place below a ceiling covered with mistletoe and multi-coloured baubles the size of tractor wheels.

Hester has out-flamingoed herself, that’s for sure.

‘Goodness,’ I say weakly, thinking that if Saffron loves this I may as well just go home now. ‘That’s really something else, Hester.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Hester agrees, snapping the folder shut. ‘The angel wings alone are worth one hundred thousand pounds, and, between you and me, HRH is not averse to renting out Windsor Castle for the day. Stella McCartney is desperate to design the dress. Have you got anything planned that can compete with that?’

‘Err …’ I can safely say that I haven’t.

‘Oh, Robyn,’ Hester shakes her head sorrowfully. ‘Did you listen to anything I said when you worked for me? Didn’t I always tell you to stick to the golden rule – always go for the most expensive wedding possible? Nobody wants to be stingy when it comes to their big day.’

I think of the plans in my portfolio where I’ve opted for simplicity and elegance. If Saffron is crazy about Hester’s wild and wacky wedding on heat idea then I’ve blown it. Blown it, but at least kept to my principles, which are that a wedding isn’t about how much cash the planner can make but actually about a couple being in love and celebrating their union.

Maybe this naive notion is why Hester shops in designer boutiques and I’m second hand?

‘Anyway, darling,’ Hester says, ‘I can’t stay chatting all day. I need to source some fur and quinces.’ And, point made, she bids me a swift farewell and sails out of the office. The cloying scent of Poison lingers in her wake, making me feel sick.

At least I think it’s the Poison making me feel sick …

‘Robyn Hood,’ the receptionist calls. ‘Ms Scott will see you now. Go on up. Top of the stairs and first left.’

‘Thanks,’ I croak and I make my way up the stairs, clutching my portfolio in my cold and clammy fingers.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so worried in my life.

And since I was once engaged to Patrick McNicolas, that’s really saying something.

Luckily the text alert from my mobile distracts me from my nerves and flipping it open I see that Jonathan has sent me a message:

Best of luck with the pitch! X

It’s really sweet of him to remember I’m meeting Saffron today and this thoughtful message makes me smile in spite of my nerves. We’ve sent each other several messages since I texted back to thank him for booking the swing dancing class and I’ve come to look forward to his messages. I know he’s married but that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. After all, I’m friends with Si.

I switch off my mobile. Knowing Jonathan’s sending me positive vibes has a wonderful effect on my state of mind and my legs no longer feel like over cooked spaghetti. By the time Saffron’s PA escorts me into the office I’m actually looking forward to making my pitch and giving Hester a run for her money.

Bring it on!

‘Hi, Robyn!’ Saffron crosses her office, a slender figure with a glorious mane of red hair and skin like double cream. ‘Thanks so much for coming over. I’m so sorry about changing the location at the last minute, but Hester insisted she’d never be able to make it to Chelsea for ten.’

I bet she did! Yet she could make it to Covent Garden. Weird, when she works just down the road from Chelsea, in Fulham. If I was paranoid I would think she did it just to mess me around.

‘That’s no problem.’ I shake her hand, noticing the simple but elegant French manicure. ‘I’m just pleased to be here. There was signal trouble on the tube, I thought we were all going to boil alive.’

Saffron shudders. ‘Poor you. Take a seat and I’ll get my PA to fetch you a drink. Water?’

‘That would be great, thanks.’ I’m relieved she’s indicated that I sit on a black leather sofa rather than perching in interview style in front of the desk. Saffron seems really friendly. I love the simple green trouser suit she’s wearing; it compliments her fiery hair and clear blue eyes perfectly and the big platform boots that peek out from beneath the boot leg trousers make a perfect contrast.

By the time my water arrives I’m feeling cooler and much more at ease. Saffron and I chat for a while, laughing over our love of unusual heels, and I’m delighted when she admires my vintage bag.

