The Perfect Christmas. Georgie Carter
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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.
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