The Perfect Christmas. Georgie Carter
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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!
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,’