‘It’s very classic,’ she comments. ‘It reminds me of Donna Reed in my all-time favourite film – It’s a Wonderful Life – all that joy and those beautiful clothes – what’s not to love! I just love Christmas.’

‘Me too!’ I say, delighted to have met a kindred spirit. ‘I know that most people moan when the decorations go up right after Halloween but I’m always really excited! I love the cheesy songs and seeing Oxford Street all lit up.’

Saffron grins. ‘You’re not alone. I think I must be just a big kid at heart! When Fergus proposed I knew straight away that I wanted a magical Christmas wedding – I’ve dreamed about it since I was a little girl.’

We beam at each other.

‘So,’ says Saffron finally. ‘What ideas have you got for me?’

I take a deep breath. ‘I’ll be honest, Saffron, I’ve spent ages thinking up ideas, making mood boards and sketches, but now I’ve actually met you, I don’t think any of my ideas are right.’

Saffron’s mouth is open; she was probably waiting for more hog roasts and jesters.

‘You’re welcome to look at my portfolio,’ I plough on, ‘but I think I’ve just had a better idea. Why don’t we use your love of It’s a Wonderful Life and give your wedding a family Christmas theme? We could even have the wedding on Christmas Eve.’

Saffron stares at me. Whether she’s delighted or horrified I can’t tell but it’s too late in any case because my mouth’s going into overdrive.

‘It could be fantastic! Lots of understated glamour and beautiful 1940s clothes. But with what’s important at the heart of it – your family and friends. The spirit of Christmas.’

Saffron stares at me. She’s totally silent.

Oh God, I’ve blown it. I should have mentioned flamingos or paper cranes.

Then her mouth curves into a smile.

‘It’s brilliant! I adore it! Do you think we could really pull it off?’

‘Of course we can!’

I’m nearly bursting with ideas for utilising all my experience of rummaging through vintage clothes boutiques and antique stores. ‘We could have so much fun sourcing all the materials and we could make it so cosy and warm. In fact,’ I add, thinking of my favourite little shop in Camden, ‘I know a great place to start. If you want to start, I mean. I don’t want to presume anything. I know Hester had an amazing portfolio.’

‘Yes, she certainly did,’ deadpans Saffron. ‘Absolutely amazing.’ Then she catches my eye, her lips twitch and she convulses with laughter. ‘Sorry! Sorry!’ she gasps. ‘I shouldn’t laugh but can you really imagine me wearing angel wings and an edible chastity belt?’

‘Not really,’ I admit.

‘Or poor Fergus in a Father Christmas outfit?!’

I start to laugh. ‘But what about the banquet? You need to think carefully before you turn down a stuffed swan.’

Saffron shudders. ‘Her ostentatious ideas were such a turn-off. Is that really how people see me?’

‘Not if they know you,’ I tell her. ‘Hester just likes to go to town.’

‘That’s one way of putting it. I wasn’t impressed either when she suggested I delay the date of the wedding until next year so we can really go all out. Fergus would have gone mental.’

‘That’s totally understandable. The whole point of the wedding is so that you can be together; it shouldn’t be keeping you apart!’

‘Caught you! You’re a romantic!’ Saffron cries, clapping her hands. ‘That’s perfect! A wedding planner who actually believes in love and who has brilliant ideas! That does it! Robyn, I’d love you to plan my wedding – if you’d like to?’

‘If I’d like to?’ I parrot, only needing a cage and some seed to complete the look. ‘Of course I’d like to if you’re sure you want me?’

‘Oh, I’m sure,’ says Saffron. ‘Perfect Day is exactly what Fergus and I have been looking for. I can hardly wait to get started.’

‘Nor can I,’ I say, as we shake hands. ‘Nor can I!’

CHAPTER TEN

June

‘You know what you need to do with this car?’ the AA patrolman says from beneath the bonnet.

‘What?’ I ask, hoping it’ll be something quick and inexpensive.

‘Scrap it and get something new.’ He smiles at his little joke. ‘My missus has got a lovely Fiesta.’