1
‘Perfect…’
The word was a whispered sigh.
The calm before the storm.
A blink of time to appreciate that thiswasthe dream.
A moment for Sophie Spencer to savour the satisfaction that she was the one who could wave her magic wand and make the dream come true for yet another ecstatic bride.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t quite the same as experiencing the joy for herself but it was as close as she was ever going to get – and what was even better, she got to do it again and again and it never got old. It never failed to bring tears to her eyes when the groom turned to watch his bride walking towards him. She could always feel the love in the air like a dawn mist and almost catch the promise of their future together.
There was always that heartbeat of knowing that it could have been her.
Shehadbeen that loved.
She had been that close to walking towards the mansheloved.
Once upon a time.
Right now, Sophie was looking at a venue that was the epitome of a fairy-tale wedding. A picture-postcard medieval castle – the Château d’Orval – nestled amongst vineyards, lavender fields and olive groves in the South of France. Isolated enough to provide privacy for an intimate event and traditional enough to supply all the historic charm this part of the world was so famous for.
Sophie kept driving, the walls of golden stone getting closer as the wheels of her immaculately restored and beloved 1970s 2CVvan crunched over the white gravel of the castle’s entranceway that was lined by an honour guard of Italian cypress trees.
This was definitely her favourite castle. She loved the way the symmetry of the architecture was broken by seemingly random square towers and that the roofline was punctured by ornate metal finials on the spires of round turrets. She also loved that she could rely on this stunning backdrop to be the one thing that couldn’t go wrong in a day that simply had to be perfect.
Sophie took a deliberate inward breath, gathering the strength and focus needed to face the hectic pace of the long hours ahead of her. As the managing director of Marry Me in Provence, the ultimate responsibility for this day lay with her, and this particular wedding could very well make or break the company’s hard-won reputation as the best in the business for every aspect of destination wedding planning in this idyllic patch of the planet. The eight million or so followers of Zara Beaumont, an American beauty and lifestyle influencer, would be hanging out for every update on their favourite social media platforms.
The car parking area for staff was already a hive of activity. Caterers were unloading coolers, baskets of fresh produce and crates of champagne and heading in the direction of the château kitchens. Closer to Sophie, buckets of white flowers and lavender were being carried from the florist’s van towards an arched gap in the neatly trimmed cypress hedging that Sophie knew led to the shady courtyard in front of an ancient chapel. A wiry, middle-aged woman who was directing the flower carriers turned her head as Sophie stepped out of her pale lilac van.
‘Bonjour, Sophie…’ She held her hand palm up, as if she were presenting the sky. ‘Il fait beau, oui?’
‘Bonjour, Flo.’ Sophie smiled as she glanced up, pushing back a wayward curl of her hair that had already managed to escape her messy bun. Mother Nature was clearly on board today without a single cloud marring the deepening blue of a Mediterranean summer sky. She turned back to the florist as she caught a waft of fragrance. Delphinium, perhaps? Or gardenias? ‘Tout va bien?’ she asked.
Florence puffed out her lips in that very French way of implying that a catastrophe could very well be imminent but she was, so far, coping. ‘Ah… tu sais.’
Sophie nodded again. She did know. Even here, in the open air, she was aware of the hum of tension that came from the culmination of endless months of planning that had to seamlessly blend so many different elements. She could actually feel that hum inside her body. Running through her veins, in fact.
And she loved it. This was where all the hard work paid off, and the more rumples in the fabric of the day that needed ironing out the higher the level of satisfaction would be in…ooh… Sophie checked her watch, about sixteen hours’ time, when the wedding of the season wound down around midnight.
The vehicles parked in the spaces reserved for the make-up artists, hairdressers and wardrobe team were empty. Sophie could imagine that Zara, along with her bridesmaids, was already being artfully dressed and made up to look as if she’d just tumbled out of bed, ready to mingle around the grazing board of a light, very Provençal breakfast and sip her first flute of champagne as soon as the visual content team arrived to record every moment.
With that reminder, Sophie opened a back door of her van to take the bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon from its ice bed in a cooler. She also took a moment to adjust the sprig of fresh lavender held in place on the bottle’s neck by the perfect bow of ruffled white ribbon. Her first task this morning was to visit the bridal suite, check that Zara had absolutely everything she needed and make her even happier with the gift of a gorgeous champagne to go with the warm, flaky croissants, figs drizzled with lavender-infused honey and scrambled eggs with shaved truffle that were amongst the local treats being offered for breakfast.
‘Miss Spencer?’
‘That’s me.’ Sophie straightened and turned to find a stranger standing beside her van. She noticed the black painted nails first, on a hand holding an expensive-looking digital camera. When she lifted her gaze, it was momentarily caught by a silver eyelet framing a rather large hole in an earlobe. There was another piercing in an eyebrow.
She found a polite smile. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m Raven,’ he said, his accent – and possibly that sense of cultivated boredom – suggesting an English public-school education. ‘Raven Vale?’
‘Oh…’ Sophie nodded. The name, which was distinctive for probably not having been bestowed at birth, had been memorable. ‘You’re covering the wedding forVogue, yes?’
‘That’s certainly one of the publications expressing interest.’ A faint smile tilted his lips. ‘I’m an independent feature editor specialising in A-list events and I was lucky enough to have contacts that got me this gig.’ The smile faded. ‘I’m supposed to be shadowing your lead photographer – Gregory Glasson?’
‘He’ll be parked in the visual content section.’ Sophie shaded her eyes from the sun. ‘That’s our videographer, André, beside the silver SUV, unloading his camera gear. He’ll introduce you.’
